starched white tablecloth in front of Broker. A tiny thread of blood dissolved in the spreading soup stain. Broker couldn’t move. Boulders crowded his lungs. Lava spilled through his heart.
“Jesus Christ, you savage,” said Bevode indignantly. “That’s your girlfriend there. Least you can do is give her a fuckin’ Christian burial.”
Slowly, Broker folded the earlobe and the earring in his napkin and tucked it in his pocket.
Slurping, Bevode finished the soup and smacked his lips. “Not bad. I
He stood up abruptly, fished his comb from his pocket, and ran it through his hair. He smoothed a hand over his ear. “Like I said. Take some time. Think it over on the train. Oh yeah, we know about that too. It’s Tuesday. You got till noon the day after tomorrow. That’ll be Thursday. We don’t hear from you, we’ll feed her to Virgil. We’ll be in the Century Hotel in Hue…down upon the Perfume River,” he sang, then winked. “Ring us up when you hit town.”
Bevode Fret ambled from the restaurant and paused in the lobby at the chair where the Aussie was slouched, mouth open, head tipped, sound asleep. Very delicately he removed one of the chopsticks from his pocket and inserted it in the giant’s upturned ear. Then he gave it a casual shove with his open palm. The Aussie lurched and bellowed as his eyes popped open and his huge hands pawed at his ear. Smiling serenely, Bevode strolled away, unconcerned. The stunned doorman trembled and smiled and started to open the door. Bevode pushed him roughly aside, heaved open the door, and towered off into the crowd of Hanoians.
“I’m going to kill that guy,” said Broker.
“No you’re not,” said Trin calmly.
60
Broker braced his hip against the bucking wall of the lavatory and aimed a stream of urine at the blue enamel French pissoir set into the dirty linoleum floor. The train lurched and he hit his shoe.
He still had the piece of Nina’s ear in his pocket. He had a headache. They were three hours out of Hanoi, traveling south on narrow-gauge prewar French track behind a Romanian locomotive.
The Australian tour from Air Vietnam was on board, having a party in the hall. Broker gathered that they had been to a snake village outside Hanoi that afternoon and had dined on cobra.
“Archie ate the fucking blood,” crowed a feminine voice down the hall.
“Drank it.
“Now he’s virile.”
“Poison dick.”
Broker pushed through the revelers and eased into his compartment. Trin sat on one of the beds chatting in French with the young couple, Swiss backpackers, who shared the berth. The woman had a tour book open on her knees. Trin handed Broker a huge unlabeled bottle full of clear liquid.
“Snake wine, a gift from the Aussies,” said Trin. “Go ahead. It’ll help you sleep.”
Broker took a slug of the concoction that tasted like fuel oil mixed with formaldehyde. A shadow fell across the compartment and the hulking Aussie filled the doorway. If his ear bothered him he didn’t show it. Apparently snake wine and cobra blood had given him the gift of speech.
“Hi,” he said in a sleazy high-pitched voice, plopping down on the bed across from the Swiss lady and oblivious to everyone else in the cramped space. He began pulling out a thick wad of dong, Australian currency and dollars. “I was wondering if I could buy Sheila here for the night?”
The young woman reddened and drew closer to her shocked companion. Trin exhaled. Broker took another slug of snake wine.
“You won’t regret it,” said the Aussie, leering. “I’m unforgettable. Whadya say…”
Broker reached over and cuffed him with the bottle on the ear that Bevode had pounded the chopstick in. “I think you better leave,” he said.
Pain moved slowly through the dinosaur nerves. The Aussie vaguely tendered the ear with a massive left hand. “Who do you think you are?” he muttered.
“The Lone Ranger.” Broker pointed to Trin. “This is my Indian companion, Tonto.” Trin helpfully flicked out his gravity knife and smiled.
“Fuckin’ Yank,” mumbled the Aussie. He staggered to his feet and felt his way back into the hall where the party slowed down to a groan to mark his passage.
The Swiss couple thanked Broker and scurried out of sight into the upper berths. Trin and Broker sat, silent, rocking to the motion of the train. They passed the bottle back and forth. They lit cigarettes.
They’d been over it all for hours, waiting for the train. Broker said it again, “We have to involve the police.”
“No. We get off at Quang Tri City, pick up the van, get some presents, and pay a visit to the militia post at Cua Viet. They’ll be our reaction force.”
Broker, gloomy captive to police methodology, made the routine assumption. “She could be dead already.”
“No.” Trin was obstinate. “She is part of the barter. We barter for the gold. I am good at bartering.”
“Look, I can understand you wanting to keep this in your little circle of influence. But it’s suddenly got pretty fuckin’ serious.”
Trin whispered. “The gold, Phil. If it’s there, we can take some, hide it on the boat. It’s Tuesday. We meet Cyrus at noon on Thursday-”
“You saw that guy. It’s her life.”
“It’s my life too,” Trin erupted. “You just fly in and create this…situation in my life. You can fly away, too. Americans are good at that. Making a big mess and then flying away. What about me? I’m stuck.”
He stood up and furtively hacked the air with his hands. “Since the tourists I’m better off. In a good month with tips I can make three million dong. That’s three hundred bucks. Usually it’s more like two hundred. A bicycle cost thirty. Ordinary people make two million dong a year. Two hundred dollars. I lived like that, after I got out of the camp. Bartender. Laborer. Desk clerk. Dammit, Phil. I don’t even own a car. This is my chance.”
“We won’t ditch her for the gold,” Broker said emphatically.
“No. We do it all. We get some. We get her back. Get Cyrus arrested…we can do it. But if we go to the police-” Trin drew his finger across his throat.
Trin stood his ground in the rocking compartment, stubborn and desperate. Broker turned his head and gazed through the heavy screen on the open window into the inky Tonkinese night. He could barely hold the outline of the sadness that gripped him. Couldn’t penetrate it. If he tried to picture her face and what she was going through right now he started to unravel. He ached from helpless anger. If they had gone to the MIA people she would be…
But he had to go with his hunch. Now he was chained to it.
“Okay,” said Broker. Useless to talk. He rolled on his side and faced the compartment wall. Ghoulishly his hand crept to his pocket where the portion of Nina’s ear and the earring made a tiny lump. Coil by sweaty coil the snake wine choked off the lurching light and he fell asleep to the clack of the wheels.
Broker never dreamed. Now, as he woke drenched in a cold sweat, shivering, he amended that truism.
Except in Vietnam.
He had dreamed that he and Nina and Ray Pryce and Jimmy Tuna were crossing a swift river on the back of a giant frog. Except Jimmy had the body of a scorpion. In midstream, Jimmy smiled and stung the frog and they all drowned.
He stared at his hands. His fingers itched and had broken out in a bubble of raspberry blisters. Fungus. Hadn’t troubled him since 1975. Slowly he peeled the dirty bandages from his injured thumb. All but forgotten about it. Amazingly, the swelling had gone down. With a pink tickle, the stitched edges of the wound were healing. He took hydrogen peroxide and a fresh dressing from his bag and repaired the bandage.
He checked his watch. He’d slept almost nine hours. Be daylight soon. They must be getting close to the former DMZ.
The old neighborhood.
