Calvino looked at Josh’s bloodshot eyes and saw a lot of pain which the booze was keeping just below the surface. This was what running a bar entailed—listening to other people’s suffering as they drank your booze, thinking that somehow, between the talking and the drinking, some of the pain should drain away.
“What was he afraid of?” asked Calvino.
“He was afraid that the school might be successful. His message was pretty clear. Keep it dirty and ugly. Don’t paint the fucking place. You might make the government school look bad. We can’t have foreigners doing things to make us look bad. He didn’t give a fuck that the school would help the students or his country. All he cared about was what was in it for him. He was motivated by greed. All of Saigon is motivated by greed. After you take out one of those government assholes for dinner you want to wash out your mouth, ears, nose, throat and hands. You don’t want their scent stuck to your body.” He leaned across the bar. “Another beer, if you please,” he shouted.
Sitting at the bar on his right, a fat American from South Carolina carefully balanced beer bottles onto ashtrays, creating a pyramid. He was like a fat man in a circus act. A cigarette was hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The fat man, who looked about the same age as Josh, said, “Josh, well, he’s drunk. You are drunk most of the time, tell the man. But that doesn’t mean he ain’t telling the truth or that I can’t balance these fucking beer bottles. Look at the waitresses, they love this. Some excitement in their lives. The thrill of broken glass. All those years and years of things falling out of the sky, of things breaking, shattering. Well, sometimes, I think it gets a little too quiet for them.”
“You plan to break those bottles?” asked Calvino, as if it were his bar.
“I ain’t ever broken a bottle in one year, have I, Josh?”
“Charlie never has broken a fucking bottle. That’s correct,” said Josh.
“That’s a fact,” said Charlie.
“Once I saw Josh on the hydrofoil to Vung Tao with this beautiful Vietnamese girl. It was early morning and he was drunk. And you know what Josh was doing?”
“I don’t remember,” said Josh.
“You were teaching her English.”
“I’m an English teacher.”
“You were teaching her the lyrics to Gilligan’s Island. That old TV show. And, you know, by the time the hydrofoil reached Vung Tao, she was singing the Gilligan’s Island theme song all by herself.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were with that lawyer. The one who got himself killed.”
“Drew Markle,” said Josh.
“He took his job too seriously,” said Charlie. Calvino leaned toward Charlie.
“Why too seriously?”
The fat man was concentrating on stacking a Tiger beer bottle. “Sometimes, Drew would complain that there was no rule of law in Vietnam.”
“He got that part right,” said Josh.
“But you can’t go around saying that to the Vietnamese,” said Charlie.
“Charlie’s right on target. He said it one too many times and they blew him up.”
Calvino watched Charlie’s fat finger position one empty Tiger beer bottle on top of the other. They were Josh’s empties.
“And you can’t be too successful in business. Let’s say you get a successful bar up and running,” said the fat man, who was late
20s and had a deep Southern accent that made him sound like he was from another century. “The Vietnamese will notice your success. They will get together and find a way to take the bar away from you. Why? Because you are a foreigner and you are making money. They don’t think that foreigners should be allowed to make all that money from a bar in Saigon. It bothers them. It isn’t your country. You’re an American. You lost the war. Why the fuck should you come back to Vietnam and take away their money from right under their nose? And then say there are rules to protect them. It don’t make sense to them. So they find a way and the rules don’t matter. They’ll find someone to yank your visa, take away your lease, threaten you, hint they can cause an accident. Like Drew Markle. They got rid of him the old-fashioned way. And he was just a lawyer. Christ, if he had been running a successful bar, they would have dropped an A-bomb on him.”
As he said the word A-bomb, his pyramid of empty beer bottles and Q-Bar ashtrays became unstable, collapsed, and fell to the tiled floor on both sides of the bar, showering glass in every direction.
“Christ,” said Charlie, his eyes wide. “That’s the first time that ever happened. Tell him, Josh.”
“Fuck, Charlie, it happens all the time. Stop jazzing the guy.”
