Hatcher strolled over to the bar. The wall behind the bar was a collage of Marine paraphernalia. Medals hung haphazardly: a Purple Heart, a Navy Cross — Hatcher lost interest after those two — along with an M-60, two M-16s, an 870 riot shotgun and a .45 Army-issue automatic, and photographs, belts, a canteen. The counter below was a shambles of ammo belts, boxes of ammo and several loaded clips.
Hatcher made a fist, his thumb above the knuckles lying flat and pointing straight out. This was a dap, among ‘in-country’ vets a sign that they had been in Vietnam. The ritual could be carried further with a series of slaps and knuckle knocks to indicate the unit they served with. John stared down at the first, looked back up at Hatcher and a sort of smile crossed his lips. He made a similar fist, slid open an old-fashioned ice chest and took out two beers. He stared at Hatcher with his twinkling eyes as he popped the tops. He smacked one down on the bar in front of Hatcher.
‘I never forget a face,’ he said.
‘A noble attribute,’ Hatcher whispered.
‘I saw you once in Nang. This was, uh, let’s see — maybe ‘73, around that time.’
Hatcher smiled but did not say anything.
‘You’re Hatcher,’ Leatherneck John went on. ‘I recognized you when you walked in the door. I was with a guy in the Seals, knew who you were.’
‘If you say so,’ Hatcher whispered.
‘A lot of talk about you up here,’ John said with a slow nod, his mouth curling into a grin.
‘Is that a fact?’ Hatcher replied.
John nodded. ‘I hear all sorts of things,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know whether you’re a good guy or a bad guy. The jury’s still out on that.’
The man on the pool table stirred, turned slightly and peered sleepily over his shoulder at Hatcher and Leatherneck John.
‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ Hatcher said. He held the wet can up in a short salute and took a deep swallow of the cold beer. He decided to take a chance on Leatherneck John.
‘I’m looking for a guy,’ Hatcher said. ‘Navy pilot named Cody, went down in the Delta in ‘72.’
‘Never heard of him,’ John said, making work to end the conversation.
‘He may have been in a Cong prison camp up around Muang.’
‘Never heard of him,’ John repeated. He leaned over the bar toward Hatcher. ‘See, what you got here is a very volatile situation. I mean, there’s no reason whatsoever for any of these creeps up here to even say hello to each other, let alone get along, okay? But in here this is like the Free State of Danzig, y’know. You don’t ask questions. You don’t answer questions. You get along.’ He made a circle in the air, waving it around the room. ‘In here, it’s my rules. Nobody argues with me. You get outa line, you deal with me. And that’s just the way it is.’
‘Thanks,’ Hatcher said.
The black man on the pool table had turned and was facing the group now, still feigning sleep, although he was watching the action through half-closed eyes.
‘Howdy, Miss Chien,’ John called from the bar as Hatcher returned to the table, ‘welcome back to the Last Chance. What’ll it be? Dinner, booze or barter?’
‘Got any brandy?’ Cohen asked.
‘The best. Armagnac ‘78.’
‘Dey are my guests,’ the man at the bar said in a heavy Dutch accent as he walked toward them. ‘Put it on my bill.’
The man took Daphne’s hand in a large, hairy paw and pumped it while appraising Cohen and Hatcher.
‘Goot to see yuh,’ he said.
‘And you, Dutchman,’ she answered. ‘This is the Tsu Fi.’ She nodded towards Hatcher. ‘And this is our friend, Tom.’
‘Tom, huh,’ he said skeptically. ‘I hear you come to fish.’
Hatcher grinned a quick, passing grin as he stared the Dutchman down. ‘Just looking for an old friend,’ he growled.
‘I see you met John,’ the Dutchman said, making conversation.
‘We exchanged amenities.’
‘Ja, sure. Veil, let’s sit and talk, den, I got to move on.’ He motioned to a table and they sat down. Hatcher stared hard at him, sizing up the heavyset trader. His swollen eyes were bloodshot and his mouth curled in what seemed like a perpetual sneer.
The Dutchman leaned over the table and said in a whisper to Hatcher. ‘Look, I know who you are, okay? No problem. I ain’t interested in your beef vit Sam-Sam.’
‘What do you know about my beef with Sam-Sam?’ Hatcher croaked casually.
