Comfort Zone

by Christopher G. Moore

  Below his hotel window, one of the Vietnamese swung gently in a hammock; another, a couple of feet away sitting back in a chair, and a third guy straddling the back of a motorcycle, were talking to a cyclo driver. On the far left two farang couples walked hand in hand from the general direction of the Continental Hotel. A Vietnamese male came up to one of the farang men. He could see them talking. The Vietnamese had a handful of Vietnamese currency, the dong. The farang was shaking his head at the offer for the black market currency exchange. Calvino looked over at the parking lot where the guy on the motorcycle casually took out a small camera and began photographing them. He quickly tossed the camera to the guy in the hammock, whose hand came up and caught it like a softball slow-pitched. A few minutes later, one of the men was speaking into a mobile phone. He motioned to the guy on the motorcycle who started the bike and took off. He crumpled up the last 333 beer can and went back to his room. It was show time. Time to talk to a lawyer about a deal, to figure out who was running the show and make that Southeast Asia social connection, invite the man for a drink. Draw him out, draw him out, as if he is one of the boys waiting to score another Mark Wang. Calvino thought about Harry Markle back in America with his Thai wife and his kids, burying the young brother. Harry would get real drunk. What the hell made any sense?

  ******

  WINCHELL & Holly. Then she appeared as if she had materialized from another dimension in time and space. He could not take his eyes off her. She glided across the carpeted reception area with a firm determination, her course set straight on him, her white ao dai tight around her breasts and the translucent material exposing her bra and underpants.

  “Mr. Demato?” she asked.

  “Who?” He asked in a momentary lapse.

  She stood a few inches away. The edge of the ao dai brushed against his hand. Her nose wrinkled and a purposeful smile edged across her lips.

  “Sometimes drinking beer in the morning makes you forget who you are,” she said.

  The 333 beer had lingered on his breath, giving him a refuge against the kind of lapse that could cause a number of problems with solutions he was in no mood to think about with this goddess towering above him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “Mai.”

  “That means ‘no’ in Thai.”

  “Oh, you speak Thai?”

  He started to understand how undercover agents unravelled like a cheap suit when confronted with a beautiful woman.

  “I read it in an airline magazine. They have a little section with twenty words you need to know in every country.”

  “‘No’, is a good word to learn.”

  “What about ‘yes’?”

  “Your English is perfect,” he said.

  “No, it is not. But thank you for the compliment.”

  It was a touch of madness that made him think her English was perfect. Attraction defeated more men than repulsion. If pain were your friend, then the name of the other city was called pleasure. Pleasure was an expensive commodity. He tried to control his breathing, telling himself that he was on a case. Someone had been murdered. Two men had been murdered. At first it didn’t work. The fact that he was alive and they were dead and she was standing there like a vision of heaven turned him into a teenager, irresponsible, stupid, clumsy; basically in a tail dive and, if he didn’t pull up, he was about to hit nose first into the ground.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Webb,” he said.

  “Mr. Webb is in a meeting. Maybe you would like another beer?” she asked.

  “Coffee would be better, but I’m okay. No coffee. No beer,” he said, and she left with one of those smiles you could never capture in a single word. He felt like he was in a steep descent, breaking a sound barrier, and not wanting to pull up on the controls. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to watch her walk away. He understood how people could be turned to pillars of salt in the bible. Women were the only religious experience worth having and the only altar worth falling on one’s knees to pray before.

  He slowly opened his eyes, he was still on the ground and she was gone. Stepping forward, he looked around the reception area which had a high-gloss New York feel, polished chrome, antiques, glass and art. The large pieces of art which hung on the walls were local. Vietnamese in bamboo hats planting rice, girls in ao dai on a village path, and one abstract piece which looked like a fish was driving a large hook through the upper lip of a man. Perfect for a law office, he thought. Winchell & Holly occupied one of the old French villas which had been renovated at great expense. The missionaries had come in the great gold rush for souls one hundred and fifty years ago when souls had some value worth killing for, and now the lawyers had arrived promising delivery from poverty and the cycle of misery.

