For the first time that evening, Hanson Muir spoke, looking up from his half-drained beer with mild astonishment. ‘Brandon, the last time you gave somebody five thousand dollars you ended up with a skull for a urinal.’
‘Everything in Bangkok has a price, Professor,’ said Condley flatly.
‘Whatever happened to friends helping friends?’ said Muir.
‘Exactly,’ announced Simolzak. ‘Sal is a dangerous person, plus he was very difficult to locate. If Brandon were a normal client this would cost twice as much.’ He leaned toward Marino now. ‘A thousand bucks, and you’ll never have to deal with Condley again. Hell, Sal, it sounds like you just beat everybody at the table.’
‘Maybe I did.’ Sal Marino rose and actually pulled back Condley’s chair for him. His lined face carried a small, victorious smile, as if he had convinced himself that this was indeed his own idea. ‘All right, Condley. Let’s go upstairs.’
* * *
‘OK, Condley—’
‘You can call me Brandon.’
‘Fuck you.’ Marino nervously surveyed Condley from across a dining table in a small room usually reserved for private dinners. He had brought a king-size bottle of Singha beer, courtesy of a celebrative Ted Simolzak. He began again.
‘Anyway, you got your meeting. And I got a, uh, separate engagement later tonight. So what’s up?’
‘I want to ask you a question—’ said Condley.
‘The five-thousand-dollar question,’ quipped Marino, interrupting him.
Condley took a photograph from the large manila envelope he had been carrying and laid it onto the table.
‘This is Theodore Deville. Or at least this was what he looked like thirty-five years ago when he joined the Army. Five years after that picture was taken he escaped from Viet Nam and came to Bangkok.’
‘That’s about when I escaped from Viet Nam and came to Bangkok,’ said Marino cavalierly. ‘That fucking shithole. I’ve never been so glad to get out of a place in my life.’
‘No, Sal,’ said Condley patiently. ‘He really did escape. He was wanted on charges of murder and desertion. It took him four years to get out of the country.’
Condley dropped another photograph onto the table, this one of Mathew Larkin. ‘He looked a lot like this guy, and that’s why he killed him. Murder number two, at least. Took his passport, which was filled with exit visas to Thailand. I think he came here. I think he’s been here ever since.’
Condley watched Marino’s face carefully as the con-man studied the two photographs. No visible reaction. Finally Marino looked up at Condley. ‘So what’s the five-thousand-dollar question? I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, if I ask it you’re going to leave. So let’s just talk for a while.’
‘That wasn’t in the contract.’
‘How do you know? You didn’t read it.’ Condley peered intently at Marino’s face, looking for the slightest gesture. ‘He had what’s called a signature when he killed people. He cut off a hand. Don’t ask me why.’
‘Maybe he’s a hand collector.’ Marino’s eyes smoked for one quick moment as if he was remembering something, even though he was pretending to blow the whole thing off. ‘You know, like some people collect seashells, and others collect stamps. Hands.’
‘Maybe you knew somebody who looked like that. Or maybe you heard of somebody around here who got his hand collected.’
‘Is that your question?’
‘I was just thinking out loud.’
Marino pulled on his beer, avoiding Condley’s eyes. He checked his watch. Condley leaned across the table. ‘I really want to find him, Sal. He killed two of my people.’
‘Simolzak’s after your girl.’ Marino smirked, taking another long pull from his Singha. ‘It’s so fucking clear.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘So I guess that’s your question?’ Marino laughed, pointing at Condley and starting to rise from the chair.
‘Sal, if you start for that door I’m going to beat the fuck out of you.’
‘You got no right to say that to me. I’m a free man.’
‘I’m paying five thousand dollars for this conversation, and I’ll decide when it’s over. Now, sit back down.’
Marino watched him carefully, measuring his intentions, and then sat back down in the chair. ‘I’ve known you for a long time, Condley. And I’ve never seen you so worked up.’
