On the political side, Bao Dai was a French puppet, far more interested in graft, gambling, and high-priced call girls than in attempting to actually govern, much less win independence from France. If you believed the rumors — and De Lhandes believed them — he used the huge subsidies that the Americans paid him to buy real estate in France. He was also partnered with Bay Vien and the Union Corse, getting a profitable cut from the opium that the former sold in Vietnam and the latter shipped to France and then the United States in the form of heroin.
In exchange, the two criminal organizations helped him keep order in Saigon, including Cholon, the Chinese quarter on the other side of the Saigon River.
“Home ground of the Binh Xuyen,” De Lhandes said, “but the best food, casinos, and brothels.”
“And beyond that?”
“The Rung Sat,” De Lhandes replied. “ ‘The Swamp of the Assassins.’ There you never go, mon pote. Or if you do, you never come back.”
The conversation lapsed as they sat back and enjoyed the rather sexy orchestra. They weren’t alone in that. At the bar, a large and raucous group of what appeared to be off-duty French soldiers looked on in appreciation, grateful to see European women. At other tables sat men who looked like they might be journalists or government workers. Or spies, Nicholai thought, like De Lhandes.
The “stringer” was subtle, for a European. He had gently tried to sound Nicholai out, find out what he was doing, and Nicholai had given him little or nothing, beyond the fact that he was looking for “business opportunities.”
Now De Lhandes said, “Drugs, guns, women, and money.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you were looking for business opportunities,” De Lhandes said. “The best opportunities in Saigon are in running opium, arms, whores, or currency.”
He looked for Nicholai’s reaction.
There was none.
The music ended and the band took a break. A waiter came over to Nicholai and said, “Monsieur Antonucci would like to see you in the back.”
Nicholai got up from his chair.
So did De Lhandes.
The waiter shook his head.
“Him,” he said, jutting his chin at Nicholai. “Not you.”
De Lhandes shrugged, and then said, “I’m going out for a night in Cholon, if you care to join me. I can be found at L’Arc-en-Ciel. Any cabbie will know it.”
“I don’t know.”
De Lhandes said, “We’ll make a night of it. A few drinks, maybe some gambling at Le Grand Monde. My pal Haverford is meeting me. Good man — he says he’s some sort of diplomat but of course he’s a spy.”
“It sounds like fun,” Nicholai said, “but I —”
“Oh, come along,” De Lhandes said. “Rumor is that Bao Dai himself will be there. Not a bad connection for a man hoping to set himself up in business here.”
“I’ll try,” Nicholai said.
He followed the waiter to the back room.
115
NICHOLAI SAT DOWN across the desk from Antonucci.
“You like my place?” the Corsican asked.
“It’s quite good, yes,” Nicholai answered.
The small backroom office was surprisingly cluttered. Somehow Nicholai had expected a neater, more businesslike atmosphere. The desk was a shambles of documents, letters, old newspapers, and overflowing ashtrays. A lamp, its shade stained with dead bugs, hung over the desk.
One of Antonucci’s thugs — a tall, thick man — leaned against the wall, the bulge in his jacket doubtless intentional. Antonucci relit his cigar, rolling it carefully around the flame of his lighter. Satisfied with the even burn, he turned his attention back to Nicholai and said, “You’re a young man. Ambitious.”
“Is that a problem?”
Antonucci shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He waited for a response, but Nicholai knew that any response to such a wide opening gambit could only be a mistake. So he sipped his brandy and waited for Antonucci to move the next stone.
“Ambition is good in a young man,” Antonucci said, “if he is mature enough to know that with ambition should come respect.”
“Youth thinks it invents the world,” Nicholai said. “Maturity respects the world that it finds. I didn’t come to Saigon to change it or to disrespect its traditions, Monsieur Antonucci.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Antonucci said. “Tradition is that no one conducts certain kinds of trade in Saigon without paying respect to certain other people.”