  He had made an appointment with Douglas Webb, a senior expat lawyer, who kept him cooling his heels in the reception area. A lawyer showed his power by how long he could decently keep a client waiting and still keep the client.

  Dressed in a tailored suit and power red silk tie a farang appeared from around the corner. His black, gray-streaked hair was long enough to push the limits of conventionality but stopped short of slamming into the void of rebellion. Calvino guessed that Webb was about forty years old.

  “Vincent, I am Douglas Webb,” he said, holding out his hand. Calvino rose from the sofa and shook Webb’s hand. The guy starts on first-name basis, thought Calvino.

  Webb brushed a strand of black hair gone gray which had fallen over his right temple. Calvino could see him doing that same movement in school as a kid. Other kids teasing him, making him feel small and helpless. It was one of those nervous tics which he had probably become a lawyer to overcome, to reclaim some power, knowing that no matter how far he went, he would still be pushing back his hair, twitching his eye until he took his last breath. There was crinkling around the blue eyes, and dark mustache with some red in it. Webb looked fit like a jogger, someone who worked at it, his handshake was strong and he didn’t wear a wedding ring. He looked Calvino straight in the eye, taking him in the way a boxer takes in someone at a weigh- in. The look of a lawyer trying to figure out the quality and bank account of his client, and what particular crimes he had in mind.

  “Sorry, I’m running late.”

  Webb showed him into a conference room which was cold enough to keep chilled wine and dead bodies from decaying. Easing himself into a captain’s chair at the conference table, he waited until Calvino picked a lesser seat and sat himself down. Webb looked like Captain Kirk on the deck of the Starship Enterprise, thought Calvino, as he handed him a name card which had his name as Vincent Demato and an address in Brooklyn, New York. Mission: going where no other man has gone.

  “Your card doesn’t list any company.”

  “Let’s say that I am unaffiliated.”

  Webb smiled. “A free agent? Like in professional sports.”

  “I’ll come straight to the point. My people want to open a bar in Saigon and we need to know the rules of the bar game. We figure this isn’t Brooklyn. So, to tell you the truth, we don’t know who we have to pay for a license. How much do we pay the police to leave me alone? And how difficult is it to get money in and out of the country? Finally, I would like to know how much you charge an hour.”

  “I’ll start with your last question first. My hourly rate is US$300 an hour. But we have Vietnamese lawyers who can assist you. Their rate is US$100. Now, as to payoffs, since you are an American citizen, making payoffs to government officials is against the law. Those laws, in theory, apply to you in Vietnam.”

  “In Brooklyn we are more interested in practice than theory,” said Calvino.

  “Let me ask you another question. What’s your background in law?”

  Webb played with the name card, looking a little lost in thought.

  “Six years with Winchell & Holly in New York, then three years in Tokyo, five in Bangkok and now two years in Vietnam.”

  So he had been passed over for partnership in New York, th
ought Calvino, and hit the road, finding a place on the Japanese caravan just as it was hitting the road. Five years in Bangkok and he had never heard of Douglas Webb.

  “You practiced in Bangkok?”

  “I was in-house with one of the Japanese banks,” he said.

  “Your old firm brought you to Saigon,” said Calvino, with a grin.

  “Experience finally carries the day, Mr. Demato.”

  Experience of having travelled the route from the land of the Sumo to the land of the kick-boxer and landing a partnership in the land of the jungle fighter. Webb was bound to have accumulated some scars and enemies along the way. Drew Markle could have been one of them, a young American who was being groomed by New York to take Webb’s position. There was a deep- seated distrust of “local hires” in the large companies; the fear was that an American who was already on the ground couldn’t be trusted, going ahead of being sent was a corrupting event, making someone at the home office think that there wasn’t something quite right about someone who just up and moved on his own to a foreign place.

  “With all that experience, what is your advice?”

  “To start with, you will need a Vietnamese partner,” Webb said.

  “Isn’t that where you come in? Can’t you make a recommendation?”

  “We could give you some leads.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from New York,” said Calvino. Webb shook his head. “Wisconsin.”

  “I guess that makes you an international lawyer,” said Calvino. He paused, and then followed up, “You speak the language?”