‘By the way, she’s not my girl. I mean, not seriously.’ Condley watched him for a moment, then grew quiet. ‘Look, I am sorry about your daughter. I wanted to say that for a long time.’
‘She already knew, actually.’ Marino recovered, warming a bit. ‘But you didn’t have to sleep with her.’
‘That’s different. She asked me!’
‘All right, all right, she did. That’s done, OK? Over, like history. I don’t want to talk about it.’ Marino stared at the photographs for a long time. ‘You got any more?’
Condley pulled out another one, dropping it onto the table. ‘This is a computer enhancement. A guess as to what he would look like today.’
Marino’s eyes smoldered again, just for a second. He looked up to Condley and then back at the photograph. Finally he took a deep breath, as if daring himself. ‘I want to give you some serious advice, Brandon.’
‘Brandon, huh? This must be seriously serious.’
‘You’ve survived too long to be this fucking naive, man. Don’t be talking about this to anybody else. Not out loud, like you just did in the club down there.’
Watching Marino’s dark face and his skittish, bouncing eyes, a sudden reality settled over Condley, as scary as a heart attack. Perhaps the time zones and the jet lag had indeed numbed his logic. Perhaps he had forgotten that asking a question about a murderer in Australia or Moscow was quite different from asking about one in Bangkok. Especially if…
‘He’s here.’
‘You got a pen?’
‘A pen?’
‘What part of pen don’t you understand?’
Condley took out a pen and handed it to Marino. The hustler looked darkly around the room, as if for cameras. Then he wrote something on the back of one of the pictures and walked toward the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Stay away from me, man. I’m not kidding. I can’t see you again.’
Marino walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
Marino ignored the others as he walked downstairs into the main room of the club. Muir, Van, Simolzak, and Father Mike were finishing a dinner of seafood, vegetables, and rice. Father Mike appeared quite drunk, on the verge of sleep. His head bobbed up as Marino approached, and he gave the hustler a hopeful smile. ‘And did we reach a sense of peace?’
‘Give me my gun,’ said Marino, taking his pistol back from Simolzak. He jammed the weapon back inside his ankle holster and headed for the door.
Simolzak called after him. ‘I owe you some money, Sal.’
‘Mail it,’ said Marino, not even turning back around. He pulled the door with one quick motion and was gone.
‘Mister Personality,’ said Simolzak, shrugging as he turned back to the others at the table. ‘I don’t even have an address.’
Condley appeared, pointing at Simolzak’s plate, his face masked with a small, forced smile. ‘Can I still order some dinner?’
‘Of course,’ said Simolzak, urging Sapphire off to the kitchen.
‘Was he rude to you?’ asked Father Mike.
‘He has… issues,’ said Condley, taking a chair. Then he hedged, inwardly disturbed by Marino’s cold warning. ‘But he wasn’t much help.’
Simolzak had moved his chair very close to Van’s, his face now animated with an unconcealed glow. Muir caught Condley’s attention and secretly raised his eyebrows, looking at the two.
‘Ted was telling me about the mountains near Chiang Mai,’ said Van with a look that was swimming with anticipation. ‘And the beaches at Phu Ket. He says
that we should go to Phu Ket. Have you been to Phu Ket, Cong Ly?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been to Phu Ket.’
‘And he travels to Hong Kong once a month. Your city! Looking out onto the bay instead of the river, with all the boats. And the little streets filled with shops. Just like you told me, remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Condley.
‘He is a good friend, isn’t he? And he has a wonderful life, doesn’t he, Cong Ly?’
‘A great friend. Time to go,’ said Condley, standing up and pulling on the back of Van’s chair.
‘I thought you were hungry,’ protested Van.
‘Sorry, Van,’ said Hanson Muir, picking up on Condley’s intentions. ‘I have to call Hawaii. It’s very important.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow!’ said Simolzak, waving goodbye to them as they neared the door. He was looking at Condley, but it was Van who smiled delightedly and waved back.
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Good night!’