“Not that often.”
“Who do you think killed Drew Markle?” asked Calvino. Charlie stood, looking down at the broken glass.
“There will be manned colonies on the moon before they solve his murder,” said Charlie.
“Point is, no one cares,” said Josh. “The communists got themselves a crippled RVN sergeant. The Americans want to do business here. The sergeant’s okay with them. That’s the end of it.”
They were still talking about why no one had any interest in pursuing Drew Markle’s killers when Douglas Webb came into the bar with a woman. The buzz at the bar stopped as the farang crowd stared at the woman on Webb’s arm. She wore a red, sleeveless dress with a hemline exposing her legs to full advantage, the kind of dress which clung to the body like fresh paint, imported shoes with six-inch heels, and a firm 37” bust was half- exposed as the dress did one of those fashionable U-turns at the cleavage, leaving a shadow large enough to hide a handgun.
“This is Vincent Demato, Darla, he’s the client I was telling you about,” said Webb.
Darla held out her hand, smiling at Calvino, who had turned around on his stool. Josh’s head rose from his glass, his droopy eyes growing larger, and Charlie forgot all about the broken glass, running his thick fingers over his head, slicking back his dirty brown hair from his forehead. Calvino grasped her hand and she pouted her lips into a red, dayglo like kiss. “He said you’re from Brooklyn. I think that is so romantic. Barry Manilow is from Brooklyn and I have every one of his records.”
“I’m opening a bar in Saigon,” said Calvino, shaking her hand.
Darla moved in close enough that he could smell her perfume. “Once I had this dream that I was giving Barry Manilow a
blow-job,” she whispered. “I had him in my mouth, you know. He was pushing my head back and forth like he was really into it and everything. Then there was this loud bang.”
“And?” asked Calvino.
She pulled away from his ear. “I woke up. It was someone setting off Chinese firecrackers outside my window. In Bangkok, where I live, the Chinese are always throwing firecrackers. I think they think to make lots of noise late at night makes their cock hard. Otherwise, why would they do it?”
“Enough,” said Webb, his hands around her waist and pulling her back.
Webb stepped forward and put his arm around Calvino’s neck. “Hey, sorry buddy, about being late and all that crap. But you know...,” he glanced over at Darla and then winked at Calvino. “Let’s take a table. I want to talk to you.”
“Here’s the guy you should be asking about who killed Drew Markle,” said Josh.
Webb looked around at Calvino.
“You do business in a city, you wanna know why people get killed.”
“Here, they do what they want,” said Charlie. “Isn’t that right, counsellor?”
“You certainly do what you want, Charlie,” said Webb. “That I do.”
“You need a beer?” asked Webb, turning away from Charlie and toward Calvino.
“I always need a beer.”
Webb gestured to the bartender and slipped away from the bar.
Calvino followed Webb over to the table as Darla walked with her arm wrapped around Webb’s. They sat in the corner. Webb waved a waiter over and ordered a round of drinks.
“Look, I’ve got a meeting set up for
you,” said Webb.
Calvino waited, saying nothing for a moment as he watched Webb’s eyes.
“What are we talking about? Meeting about what?” asked Calvino.
His eyes glanced at Darla and then back at Webb. This made Webb break into a wide smile. “Not with Darla. But with a guy who has a property for lease. It was a bar until the police shut it down a few months ago. He had leased the ground floor to some Australian who drank too much beer. He was married to a Vietnamese whore. The Aussie had a permanent hard-on. Yo u know the type, Darla. But this Aussie rubbed the local police the wrong way. He hit one cop in the face, knocked him out, stole his sidearm. Sure he showed up an hour later at the police station and gave the gun back. But hey, I’m sorry, but you don’t punch a Vietnamese cop in the mouth and make yourself popular in Saigon. I told the owner you wanted a class place. There wouldn’t be any trouble with the police. You had something like the Q-Bar in mind. And that you would be willing to fix it up so long as he gave you a three-year lease.”
