We left the bathroom and went back to the Viet lady, who led us down a hallway past a large living room or salon, beyond which I could see a larger dining room. The furnishings here were top-notch, a mixture of French and East Asian, though a lot of bad modern paintings hung on the walls.
We came to a long gallery that ran along the rear of the house, and the lady motioned us toward a set of French doors. I could hear music and talking out in the garden.
As Susan and I walked toward the doors, she said to me, “Bill is supposed to be here.”
“I kind of figured that out.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. We were classmates at Princeton.”
We went through the doors onto a set of marble stairs flanked by pink granite banisters. I said, “You could buy a B-52 bomber for what this place costs.”
Susan took my hand, which was a very nice gesture, and we moved halfway down the stairs. There was a big pavilion pitched in the yard, which was all lit up with Chinese lanterns. The yard was surrounded by walls and gardens, which were also lit. To the left, I saw a big lighted swimming pool. I could be the next ambassador to Vietnam if I played my cards right.
Susan looked out over the crowd of about two hundred people, none of whom wore jeans or polo shirts. She said to me, “There’s the Ambassador… and there’s Anne Quinn… I don’t see the Vice President… but wherever you see a crowd and hear the kissing of ass, he should be in the center.”
“I think I see him.”
Susan said, “We’re a bit late for the receiving line, so we should first go and announce our presence to Mrs. Quinn.”
“You learn this in the Junior League? Can’t we hit the bar first?”
“No. Protocol before alcohol.”
We descended the last steps, and a few people noticed us, then a few more. There seemed to be a little lull in the noise level.
Susan went right up to the Ambassador’s wife, who was speaking to a group of men and women under the pavilion. Susan put out her hand and said, “Anne. How are you? You look fabulous.”
Anne Quinn was a handsome woman of about fifty with an expressive face. In fact, her face expressed something close to shock, but she recovered nicely and said, “Susan! How wonderful to see you!”
Barf.
They did a little air kiss, and Mrs. Quinn’s nose twitched, like she’d just smelled Vietnam.
The rest of the group seemed to be backing away.
Susan said to our hostess, “You’ll never guess what a week I’ve had.”
No, she never would.
Susan said, “Oh, Anne, please let me introduce you to my friend, Paul Brenner. Paul, Anne Quinn.”
I tried to stand downwind from her as I took her hand and said, “Very pleased to meet you. Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”
She smiled weakly and returned my New Year’s greeting.
I still had the taste of soap in my mouth, and I tried to blow a bubble, but it wasn’t working.
Susan said to Mrs. Quinn, “Please forgive us for arriving late. Paul and I spent a week traveling up country, and the train from Lao Cai was late, and to top it off, we had our luggage stolen.”
“Oh, how awful.”
I guess that explained our attire without mentioning it directly. Susan, I noticed, seemed to fit in here, and even her voice had changed from sexy to sort of chirpy. I needed a drink.
Mrs. Quinn glanced at me and started processing something. She said to Susan, “You… you traveled to where…?”
“To Dien Bien Phu and Sa Pa. You absolutely must go there.”
“Well… yes…”
“Paul and I spent three wonderful days in Nha Trang. Have you been there?”
“No…”
“You must go. And don’t miss Pyramide Island. Then we went to Hue and stayed at the Century. Where you stayed last year.”
“Oh, yes…” She glanced at me again, then said to Susan, “Bill Stanley is here…”
The lady never finished a sentence. Probably never finished a thought.
Susan sort of looked around. “Oh, is he? I’ll have to say hello.”
“Yes… he was actually asking…”
Susan said to her and to the other people who were still moving backward, “Paul served in Vietnam during the war, and we visited some of his old battlefields.”
Mrs. Quinn looked at me. “How interesting… did you… find it difficult…?”
“Not this time.”
Susan said to her, “Paul has been looking for a drink since Lao Cai. And I can use a few myself. Terrible train ride. If you’ll excuse us.”
“Of course.”
She took my arm, and we moved toward one of the bars. Susan said, “Lovely woman.”
“Don’t look for another invitation in the mail.”
We made our way through the crowd, and everyone was glancing at us. The thing about a beautiful underdressed woman is that she’s still beautiful.
We got to the open air bar where two Viet guys in white coats stood smiling. Susan ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered a double Scotch on the rocks, which they understood.
I looked around. The crowd of about two hundred was mostly round-eyes, but there were also a good number of Vietnamese, a few in military uniforms, which reminded me of Colonel Mang. Maybe I should have invited him here. He would have enjoyed himself. Also, I could take him in the bushes and beat the shit out of him.
Most of the Westerners and even the Asians looked like business types, but I saw a number of people who could be from other embassies, East and West.
Bottom line here, Vice President Edward Blake was a big draw.
I made a mental note to find my FBI contact, John Eagan, though I was sure he’d find me first.
A four-piece Viet combo was playing “Moonlight in Vermont” out on the lawn, and I noticed a few guys around with earplugs and bulges under their coats, who were obviously Secret Service detailed to the VP. By now, some spotter somewhere was talking into their earplugs saying something like, “Two vagrants at the south bar. Keep an eye on them.”
Our drinks were made, and I turned around and bumped into one of the Secret Service guys, who had removed his earplug so he could talk to me. He looked about fifteen, and he was smiling. He put out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Scott Romney.”
I ignored his hand and said, “I’m an American citizen.”
He kept his smile plastered on his face and said, “Sir, do you think we could have a word inside?”
“No, I don’t think so, sonny.”
Susan interrupted my fun and said to him, “Go speak to Mrs. Quinn. She knows us personally.”
He looked at Susan and still smiling said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” And off he went.
I took a sip of my Scotch, gargled, and swallowed.
Susan made me hold her glass while she lit a cigarette. She said, “I’m almost out of smokes.” She took her glass and said, “I told you, you look suspicious. That’s never happened to me before.”
I smiled.
She puffed away and said, “You want to meet the Ambassador now?”
“I want to finish my drink.”
“He’s coming this way.”
I looked to my right toward the pool, and saw a man who must be Patrick Quinn coming toward us alone, but followed at a distance by a few other men. He was about my age and my height, well built, and not bad looking. He was wearing a dark blue suit, like almost every other guy here, and he was beaming a smile at Susan. He came right up to her and shouted, “Susan!” and gave her a big hug and kiss. He said, “You look lovely! How are you?”
He was able to finish short sentences by raising his voice at the end.
Susan replied, “I’m wonderful. You look very fit and tan for February.”
Barf.
He replied, “Well, my secret is a tanning lamp and a new gym in the basement. You look very tan yourself. Where have you been?”