‘Veil, you know how talk goes.’
‘No,’ Hatcher said, still staring at the trader, ‘how does it go?’
The Dutchman looked at Daphne with a question: Why was the Yankee being difficult? She looked away. It was Hatcher’s game and she decided to stay out of it.
‘I ain’t looking for trouble,’ the Dutchman said. ‘I come because Miss Daphne ask me to, okay? I know all about you, Ying bing. I just vant to keep it clean, see? Don’t do me no goot, they know I’m talkin’ to you.’
Ying bing. Shadow warrior. Nobody had ever called him that to his face before. Hatcher let it pass.
‘Just curious,’ Hatcher said. ‘I hear there’s a misunderstanding between us.’
The Dutchman raised his eyebrows and laughed.
‘Misunderstanding? Ja, dat’s goot. Some misunderstanding. He says you owe him fifty thousand dollars. And proper interest.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Hatcher whispered, shaking his head and chuckling, ‘A roll of the dice to Sam-Sam.’
‘I don’t tink it’s da money, although it is a consideration, I’m sure,’ the Dutchman said. ‘He says you disgraced him.’
‘What the hell,’ said Hatcher, ‘hijackers got the guns. Cost me a penny or two, too.’
‘Dat’s not da vay he says it happened,’ said the Dutchman, taking a sip of beer and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
‘You can hear anything you want to hear,’ Hatcher whispered, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand.
The Dutchman looked furtively around the empty bar and said, ‘Sam-Sam says you vere Company.’
Hatcher chuckled and leaned back, feigning shock. He shook his head. ‘Come on.’
‘He says you set him up. Dat you used his money, bought da guns, and sold dem to the Chem guerrillas and da Chems used dem against the people he vas going to sell dem to.’
‘I’m not that devious,’ Hatcher said casually, at which Daphne, Cohen and the Dutchman all stared at the floor rather than disagree. The Dutchman fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder and lit it with a gold lighter. He leaned back, blowing irregular smoke rings toward the ceiling, watching them dissipate.
Leatherneck John brought the drinks to the table.
‘Anything else you need, just yell,’ he said and drifted back to the bar.
‘What else does Sam-Sam say?’ Hatcher asked.
‘He says you sleep vit da Devil,’ the Dutchman said. ‘He says you haff an instinct for da throat and are not betrayed by conscience. He says you lie vittout moving a muscle and kill vittout a taste for blood. And he says you could negotiate vit God and get da best share.’
‘He knows you well,’ Cohen said with a grin.
‘Sounds like he’s describing himself,’ Hatcher said.
The Dutchman laughed too, and raised his beer in a half-hearted salute.
‘So — vat is it?’ the Dutchman asked.
‘I’m trying to find out if the Vietcong had a floating prison camp called Huie-kui in northeast Laos. They may have called it the spirit camp. This would be late 1971, early ‘72.’
The Dutchman looked at Daphne and then back at Hatcher.
Daphne took out an envelope and laid it on the corner of the table. She kept her hand over it. ‘Five hundred dollars Hong Kong, as agreed — if the information is reliable,’ she said.
It was the first time Hatcher had heard about paying the Dutchman, but he did not intercede. He would settle up with Daphne later. This was not the time to discuss it
.
‘Dey had several camps over dere,’ said the Dutchman.
‘This would be on the other side of the mountains, near Muang.’
‘Muang, ja,’ the Dutchman said with a nod. ‘Across country, utter side of da Annimitique.’
‘That would be it,’ said Hatcher, his eyes glowing. His pulse picked up a few beats. ‘Did they move it around?’
‘Ja, to keep from choppers.’ He pointed toward the ceiling.
‘You did business with them?’
The Dutchman shrugged. ‘So?’
Hatcher took out the photograph of Cody and Pai that Schwartz had given him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t give a damn about the camp itself or what the Cong did. The war’s over. I’m looking for a friend of mine.’
‘All you Yankees tink your friends are still alive over dere,’ said the Dutchman.
Hatcher handed him the photograph.
‘This guy here,’ he said, pointing to Cody.
