“Wouldn’t miss this,” Frye said. “Happy birthday to you, too.” He shook hands with Donnell Crawley, Bennett’s dark and silent war buddy, who smothered Frye’s hand and nodded. Nguyen Hy, looking dapper and frail as always, placed his cigarette in an ashtray and offered his thin fingers. Hy, Frye knew, was head of the Center for Vietnam, a local humanitarian group. He never missed a chance to solicit help or money. He introduced the Vietnamese woman beside him. Her name was Kim, and she worked as a fundraiser for Hy’s CFV. “You don’t look very much like Bennett,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, elbowing his brother in the ribs.
“One surf nazi per family is enough,” said Bennett. Frye saw him check his watch and glance toward the stage. “Five minutes and she’ll be on, little brother.”
“Surf nazi?” asked Kim.
Nguyen leaned forward to clarify. “A surfing enthusiast. Chuck is a former champion.”
“Chuck is a former everything at this point,” said Bennett, flagging a waiter. “What’s the deal on your job?”
“I’m freelance now.”
“Vodka?”
“Almost have to.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Burke Parsons, tipping his hat to Frye. “I’ll get this round.”
Frye nodded, considering Burke: Texas-oil rich, quiet, generous. Another friend of Bennett’s from the war. His sister Lucia got the headlines, as founder of an MIA Committee that was making genuine progress. Burke seemed to bask contentedly on her peripheries — rubbing shoulders, buying drinks, networking to no particular effect. Every time Frye saw him, Parsons was wearing the same moronic hat.
Bennett ordered for everyone. “Billingham won’t reconsider?”
Frye sighed and looked out to the crowd. He had been a good, if sometimes overimaginative, reporter of the facts. He covered restaurants for free food, movies for free tickets, and boxing at the Sherrington Hotel for a free ringside seat. On three hundred twenty dollars a week, and negative cash flow from his surf shop, he’d learned to forage. But the fact of the matter — try as he might to forget it — was that Frye had been canned exactly sixteen days ago for writing an article about a boxer who obviously took a dive in the fifth round of a Sherrington semi-main event. When Frye tried to contact the young welterweight’s manager for his side of the story, the man — one Rollie Dean Mack of Elite Management — wouldn’t return his calls. Frye ran the story and said so. Mack’s attorney then told Frye’s publisher that either Frye or Elite’s advertising would be removed from the paper, implying they’d sue for libel. Ledger publisher Ron Billingham had never much liked the boxing stuff anyway. Frye got his walking papers on a Friday, cleaned his desk out that evening, put in one last fruitless call to Rollie Dean Mack, then went out and drank at high velocity. That welterweight had gone down for pay, no doubt about it.
Frye shrugged; Bennett studied him. “Things will work out, Chuck. I know some friends of Billingham’s, so hang tight.”
Bennett pointed out the luminaries in the crowd: General Dien and his wife; Binh, a Vietnamese newspaper publisher; Tranh Ky, businessman and president of the Vietnamese Chamber of Commerce; Dr. Phom-Do, professor and author of nineteen books on Asian history. The mayor and some council members were here. “Miss Saigon Days” sat, banner-draped and hopelessly nervous, between her father and mother.
“Lucia couldn’t make it, so she sent her idiot twin brother instead,” said Burke. He smiled, sucking on his beer. “She had to meet with some senate folks out to Washington. Hated to miss this, I’ll tell ya.”
Frye noted how people were starting to speak of Lucia Parsons in tones of near reverence. She had made a dozen trips to Hanoi to talk about the MIAs — all lavishly chronicled in the press. Apparently, Hanoi was actually talking back. Rumor had it that she was eyeing a seat in Congress and the MIA Committee was paving her way. Frye had seen her on television. She was bright, articulate, beautiful. Burke, even with his cowboy hat, had the same dark good looks.
“Lots of good people here,” said Bennett. “Then over there, some not-so-good ones.”
He nodded toward a corner table populated by young male faces with gel-slick heads. Sharp clothes, quick eyes, an easy arrogance about them. “Gangs. That’s part of Ground Zero.” Bennett leaned close. “And right next to you is Eddie Vo, the leader. I don’t recognize the guy with the sunglasses.”
Frye watched Eddie Vo and Sunglasses pouring fresh beers over ice, bringing lighters to their cigarettes, ogling a young woman with sly enthusiasm.
“They are not bad people,” offered Nguyen Hy. “Energy needing to be directed. They are fine, as long as the Dark Men don’t show up. Ground Zero and the Dark Men are like matches and gas.”
The waiter returned with a tray of drinks. Frye sipped his and watched the crowd, noting that Eddie Vo was fiddling with a cassette tape. A recorder sat beside it. Frye leaned over. “Chromium tape?”
Vo stared sullenly. “Five bucks, man, and it’s already tangled.”
Frye shrugged. Then the lights dimmed and a communal murmur rose from the audience, heads lifting toward the stage. Miss Saigon Days was looking at him. She turned away before he could smile. The band came on, slender Vietnamese men in French-cut suits, followed by the backup singers, all in white ao dai, all lovely. Drums rattled, the bass groaned. The backup singers waited, looking down. The guitar player tapped the mike. Bennett adjusted himself in his seat, grinning in anticipation. Someone waved and Bennett waved back.
Li glided onstage, centered in a spotlight, her black hair shining through the smoky atmosphere, purple ao dai tight around her middle, silk pants loose and flowing. Frye could feel Bennett’s hands pounding beside him, faster and faster. Li took the microphone. The stage lights focused her smile and brought a sparkle to her eyes as she looked over the crowd and found Bennett. She raised a hand and the spotlight angled to their table. “For my husband,” Frye heard her say. “And for his brother, too. Happy birthday to you.”
Then the light shifted back to Li and the band eased into its first song. Frye watched Eddie, still fighting with his faulty tape cassette. Sunglasses was staring at the stage, apparently transfixed. Li brought the mike to her mouth, and the first ripples of her voice settled onto the crowd as easily as foam onto a beach. Frye listened in rapt ignorance to the lyrics spilling out in Li’s mother tongue: lilting, rhythmic, soothing. Kim scooted her chair close to him and translated in the caesuras:
Frye watched the lights play off Li’s smile and the embroidered lace of her blouse. Bennett’s arms were crossed, a look of simple wonder on his face. Donnell Crawley tapped his glass to the beat and Nguyen Hy drew pensively on a cigarette. Kim leaned close again, her breath sweet against his cheek:
Frye could hear Eddie Vo cackling between the softly sung lines. “Just one night with her in my bed,” he said. “I wouldn’t be a brother to her!”
Sunglasses answered, “Stanley would be jealous.”
“Stanley... lại cái! Goddamn this tape!”