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Fearing large boulevards, Asher took side streets eastward. He traveled the dusty grid that is residential Phnom Penh. Corrugated steel doors fell in nearly unanimous verticals to the street, which was empty but for potholes. The light was bad. Finally he saw the circle at the end of Monivong. The circle that led to the bridge, the circle that led to the bridge that led to the road with the slaughterhouse that led to the turn to Mao's house. He stopped his Dream on the dark street and considered his situation strategically, militarily. He could scrap the deal, get a job, and earn the money back. If he didn't get a job, he could freelance some computer work. He didn't have to do this. But then there was Mao to consider. He'd given Mao his word. He'd given Mao his word about the night on which he'd arrive, the time, and amount. He couldn't be sure, but in all likelihood, Mao hadn't paid for what Asher was to buy off him. He'd stolen it from the Ministry of Interior where he worked as a middling bureaucrat. In a way, Asher did owe Mao for taking a gamble with his position at the ministry. Perhaps there had been a hefty bribe to get into the storeroom at night. But hold on. Perhaps Mao hadn't even bribed a colleague? Maybe Mao had a key, or a friend with a key with whom he had promised to split the profits. Asher enjoyed and was fascinated with Mao's company almost as much as he disliked and was bored with himself.

Also Today Flameout A friend remembers the short, scary, brilliant life of novelist Robert Bingham. By Samantha Gillison

"You are a Merchant Prince," said Asher. "Push on."

He restarted the Dream and was not stopped by the police guarding the bridge.

A breeze came off the invisible river below. On the other side of the bridge, there was yet another circle where sleeping taxi drivers lounged in their reclining seats, dreaming of money, dreaming of gold. Someone hissed at him. He hated that about Asia, the hissing. He didn't hiss at people; why did they hiss at him? Perhaps it was this part of town. Barangs were not expected to be found out here at night.

The spoke road off the circle began to muddy and deteriorate. It was a hectic street. He passed a sawmill and then came the oncoming lights of the slaughterhouse, the biggest pig-killing factory in the country. Shortly, Asher was in squealing range. On the near side of the building, a pig farmer in knee-high rubber boots was heaving his animal by the ass, trying to push this pig through a side door. Suddenly, the squealing pitched upward in tone, filling the night. Was this awful sound simply a function of his growing proximity to the slaughterhouse, or was it a singular pig somewhere in the depths of that deathly operation meeting its final moment? It was difficult to tell. Asher could feel the commotion inside. The generator outside rumbled. The slaughterhouse doors fronting the street were closed but for tiny ventilation slits. They must be up to their knees in it, thought Asher, up to their knees. Now the sound of the slaughterhouse began to ebb. This part was tricky, this final turn to Mao's. There were plenty of little rutted paths that dipped down into obscurity. Was it two or three turns after the Angkor beer sign? Asher could never remember. Each time he came out here, the light was different. He took the third turn and was glad of it. He recognized the path. He was carrying Mr. Hawk's money wrapped in a plastic bag inside his shirt. The bumpy road shook the money, and Asher secured his girth with one hand.

"A lump sum," he said.

The path broadened as it descended from the main road, giving out on to a wide, open field. Asher was amazed to see that it wasn't quite dark here. The last line of sundown, already extinguished in the city, was just hanging on in the fields. The horizon was a pencil-thin line of diluted red, barely illuminating the green of the distant rice paddies. Weak blood, thought Asher, a late innings sundown. For a moment, the thin red line was before him and then it was gone.

"Last light," said Asher. "Right on time."

Mao had built a makeshift corral around his property. The chickens clucked and pecked at Asher's arrival. A water buffalo eyed him as he kicked up his bike stand. Madame Mao was downstairs. She stood on a straw mat eyeing him suspiciously.

"Bat srai," said Asher. "Good evening. Is your husband home?"

Mao spoke very little English, but Mrs. Mao spoke none at all. She took out a broom and began sweeping. Overhead Asher could hear the floor boards creak. Mao was rising. Now he was on the top of the stairs, looking down on him, smiling.

"Smoke," said Mao. It was his favorite word.

"Certainly," replied Asher. "Toujour. Smoke. The principal, the Alpha of life."

Mao waved for him to come upstairs. Asher took off his sneakers and climbed the narrow ladder. It was a sturdy ladder but not designed for a man his size. He took each rung slowly, methodically, thinking, Here we go; this is where it unfolds. When he got to the top floor, he bowed his head and entered. Mao stood in the middle of the room. He wore no shirt or shoes, only a pair of olive green army pants and a belt that passed through a cheap bronze buckle upon which was printed an eagle. He had thin black hair, black eyes, and a slightly concave caramel-colored chest, a shade lighter than his face. A smoker's chest, thought Asher.

Confiscated drugs were Mao's specialty. The Golden Triangle, being landlocked, required an outlet. Cambodia was like gravity drawing the drug down the Mekong to Phnom Penh. The country was a smugglers' paradise, but face and the American DEA required that there be the occasional bust. Most of the drugs confiscated were taken from men with unreliable connections to the CPP. The confiscated stash ended up at the Ministry of Interior for eventual redistribution minus a few kilos for the press to watch burn. The journos liked these drug photo ops. They like to watch the drugs burn especially if it was marijuana because that provided a more spectacular pyre, a better visual. Only a small percentage of the confiscated drugs was actually destroyed. The rest was dealt with by the CPP. Mao was very CPP.

"Smoke," said Mao.

Slowly, Asher lay down on the mattress. A trail of black fumes snaked upward from a small oil lamp burning by the bed. Mao was ready for him. On the floor not far from the pillow were his smoking utensils. There was a thin nail-file, pipe cleaners, a Swiss Army knife, tweezers, three steel utensils slightly thinner than a knitting needle, and tinfoil. Mao's gun lay next to the pillow on the floor. Asher had a thing for Mao's gun. It was called a T.T., a Chinese-manufactured eight millimeter with a serrated black plastic handle grip. The T.T. was modeled after an American Colt .45. It sat there on the worn teak floor, looking dangerously idle and very American.

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