Van held back, walking behind them as they reached the street, oblivious to the danger of their mission, caught up in the romance of the roadside stalls and playful antics that surrounded them. Muir nudged him, speaking quietly. ‘Didn’t you say he was a friend?’
‘This is Bangkok, Professor. If it’s not nailed down you can steal it, and if she’s not in the rack with you she’s fair game.’
‘How was Marino?’
‘Scary. Very scary.’
Condley held on tightly to the manila envelope as they walked silently down dark streets looking for a cab, suddenly worried that he might lose it, or that someone might burst from the shadows and steal it. But he had already memorised the name Marino had so nervously written on the back of one photograph.
Andrew Brandywine.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the darkened street outside the Vietnamese Embassy, Manh flagged down a tuk tuk, a small three-wheeled motor-driven rickshaw, then expertly negotiated a fare of forty baht for the driver to take them to Patpong. Dzung was an ungainly afterthought to Manh’s commanding presence, standing awkwardly next to him on the curb as they searched for a tuk tuk and then sitting stiffly in its cab as the driver motored them madly along the crowded streets.
The late-night air was damp and gamy, like someone else’s breath. Dzung found the rush of traffic intimidating, even after the crowded roads of Sai Gon. Everything in Bangkok was bigger and faster. The streets were filled with tuk tuKs, cars, buses, and trucks instead of the cyclos, bicycles, motorbikes, and the less frequent cars of Sai Gon. He stared out at the massiveness of Bangkok through Rip Van Winkle eyes, unable to fully comprehend the fullness and sophistication that surrounded him.
The very size and unfamiliarity of Bangkok made Dzung for the first time deeply afraid of what Manh was going to ask him to do, not in the sense of whether it was right but of whether he could carry out his task at all. Seeing Condley on the plane had chilled him. He was shocked to look up into the eyes of his American friend and amazed when Condley did not recognise him. But mostly he was stunned at himself. His first reaction had not been a fear for Condley’s safety but rather an overwhelming relief that he and Manh had not been caught in their little game.
Since that moment he had tortured himself with questions. Why had he not cared? Was it the fear of being embarrassed on the airplane and hauled back into Sai Gon with an uncertain ending in sight, probably indeed a visit to a remote interrogation facility in order to ‘cleanse’ his re-entry to the cyclo routes of District One? Was it the thrill of this odd freedom that had been given him, filled with the electric falsity of disguises, double names, and the chance to become again, if only for one terrible moment, a man of action? Or had Manh subtly reached a point inside him that he never thought would be surrendered, making him once again what the Interior Ministry official would call a ‘true Vietnamese,’ willing to kill and even possibly to die for the survival of – what? This government? This system? Or maybe the country itself?
Finally he decided that he did not really care at all. He was free – even if that meant actually being kept on Manh’s leash – for a short time in a city that he had never thought he would see, sleeping on a good bed, eating good food, and wearing real shoes. At some point the freedom would end and he would be called upon to perform an act of violence, and there was no guarantee of what would happen to him after that. But how was that any different than combat had been? He had never hated the North Vietnamese soldiers he fought on the battlefield during the war. He was called upon to kill, and he had killed. And what had been his reward back then? Respite from the battlefield for a while, hot meals for a while, a bunk in a barracks for a while, the chance to see his family for a while. There was no difference here.
He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair and then looked down at the bright blue golf shirt and tan silk trousers that had become his latest costume, replete with white Nike walking shoes. ‘I’m not used to riding in the cab!’ he said to Manh, pointing forward to the tuk tuk driver.
‘I’m very sorry, Mister Trong,’ joked Manh. ‘But we were unable to arrange for your limo tonight.’
‘What is Patpong?’ he asked.
‘Patpong is what we hope will never happen to Sai Gon,’ answered Manh. ‘Nothing but bars, strip clubs, and prostitutes.’
‘And Sai Gon is so different?’ gibed Dzung. ‘Or maybe you’re saying that you hope they can keep the strip clubs out?’
