The Price of Blood

How close could they hazard bringing the vessel in to shore? How long would it take to ferry loads? How many men to hoist them with the winch into the cargo hold? The weather was always a worry.

Then Broker learned why he was being kept alive. LaPorte was concerned that, given Jimmy Tuna’s fascination with demolition and practical jokes, the gold pit could be booby trapped.

Footsteps in the sand. Broker was so sensitive to the blister of the sun that he could feel a man’s shadow. He smelled fresh, hot coffee, not the soupy Vietnamese stuff. American.

“I thought you might like some coffee, Phil.” The relaxed, deep voice had a slight drawl, not enough to be regional, just enough to be interesting. LaPorte. Talking with macabre nonchalance while he tracked blood. Did he learn that from Bevode? Or did Bevode learn it from him?

The lip of a cup touched Broker’s cracked lips. Even hot, the coffee was wonderful and tasted like home. He felt a cigarette tuck in the corner of his mouth. Heard the flare of a lighter. After one drag the cigarette was removed, Broker wondering what he had to do to get it back. The cup returned and then the smoke.

His throat and senses lubricated, he asked, “How did you get to Trin?”

Sounds. The sand stirring. LaPorte was sitting down, getting comfortable. His voice was practical.

“Don’t underestimate Bevode. He wasn’t in Wisconsin because he tarried in Lansing, Michigan. Lucky for him…I guess.”

“Kevin Eichleay.” Broker winced. He got a picture of yellow police tape strung at a charity relief office.

LaPorte chuckled. Broker was allowed another sip of coffee. This time the cigarette was left in his mouth. “Oh, Kevin still has all his fingers and toes,” said LaPorte. “Fingers are probably in a cast by now, though. Bevode motivated him to give us Jimmy’s Vietnam connection. I guess he was pretty tough. All Bevode got was Trin’s name and a phone number. I damn near shit when I heard that.”

LaPorte’s voice took on an absent quality, ruminating. “You know, Bevode grew up in one of those Christian cults, way back in the swamp. Snake handlers. He used to suffer in this moral quandary. He drank a lot when he was a cop. I guess the problem of evil really bothered him. He’s been sober since I revealed to him that he really was just a sadistic sociopath.”

Broker had another sip of coffee. LaPorte continued. “Bevode has been here with me before. One of the things he does is run security checks with the police on potential employees. So he ran Trin with the cops in Hue. To set up his gimp day care he needed permits. Our Communist brethren are sticklers for paperwork. It left a trail. From People’s Committees, the district, the province on up to the state. He followed the trail out here.”

“Still doesn’t tell me how you turned him,” said Broker.

LaPorte’s baritone shook with laughter. “Turned him? From what? Hell, he was using you and he meant to use me. Your buddy has been picked up for vagrancy, drunkenness, petty theft, and pimping in the new hotels. He’s suspected of smuggling and running scams on tourists. I just gave him his head.”

Broker grimaced. LaPorte continued. “Oh, we made him an offer, manager of the hotel I’m building, threw in a new car…” LaPorte laughed. “These people are nuts about new cars. Do you know the Koreans have the inside track on widening Highway One into a four-lane freeway? The way these guys drive, I’m thinking of investing in a national ambulance service.”

“Why’d you string up that poor dude on the flagpole?”

“I didn’t. Bevode got a little carried away. But to answer the question: Trin was thinking bigger than hotel manager. The Hue cops suspect that he’s been bribing the local militia post for years. Uses this stretch of beach for smuggling.”

Broker winced. The cigarette had burned down and the paper was stuck to his lip. LaPorte plucked it away.

“So,” said LaPorte, “figuring Trin might be up to his old tricks, I sent Bevode and all the boys in early to have a visit with the militia. Caught them at dinner. Dumb shits had their guns locked up. With a little persuasion, they talked. Trin planned his trap for tomorrow morning. We would have come ashore into twenty AKs and a machine gun. He even tried to delay me and tipped the customs police. They showed up at our hotel and combed through our luggage. Looking for art objects. Fortunately, bribery is a way of life in the Orient.”

“What did you do with the militia?” Broker asked grimly.

“Paid them off. Got two men watching them way back in the dunes. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt them,” LaPorte added. “In fact, they wanted to be tied up for appearance’s sake. They’re ignorant kids out to make a buck.”

“He was after the boat, and the whole thing,” Broker said grudgingly.

“There you go. Why would he break cover and come into Hue after he had the jackpot? Certainly not just for the girl. But she was an excuse to deal with me. He needed a method of moving the stuff. He was going to ambush us with his rag-tag militia, rip me off, and sail off with a vessel full of gold.”

Broker exhaled carefully. “I thought the militia was coming to arrest you. Next time I’ll learn the language.”

“I figured you to be a better judge of character, Phil. Trin’s a drunk, with delusions of grandeur.”

Broker heard LaPorte stand up. Dust off his pants. After a moment, LaPorte said softly, “Trin makes sense. And I can understand you blundering in here and him taking advantage of you. But the girl still doesn’t fit. We leaned on her hard and she didn’t even peep.”

Broker sat, head bowed. Silent.

“It’s ironic,” mused LaPorte. “But my being here has saved you and the Pryce kid.” He paused. “He was going to cut your throat, Phil.”

Another cigarette was placed between Broker’s lips. And lit. “Give you some advice. Don’t piss Bevode off. He’s got the idea you’re trying to wipe out his family.”

LaPorte’s footsteps faded in the sand. And Broker puffed on the cigarette and tried not to think of last smokes and firing squads. LaPorte was just toying with him. He and Nina had witnessed Lola’s murder. He wondered why Trin hadn’t tried to cop a plea about Ray Pryce’s incriminating skeleton being in that hole. Maybe he didn’t believe it.

The sun gradually changed on Broker’s skin. He could hear the shadows stretch longer. Fatigue took priority over waiting. He slept on a sand pillow.

Then the moment came and the blindfold was ripped off. Broker’s eyes exploded, almost blinded by the indifferent glory of the sunset. He saw…

Bevode Fret. Powerful, rested, smiling.

Bevode cracked his whip and the rational energy of Dachau and the homespun industry of the Old South convened on a deserted beach in central Vietnam.

74

They were reunited with Trin at the pit. Trin’s hands were not tied. LaPorte gave them a little pep talk. “Right now I own this beach,” he said. “I can grant absolution. You can still get out of this.” LaPorte walked away.

Two of the Europeans untied Nina and Broker. The second that Broker’s hands were free they flew like springs to Trin’s throat.

Blue Shirt and two of his comrades jumped in and pried them apart. Blue Shirt explained patiently. “Work together and you live. Keep this up and we shoot the girl. More work for you two.”

He threw them three shovels, a net sack full of water in plastic liter bottles, a pack of Gauloises, and a book of matches.

“Arbeit macht frei,” he said without irony.

Bevode had not returned Nina’s jeans. Her bare shanks were streaked with sand, dried blood, and mosquito bites. Bevode came for a visit and slowly dragged his coiled whip up the front of her body, raising her dirty T-shirt, ending with the harsh braid distorting her cheek. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Before the sun comes up you’ll beg me for it.”

Nina’s face tightened and found a sticking point. She had dispensed with shaking and was now composed. She now had something to measure the rest of her life against.

“You’ll understand,” said Bevode, “if we stay back aways in case it’s rigged to blow.” He walked away.