coughed under a cloud of smoke. One by one the cylinders kicked in like firecrackers. Trung Si threw off the lines and reversed the old boat into the cove. He piloted the tub in a circle.
“That thing won’t take the sea,” said Broker.
“No, it’s a river boat,” said Trin.
Trung Si made a dock landing, secured the boat, killed the engine, and jerked back up the beach, still swearing.
“What’d he say?” asked Broker.
“He says why fish when we have meat.” Trin pointed to an old bolt action hunting rifle hanging from a peg on the wall. “They took the truck up north yesterday and got a deer in the hills. So we’ll have venison tonight. Right now we should try to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long night.”
Broker didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to keep busy. His eyes wandered up the beach, into the dunes. He’d never felt desolation like this. He didn’t know what to call it. Nina’s earlobe was a dry lump in the napkin in his pocket. Morbid. Didn’t know what to do with it. Hang on to it until he saw her again.
“I know,” said Trin gently. “You’re worried about her. And you’re worried about me. You’re afraid to go to sleep because Trung Si and I might brain you with a skillet and take your map. There’s a lot to worry about. Always.”
“Don’t like being this helpless,” said Broker.
“We’re not helpless. And she’s tough. It doesn’t do any good to dwell on it. We have what they want. Tonight we’ll go find it.” Trin paused and bit his lip. He cleared his throat. “I should have a look at that map, Phil.”
Broker unzipped his security pouch and unfolded the worn laminated sheet. Trin placed it on a table on the porch and secured the edges with sea shells. “We’re here,” he pointed.
Broker tapped the grid square that he’d memorized. “We look for three old graves, with the curved walls.”
“That puts it about four klics up the beach.” Trin smiled. “That close. All these years. There’s a road we can take most of the way that ends at an abandoned hamlet. Here.” He pointed.
“We need a compass,” said Broker.
“No problem,” said Trin. “I’ll line up the tools. You try to rest.”
Broker looked up. Trung Si hovered over him. “You better let him look at your thumb,” said Trin.
The old cripple untaped the slightly swollen, infected finger, rinsed it in rice whiskey and went back to his cook shack. He returned and applied a foul-smelling poultice and bandaged it tightly with adhesive.
“What is it?” Broker asked.
Trin shrugged. “I’m a city guy. Who knows what they do out here.”
The home had one long room with a cook shack built off the back. A dozen sleeping platforms lined the walls, partitioned off for privacy. Broker lay on a hard plank platform across from the silent brooding amputee and couldn’t sleep. At least the steady sea breeze fended off most of the flies. Nothing could dilute the rancid odor of years of accumulated nuoc mam sauce that smelled like dirty pussy. The dressing on his thumb itched and tingled.
Trung Si puttered and hummed in the kitchen. Trin swayed in a hammock on the porch-twelve-stepping it after his explosion in Dong Ha-drinking Pepsi-Cola from a can.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Broker couldn’t stop imagining, in great detail, all ways in which Nina could be dead, injured, debased, violated, and tortured. He had fifteen years of crime scenes to draw from. He didn’t think restraint was part of Cyrus LaPorte’s method of operation. Not with Bevode Fret for the hired help.
Mercy was not an option.
Basic desperation was a new sensation that he explored like a wild animal inspects its cage. He was stuck on this foreign spit of sand in the middle of nowhere with flies crawling over his skin. In the graveyard of the fucking iron elephants. He had lost initiative: now he was controlled by events. Cripples and barely trained kids for backup. A shipwreck named Trin for company.
The fixed eyes of the double amputee stared past him, through him, a brown study in dead ends. Broker fell asleep to escape the man’s presence.
Broker woke with a start and didn’t know where he was. He heard the chug of motors and faint voices. Fishing boats. A battered varnish face-the one-legged, one-eyed man loomed over him. “Nuc,” said Trung Si. He made a scrubbing motion to his face with his hand. “Rua.” His crutch banged a bucket of water at the foot of the platform.
Broker nodded, rolled off the plank bed, and squatted to the bucket. He stripped off his T-shirt and dashed water on his face. Something missing. The staring double amputee was gone.
Trung Si jerked energetically into the room with the pogo stick grace of a one-legged stork, both hands free, his crutch wedged in his armpit. He handed Broker a small glass bottle with a glass stopper. Broker opened the bottle and smelled moonshine, home-brewed million-proof rice whiskey. Then the old man pointed at Broker’s trousers and raised his hand to the side of his head and tugged on his ear.
After several demonstrations Broker understood. Trin must have told him. He removed the napkin from his pocket. Trung Si unpacked the shriveling ear part and earring and cleaned off clinging bits of thread and dirt. Then he dropped the grisly memento into the glass jar, which he plugged tight. He set the bottle on a shelf.
Then he brought a charcoal brazier from the kitchen shack and set it on the table on the porch. He put a screen over it and laid out strips of meat.
“Trin?” asked Broker.
“Yes,” said Trung Si, smiling, and going back to his kitchen. He hopped back with a tall glass of steaming black coffee.
“Where’s Trin?” asked Broker, blanking out on even the simplest Vietnamese.
“Yes,” said Trung Si, again smiling politely. He gave Broker the glass and pointed to the porch. Broker went out on the porch and sat down, lit a cigarette, and watched the afternoon shadows lengthen down the beach. A rattle of metal preceded Trin, who came around the corner of the house looking like the Tin Man in
Trung Si muttered something.
Trin held up one of the short snub-nosed shovels. An old surplus North Vietnamese army shovel. It was worn from use and the wooden handle had been shined smooth by sweat and callus. He laughed. “Trung Si says this shovel won the war.”
They sat down to eat, picking strips of meat off the brazier and mixing it with rice and raw vegetables laced with cilantro and chopped chilies and garlic. Flies settled on the table. Trung Si grumbled and shooed them with his chopsticks. The slender sticks flicked; he shot out a hand and plucked a single fly from midair. He flashed a grin at Broker and tossed the crushed insect aside.
The sound startled Broker. At first, lulled by the surf, he thought it was the call of a loon. Then he located the source and saw the double amputee sitting on a dune up the beach, bent over a bamboo flute. His wide face shone in the muzzy light, fiery with music.
Trin smiled. “It is a very old song. For us.”
The notes were a sinuous blend of pastoral and savage and Broker, who came from a place where old didn’t really mean “old,” asked, “How old?”
“Oh, a thousand years. It’s a village song. A young man takes a wife but then he must go to the mountains to fight the invaders.” The cripple’s breath soared through the wooden flute like adrenaline in a fighting man’s blood.
“Do you live here?” Broker asked.
“Sometimes. I have a room in Hue. A bed, a desk, a chair, and some books.” Trin squinted in the failing light. “Don’t worry. I’m good.” He held up his Pepsi can as evidence.
Then it was time to go. Trin handed Broker a bucket packed with a tall Chinese Thermos, two flashlights, six liters of bottled water, and some kind of lunch wrapped in bamboo leaves. Trin picked up a similarly packed bucket. They both grabbed a shovel and a mattock.
“Compass,” said Broker.
“In my pocket.”
Trung Si took the hunting rifle off the peg on the wall and loaded it. Trin said, “We’ll post Trung Si up the trail from the beach. If anybody comes he’ll signal.”
