Thai Horse

‘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—’