Saigon Wife

by Colin Falconer

  “I suppose I’m more accustomed to it.”

  “Yes,” Walt said. “I guess you are.” I assumed from that that Reyes had already told him everything about me.

  “Anyway, it was kind of you to bring me this news in person.”

  “Not really. I was curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “About you.”

  “Do go on.”

  “I’ve known Reyes a long time; never seen him torn up over a woman before. I had to see it for myself.”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m just an ordinary woman.”

  “Oh, I think we both know that’s not true. Still, I don’t understand why he stuck out his neck like this. It’s something I never expected from a guy like Reyes.” He finished his coffee. He left a plain white card on the table with his name and his telephone number. “Please get in touch with me if I can be of any further assistance.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Mister Winstone?”

  He paused halfway out of his chair. “I can’t say that I have.”

  “So have you ever done anything stupid, something so monumentally reckless that it made no sense?”

  “Well, all appearances to the contrary, I’m what you might call a very practical guy.”

  “You have a logical reason for everything you do?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then I don’t think I could explain to you why Reyes did what he did.”

  “I guess I’m the lucky one, then.”

  “No, Mister Winstone, I don’t think you are.”

  After breakfast I picked my way through the coils of barbed wire on Lam Son Square, ignoring the imprecations of the bootblacks and the urchins selling cigarettes. Two ARVN marines patrolled the square, clutching M-16s.

  I made my way back up the Tu Do to the cathedral, a hideous monstrosity built from red brick. I spared a few coins for the bui doi who flocked around outside.

  I felt so small inside the vast basilica. I remembered a day like this in Havana many years ago when I came to pray for my father. Had the Virgin answered the prayer? Hard to say. She had saved his life but prolonged his suffering.

  I sat in one of the pews at the back and closed my eyes.

  What was I going to do? I couldn’t stay with Connor. But how could I hurt him after all he had been through these last weeks?

  If I left him, how could he possibly understand?

  I couldn’t tell him I was leaving, it would break his heart; but if I didn’t it would break mine. But I knew I would have to tell him, if not tomorrow, then soon. In my soul, I knew I couldn’t let Reyes go again. There was only one life to live and if I let my last chance slip away again I’d regret it forever.

  But what could I do about Angel? Even if Reyes and Connor got out of Saigon, he would track them down. I knew enough about the Salvatore family to know nowhere was safe.

  I covered my face with my hands. “Mother Mary, for pity’s sake, help us, help us all.”

  There was no answering lightning bolt. I just didn’t see any way that this could come out well, not for Connor, not for Reyes and not for me.

  Perhaps Reyes would know what to do.

  I went back into the bright sunshine, head down, my thoughts turned inside. I didn’t see the two men waiting under the trees until it was too late.

  Chapter 38

  REYES

  When he got back to his apartment he stripped off his jungle greens and climbed under the shower. He turned on the cold tap and stood there until he was shivering, trying to wash the stink and death of the jungle out of him. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Connor’s face lying on the stretcher.

  One magic bullet can change everything.

  When he came out of the bathroom he stood in the middle of the room, naked, and got himself ready for what he had to do. He supposed he could have rung her from Laos, but this was something he had to do himself.

  He supposed it had worked out for them—they could be together now. But he would have to give her time, whatever she felt about him, Connor was her husband and he didn’t deserve to die like that. Or maybe that was what he wanted, hadn’t he said as much?

  He would help her sort things out, get his body back to the States. Then he would tidy up the loose ends here in Saigon and follow her. He would let her be for a while, though. Leave a forwarding address. Let her come in her own time.

  Maybe this was how it was meant to be. All he knew was that one bullet had missed him by inches and another had killed Connor. It sure looked like Fate from where he stood. He knew he had nothing to feel guilty about, but then he didn’t feel like celebrating because the poor bastard had died.

  It was just on noon when he got to the Caravelle. He had the desk clerk ring up to her room but there was no answer. “Did she leave a message for me?”

  “Sorry, nothing,” the boy said.

  Reyes felt a thrill of alarm. He had expected her to be waiting for his call. He used a pay phone in the lobby to call the Embassy, tried to find Walt, but his private line rang out.

  He scribbled a note at the counter and left it for her at the desk. Then he went outside, hailed a cab and went over to the Embassy.

  He fidgeted in the heavy traffic all the way over. There was a small queue at the gate outside and the usual security checks seemed to take forever. When he was finally ushered through and got to the main desk the clerk was busy on the telephone.

  Reyes wanted to strangle someone.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Walt Winstone.”

  He rang through to his office but there was no answer. “I’m sorry, he’s not there.”

  “He’s got to be in the building.”

  The clerk gave him a stiff smile and kept checking, at his own pace. Finally, he tracked him down. Five minutes later Walt emerged from the elevator. “I don’t believe it.” He wrapped him a bear hug. “This time I thought you were cashing in your chips. How the fuck did you do it?”

  “I made it. I’m afraid the target didn’t.”

  Walt didn’t look surprised. “Too bad, what happened?”