The Dutchman held the photograph a few inches from his face and squinted at it. He shifted positions a little, turning the photo to catch the light and looked hard at the picture for almost a minute. As he was perusing it Daphne looked at the rear door and stiffened. Hatcher casually followed her gaze.
Billy Death stood in the doorway, his AK-47 cradled in his arm. Leatherneck John stared hard at him.
‘Hey, Billy,’ he said, ‘park the piece. You know the rules.’
The black man stared across the room at Hatcher’s table.
Leatherneck John took down the shotgun and, holding it by the slide, jerked his wrist. The carriage slid up and back, charging the weapon.
‘You deaf?’ Leatherneck said, laying the shotgun on the bar aimed in Billy Death’s general direction. ‘My house, my rules. The gun stays outside.’
Billy Death sucked a tooth, then stepped back out the door and leaned his machine gun against the wall.
‘The peashooter, too,’ Leatherneck yelled.
Death took the pistol out of his belt and laid it beside the AK-47. He strode to the bar, walking on the balls of his feet, his hands hanging loose in front of him, like a boxer.
‘Japanese beer, cold,’ he said, in the singsong accent of Haiti.
Leatherneck John popped the top off a bottle of beer and put it in front of the Haitian.
‘Who are the Yankees with the Dutchman?’ Billy Death asked.
Leatherneck John stared at him for several seconds, then he said, ‘Harry Truman, Winston Churchill and Eleanor Roosevelt.’
The Haitian’s brows knit together.
‘You know better’n to ask questions in here, Billy,’ Leatherneck John said. ‘Repeat after me: “It’s none of my business.”’
At the table the Dutchman paid no attention to Billy Death. He looked up at Hatcher.
‘Maybe,’ he said finally, in answer to Hatcher’s question.
‘Maybe?’
‘Ja. Skinnier. Very tired-looking. Und a beard, so I couldn’t bet on dis.’
‘Was he sick?’
The Dutchman pursed his lips and then shook his head. ‘Nee, not sick. Maybe . . . drugs.’
‘He was on drugs?’
‘I vould say dat.’
‘What drugs?’
‘Well, I vould say a little smoke. Maybe powder.’
‘Skag and grass?’
‘Is possible.’
‘You sold shit to the Vietcong there?’
‘Drugs vasn’t vat I was selling, but . . .‘ He let the sentence dangle. At the bar, Billy Death lowered his sunglasses over his nose and stared over the top of them at the table. Hatcher glared back. Their eyes locked for a moment or two, then Death turned away.
‘When was this?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Vas long time ago. I would say, let me see, I vas moving Thai silk to Saigon vit Henrickson, the Finn, and he vas kilt vintertime, ‘75. Vas dat summer. Ja. Last time vas about June, 1974.’
“74,’ Hatcher said half aloud. ‘And he was a prisoner?’
‘Ja.’
‘You said the last time. How many times did you see him?’
‘If it is him, Bing yahn, maybe three, four times. But I vill not swear to it. I’m sure it vas da girl but—’
‘The girl?’ Hatcher interrupted him.
‘Ja. Da girl I’m sure of.’
‘You saw this girl with this man? Hatcher repeated, pointing at Cody and Pai in the photograph.
‘I saw da girl. I tink it vas dis guy. Like I said—’
‘You mean the Cong let her stay with him?’
‘I just saw dem talking.’
‘Maybe he was, uh — what we call a trustee. You understand “trustee”?’
‘Ja, sure. Dey trust him. He does tinks for dem, dey let him outside the vire a little bit each day, watch da utter prisoners. She bought some tinks.’
‘Christ,’ Hatcher muttered under his breath. ‘What did she buy?’
‘Quinine pills. Smoke. Penicillin. China Vite, and also to buy some shoes and shirts. Clothing.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘Like da Arvies.’
‘North Vietnamese dollars?’
The Dutchman nodded.
Hatcher looked at Cohen, who whistled low and shook his head.
‘Let me get this straight. You think you saw this man in June 1974, about twelve clicks south of Muang on the Laotian side of the Annimitique mountains in a moving Vietcong camp with this girl and she got quinine, China White, clothing and penicillin and paid for it with Arvie money.’
‘Ja, is correct.’
‘How big was this camp?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Small,’ said the Dutchman. ‘Maybe twenty, twenty- five prisoners, half a dozen guards and da varden.’
