Rolf Müller-Overbeck leaned drunkenly into the bar of the Last Filling Station. His long hair dripped with sweat. The young German’s question did not sound sarcastic. Maier was counting his dollar bills for the next round of drinks. There had been many rounds already. The Last Filling Station was packed. Even Les “Snakearm” Leroux served beer tonight. It looked like the entire foreign community was present. Maier looked around – a pretty strange life you led here, isolated from the locals; but, he knew, that was the norm all over Asia. Unbridgeable culture gaps and huge income disparity precluded integration. The Khmer sat on the floors of their huts and drank illegal rice wine that had been distilled in the jungle. The foreigners sat on plastic chairs and drank beer. To make things worse, Kep’s resident expatriates sat in segregated clusters, divided by nationalities, at several metal tables. Still, the entire room had murder on its mind. Murder talk in at least four languages.
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