  “Magic bullet ten minutes out of Sam Thong. Would you believe it?”

  “Lucky break for you, though. Why the long face?”

  “Have you heard from Magdalena?”

  “I had breakfast with her. I can see why she’s got your propeller in a knot. Man, she could have been an actress.”

  Reyes didn’t dwell on the irony. “What time did you see her?”

  “About eight o’clock.”

  “Did you tell her we got out?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I thought you’d both made it. I got the impression she was more worried about you, though. What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t find her.”

  “Not at the Caravelle?”

  “Where else would she be?”

  “Maybe she went out for lunch.”

  “She would have been waiting on my call, right?”

  “You would think.” Walt nodded. He knew what Reyes was thinking. “You think the Salvatores have snatched her.”

  “Yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Because you have something of theirs. Come on, man, no point in denying anymore.”

  Reyes shrugged.

  “See, you should have come to me right off. I told you, get the hell out of Saigon and leave the rest to me. Now you’ve really got a problem.”

  “Maybe there’s an explanation, maybe she went to the airport to meet me.”

  Walt went to the desk, picked up a phone and rang the Caravelle. He had a brief conversation and put the phone back down. “She’s still not there, man.”

  Reyes left. He grabbed another cab in the street and went over to Cong Ly, told the driver to wait for him and went up to the gates. There was a guard in a shabby uniform; he asked if he could see Mister Macheda. The guard shook his head, “Mister Macheda left last night,” he said in Vietnamese. “No one lives here anymore.”

  He got back in the cab
and went to the Caravelle, an American engineer was checking out at reception and Reyes shoved him aside.

  “Hey, pal!”

  He saw the look on Reyes’ face and backed off.

  “Is Miss Fuentes in her room?” he said to the clerk.

  The boy looked scared. He called up, shook his head.

  “Are you sure there’s no message for me?”

  He went back to the pigeonhole. “One here from Mister Garcia.”

  “No, that’s from me.”

  “Oh wait, yes. Message right here, I miss it.” He tried to read the name scrawled on it, but Reyes snatched it out of his hand.

  It said: Welcome home. You have something of mine and now I have something of yours. Be at the Cercle Sportif at four o’clock. Tennis anyone?”

  Chapter 39

  The Cercle Sportif was an outpost of the French colonial days, an anachronism in modern Vietnam. Once, you had to be white and French to get in. Now they let in just about anyone; there were noisy American businessmen and engineers and diffident Vietnamese and Cholon-Chinese businessmen flashing their money around. Hell, they even let Angel in.

  He was on the terrace, smoking a fat Havana cigar, watching the girls swimming in the pool. His goons sat off to the side trying to be as discreet as guys can be wearing black on a scorching day in Saigon and carrying firearms.

  He wondered why he chose this place. Was he showing off or did he aspire to gentility? He liked the fine life. Angel never let you forget he was born to money.

  He waved a languid hand in Reyes’ direction and didn’t get up. “You should try the food here,” he said. “They make steaks like you get back home. This is the life, like going back a hundred years.”

  “The colonial days were only twenty years ago.”

  “No shit. When did you get to be so smart?”

  “Since I learned to read, you should try it.”

  A white-jacketed Vietnamese waiter delivered a tray of Havana rum, two glasses with ice and lime and a bottle of Coca Cola. “For old time’s sake, huh?”

  “Why not? So tell me, how was the jungle? I heard you were playing the big hero. Not like you, Reyes, you’re getting soft, losing your touch.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “Didn’t bring back any leeches on your socks?”

  “No, only leeches I ever saw are in Miami. Where is she, Angel?”

  Angel reached forward and patted his knee, still smiling. “Take it easy there, big guy. Let’s have a drink and relax. You want a cigar? They’re Cuban.”

  Reyes shook his head. “I’m trying to give them up.”

  “I remember my old man used to talk about you like you were really something. But you’re just a fucking loser, Reyes. You know that?”

  “Keep talking, son.”

  “No, I mean it, the way you used to roll around in that big fancy car with those fucking sunglasses, all the women falling over you. Everyone thought you were a real big shot but look who’s calling the shots now.”

  “That’s right, Angel, you’re the man.”

  “So how did you think you were going to get away with this? That much product, you can’t keep that a secret. Where did you hide it?”

  “Not in my room, obviously.”

  “Remember, big man, I got something you want now.”

  “You don’t need to know where it is Angel. The deal is Magdalena for the seven keys, right? I’ll deliver.”

  “She mean that much to you? I mean, a smart guy would be on the plane out of here long time ago. She’s just a broad, Reyes; they’re making more of them every minute.”

  “Yeah, so they tell me.”

  “I mean I always thought she was a cut above, know what I mean? But you don’t risk your life for a broad. Not if you’re smart.”

  “Well, I guess I’m not that smart. You already pointed that out and I thank you for it.”

  Angel gave him a look. He was hoping for more of a reaction.

  “Where is she? Is she safe?”

  “Of course she’s safe, you think I’d hurt her?”