So, Nicholai thought, the Union Corse already knows about my deal with the Binh Xuyen. Did Bay Vien inform them, or was it their fellow Corsican Signavi? Nicholai would place his money on the latter. “If certain men traditionally control, for example, the armaments trade — ‘men of respect,’ shall we call them — then that is one tradition that a young man would certainly wish to honor.”
“You are wise beyond your years.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Nicholai said, “what is the percentage on tradition here?”
“I am told that it depends,” Antonucci said, “on the particular cargo that is going in and out. But, say, three percent is traditional. So I hear, anyway.”
“Three?” Nicholai raised an eyebrow.
“Three.”
Nicholai raised his glass. “To tradition, then.”
“To tradition,” Antonucci said. “Per tu amicu.”
Nicholai downed his brandy and stood up. “I’ve taken too much of your time. Thank you for seeing me and providing me with your wise counsel.”
Antonucci nodded.
After Nicholai left, Antonucci told his thug, “Tell Yvette I wish to see her on the next break.”
Fifteen minutes later the saxophone player came into the office.
“You make eyes at strangers?” Antonucci asked her.
“No! I was just trying to be hospitable to the customers!”
He slid his belt from its loops and doubled it over.
116
SO, NICHOLAI THOUGHT as he walked out to find a cab, L’Union Corse wants its cut.
Why not? The cost of doing business.
He got into the back of the blue Renault, which took him down Gallieni Boulevard, across the Dakow Bridge, and back into Cholon.
The cab pulled up on Trun Hung Dao Street by a two-story art deco building with a gaudy mauve-and-green façade. Nicholai went into L’Arc-en-Ciel, through the long grenade-screened terrace into the restaurant, and upstairs to the nightclub. The bar was packed with attractive Chinese prostitutes in skintight cheong-sams who struggled to chat up customers over the loud Filipino orchestra’s dismemberment of Artie Shaw hits.
De Lhandes was at the bar.
“What are you drinking?” he asked Nicholai.
“What should I be drinking?”
“Well, they have Tiger and Kadling beer,” De Lhandes answered, “cold, but they make a mean gin fizz.”
“I’ll have one of those, then,” Nicholai said, taking some piastres from his pocket. “May I?”
“You’re a gentleman.”
Nicholai ordered and paid for two gin fizzes, then, in Chinese, politely declined the invitation of a working girl who tried to perch herself on his lap and offered carnal delights previously unheard of in the mundane world.
“You are a man of iron will,” De Lhandes observed. “A veritable fortress of restraint.”
“I will admit it is tempting.”
“Give in.”
“Not tonight.”
De Lhandes gave him a long evaluative look, then asked, “Or are you a man in love?”
Nicholai shrugged.
“Ahhh,” De Lhandes said, “not only a man of iron will and restraint, a man of fidelity. I am impressed and inspired.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“But I will doubtless yield to the temptations of the flesh,” De Lhandes said, “later tonight. If, that is, I have the cash to do so. It is a mournful state of affairs when the c
onsiderable girth of one’s masculine member is adversely affected by the regrettable slimness of one’s money clip. Alas, the unique nature of the rest of my physiognomy generally precludes amorous arrangements of a less commercial nature. Women find me a charming companion at the table but less desirable for the walk into the boudoir. Suffice it to say, I am therefore limited as to the menus from which I can select. That being the sad case, my sexual future depends on fickle affections of the little wheel at Le Grand Monde — Saigon’s finest temple to the gods of chance — in my unceasing attempt to make one vice pay for the other.”
“And do you?”
“Rarely,” De Lhandes said sadly. “If experience is the best teacher I am an exceedingly poor student. How was your chat with Antonucci?”
“Fine,” Nicholai answered. “He just wanted to warn me off the saxophone player.”
They both knew it was an evasion.
“He’s L’Union Corse, you know,” De Lhandes said, watching for Nicholai’s reaction.
