Naked in Saigon (4 page)

He stormed out, his boys behind him. Reyes called over the waiter and ordered another rum with ice. He settled back to finish reading his newspaper.

When Reyes got back to his apartment later that afternoon he found the lock was broken and the door was ajar. He nudged it open with his foot and peered inside, but whoever had invited themselves in had already left.

The search had been thorough and pitiless. His souvenir opium pipe, inlaid with silver and ivory - a gift from a Hmong chieftain seven years ago - had been smashed against the wall. Every drawer in the armoire had been tipped out onto the floor and they had ripped up the floorboards and the carpets. He supposed that breaking the brass fittings in the bathroom had not been part of the search but just a show of frustration at not finding anything. They had even ripped the mosquito netting over the bed and torn a door off the ancient armoire.

But what he couldn’t forgive was what they had done to his records; they smashed his 1958 copy of
It’s All in the Game
by Tommy Edwards and the rare 78 of Inocencia Martinez singing “Love is Dangerous.” It was literally irreplaceable.

He stood among the litter of papers and broken glass and books with torn spines and promised himself that one day he would settle accounts with Angel Macheda. Sure it might take time because you didn’t mess with the family of one of Florida’s biggest crime bosses; it would require patience and a little guile.

But he would settle with him.

He sat down on the one unbroken chair. “Guess you didn’t find the briefcase, huh?” he said aloud to no one in particular and stared out of the window across the roofs of the city and planned his next move.

Chapter 
6 

Walt’s office was on the fifth floor of the US Embassy building in Saigon. He threw a bunch of files off a chair and sat Reyes down. Then he went to fetch two mugs of coffee, reached into the drawer on his desk and took out a fifth of bourbon. He poured a little into each cup.

“You don’t take sugar or cream, right?”

“You’re a funny man, Walt.”

He sat down and folded his hands across his growing belly. “Here’s to America,” he said, taking a mouthful of coffee, and swung his chair around to admire the view over the roofs of Saigon. “So I hear Angel Macheda paid you a visit.”

“Just two old friends catching up on old times over the cracker barrel.”

“Nice of him to look you up.”

“I thought so.”

Walt turned his chair back around. “What are you going to do, Reyes? It’s been two weeks since they nixed your bar. You just going to sit moping every night or are you going back to the States?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Because I could sure use a guy like you.”

“I don’t do that kind of work anymore, Walt.”

“I can pay you good money.”

Reyes shook his head.

“Why the hell not?”

“I’ve become a Buddhist.”

For a moment Walt just stared, then he got the joke. “You crack me up.”

“Why is that so funny? I look good in orange.”

“Don’t you want to serve your country again and fight for democracy?”

“Not if it means smuggling drugs for the Vietnamese government again.”

“The end justifies the means.”

“There is no end, Walt, that’s the problem. It just goes on and on and you end up with a whole bunch of means.”

“I figured you’d say that.” He took another sip of coffee, winced as the bourbon burned the back of his throat. “You know, I’ve been hearing rumours.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“About some scag that went missing out at Tan Son Nhut. Seems there were three staff sergeants who were taking kickbacks from some of Angel’s associates. In return they provided their cooperation in moving some trade goods the Vietnamese air force were flying in from Laos. Trouble is, one of them decided to go freelance.”

“What were these trade goods?”

“Number four Double U-O Globe refined heroin, ninety-eight percent pure. Nearly eight kilos of it.”

Reyes whistled softly. “That’s a lot of product. What would something like that be worth?”

“Almost two million dollars.”

“A lot of cash. What happened to this guy, did he get away with it?”

“Not even close. Seems he was in your bar the afternoon the grenade went off.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Yeah, rotten luck.”

“I hope his family aren’t going to sue. Like I told you, I wasn’t carrying insurance.”

“He’s a casualty of war. Of more interest to many people is what happened to the missing property.”

“I admit, two million does seem like a lot to drop down the back of the seat.”

