‘Misunderstanding? Ja, dat’s goot. Some misunderstanding. He says you owe him fifty thousand dollars. And proper interest.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Hatcher whispered, shaking his head and chuckling, ‘A roll of the dice to Sam-Sam.’
‘I don’t tink it’s da money, although it is a consideration, I’m sure,’ the Dutchman said. ‘He says you disgraced him.’
‘What the hell,’ said Hatcher, ‘hijackers got the guns. Cost me a penny or two, too.’
‘Dat’s not da vay he says it happened,’ said the Dutchman, taking a sip of beer and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
‘You can hear anything you want to hear,’ Hatcher whispered, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand.
The Dutchman looked furtively around the empty bar and said, ‘Sam-Sam says you vere Company.’
Hatcher chuckled and leaned back, feigning shock. He shook his head. ‘Come on.’
‘He says you set him up. Dat you used his money, bought da guns, and sold dem to the Chem guerrillas and da Chems used dem against the people he vas going to sell dem to.’
‘I’m not that devious,’ Hatcher said casually, at which Daphne, Cohen and the Dutchman all stared at the floor rather than disagree. The Dutchman fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder and lit it with a gold lighter. He leaned back, blowing irregular smoke rings toward the ceiling, watching them dissipate.
Leatherneck John brought the drinks to the table.
‘Anything else you need, just yell,’ he said and drifted back to the bar.
‘What else does Sam-Sam say?’ Hatcher asked.
‘He says you sleep vit da Devil,’ the Dutchman said. ‘He says you haff an instinct for da throat and are not betrayed by conscience. He says you lie vittout moving a muscle and kill vittout a taste for blood. And he says you could negotiate vit God and get da best share.’
‘He knows you well,’ Cohen said with a grin.
‘Sounds like he’s describing himself,’ Hatcher said.
The Dutchman laughed too, and raised his beer in a half-hearted salute.
‘So — vat is it?’ the Dutchman asked.
‘I’m trying to find out if the Vietcong had a floating prison camp called Huie-kui in northeast Laos. They may have called it the spirit camp. This would be late 1971, early ‘72.’
The Dutchman looked at Daphne and then back at Hatcher.
Daphne took out an envelope and laid it on the corner of the table. She kept her hand over it. ‘Five hundred dollars Hong Kong, as agreed — if the information is reliable,’ she said.
It was the first time Hatcher had heard about paying the Dutchman, but he did not intercede. He would settle up with Daphne later. This was not the time to discuss it.
‘Dey had several camps over dere,’ said the Dutchman.
‘This would be on the other side of the mountains, near Muang.’
‘Muang, ja,’ the Dutchman said with a nod. ‘Across country, utter side of da Annimitique.’
‘That would be it,’ said Hatcher, his eyes glowing. His pulse picked up a few beats. ‘Did they move it around?’
‘Ja, to keep from choppers.’ He pointed toward the ceiling.
‘You did business with them?’
The Dutchman shrugged. ‘So?’
Hatcher took out the photograph of Cody and Pai that Schwartz had given him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t give a damn about the camp itself or what the Cong did. The war’s over. I’m looking for a friend of mine.’
‘All you Yankees tink your friends are still alive over dere,’ said the Dutchman.
Hatcher handed him the photograph.
‘This guy here,’ he said, pointing to Cody.
The Dutchman held the photograph a few inches from his face and squinted at it. He shifted positions a little, turning the photo to catch the light and looked hard at the picture for almost a minute. As he was perusing it Daphne looked at the rear door and stiffened. Hatcher casually followed her gaze.
Billy Death stood in the doorway, his AK-47 cradled in his arm. Leatherneck John stared hard at him.
‘Hey, Billy,’ he said, ‘park the piece. You know the rules.’
The black man stared across the room at Hatcher’s table.
Leatherneck John took down the shotgun and, holding it by the slide, jerked his wrist. The carriage slid up and back, charging the weapon.
‘You deaf?’ Leatherneck said, laying the shotgun on the bar aimed in Billy Death’s general direction. ‘My house, my rules. The gun stays outside.’
Billy Death sucked a tooth, then stepped back out the door and leaned his machine gun against the wall.
‘The peashooter, too,’ Leatherneck yelled.
Death took the pistol out of his belt and laid it beside the AK-47. He strode to the bar, walking on the balls of his feet, his hands hanging loose in front of him, like a boxer.
‘Japanese beer, cold,’ he said, in the singsong accent of Haiti.
Leatherneck John popped the top off a bottle of beer and put it in front of the Haitian.
‘Who are the Yankees with the Dutchman?’ Billy Death asked.
Leatherneck John stared at him for several seconds, then he said, ‘Harry Truman, Winston Churchill and Eleanor Roosevelt.’
The Haitian’s brows knit together.
‘You know better’n to ask questions in here, Billy,’ Leatherneck John said. ‘Repeat after me: “It’s none of my business.”’
At the table the Dutchman paid no attention to Billy Death. He looked up at Hatcher.
‘Maybe,’ he said finally, in answer to Hatcher’s question.
‘Maybe?’
‘Ja. Skinnier. Very tired-looking. Und a beard, so I couldn’t bet on dis.’
‘Was he sick?’
The Dutchman pursed his lips and then shook his head. ‘Nee, not sick. Maybe . . . drugs.’
‘He was on drugs?’
‘I vould say dat.’
‘What drugs?’
‘Well, I vould say a little smoke. Maybe powder.’
‘Skag and grass?’
‘Is possible.’
‘You sold shit to the Vietcong there?’
‘Drugs vasn’t vat I was selling, but . . .‘ He let the sentence dangle. At the bar, Billy Death lowered his sunglasses over his nose and stared over the top of them at the table. Hatcher glared back. Their eyes locked for a moment or two, then Death turned away.
‘When was this?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Vas long time ago. I would say, let me see, I vas moving Thai silk to Saigon vit Henrickson, the Finn, and he vas kilt vintertime, ‘75. Vas dat summer. Ja. Last time vas about June, 1974.’
“74,’ Hatcher said half aloud. ‘And he was a prisoner?’
‘Ja.’
‘You said the last time. How many times did you see him?’
‘If it is him, Bing yahn, maybe three, four times. But I vill not swear to it. I’m sure it vas da girl but—’
‘The girl?’ Hatcher interrupted him.
‘Ja. Da girl I’m sure of.’
‘You saw this girl with this man? Hatcher repeated, pointing at Cody and Pai in the photograph.
‘I saw da girl. I tink it vas dis guy. Like I said—’
‘You mean the Cong let her stay with him?’
‘I just saw dem talking.’
‘Maybe he was, uh — what we call a trustee. You understand “trustee”?’
‘Ja, sure. Dey trust him. He does tinks for dem, dey let him outside the vire a little bit each day, watch da utter prisoners. She bought some tinks.’
‘Christ,’ Hatcher muttered under his breath. ‘What did she buy?’
‘Quinine pills. Smoke. Penicillin. China Vite, and also to buy some shoes and shirts. Clothing.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘Like da Arvies.’
‘North Vietnamese dollars?’
The Dutchman nodded.
Hatcher looked at Cohen, who whistled low and shook his head.