‘Be careful,’ warned Manh, his voice firm but his smile indicating he was only half serious.
‘As a rice exporter it is important that I be able to make such observations,’ chided Dzung. ‘In order to improve the quality of the revolution. So Manh, I will be honest. There are far too many prostitutes in Sai Gon. At night when I work, the streets are filled with them. Maybe if we built a few more strip clubs they would be finding happier work.’
‘Enough social policy,’ commanded Manh, cupping a cigarette from the wind in the open cab as he lit it. ‘We are heading to Patpong for a very serious purpose.’
‘To stare at the bodies of naked Thai women,’ nodded Dzung.
‘We will do that, but that is not our purpose.’
‘To make love to them, for the good of the revolution.’
‘Mister Trong, you amaze me with your lack of respect.’
‘It’s what happens when you make a little money,’ said Dzung, staring wide-eyed out at the mass of traffic and the sky-high urban sprawl that surrounded them.
‘No,’ said Manh, dragging deeply on his cigarette and smiling mysteriously to Dzung. ‘Our purpose is more singular. Tonight we must turn you into a Thai.’
‘A Thai!’ Dzung smiled, nodding his enthusiasm at the concept. ‘So how long have I been a Thai?’
‘Not actually to be a Thai,’ said Manh, shouting over the noise of a large truck that was passing them on the thickly travelled street. ‘Just to be so comfortable that no Thai would notice you or remember that you walked past them in the dark.’
‘A fish among their fish.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Manh. ‘Like that! A guerrilla in their midst.’
They reached Patpong. Manh tossed his cigarette into the street, paid the driver, and they began to saunter slowly along Bangkok’s most famous evening entertainment district. The streets, which were closed to traffic at night, were jammed shoulder to shoulder with revelers of every race and nationality, including a surprising number of Thais themselves. Stalls lined the middle of the streets, selling everything from rip-off jewelry to fake designer clothes to pirated music and films. On the curb was a mix of establishments catering to people of the night: open-air bars where customers stood before large-screen TVs showing the fanatically popular Thai kickboxing matches, raucous strip clubs whose music pounded into the night air like jackhammers, and small hotels awaiting that evening’s ration of customers who rotated into and out of the strip joints.
It took Dzung less than half a block to relax into the crowd. ‘Give me a cigaret
te,’ he said to Manh.
‘Anything you say, all-powerful Mister Trong.’
They stopped walking. Dzung lit the cigarette off Manh’s match, a few apologetic tourists bumping into them as they passed. And then they began walking again. The doors of a strip joint opened. Four drunken westerners stumbled into the street. The music from the club was very loud. Dzung stopped again, staring through the doorway at a half dozen young Thai women dancing naked on an elevated stage.
Every time you go away, the music blared as the naked women twisted on the stage. You take a piece of me with you…
‘Let’s go in there,’ said Dzung.
‘I don’t have the money,’ said Manh simply. ‘And neither do you.’
‘The rice business is not as profitable as I thought,’ grinned Dzung.
‘AIDS is a very big problem in this city,’ warned Manh. ‘You don’t want to die like that.’
Dzung watched Manh carefully. It was a chance to test the Interior Ministry agent’s intentions without confronting him directly. ‘If I knew I was going to live, I would worry about AIDS. But if I am going to die in Bangkok, I should at least be rewarded with a woman for one night.’
Manh put a hand on Dzung’s shoulder. Anyone watching them would have believed they were close, long-time friends. ‘We are great soldiers.’
‘We?’ asked Dzung, a hint of irony in his eyes.
‘The Vietnamese. Great soldiers, Mister Trong. So you’re not going to die in Bangkok. As long as you do your duty.’
‘I already promised you that, Manh.’
‘You have a rich man’s haircut,’ teased Manh, flipping his fingers for a moment at the front of Dzung’s newly styled coiffure. ‘Maybe if we stand at one of these bars for a while, an American woman would pick you up.’
Lost Soldiers Page 35