“Where is this place?” asked Calvino.
Webb smiled again, leaned forward. “That’s the beauty of it. It not that far from the Q-Bar, the hottest bar in Saigon. You can draw the same kind of crowd. Saigon is big enough for two first-class expat bars. I think enough of the idea to even put some of my own money in if you want. You know, just to show good faith.”
“When’s the meeting?” asked Calvino.
“At eleven. About twenty minutes from now. It was the only time Mr. Tang had free.”
“Tang? You mean like the orange drink?” asked Calvino. This made Darla laugh.
“You are funny,” she said. “I like men who make me laugh.”
“Tang like the soft drink. It’s called Karen’s Bar and it’s about a ten minute walk,” said Webb. “Go have a look around with Mr. Tang, if you like the location and see the possibility, then come back. I can draw up the contracts tomorrow and you are in business.”
“What if I don’t like the place?” asked Calvino. “Then we’ll find another one, Vincent.”
Darla sighed, “I just love your accent, Mr. Demato.”
“And I love your dream about the Barry Manilow blow-job,” he said.
“Funny thing, most men like that dream a lot.”
According to Calvino’s law, you need to know two things about your enemy: what he wants and what he fears. You can’t deliver what he wants, any more than you can put the ocean in a bottle, but you can do something about the fear. You study the mechanisms of his fear, study the wires, then disconnect, if you are right, you are alive, if you are wrong, then you are dead, like Drew Markle. Calvino was banking that what Webb wanted was money. Above respect, above his career, above any sense of right and wrong. He had given him an opportunity to have a great deal of money.
CHAPTER 9
THE LAST RAT OUT
CALVINO FELT THE weight of the Smith & Wesson hugging his body like a lover comforting him, snuggling real close as if nothing in the world was strong enough to come between them. But he knew this was a lie with a woman and a lie with a gun. In Vietnam, a handgun worked like an infant’s security blanket, something better left behind once one left childhood; a handgun was about as much use as a security blanket in a firefight where the other side was armed with combat zone fire-power. But a small argument against the forces of dark and evil was better than no argument at all.
He stood on the pavement, the fountain to his back, and glanced through the window of the Q-Bar. In the far corner of the bar, still seated at the table where he had left them, and in full public display were Webb and Darla. He saw Darla’s long, wet tongue move between her teeth and touch the tip of Webb’s nose, and then her tongue entered his mouth like in a porno film or a horror film, a devouring kiss which unleashed a monster. He turned and walked away. He had seen enough. Calvino’s law said that any woman who loved Barry Manilow’s music and dreamed of going down on him was still stranded circa 1969 in a Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit issue. A time-warp baby. He had a fix on Darla, pegging her as that unusual brand of hooker—a Zone freak, a hardcore regular one ran across now and again—a genuine romantic in a mechanical, functional profession which was built on the illusion of romance and the reality of commerce.
Calvino moved quickly past the line of cyclos parked outside the Q-Bar; some of these drivers worked as undercover security agents, police, military and God knew what from other intelligence organizations. Chinese, Korean, American. Others worked for the privatized sector of the local mafia. He avoided them. A couple of ragged cyclo drivers pushed their cyclos away from the curb and rolled as if to chase him, running and panting, crying, “Mister, where you go?” Calvino waved each of them away, and their smiles vanished like a series of light bulbs as they explode one after another until there is nothing but complete darkness. But they finally got the message, peeled away, turned and walked back to their space in front of the Q-Bar.
He walked along the street, dodging cyclos, motorcycles and cars for some time, trying to figure what Webb’s angle was in setting up a meeting at night. Maybe he was hungry for that two hundred grand, thought Calvino. On the main road, he flagged down a cyclo and told the driver to take him to a street a short walk from Karen’s Bar. The driver looked at him, sizing him for the fare.
“Two dollars,” said the cyclo driver, climbing off the bicycle seat.
It was one of the few places on earth outside of America that drivers quoted fares in dollars. “Five thousand dong,” said Calvino. He climbed into the seat.
