Thai Horse

in a crap game and shipped it up by barge. But — up here you can hear anything.’

The place was deserted except for three men, including the one sleeping on the pool table.

One was a big man sitting on a barstool sipping a glass of beer. He had less hair than the billiard balls, and was dressed in khaki, his ample stomach folded over a military web belt. This would be the Dutchman, Hatcher thought. His bald head was sunburned and peeling. Years of hard living on the river had ravaged his face, leaving behind a puffy, ruddy orb laced with broken blood vessels. His nose was swollen and warty, and his eyes were buried under thick lids, giving him a sleepy look.

And then there was Leatherneck John himself. He was an enormous man, towering at least six foot three, and easily weighing 220 pounds, his red hair trimmed close to the scalp, a thick, neatly trimmed beard concealing the bottom half of his face, the sleeves of his camouflage shirt rolled up almost to the shoulders, revealing biceps the size of a truck tire. Leatherneck John looked like an old topkick. Burly was a perfect word to describe his size and bulk. Not fat, but big and solid. Formidable. His hair was shaggy and turning white. His eyes glittered with gaiety, as though he had just heard a joke and had not started laughing yet. A retired topkick, thought Hatcher, has to be. He looked past the big man and saw the six stripes, pinned to the wall with a Marine K-Bar knife.

‘No hardware permitted inside the room, cowboys,’ Leatherneck John said in a voice that was friendly but left no room for argument. Hatcher and Cohen gave Sing their weapons. The Chinese bodyguard stuck the short- barreled Aug and Cohen’s .357 in his belt and stepped just outside the door, where he leaned against the wall. The other Chinese gunman in the snakeboat had moved to the back, near the tiller, where he sat with his Uzi tucked against one leg.

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.’