“What is that?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, mon pote,” De Lhandes said, “and I’ll return the favor.”
“Tell me, then, do I have in you a friend, or a police informant?”
“I can’t be both?”
They laughed, and Nicholai ordered another round of drinks.
“You seem to know what’s going on,” he said.
“It’s my business.”
“I’m looking for a group of French film actresses,” Nicholai said.
“Who isn’t?”
“They arrived last week,” Nicholai said. “You wouldn’t know which hotel they’re at, would you?”
“Would I know?” De Lhandes asked. “I’ve parked myself across the street like a dog, hoping for a glimpse. The Eden Roc.”
Nicholai wanted to set his drink down and go directly to the hotel. She was so close. But he curbed his impulse and disciplined himself to take care of business. First things first, he told himself, then you can go and find her.
“Do you have an interest?” De Lhandes asked.
“Same as yours.”
“Not the same,” De Lhandes observed. “You have a chance, my friend. By the golden pubes of the village virgin, you have a chance.”
They finished their drinks and crossed the street to Le Grand Monde.
The casino was in a courtyard protected by a high stucco wall topped with strands of barbed wire. Outside, Binh Xuyen troopers patrolled on foot and in Jeeps with mounted machine guns. Guards at the entry gate stopped and gave them cursory searches for weapons or explosives.
“Saigon these days,” De Lhandes observed, his arms raised to shoulder height to allow the guard to pat him down. The guard nodded De Lhandes in, then searched Nicholai and passed him through. That accomplished, they went through broad doors into the enormous white building.
High-ceilinged and lit by chandeliers, the casino was a decent attempt at its progenitors on the Riviera and in Monaco. The thirty-odd gaming tables were covered in rich green felt, the furnishings, mock fin de siècle, were clean and well kept up.
The crowd, save for being predominantly Asians, could have been from the south of France, dressed expensively in the latest styles. The working girls, and there were many, were suitably muted in their nevertheless seductive attire, and the wives, girlfriends, and mistresses of the well-heeled men gracefully ignored their presence. White-jacketed Chinese croupiers worked quickly and efficiently, while larger men, obviously security, stood in the corners keeping watchful eyes.
The large room was filled with excited chatter, shouts of victory and curses of loss, the clatter of dice, the clack of chips, and the spinning of roulette wheels. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered like protective coverage over the triumphs and disappointments.
Haverford sat at a roulette table. Giving Nicholai only the slightest glance, he pushed some chips onto the table and watched the wheel spin.
He won.
Bay Vien, resplendent in a sharkskin suit and a beautiful Chinese woman on his arm, stood and watched the action.
“Who’s that?” Nicholai asked.
“Bay Vien,” De Lhandes answered. “Boss of the Binh Xuyen. He and Bao Dai own the joint. Would you like to meet him?”
“Not especially,” Nicholai said.
“You will, sooner or later,” De Lhandes said, “if you’re going to do any business in Saigon.”
“Right now,” Nicholai said, “the only business I’m going to do in Saigon is at the roulette table.”
They went to the cashier’s window and purchased chips, then walked back to the table where De Lhandes promptly lost on his first try.
“By the hirsute sack of Saint Anthony!” De Lhandes cursed. “By the inexhaustible appetites of the daughters of the Dordogne! By the unspeakable perversions of the sisters of—”
“Not going well?” Nicholai inquired.
“I am condemned to a chastity born of penury,” De Lhandes answered.
Nicholai stepped up to the layout and watched the game. It seemed quite simple — players made bets based on the ball landing on a number from one to thirty-six. They had to choose to make difficult “inside” wagers on a specific number or a cluster of numbers, or more likely yet less remunerative “outside” bets on the even odds of the ball landing on red or black. The combinations of types of wagers seemed infinite, but a child observing the game could readily discern that the odds were always in favor of the house.
