had once carried two wounded men at the same time for a mile through the South Asian jungle. Big men. Pelletier looked up as Hatcher entered the bar, and what might have passed for a smile crossed his lips. He offered the enormous hand.
‘Original bad penny,’ he said, ‘Good t’see you, mate.’
‘And you,’ Hatcher’s ruined voice answered sincerely.
‘Glad you’re alive. Heard all kinds of rumors,’ Pelletier said, his eyes boring in from behind the glasses.
‘Like what?’
‘You were dead,’ said Pelletier. ‘Knew that was shit.’
‘What else?’
‘Sloan dumped on you. Did a bad stretch in Los Boxes. He sprang you. You did a Judge Crater.’
‘That’s pretty accurate.’ Hatcher nodded.
‘That son of a bitch. ‘N’you’re still in bed with him?’
‘Not really, I’m doing a little free lance involving an old friend.’
‘Anybody I know?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hatcher answered, and the big man dropped the subject immediately. Years in the brigade had taught both men not to ask too much about any mission unless they were personally involved. ‘You look pretty rough yourself, Ron. What happened to the arm?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Gangrene. Crunched it in the field, couldn’t find a saw-bones.’
‘Where?’
‘Afgo. . . ‘Bout you?’ he nodded toward Hatcher’s throat.
‘They don’t permit talking in the Boxes. I cleared my throat at the wrong time.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Whatever you’ve heard about that place, it wasn’t bad enough.’
Pelletier drained his glass and held the empty up to the waitress.
‘Lotta good guys went across, hatch,’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
They sat silent for a few moments while the girl brought their drinks.
‘Keeping busy here?’ Pelletier asked, making conversation.
Hatcher shrugged. ‘Been hanging out in a place called the Longhorn.’
‘Sure, down in Tombstone,’ Pelletier said.
‘What do you think of the place?’
Pelletier shrugged. ‘Good American food down there. Bunch of expatriate Americans turning a buck.’
‘Know any of them?’
Pelletier shook his head. ‘Ain’t been down there in a couple months. Place called Yosemite Sam’s has good ribs.’
‘What’ve they got you doing?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Sloan got me a berth with immigration. Got six months t’go on my thirty years. Finish my time, keep my retirement.’
‘I suppose he has his moments.’
‘Suppose. Chicken-shit job, checking locals looking to emigrate.’
‘What else?’ Hatcher asked casually.
Pelletier hesitated long enough to swallow half his drink and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at Hatcher for several seconds, thinking the question over, then he chuckled. ‘Been keeping an eye on the hill tribes, see who’s big in 999.’
‘What’s the word?’
‘Your old pal Tollie Fong’s real busy. Still on your case?’
Hatcher nodded. ‘Remember Joe Lung?’
‘That pig sticker.’
‘He tried to dust me in Hong Kong a couple of nights ago. He won’t be sticking any more pigs.’
Pelletier smiled. ‘Good riddance.’
‘I’m sure Fong intends to honor his
‘Maybe too busy right now... Chiu Chaos cornered a lot of this year’s crop.’
‘How much?’
Pelletier shrugged. ‘The DEA thinks Fong’s got two, three tons of pure, stashed.’
