I get up and walk down the hall, Phuong letting me pass and following behind, her steps silent, just like she learned moving swiftly through the jungle from the time she was a teenager, scared and angry and learning how to make her mask. She killed so many of mine because mine killed so many of hers first. Give and take and then take some more. Motherfucking tug-of-war.
I reach the door and knock the required number of times, and it opens up before me. I step inside, one last time.
28. Spook Money
The joint is mostly deserted as I take a seat at the bar, perching up on a wobbly stool. The boonie hat fits loose on my clean-shaven head. Back in the war, I let my hair grow out as much as I was allowed, making me feel taller. Today, right now, I wanted to feel sleek and fast, able to knife through anything.
The bartender walks over and looks at me with an implacable expression that he either practiced or earned the hard way. He’s never said a word to me in the five years I’ve been coming here. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice. He raises his eyebrows and waits.
I ask for water. His eyebrows bunch into a furrow of genuine confusion, the most expression I’ve ever gotten from the guy. I don’t add anything to my order, so he shrugs, and gestures with his chin before walking off to fetch a glass.
I look down the bar, and the man is sitting on the corner stool. I didn’t see him when I sat down. Fucking spooks.
He checks out my weekend fatigues. “You going to war?”
I rub the horseshoe outline in the pocket of my trousers, surrounding three plastic baggies filled with medicine in a protective semicircle. Not exactly military issue, these pants, but sturdy. New ones, purchased just for the occasion at what passes for an Army surplus in Bangkok, selling war supplies creatively re-routed a decade back by enterprising quartermasters who only wrote in pencil and kept their stock binders loose.
“I think so,” I say.
The bartender brings my glass of water and sets in front of me. He drops a lime into it, gives me the smallest grin, then walks away. It’s a day of firsts.
“What brings you here,” the man says, “Other than the quality of the tap water?”
“I got something for you.”
“Oh?” he says, actually surprised.
I take my hat off and rub my head. I’m sweating, and not from the heat. I’m trying to get my mind right, and the chemicals are leaking from my body, clearing up room for a fresh shipment from the shelf of the general that’ll certainly be my last. A day of firsts and lasts.
“Nice haircut,” he says.
I ignore him. “I’m not writing anything down, and I’m not signing anything. I’ll tell you what I know, and it’s up to you to do with it what you want.”
“Okay,” he says.
“And then I want that favor you were talking about.”
The man looks at my glass, then at the bruises and cuts on my face. “You quit drinking?”
I touch the glass, then adjust the wound in my side, wincing. “Yeah.”
“I hope it was nothing I did.”
“Can we talk about that favor, or what?”
“Depends on what we talk about before that.”
I look around. “You got any place more private?”
He gestures to a booth in the back of the bar, a location normally reserved for five-dollar blowjobs and cheap street gangsters, or often some combination of the two. Seems fitting, somehow. I get up slowly, favoring my side, and walk deeper into the shadows of the place.
I haven’t said anything for two full minutes, and he’s still scribbling in his little notepad. Finally, he underlines something three times, clicks his pen and stows it inside his jacket pocket.
“Well, I’ve got to say,” he says with a grin, “you’re either very connected, or very nosy.”
“I prefer ‘observant.’ A machine ain’t too complicated when you look at it from the inside, where all the wiring is.”
“Well said. At any rate, this should keep me busy for a while. Thank you, Mr. Broussard.”
“It’s Specialist Broussard.”
A smile plays across his thin lips. That pallid face is waxy as ever. “Yes, of course it is.”
I point to the notebook on the table, resting under a protective hand. “Does that earn me a favor?”
“I’d say it does.”
“Anything I want?”
“No, certainly not. I’m not a fucking genie. Something within reason, of course.”
“Okay…” I take a deep breath, coming in ragged, blowing out cold. My hands are shaking again, atoms in motion. I need to back down off the shit slowly, because I know I can’t get through the day like this. Forget about the night, and what always happens then. It’s the nights that got me started in the first place. “I need you to find some coordinates for me.”
“Oh?”
“They’re in Laos. A ridge above a river valley cutting through two symmetrical peaks. About five days hump from a place called the Plain of Jars.”
“Well, that sounds perfectly simple.” He grinned with those thin lips. This was sarcasm, and it didn’t come naturally to the man.
“Check Operation Algernon.”
The man writes this down. “Any name to cross reference?”
I haven’t said it for five years. Maybe longer, now. But it’s always on the tip of my tongue, dancing to get out. Finally, I let it. “Augustus Chapel.”
“Branch?”
“I don’t know. Your branch.”
“I don’t have a branch.”
I nod. “Neither did he.”
The man nods. “I’ll see what I can do.” He stands, slipping his notebook inside his jacket, rejoining the pen. I get to my feet, shaking the whole way, holding my side. “You okay?” he says.
“I don’t know.”
“You need a lift home? I can send someone…”
“No. I’m not going home.”
“You got a place to stay?”
I shrug. I’m not really sure. Doesn’t matter either way at this point.
“Meet me back here tomorrow. Same time. I’ll know by then if I can help you. If I can’t, we’ll see about doing you a different favor.”
“If you can’t, I won’t need a different one.”
He doesn’t understand this. I honestly don’t either, but my mouth said it, and I’m going to take it at its word, as my body doesn’t seem to be working in unison with my head anymore. I’ll let instinct guide me from here on out.
The man pats the notebook inside his jacket. “Thank you for this. It’ll do a lot of good.” He holds out his hand.
“I’d like to believe that, but I don’t,” I say. The man’s smile wavers just the slightest bit. “Call it professional skepticism,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it. It’s a small hand, but firm.
The man nods. “Fair enough.” He releases my hand. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
29. (Four) Seeds of the Pomegranate
The vibration of the helicopter is different than what I remember, the roar of the engines softer. Less rattling and wind. Maybe it’s the machine itself, but maybe it’s just me. I’m different, too. Smaller, but harder, like the man’s hand. None of it feels the same, or remotely right.