The gunman looked at the brick wall above his head. He saw that his leather jacket cuff was touching brick. He pulled it back and there was his wrist, and then there was the brick. There was no sign of his hand. The wall wasn't shattered or cracked. Not even the mortar was disturbed. It looked as if the wall had grown around his hand. He felt the trigger under his finger and decided against pulling it. No telling what might happen.
Instead, he looked into the dead, flat eyes of the skinny guy who had done this to him. He decided an apology was in order.
"I apologize," he said sincerely.
"Too late. My night is ruined. You're going to have to make it up to me."
"How? Just tell me. I'll do it."
"I need some fast cash."
"Left-front pants pocket. Help yourself. Just leave me bus fare, okay?"
"Thank you," said Remo. He extracted the man's wallet. It was fat and black. Remo riffled through it. He counted out nearly thirteen hundred dollars in wrinkled bills.
"What were you sticking me up for?" Remo demanded of the would-be holdup man. "You got a small fortune here."
"How do you think I come to be carrying that large a wad? Working as a hairdresser?"
"Well, you're donating it to a new fund. The Free the U.S. POW's Fund. It so happens I'm president and treasurer."
"I'm a charitable man. Easy come, easy go."
"I can use this credit card too," Remo said, stuffing the wallet back into the man's dungaree pocket.
The gunman scowled. "Hey, have a heart, man. That ain't fair. That's my own credit card. I didn't steal it. You can have the money, okay? I can always steal more. But getting square with the credit-card people, that's real work."
"Think of yourself as Robin Hood. You're stealing from the rich and giving it to the poor. Me."
"This ain't fair."
"No, it ain't," Remo admitted, starting off. "Toodle-oo."
"Hey! What am I gonna do about my hand? It's still caught in this wall."
Remo turned. "You still have your own teeth?" he asked.
"Yeah. So?"
"Start gnawing brick."
The woman at the travel agency was a crisp, no-nonsense blond in a black-and-white business suit set off with a string tie. Remo decided he liked the way a lock of her hair fell over her smooth brow. She had the shiniest ears he'd ever seen. Remo wondered why it was that blonds always had ears that looked as if they were waxed daily.
"And where would your travel plans be taking you?" she asked.
Remo hesitated. He decided to trust her. He leaned closer and let her get the full impact of his magnetic charm.
"Between you and me, how close can you get me to Vietnam?"
She leaned into Remo's face conspiratorially. "Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City?" she asked breathily.
"You can do that?" Remo asked, taken aback.
"Uh-huh," she said. "We have a package plan. It's called the Trans-Vietnam tour. Vietnam is hungry for tourist dollars. Of course, there are no direct flights from this country."
"Of course," Remo said, blinking. This seemed almost too easy.
"But we can book you to Bangkok, Thailand, where you can pick up a connecting flight. It's a two-week tour and includes all meals and hotels."
"I'll be brown-bagging," Remo said. "I've eaten Vietnamese before."
"Oh, were you there? During the war, I mean?"
"Does it show that much?" Remo asked.
"Not on you. You look kinda young, actually-now that I think of it. But this tour is very popular with servicemen. Nostalgia, you know."
"Nostalgia is a terrible thing," Remo said, thinking of his year in Nam.
"So-Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City?"
"Ho Chi Minh City-that used to be Saigon, right?"
"Um-huh." The blond was wetting her lips with her tongue.
"I'll take it."
"When would you like to depart?" she asked, calling up a schedule on her desk terminal.
"When's the next flight?"
"Well, there's one tonight, but obviously-"
"I'll take it," Remo said quickly.
"You'll need a connecting flight to Kennedy International. "
"First class," Remo said. "All the way. A friend is paying for it."
The blond lifted penciled eyebrows quizzically and got to work.
"How do you plan to pay for this?" she asked.
"Credit card," Remo said, placing one on the desk like a bridge player laying down his trump.
The blond picked it up and began entering the information on her terminal. A minute later, she presented Remo with a sheaf of airline tickets.
"There you are, Mr. Krankowski. Is that how you pronounce it'?"
" 'Krankowski' is fine," he said, pocketing his receipt. The blond had forgotten to verify his signature, which was a break.
"Well, if you expect to make your nine o'clock flight, I suggest you get going. Too bad, though. I was kinda hoping we'd have a drink. I'm about to close."
Remo stood up to go. "Another time. For sure."
"Oh, don't forget your credit card, Michael. Do they call you Mickey or Mike?"
"Remo. "
Her eyebrows shot up. "Remo?"
"It's my stage name," Remo explained. "Remo the Awesome. I'm a professional magician. I've toured every continent."
"Oh," said the blond, cupping her chin in one hand and smiling warmly. "And just what sort of magic is it that you do?"
"At the moment, I'm working on my disappearing act. "
Chapter 10
Saigon had changed in more than name.
Remo had checked into his room at the Thong Nhat, one of the few presentable hotels in what was now called Ho Chi Minh City. Because he had no baggage, Rema couldn't change clothes. He plopped down on the bed and turned on the suite's Vietronics TV. There were two channels. On one, a jagged-voiced woman with severe hair droned on while scenes of hardworking peasants flashed on a graphic insert beside her head. Remo's Vietnamese wasn't up to following the thread of the talk. The other channel showed a cartoon. A pack of mice in black pajamas harassed a band of GI cats waving a tattered American flag. The mice were winning.
Remo snapped off the TV and shoved up the window. He leaned out. Whatever they called it now, Saigon still smelled like New York's Chinatown. Once, the city streets had been clogged with little cars and military vehicles. Now everyone rode bicycles. Remo saw only one car in twenty minutes of watching. And only two Honda motor scooters, which had once been so plentiful. Whatever Communist rule had brought to the South, prosperity was not part of the package.
There was a little service-bar refrigerator in one corner. Remo opened it up. It was stocked with sick-looking water in bottles, several bottles of Viet Min beer, and cans of a soft drink that said, in English and Vietnamese, "Melon Grass Drink."
Remo decided the water was his best bet. He was wrong. He took one mouthful and spit it into the bathroom sink.
"Well, maybe it will rain," he muttered hopefully. The telephone buzzed raucously.
"Mr. Krankowski?" The desk clerk mangled the name all out of shape. Remo said yes.
"Tour group leaving in ten minutes."
"You people don't give tourists much time to settle in."
"Tour group on very strict schedule. Please be in lobby in ten minutes."
"Okay," Remo said, hanging up. He looked at the Trans-Vietnam tour booklet. It included chaperoned tours of portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and as a capper, three luxurious days in Hanoi, the former North Vietnamese capital. Remo didn't expect to ever see Hanoi. He planned to leave the tour group when he got as close to Cambodia as he could get. He left the room.