“I don’t think he brought it in. Maybe there’s a place behind his apartment
house. Let me know if he leaves his desk.”
It was only six blocks to Duong’s apartment house. Karr cruised past the front of the building, then drove around the back and into the alley where they’d gone in the night before. The alley looked even narrower than it had in the dark.
Beyond the fence at the back was a row of dilapidated shanties. When he’d seen them last night, he’d thought they were unoccupied. Now he saw enough laundry hanging amid them to clothe a small army.
There were no good hiding places in the alley, and the dirt behind the building hadn’t been disturbed. If Duong had retrieved a strongbox last night, he hadn’t hidden it here.
Karr rode his motorbike out of the alley and around the block, cruising around a man pulling a small cart of wares.
He started to turn right at the next block, then realized he was going the wrong way down a one-way street. He veered into a U-turn and found himself in the middle of a flood of motorbikes, which zagged every which way trying to avoid him. Horns and curses filled the air.
“Jeez, this is as bad as Boston,” said Karr.
“Subject is moving, Tommy,” said Chafetz. “Heading for the elevator.”
“Ah, very good. On my way.”
51
Dean got to the restaurant a half hour early, planting video bugs on the ladderlike streetlight posts outside. Waiting for someone to get him a table inside, he slipped a video bug under a light sconce at the front of the dining room. A waiter came and showed Dean to a table against the far wall; he could see the entire room and couldn’t have picked a better vantage.
“OK, Charlie, we’re getting good feeds all around,” said Chafetz in his ear. “You ready?”
“Sure.”
“We have some additional background on your Mr. Lo,” the runner added. “Real low-level dirtbag. He served some time in a state prison for running prostitutes, but the sentence was outrageously short — a week. His name is connected to a number of businesses in the Saigon area. Our DEA has a file on him for possible drug smuggling. A real Boy Scout.”
“I’ll try and remember my knots.”
A few minutes later, a man in his late twenties wearing a silk shirt, crisply tailored blue jeans, and slicked- back hair under a backward baseball cap entered the cafe, trailed by three men wearing American-style caps, T- shirts that fell to their knees, and jeans as sharp as their boss’s.
The man spotted Dean and sauntered over.
“Here on business?” The man’s smile revealed a gold filling in his front tooth. Besides six or seven gold chains and a halter that read: “BD Ass,” his jewelry included a set of silver-plated knuckles.
“I’m waiting for a Mr. Lo,” said Dean, pushing the business card across the table.
Lo grinned. He pulled out the nearest chair, turning it backward before sitting down. The men who had come in with him stood nearby.
“You have money?” asked Lo.
“What for?” said Dean.
“I have a hip-hop act that needs studio time. Many interests.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You know what hip-hop is? You’re an old man.” Lo laughed. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into, grayhair?”
“That is Lo, in case there’s any doubt,” said Chafetz.
“Computer matched the face.”
“I was told that Mr. Lo would have a business card similar to this one.” Dean tapped the card.
Lo glanced at it. “That’s nice.”
“So where’s Cam Tre Luc?” said Dean. It was obvious Lo wasn’t producing his card.
“Oh, Mr. Luc is a very important person. You won’t find him here.”
Dean remained silent, waiting for Lo to explain what the arrangement would be. The supposed hip-hop impresario leaned forward in his chair, then turned his head slowly to each side, an exaggerated gesture to see if anyone else was listening in.
Dean thought Lo was disappointed to see that no one was.
“You pay me and I tell you where to find Mr. Luc,” Lo told him.
“No.”
Lo looked shocked. He pulled back in the chair, then abruptly rose and started away.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” asked Rockman in Dean’s ear.
Dean reached for his cup of tea and took a small sip, watching as Lo and his entourage left the cafe. The Viet na -
mese man struck Dean as the worst combination of American “gangsta” cliches, aping copies of copies that he saw on smuggled MTV tapes.
Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, Dean reminded himself a half hour later when he left the cafe. He walked up the block and turned to the right, just in time to be confronted by one of Lo’s companions. Dean spun around immediately, catching a would-be ambusher with a hard elbow to the mid-section. As the man rebounded off the ground, Dean grabbed the pipe he had in his hand and struck the other man in the kneecaps.
Lo and the third member of his “posse” stood a few feet away, next to the corner of the building. Dean whipped the pipe at his remaining bodyguard, then threw Lo up against the wall, pinning him there with his .45.
“I’m still looking for Cam Tre Luc,” Dean told Lo.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll let you go now without a new breathing hole in your neck. You arrange for me to meet Luc. I meet him, then I’ll pay you five hundred American.”
“Deal was one thousand,” said Lo.
“That’s right. But I’m taking five hundred back for my troubles. Like you said, I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m going to need some Bengay when I go home.”
“Saigon Rouge, midnight. He will be with Miss Madonna.
Five hundred cash,” added Lo as Dean released him. “You pay at the desk when you come in.”
“That’s a whore house,” said Chafetz in Dean’s ear as he walked away.
“Well, I didn’t figure I’d be meeting him in a church,” said Dean, flagging down a passing Honda
52
Karr spotted Thao Duong as he came out of his building.
Duong turned to the left and began walking in the general direction of the port area near the mouth of the Saigon River.
“I’m going to tag him,” Karr decided, telling the Art Room that he was going to get close enough to put a dispos-able tracking bug on Duong’s clothes. Karr drove down the street, then pulled his bike up onto the sidewalk to park.
From the side pouch of his backpack he removed one of the filmlike personal tracking bugs, carefully peeling the back off so that it would stick to its subject.
Though his white shirt and white cap were hardly unusual on the Saigon streets, Thao Duong was easy to spot as he approached. He walked with a ner vous hop, and held his hands down stiffly at his sides, as if they were