Walt finished his coffee, whirled his chair around again, and stared through the window at Saigon. So hot out there you could practically see the steam rising. “You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”

“Me?”

“Reyes, I’ve known you a long time. I’m saying this as a friend. I know you think you’re smarter than Angel Macheda, and you probably are, but you steal from him or any of his buddies and you’re a dead man. You know this.”

“You know me, Walt, I don’t steal from anyone.”

“Just sayin’.”

“Thanks for the advice. And the coffee.” He got up to leave.

“One other thing.”

“Another rumour?”

“No, this is a verified fact. Your old girlfriend is in town.”

“Which one? I’ve got a lot of exes.”

“Not like this one.”

Reyes’ grin fell away. Having given himself away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to shrug it off. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Actually, it’s not, Walt, that’s the whole point of the war.”

“She’s married now, thought you’d like to know. Her husband is a hot-shot journalist. He was a correspondent for the
New York Times
, then he wrote a couple of books: one about the Bay of Pigs, the other about the Kennedy assassination.”

“Just the kind of nosy bastard you guys don’t want in Saigon.”

“No, we didn’t roll out the welcome mat.”

There were a hundred things Reyes wanted to know: how does she look, is she happy, what’s she doing, has she got kids? But he didn’t ask any of those things. He just walked out of the door.

Walt called him back.

“Don’t you want to know where she’s staying?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s all right,” he said and left.

Chapter 7 

MAGDALENA

I was in my room at the Caravelle. I’d ordered breakfast from room service, a croissant and some coffee. Connor had already left.

As soon as he had gotten his press accreditation he was gone every day at first light and usually didn’t come back to the hotel until after the five o’clock press briefing at the Rex, and sometimes a lot later. He was sending back gonzo pieces to the
New York Times
and several other newspapers in the United States, but what had him most excited was the possibility of another book - ‘corruption at the very highest level’ was all he would say. His two previous books had been highly controversial and both had been on the
New York Times
bestseller lists, and now he craved another shot at notoriety.

There was a knock on the door. My breakfast at last.

“Hi, baby. Pleased to see me?”

He pushed his way in before I could stop him. I supposed it would have been pointless anyway, if I’d locked the door he would have just had one of his two goons kick it in.

He strolled in, hands in his pockets, leaving the door swinging open and his bodyguards standing watch in the corridor. He looked around, as if he was thinking of buying the room. “It’s been a long time.”

“I wish it had been a bit longer.”

“See, that’s what I remember about you, what a smart mouth you got. You just crease me up. A regular Bob Hope.” He grabbed me by the jaw and squeezed. I gasped and stepped back. “Just don’t get too smart, baby. Okay?”

I nodded, as best I could. He released me and I fell back onto the bed, my hands to my face.

“When was the last time? LA right? Sixty-three? You were going to be a star. What happened with that?”

He didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t give him one.

“I guess you didn’t expect to see me here.”

I shook my head.

“Same for me, baby. You were the last woman I expected to find in this greasy Asian shithole. What are you doing here?”

“Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answers?”

“Because I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The Magdalena Fuentes I know, she wouldn’t play housewife to some newspaper hack.”

“We all change.”

He looked pained. “What you done with your life, baby?”

“Actually, I’m pretty happy, Angel.”

“Where is this guy you’re married to, anyway?”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that. What’s he doing in Saigon?”

“He’s a journalist, Angel. He reports on news. This place is in the news a lot, if you’ve been paying attention.”

“What sort of news is he looking for?”

“I’d take a wild guess and say it has something to do with the war.”

Angel leaned in, his face twisted into a grimace. How did I ever think he was beautiful once? “You tell him this from me. You tell him he’d better not be thinking of mentioning me or any of my associates in his next goddamn book or I’m going to bury his goddamn ass in the Saigon river.”

“You can’t bury someone in water, Angel. They float.”

“Not the way I’d do it.” He straightened up and smiled, pleased that for once he had a comeback. “It was good to see you again, baby. What about a drink tonight? We can talk about old times.”