‘What was the warden called?’
The Dutchman thought for a moment and said, ‘Taisung.’
‘And this prisoner was outside the compound, right?’
‘Ja. Dere vere six, seven outside.’
‘Cleaning up?’
The Dutchman nodded.
‘You recognized all these guys?’
‘From da clothes. Dey vere vearing clothes bought from me.’
‘What were the other prisoners vearing?’
‘Vork clothes. Mostly gray. Dey kept the Yankees away from the Vietnams.’
‘Vietnams? What do you mean, Vietnams?’
‘Dese udder prisoners, dey vas all Vietnamese. Political prisoners, Yankee sympathizers, like dat.’
‘You mean this was a prison mostly for Vietnamese political prisoners?’ Hatcher said with surprise.
‘Ja, till dey could move ‘em north to Hanoi.’
‘I’ll be a son of a bitch,’ Hatcher said.
‘Vhy don’t you ask John. Dere’ a rumor he vas once in prison camp.’
‘Where?’
The Dutchman shrugged. ‘Ask him,’ he answered. He raised a hand, and Leatherneck John popped open another beer and brought it to the table. Hatcher handed him the photograph.
‘Know any of these people?’ he asked.
John took the photograph and looked at it. ‘Why, should I?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Hatcher said. ‘He was a POW. I heard you were too. I thought maybe—’
‘The slope ain’t born could catch me and hold me,’ John said without animosity.
‘I’m just asking.’
‘I’ll tell you the same thing I told Billy, cowboy. Around here there ain’t no yesterday. When I get outa bed in the morning, life starts over. I forgot more’n I remember.’
‘He’s a friend of mine,’ Hatcher said. ‘I’m trying to help him.’
‘No shit. Supposin’ he doesn’t want help.’
‘That’s possible. If I find him and that’s the way it is, I’m long gone.’
‘Good for you.’ John looked at the photo again and laid it back on the table. ‘Nice-lookin’ woman,’ he said and started back to the bar.
‘Semper Fi, pal,’ Hatcher growled.
Joh
n stopped and turned back toward him.
‘How’s that?’
‘Semper Fi. You were a marine, you know what that’s all about. This guy and I were mates. Maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe he needs something. I want to make the offer, that’s all.’
‘So find him and make it.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Leatherneck John smiled pleasantly and returned to the bar, but Hatcher decided to try once more. He followed Leatherneck John back to the bar. Billy Death stared down the length of oak at him and said, ‘You here to buy or sell?’
‘Neither one. I’m a tourist,’ Hatcher whispered. Billy Death sneered at him, threw a handful of coins on the bar and left. Hatcher turned back to Leatherneck John and leaned toward him.
‘How about the girl?’ Hatcher asked. ‘Have you ever seen the girl?’
‘I told you, I got amnesia, cowboy,’ Leatherneck John said. ‘Hell, I don’t even remember my last name.’
Hatcher laid an American hundred-dollar bill on the bar.
‘That’s nice,’ Leatherneck John said. ‘I ain’t seen a yard in a long time. Mostly Hong Kong dollars hereabouts.’ He stared at the bill for a moment, picked it up and rang up the sale on the cash register. Turning back to Hatcher, he said, ‘I sell booze, food and silence. You want a little jolt, a little toot, a smoke, I can maybe help you out.’ He counted out ninety-five dollars, H. K., and laid it on the bar. ‘And that’s all I got to sell, cowboy.’
‘Mm goi,’ Hatcher said.
‘You’re welcome,’ John said, still smiling.
Hatcher gathered up the change and returned to the table.
‘I don’t like the way this is shaping up,’ Cohen said quietly. ‘You got your information. If there’s nothing else
‘I guess you’re right,’ said Hatcher. He held the chair for Daphne and they all stood up. The Dutchman laid his fat hand on the envelope and looked at Daphne with raised eyebrows.
‘It’s yours,’ Hatcher said.
‘Bedankt,’ the Dutchman said, stuffing the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Haff a safe trip back.’ He walked across the room to the man on the pool table and shook him.
‘Let’s go, Jawnee,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ the black man with the ponytail answered sleepily. ‘Pick me up around back.
‘You come now,’ the Dutchman said gruffly and left.