The Price of Blood

We’re all just dyin’ to talk with you, Broker. Now that you been to Loki fucking Wisconsin-”

“So talk.”

“Get rid of the gook.”

“He’s with me.”

Bevode shrugged, “His funeral,” and despite his damaged mouth, he smiled crookedly. “I been studying the local customs. I heard the worst thing you can do to one of these dwarfs is touch their head. That true?” He reached over and playfully knuckled Trin’s hair. Trin reared back and coiled in a Kung Fu snit.

“I’d watch that if I was you,” said Broker.

“Aw, we know all about Gunga here. Sad story. He’s come down in the world. Just a small-time smuggler and hotel pimp known to the police in Hue City. Had a little talk with them. Professional courtesy, you understand. And speaking of the police, Cyrus wants us to keep it friendly, no firearms, no rough stuff. Don’t want to offend the Commies.”

“We deal for Nina, is that it?” asked Broker.

Bevode sniffed and thumped his flat gut. “I’m hungry. You hungry? Hate to discuss business on an empty stomach. Tell Gunga to get us a cab.”

“You tell him.”

“I don’t speaka da birdtalk.”

“We can use the van,” said Trin in icy English.

“No shit,” said Bevode. “He talks American.”

They followed Trin to the van and got in. “Where to?” asked Trin.

“How ’bout the hotel where you all were staying? They got a restaurant,” said Bevode agreeably.

“You see that?” exclaimed Bevode. “There’s a woman dropping her drawers and taking a dump right in that alley and she got black teeth. And these motherfuckers whipped the United States of America?” He shook his head and flung open the van door, pushed through a crowd of tourists in front of the hotel, and went in. Broker and Trin followed.

“That man makes me nostalgic for being a Viet Cong. Let’s kill him and dump him in the Red River,” hissed Trin.

“What about Nina?”

“Torture him first. He’ll tell us where she is.”

“Let me handle this, okay?” said Broker. They both stopped short in the lobby. Broker groaned. The giant drunken Aussie from Air Vietnam-shirt unbuttoned, barefoot, and with his fly unzipped-loomed in the entrance to the restaurant, eyeball to eyeball with Bevode Fret.

“What the fuck is your problem, boy?” implored Bevode, unable to pass around the besotted mountainous Australian. Deftly he inserted two fingers in the giant’s nostrils, led him aside, and shoved him into a lounge chair. Showing his gap-toothed smile, Bevode summoned Broker and Trin to come on with an overhand gesture. Trin growled. Broker recalled that the Vietnamese used that particular motion to call animals; people were summoned with an underhand wave.

Bevode grinned at the Aussie, who was conversing with a member of the reception staff in hundred proof Down Under. “Thought for a minute that was one of my relatives,” said Bevode, cool, showing them that he was not without humor. His muddy eyes rippled at Broker. “Speaking of relatives, I just come up shy one. You’re going to have to answer for Cousin Willie.”

They sat at the same table where Broker and Trin had breakfast with Nina. This time Broker didn’t watch the street.

“What’s good?” asked Bevode scanning the menu. “How about this? Three bowls of eel soup.” He indicated an item to the waiter. “And some beer.”

Trin spoke quickly to the waiter who scurried off.

Bevode studied the pair of chopsticks wrapped in a paper napkin beside his plate. He split the paper and picked one up, hefted it in his fingers, and twirled it like a miniature baton. “I heard,” he said to Trin, “that at one point in your career you was a Commie. I seen in a movie where the Commies used to pound these things into little kids’ ears.” He squinted at the slender utensil. “Looks to me like it’d break…”

Trin squirmed in his chair, practically levitating. Broker put a hand on his arm. The beers arrived.

“Ah,” sighed Bevode, taking a long sip. “That tastes good.”

“How’d you find us?” said Broker.

“These people’d sell their mamma for the U.S. dollar. We spread some money around. Got your visas, port of entry, and your flight number. Easy. Now where were we?”

“Nina Pryce,” said Broker.

“You understand I’m really doing you a favor taking her off your hands,” said Bevode. “If we didn’t have her, we’d have to tickle your gonads with a blowtorch. This way, if you don’t tell us where the goddamn gold is, we just let my horny little brother fuck her till her nose bleeds. Then we use her to bait sharks. I kinda like to pop a shark now and then off the fantail of the Lola. Not much else to do since we’re finding jack shit moving sand around by that helicopter wreck.”

“Do tell,” said Broker.

“Do the right thing, Broker. Just tell us where it is.”

“Don’t hurt that girl,” warned Broker.

“No need. Just a little incentive to get negotiations going. Wow, man,” said Bevode, “dig this. Eel soup. I always wanted some eel soup.” The waiter expertly unloaded three steaming bowls of soup from his tray.

Bevode leaned forward and blew on the broth and inspected the ingredients. “All it needs is a few craw- daddys, eh.” He picked up his chopsticks and carefully tucked them in the chest pocket of his safari jacket. Then he took up the large shoehorn-shaped spoon next to his bowl.

“Cyrus says it’s a good idea to wipe down the flatware before eating. The sanitation department ain’t exactly up to speed.” Bevode lowered the spoon to his lap and began polishing it with the tablecloth. “You know, I told Cyrus not to trust Cousin Willie to track you down. Should have waited for me. I got there eventually. Found the county sheriff and deputies all over that swamp. Ole Jimmy Tuna’s dead, Broker.”

“What’s to stop me from going to the local cops and blowing this thing wide open?” said Broker.

Bevode grinned, his hands busy with the tablecloth and spoon. Then he extended the spoon across the table and tipped it into Broker’s soup.

The earlobe had been severed cleanly with something very sharp.

The silver and jade earring nestled in the bowl, in a swirl of noodles. The pale flap of skin attached to the jewelry was slightly sunburned. There were freckles on it. Beads of drying blood melted to crimson mist in the hot broth.

“You were saying?” said Bevode. He dug into his soup and began eating noisily.

Broker’s stomach tightened. Sweat wormed on his upper lip. The wave of nausea piggybacked on a blind rage and rose to his sternum. He started to spring. A restraining forearm crossed Broker’s chest like an iron bar. Trin’s face was a study in napalmed ivory-two thousand years of perfect hatred.

Bevode appeared unconcerned. Between spoonfuls of the soup, he asked, “So where is it?”

“You touch her again,” said Trin, “you all die.”

“Go play in traffic,” said Bevode, irritated. “I didn’t come all around the world to talk so some itty-bitty yellow nigger.” His lazy hazel eyes swung to Broker.

“You heard him,” said Broker. Calm now.

Bevode shook his head and put down his spoon. “Looky here, goddammit. I got my faults. But my cokehead little brother-well, there’s a word for guys like him. Slips my mind at the moment but basically he hates women, you understand. Something to do with him never fully accepting the idea that babies come from the same place he sticks his dick.” He paused. “Won’t be pretty.”

Then he tipped the bowl up and scooped a last mouthful. “And if you go for the cops, we’ll know. That’s just another phone call. Cyrus is wired in tight with this crowd.” He paused and pushed his bowl aside. “You, ah, going to finish your soup?” he asked.

Broker stared at him.

“Didn’t think so.” Bevode reached across the table and curled his knobby hand around the bowl and pulled it toward him. Casually he plucked the flap of flesh and the jewelry from the bowl and deposited it on the clean,