  “If it suited you.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right, but I’m not going to hurt her unless you make it difficult, then I shall have to put my gentle nature aside and settle the accounts if that is what you want. But you will pay for that heroin in some way.”

  “Leave her out of it, you have my attention.”

  “Well look at you, getting soft over some broad. I’m impressed.” He put his hands together in a slow clap. “But okay, you played the big man, now give me back what is mine. Where is it?”

  “I’ll give it to you when I see her and when I know she’s all right.”

  “If that’s what you want.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen and turned over his coaster. He wrote an address on the reverse and handed it to Reyes. “You will come to this address tomorrow night and you will have the goods with you. Do you understand? When I get the briefcase, I will give her to you and we will go our separate ways and nothing more needs to be said. Are we understanding each other here?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Hell, Reyes, what were you going to do with seven keys of that stuff anyway?”

  “I had no idea. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. I almost threw it in the river.”

  “In the river? I guess it’s a good thing that you didn’t do that.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Why didn’t you just give it back?”

  “I didn’t know who the owner was.”

  Angel laughed. “No, that ain’t the reason.”

  “Well, how about this? Because I hate your guts and I loved you seeing you sweat.”

  Angel stopped smiling. “Yeah, that makes more sense. And you know what? I know how you feel because that is exactly how I feel about you.” Angel finished his drink. “It’s on my tab. Stay as long as you like. Just as long as you’re out of here in time to get my fucking product. I’ve wasted enough time on this already, I would like to get home and spend time with the kids. You understand me?”

  “Nine o’clock, Angel. I’ll be there.”

  “And let’s put this whole sorry episode to bed for good.”

  “Yeah,” Reyes said. “Let’s do that.”

  Chapter 40

  The docks were a tumult of car horns and siclo bells. A police jeep, its horn blaring, barged through, red lights flashing. Tugs and sampans hooted on the river. The reek of sewage and rotting waterweed was overpowering.

  Reyes wished he’d never seen the heroin, he should have left it lying there in the blackened bar. But then someone else would have taken it and perhaps the suspicion would have fallen on him anyway. This way the pay was still in his hands.

  All that mattered now was that he got Magdalena back. The briefcase was his bargaining chip, he’d let him have the damned thing and then get the hell out.

  He drove down the laneway that led to the orphanage. The siclo driver stopped and put one foot on the ground. He looked at Reyes and shrugged.

  Reyes got out and felt the earth fall away under him.

  It was gone.

  He supposed it was a VC rocket, they came down on the city every night, he must have been in Laos when this one hit, no one had thought to tell him about it but why would they? He pushed some notes into the driver’s hand and walked away.

  It must have been a direct hit; some of the outer walls were still standing but not much else. The rest was just blackened rubble.

  He picked up a child’s shoe. It was still warm from the fire. There were dark stains on the concrete playground and clothes scattered everywhere, a bloodied habit, a broken crucifix.

  The rubble of bricks was still smoldering. Perhaps the briefcase was still under there somewhere, more likely it was ashes. Whatever had happened, it was beyond him now.

  He would never understand the way life worked; bastards everywhere in this world and the rocket drops on an orphanage and kills half the kids who had no luck to start with as
well as the women who dedicated their lives to caring for them. Make any sense out of that.

  And me, I’ve lived my life looking for the main chance and a bullet misses me by inches, goes right through my legs and I don’t even hear it.

  “You have lived a dissolute life, yet you are a good man.”

  He had liked the old nun. He hoped that whatever had happened to her, the end had been quick and God saved her a comfortable spot in heaven. She deserved all the lucky breaks he had been having lately, but it seemed life didn’t work that way.

  He walked across the road and looked for someone who could tell him what had happened. He found a restaurant with a few broken chairs and greasy tiled kitchen. The little mama-san who ran the place was preparing a stir-fry in a vast wok. She barked a question at him as he came in: “you want chicken or beef?”

  In his halting Vietnamese and broken English, he asked her what had happened to the orphanage. She gave a hollow laugh and asked him what he thought happened—the nuns all got drunk and burned the place down.

  “Was it the VC?”

  “Rocket,” she said. “Came down in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep. I heard the crash; I thought it had landed on the roof. I went outside and the whole place was on fire and there were children running everywhere, screaming. I’m sick of the war. Do you want some noodle soup?”

  He asked her if there were any survivors. Some of the children got out, she said, but the nuns all got killed. That shows you should follow the Buddha. Buddha is a better bet.

  “I am concerned for your soul, Mister Garcia. I can arrange for a priest to hear your confession. You have lived a dissolute life, yet you are a good man. What is to become of you?”

  What is to become of me? Reyes thought. Good question. The heroin was gone, and that was the last bargaining chip he had to save Magdalena. Angel probably had her in a hotel room somewhere, feeding her minced crab and cognac and asking her to be his mistress. But with every hour that went by the danger increased. He wouldn’t hesitate to turn mean if he tried to stall. He would need to make his point, to Reyes and to the whole world.

  And perhaps he had been itching to do it all along. He probably thought if he couldn’t have her then no one else would.