The driver, who was no more than a boy, stared at him before climbing back on the bicycle seat behind Calvino.
“One dollar,” said the driver, immediately dropping his price by half.
“You don’t like dong?” asked Calvino. “Dong no good. Dollar much better.”
“Okay, one dollar.”
The cyclo driver smiled, then not long afterwards, the cyclo turned left onto Hai Ba Trung Street, then made a right, not stopping for the light to turn green, at Le Thanh Ton Street. No one stopped for traffic lights or stop signs unless there was a policeman standing on the corner. The cyclo passed Don Dat Street. Calvino motioned for the driver to pull over to the curb. He climbed off the cyclo and paid him. He stood in the street until the cyclo disappeared from sight, then walked into Don Dat Street, and, a few minutes later, he cut down a small lane. It was as dark as inside the elevator during the power failure. There were no street lights. Calvino kept on walking, feeling his heart beat increase, the weight of his shoulder rig and the Smith & Wesson, whispering a lullaby, in a sweet voice.
“You’re gonna be just fine, baby.” He stopped and stared down the street and made out a dimly lit rim of light framing a few windows here and there. As he approached the lights inside the buildings showed the shadowy outline of windows, doors, roofs; the street was lined on both sides with old, cramped, dark shophouses, smelling of dry rot, backed-up sewage, and street garbage. Behind the padlocked gates some dogs barked. Nothing moved along on the small lane. He stood on the broken pavement, thinking how this was like Bangkok. In the distance, he could make out the sound of one of the Chinese soup boys beating bamboo sticks. Some traffic passed on the street, a cycle, then a motorbike, then an old man pushing a cart. He kept on moving ahead, almost stumbling over a woman who looked about eight months pregnant sleeping on the sidewalk beside her man. Their bed was a piece of cardboard. Bamboo stick music filtered through her dreams, he thought. The general wretchedness of the neighborhood would have made the lower East side of Manhattan look like Singapore. A hell’va place for an expat bar, he thought, as he stood listening and watching on the street.
There was unusual silence for a huge, slummed-out Asian city that had people swarming and crawling over every square inch of the place, picking over the scraps like junkyard dogs. More pregnant women camping on bamboo mats shifted in the shadows. He walked on until he came to a row of shophouses. He looked up at a painted sign that read: Karen’s Bar. Be
hind him a cyclo driver called out, “You, you. I take you now. Go find girl. Make love, good. Not expensive. Drink beer. Take girl. Can.” Calvino shook his head and watched him pedal away, thinking he should call him back and make the call in the morning. He tossed a coin in his mind’s eye. Heads he stayed, tails he left. It came down heads. He thought about two out of three, then he walked three more steps and pounded on the gate of the vacant bar but no one answered from inside. He kicked the door out of frustration, wondering what Webb’s game was and why he was hanging around the Q-Bar every night and how such a lawyer had ever been hired by Winchell & Holly. He was about to leave when a Vietnamese leaned out of the window two floors over his head and shouted down.
“Take the staircase on the side. I’m up here.”
Calvino stepped back and saw an old skinny Vietnamese man in a dirty singlet leaning out the window. Behind him a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. He had pillow hair matted on one side like he had been sleeping. The other side was bald. Some men had that kind of hair they had to parcel out over the skull in a thin layer for maximum coverage.
“You Mr. Tang?”
“That’s me. You Demato?” Calvino nodded.
“Webb said you had a bar for rent.” Calvino stood back in the street and tried to imagine a bar in the shophouse. Bright lights, prostitutes, loud voices, a jukebox, and the smell of cigarettes and beer.
“You’re looking at it.”
There wasn’t much to look at. No wonder the former owner had gone out of business. Prison must have been a holiday camp after this neighborhood. Just finding the place required persistence and courage. Tourists taking one look at the street would have headed for the high ground of the Rex and Continental Hotels. Keeping in the circle of light like moths happy with the heat of the flame.
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