Paradise and spend the rest of our lives drinking mojitos and eating lobster. What do you say?”
“I say whenever I need a moral compass I’ll come to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You always point the wrong way, Walt, so I know if I want to do the right thing, I’d just do the opposite of what you’re telling me.”
“I will take that as a compliment to my mental fortitude.”
Reyes opened the door to leave.
“What are you going to do?” Walt said.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Chapter 21
Reyes walked head down through the throbbing heat of the afternoon, ignoring the street kids who pestered him to buy cigarettes, cigarette lighters, heroin. They were everywhere, these kids, thousands of them roamed the streets, picking pockets, begging, hawking. The older ones rode motorcycles, snatching bags from the shoulders of westerners who hadn’t been in Saigon long enough to know better. The city was a master class in survival.
He’d been one of those kids once. Instead of snatching bags he stole cars; instead of brown sugar he had sold numbers in the bolita . He had done whatever it took to get one more step up the food chain.
But now here he was in a nice white linen suit with a dozen bank accounts around the world and two apartments back home in Miami Beach, and he wondered what it was all for. The best thing about a dream was aiming for it.
And here it was, the final part of the jigsaw; he could steal that, too.
He kept turning it over in his mind. If he told her he was still alive, what good would it do? Connor would never get out of there alive. So what, then? You can’t turn back the clock, he told himself. You’ve thought about her for seven years and now you can have her, she’s yours.
If you lie and tell her he’s dead.
Surely they would have killed him by now. But who’s going to find the body? You’ll just be drawing out the pain for everyone. Maybe they’ll never find the body.
But Reyes, you don’t know that, another voice said. You said you’d never steal a man’s wife and you’d never kill anyone unless they came at you first. But this is like killing him. I know you don’t want to believe that, but it is. Because you know there’s still one more thing you haven’t tried, and God knows, somehow this bastard deserves you to try.
He thought about Connor, what he was going through right now, one hand already crippled, his nose still not mended. The Pathet Lao would beat him up again, of course, with exquisite Asian refinement, because they would want to keep him cowed and also out of principle, he supposed. He imagined him trussed up in a hut somewhere, no hope, no water, just the snakes and bats for company.
Reyes had spent six months in those jungles, helping the Hmong trade their opium, bringing them back weapons and showing them how to use them. That was back in 1962, before the war in Vietnam really got under way. He hated the jungle, that gloomy netherworld of shadows and silence. He had always wondered back then what he would do if the NVA caught him, knowing no one would ever come for him because officially he wasn’t even there.
Poor bastard.
By the time he reached Tu Do, the Chinese and Indian merchants were bringing down the steel shutters against the heat of the day. Even the siclo drivers had taken refuge under the trees, dozing in the front of their pedicabs.
When Reyes reached the Caravelle he stalled for a while in the air conditioned lobby, letting the sweat dry under his shirt, rehearsing what he was going to say: He’s dead, princess. I’m sorry. I saw the photographs myself.
He made his decision and caught the elevator to the fifth floor.
When she opened the door and saw the look on his face he knew he didn’t have to say anything. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She turned and walked back into the room. He followed.
She sat down on the bed and cried. He put his arms around her and she turned her face up to his. Before he
“I say whenever I need a moral compass I’ll come to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You always point the wrong way, Walt, so I know if I want to do the right thing, I’d just do the opposite of what you’re telling me.”
“I will take that as a compliment to my mental fortitude.”
Reyes opened the door to leave.
“What are you going to do?” Walt said.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Chapter 21
Reyes walked head down through the throbbing heat of the afternoon, ignoring the street kids who pestered him to buy cigarettes, cigarette lighters, heroin. They were everywhere, these kids, thousands of them roamed the streets, picking pockets, begging, hawking. The older ones rode motorcycles, snatching bags from the shoulders of westerners who hadn’t been in Saigon long enough to know better. The city was a master class in survival.
He’d been one of those kids once. Instead of snatching bags he stole cars; instead of brown sugar he had sold numbers in the bolita . He had done whatever it took to get one more step up the food chain.
But now here he was in a nice white linen suit with a dozen bank accounts around the world and two apartments back home in Miami Beach, and he wondered what it was all for. The best thing about a dream was aiming for it.
And here it was, the final part of the jigsaw; he could steal that, too.
He kept turning it over in his mind. If he told her he was still alive, what good would it do? Connor would never get out of there alive. So what, then? You can’t turn back the clock, he told himself. You’ve thought about her for seven years and now you can have her, she’s yours.
If you lie and tell her he’s dead.
Surely they would have killed him by now. But who’s going to find the body? You’ll just be drawing out the pain for everyone. Maybe they’ll never find the body.
But Reyes, you don’t know that, another voice said. You said you’d never steal a man’s wife and you’d never kill anyone unless they came at you first. But this is like killing him. I know you don’t want to believe that, but it is. Because you know there’s still one more thing you haven’t tried, and God knows, somehow this bastard deserves you to try.
He thought about Connor, what he was going through right now, one hand already crippled, his nose still not mended. The Pathet Lao would beat him up again, of course, with exquisite Asian refinement, because they would want to keep him cowed and also out of principle, he supposed. He imagined him trussed up in a hut somewhere, no hope, no water, just the snakes and bats for company.
Reyes had spent six months in those jungles, helping the Hmong trade their opium, bringing them back weapons and showing them how to use them. That was back in 1962, before the war in Vietnam really got under way. He hated the jungle, that gloomy netherworld of shadows and silence. He had always wondered back then what he would do if the NVA caught him, knowing no one would ever come for him because officially he wasn’t even there.
Poor bastard.
By the time he reached Tu Do, the Chinese and Indian merchants were bringing down the steel shutters against the heat of the day. Even the siclo drivers had taken refuge under the trees, dozing in the front of their pedicabs.
When Reyes reached the Caravelle he stalled for a while in the air conditioned lobby, letting the sweat dry under his shirt, rehearsing what he was going to say: He’s dead, princess. I’m sorry. I saw the photographs myself.
He made his decision and caught the elevator to the fifth floor.
When she opened the door and saw the look on his face he knew he didn’t have to say anything. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She turned and walked back into the room. He followed.
She sat down on the bed and cried. He put his arms around her and she turned her face up to his. Before he
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