rested on the .45. "Little fucker ought to be wearing a
dress. Hell, he practically is wearing a dress."
"Don't you like women?" I asked. Mike put a can of Budweiser on my
table and shook his head rapidly, twice. He had wanted me in the club
because he was afraid the drunken soldier was going to shoot him, and
now I was just making things worse. I looked at the two men with the
drunken officer. They were dirty and exhausted—whatever had happened to
the drunk had also happened to them. The difference was that they were
not drunk yet.
"This rear-echelon dipshit is personally interfering with my state
of mind," the drunk said to the burly man on his right. "Tell him to
get out of here, or a certain degree of unpleasantness will ensue."
"Leave him alone," the other man said. Stripes of dried mud lay
across his lean, haggard face.
The drunken officer startled me by leaning toward the other man and
speaking in a clear, carrying Vietnamese. It was an old-fashioned,
almost literary Vietnamese, and he must have thought and dreamed in it
to speak it so well. He assumed that neither I nor the Montagnard boy
would understand him.
This is serious , he said. Most of the people in the world I do not
despise are already dead, or should be.
There was more, and I cannot swear that this was exactly what he
said, but it's pretty close.
Then he said, in that same flowing Vietnamese that even to my ears
sounded as stilted as the language of a third-rate Victorian novel: You
should remember what we have brought with us.
It takes a long time and
a lot of patience to clean and bleach bone. A skull would be more
difficult than most of a skeleton.
Your prisoner requires more drink, he said, and rolled back in his
chair, looking at me with his hand on his gun.
"Whiskey," said the burly soldier. Mike was already pulling the
bottle off the shelf. He understood that the officer was trying to
knock himself out before he would find it necessary to shoot someone.
For a moment I thought that the burly soldier to his right looked
familiar. His head had been shaved so close he looked bald, and his
eyes were enormous above the streaks of dirt. A stainless-steel watch
hung from a slot in his collar. He extended a muscular arm for the
bottle Mike passed him while keeping as far from the table as he could.
The soldier twisted off the cap and poured into all three glasses. The
man in the center immediately drank all the whiskey in his glass and
banged the glass down on the table for a refill.
The haggard soldier, who had been silent until now, said, "Something
is gonna happen here." He looked straight at me. "Pal?"
"That man is nobody's pal," the drunk said. Before anyone could stop
him, he snatched up the gun, pointed it across the room, and fired.
There was a flash of fire, a huge explosion, and the reek of cordite.
The bullet went straight through the soft wooden wall, about eight feet
to my left. A stray bit of light slanted through the hole it made.
For a moment I was deaf. I swallowed the last of my beer and stood
up. My head was ringing.
"Is it clear that I hate the necessity for this kind of shit?" said
the drunk. "Is that much understood?"
The soldier who had called me "pal" laughed, and the burly soldier
poured more whiskey into the drunk's glass. Then he stood up and
started coming toward me. Beneath the exhaustion and the stripes of
dirt, his face was taut with anxiety. He put himself between me and the
man with the gun.
The captain began pulling me toward the door, keeping his body
between me and the other table. He gave me an impatient glance because
I had refused to move at his pace. Then I saw him notice my pupils.
"Goddamn," he said, and then he stopped moving altogether and said,
"Goddamn" again, but in a different tone of voice.
I started laughing.
"Oh, this is—" He shook his head. "This is really—"
"Where have you been?" I asked him. John Ransom turned to the table.
"Hey, I know this guy. He's an old football friend
dress. Hell, he practically is wearing a dress."
"Don't you like women?" I asked. Mike put a can of Budweiser on my
table and shook his head rapidly, twice. He had wanted me in the club
because he was afraid the drunken soldier was going to shoot him, and
now I was just making things worse. I looked at the two men with the
drunken officer. They were dirty and exhausted—whatever had happened to
the drunk had also happened to them. The difference was that they were
not drunk yet.
"This rear-echelon dipshit is personally interfering with my state
of mind," the drunk said to the burly man on his right. "Tell him to
get out of here, or a certain degree of unpleasantness will ensue."
"Leave him alone," the other man said. Stripes of dried mud lay
across his lean, haggard face.
The drunken officer startled me by leaning toward the other man and
speaking in a clear, carrying Vietnamese. It was an old-fashioned,
almost literary Vietnamese, and he must have thought and dreamed in it
to speak it so well. He assumed that neither I nor the Montagnard boy
would understand him.
This is serious , he said. Most of the people in the world I do not
despise are already dead, or should be.
There was more, and I cannot swear that this was exactly what he
said, but it's pretty close.
Then he said, in that same flowing Vietnamese that even to my ears
sounded as stilted as the language of a third-rate Victorian novel: You
should remember what we have brought with us.
It takes a long time and
a lot of patience to clean and bleach bone. A skull would be more
difficult than most of a skeleton.
Your prisoner requires more drink, he said, and rolled back in his
chair, looking at me with his hand on his gun.
"Whiskey," said the burly soldier. Mike was already pulling the
bottle off the shelf. He understood that the officer was trying to
knock himself out before he would find it necessary to shoot someone.
For a moment I thought that the burly soldier to his right looked
familiar. His head had been shaved so close he looked bald, and his
eyes were enormous above the streaks of dirt. A stainless-steel watch
hung from a slot in his collar. He extended a muscular arm for the
bottle Mike passed him while keeping as far from the table as he could.
The soldier twisted off the cap and poured into all three glasses. The
man in the center immediately drank all the whiskey in his glass and
banged the glass down on the table for a refill.
The haggard soldier, who had been silent until now, said, "Something
is gonna happen here." He looked straight at me. "Pal?"
"That man is nobody's pal," the drunk said. Before anyone could stop
him, he snatched up the gun, pointed it across the room, and fired.
There was a flash of fire, a huge explosion, and the reek of cordite.
The bullet went straight through the soft wooden wall, about eight feet
to my left. A stray bit of light slanted through the hole it made.
For a moment I was deaf. I swallowed the last of my beer and stood
up. My head was ringing.
"Is it clear that I hate the necessity for this kind of shit?" said
the drunk. "Is that much understood?"
The soldier who had called me "pal" laughed, and the burly soldier
poured more whiskey into the drunk's glass. Then he stood up and
started coming toward me. Beneath the exhaustion and the stripes of
dirt, his face was taut with anxiety. He put himself between me and the
man with the gun.
The captain began pulling me toward the door, keeping his body
between me and the other table. He gave me an impatient glance because
I had refused to move at his pace. Then I saw him notice my pupils.
"Goddamn," he said, and then he stopped moving altogether and said,
"Goddamn" again, but in a different tone of voice.
I started laughing.
"Oh, this is—" He shook his head. "This is really—"
"Where have you been?" I asked him. John Ransom turned to the table.
"Hey, I know this guy. He's an old football friend
Similar Books