“I hope you have better luck than me,” Haverford said. He looked a little glum, a dwindling stack of chips on the table in front of him. He offered his hand. “I’m Ellis Haverford, by the way.”
“Un bon ami,” De Lhandes said. “A genial pal, for an American.”
“Michel Guibert,” Nicholai said, then added, “And what do you do in Saigon, Mr. Haverford?”
“Ellis,” Haverford answered. “I’m with the United States Information Service.”
“Do you dispense information,” Nicholai asked, “or acquire it?”
“First the latter and then the former,” Haverford said, enjoying the game. “And you? What brings you to Saigon?”
“The weather.”
Haverford laughed. “The ferocious heat or the stultifying humidity?”
“First the latter and then the former.”
“Are you going to try your luck?” Haverford asked.
“At …”
“The roulette wheel.”
“I might take a spin,” Nicholai said.
He started conservatively, placing a modest two-piastre “outside” bet on black, and won. Leaving his winnings on the layout, he added chips and placed three more bets on black, won, and then shifted to red.
The croupier spun the wheel, the ball rattled around and landed on 27.
Red.
Two more reds and a single shift back to black later, Nicholai had acquired a tidy stack of chips. A small crowd, driven by the herd instinct of gamblers toward a “run,” had gathered around the table. One of them was Bay Vien himself, who stood at the far end and regarded Nicholai with a look of slightly jaded curiosity.
Nicholai merely glanced back at him, but wondered when, and if, he would make good on his promise of payment.
Nicholai moved his chips onto the square marked 10. “Straight up,” he said to the croupier.
“That’s a thousand dollars, man,” Haverford said.
“Mon pote, the odds are—”
“Thirty-seven to one,” Nicholai said. “I’m aware.”
It seemed obvious.
Several people hastily placed bets on black; a few of the braver ones put money on a split between 9 and 10. The doubters among them laid chips on red.
“Rien ne va plus,” the croupier said, ending the betting as he spun the wheel.
The ball landed on 10.
“How did you know?” Haverford asked.
“Extraordinary,” De Lhandes muttered, “by the pope’s wrinkled scrotum …”
N
icholai shifted the pile of his winnings in a square layout on four numbers, 17, 18, 20, and 21.
“Pick them up, by the puckered anal cavity of—”
“Don’t be foolish, Michel.”
Nicholai looked across the table at Bay, who merely smiled, seemingly unbothered that Guibert was beating the house. Then again, Nicholai thought, he is unbothered.
“Corner,” Nicholai said. If the ball landed on any one of the four numbers, he would win.
Bets were quickly laid down for and against him.
“Rien ne va plus.”
The ball landed on 18.
“Cash out.”
“Pick them up.”
“A feast, I tell you, even in this colonial purgatory … and by the pubic hairs of the Mona Lisa, the women you could have tonight, piles of them …”
Nicholai pushed the chips back onto 10.
“… tits and asses like Cezanne’s hay bales, and —”
Bay looked at Nicholai and nodded, as if to say, Be my guest.
“—such a variety, a five-star Michelin sexual buffet, by the boiling hot spunk of —”
Nicholai looked back at Bay. “Straight up.”
“That’s madness,” De Lhandes said.
Haverford just shook his head. The gamblers around the layout scrambled to place counterwagers.
“Rien ne va plus.”
The wheel spun. The ball clattered, rattled, and bounced. Nicholai wasn’t watching the ball, however — he had his eyes trained on Bay, who met his stare with the same fixed smile. Nicholai heard the wheel slow and stop, and heard the crowd collectively gasp as the croupier announced, “Dix.”
Ten.
Nicholai didn’t move to pick up his chips or change his bet.
“Michel, you won,” he heard De Lhandes say. “Don’t be a fool, my new friend. That’s a lot of money.”
“Encore,” Nicholai said. “Straight up.”
“Mon pote, you are throwing your money away!”
“A fortune!”
Nicholai glanced over at Bay, who shrugged.