Thai Horse (38 page)

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, walki
n
g 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 D
u
tchman?’ 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
m
any 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 Jo
h
n popped open another beer and brought it to the table. Hatcher handed him the photograph.

‘Know any of these people?’ he
a
sked.

John took the photograph an
d
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 catc
h
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 w
a
nt 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.

John 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,’ Hatc
h
er 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.

‘That Tonton’s got me worried,’ said Cohen. ‘He was a little too interested in us.’

‘Curiosity,’ said Hatcher. ‘Hell, it isn’t—’

He stopped and looked out the window at the Dutchman, who had reached the Chris Craft and was getting ready to leave.

‘I just thought of something else,’ he said. ‘You all go to the snakeboat. I’ve got to ask the Dutchman one more question.’

‘Hurry it up. The sooner we’re out of here, the better,’ Cohen answered nervously.

The man with the ponytail sat up on the edge of the
pool
table, his legs dangling above the floor and watched Hatcher leave. He jumped to the
floor
and walked casually toward the door.

Outside, heat seeped down over the jungle like warm syrup. The Dutchman was checking his fuel supply. He looked up as Hatcher approached
the
boat.

‘Ja?’
he asked.

‘One more thing. This Taisung, the warden of the camp, you know what happened to him?’

‘He ran for it,’ the Dutchman answered without stopping his work.

‘Ja.
I don’t tink he vas too ve
l
l thought of in Hanoi.’

‘Why?’

‘Drugs, booze. Dey vere all corrup
t
, y’know.’

‘How about the prisoners?’

‘I don’t know ‘bout dem,’ the Dutchman said with a shrug.

‘Where did Taisung run to?’

The Dutchman capped the fuel tanks and purged the fuel lines as he thought about the question. He stepped over the gunwale and stood close to Hatcher. As they spoke Hatcher became aware of mo
v
ement downriver, at the bend in the elbow. It was a barge, moving slowly around the sharp curve in the narrow river.

‘Bangkok,’ he said.

‘Bangkok?’

‘Ja, Bangkok.’

‘One more thing,’ said Hatcher. ‘Does Thai Horse mean anything to you?’

Cohen was surprised at the ment
i
on of his statue. The Dutchman too looked surprised.

‘Vere did you hear about Thai Horse?’

Hatcher’s heart jumped. Cohen seemed even more bemused.

‘Around. Does it mean anything?’ Hatcher urged.

‘Rumors.’

‘What are they?’ Hatcher asked eagerly.

‘Only dat dere is a heroin-smuggling outfit in Bangkok called Thai Horse. Very dangerous bunch, not to mess vit dem. Dat’s all. Booze talk, I tink.’

Cohen tried to hide his obvious surprise. Hatcher hesitated. The more he dug, the worse it looked for Cody. How much did the Dutchman know?

‘You don’t believe it, then?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice from showing any emotion.

‘I believe only vat I can see and touch,’ said the Dutchman.

‘But it’s possible?’ Hatcher pressed on.

‘Veil, as you know, in Bangkok everyting is possible,’ the Dutchman said with a wave of his hand.

The Dutchman was looking downriver, toward the barge. Hatcher ignored it. He needed one more answer. But before he could ask it, the Dutchman’s face drained of color. His eyes bulged.

‘Mijn God!’
the Dutchman said.

Hatcher turned and looked. The barge was halfway around the bend. Standing on the front of the boat was Sam-Sam Sam. Hatcher felt a momentary jolt, a combination of fear and surprise
—
he had expected them to come the other way. Now Sam-Sam was between them and the Cigarette boat. They were cut off, and there were at least twenty men and women on the barge.

In the bar, Leatherneck John said, ‘Jesus, the shit just hit the fan.’

‘It’s Sam-Sam,’ the Dutchman whispered to Hatcher with awe. ‘Get out uf here, man! I don’t even know you.’

Hatcher grabbed his jacket in a tight fist. His tormented voice left little room for argument.

‘Have you seen him there? The warden?’

‘He has been seen,’ the Dutchman quickly stammered. ‘He does some business over dere now. He is passing himself off as a Thai.’

‘A Thai? You know what he calls himself?’

‘Vol Pot,’ cried the Dutchman, squirming out of Hatcher’s grasp. ‘He calls himself Vol Pot.’