  “Speak, yes, fluent, well, that’s another issue. But, yes, I get by in Vietnamese.”

  “And Japanese?”

  Webb nodded.

  Calvino stared at him. “What about Thai?”

  “Poot Thai dai, khrap,” he answered. “I can speak Thai.”

  Calvino disliked him already. The guy got the tones right in Thai. He couldn’t be human or, if he was, then he was a genius, either way, he was glad that the firm had passed him over for partnership ten years earlier.

  Webb didn’t say anything, leaning back in his chair. Calvino had this feeling that Douglas Webb liked being called an international lawyer and showing off his Thai. It made him feel important. Calvino’s law was once you got the other guy filled to the top with his own self-importance he was bound to underestimate you. Because that kind of guy suffered from low self-esteem and would reduce the value of any man that saw value in him.

  “How many other American lawyers you got working in the office?”

  “We are down to one. Me.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad. I read about that guy who got blown up in the papers. A hell’va of a thing to happen to an American.”

  “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was more or less an accident.”

  “What kind of clients you handle?”

  “From large Japanese construction companies to the Forrest Gumps of the farang community,” said Webb.

  Webb was looking at him real close now, wondering how much to say and how much to hold back, thinking this unaffiliated guy who wanted to run a bar in Saigon was asking some unusual questions. Calvino dropped his pen on the conference table, one of those planned accidents to break another man’s concentration. “I think you’re the right man to handle my case,” said Calvino, flashing a Forrest Gump grin.

  “We will require a deposit. At least five thousand dollars.”

  Webb had pulled the figure out of the air. He had no idea what the work would be but made the upfront amount large enough that he was sure that Calvino would say, “Yeah, I’ll think about it, call you tomorrow.” And then do what most walk-ins did, never showed up or called again.

  “No problem. Douglas, do you ever go out on the town in Saigon? Assuming there is any place to go.”

  This caught Webb a little off guard, the upper left-hook which a first name brought in a formal setting like a law office conference room with the partner sitting in the captain’s chair, from a man who didn’t look like he had cab fare.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, after work, hit a few bars, have a friendly drink, wind down from the day? If I am going to be doing business with this firm, I don’t want a lawyer who never takes a drink or never goes into a bar.”

  This explanation had the intended effect; it relaxed Douglas Webb.

  “You have a point.”

  “Somebody told me about a place called the Q-Bar. Why don’t we meet for a drink about ten tonight?” said Calvino.

  “What size investment are you looking to make?” Calvino smiled. “Around two hundred grand.”

  “You can get a bar for much less than that in Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “I know, but I want a bar in Saigon. And you asked me about the size of my potential investment. Not how much was going into the bar.”

  “How do you plan to bring in the money?”

  “In cash,” said Calvino. “You have any problem with that, counsellor?”

  “Mr. Demato, why don’t we have a drink tonight.”

  So far it appeared to Calvino that Douglas Webb had a divided life: he practiced in Ho Chi Minh City and, after work, he drank in Saigon.

  “You mind sending in one of your hundred dollar an hour Vietnamese lawyers? I figure I can get the three hundred an hour advice over a drink tonight.”

  Douglas Webb had begun to like this Vincent Demato. “You never said who your partners are in Brooklyn.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t.”

  Calvino was on his feet and out the conference door, when he turned, and caught a glimpse of the woman in the white ao dai.

  “You mind if I ask Mai out?” asked Calvino.

  Douglas Webb looked like he had a fishbone lodged deep in this throat, or the fish in the abstract art had hooked his upper lip.

  “She’s a Hanoi girl.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That she won’t go out with a foreigner,” said Webb.

  “Wanna bet?” asked Calvino.

  Webb shrugged his shoulders, avoiding the direct challenge to his opinion on Mai’s taste in men. There was something about Calvino that made placing a bet as they stood in the reception area seem like dropping into a very deep hole. Every quasi-grifter client hit on Mai. She had that sensual but untouchable look: pure femininity and grace, natural and remarkably unaware of the effect she had on men.

  “I’ll pass on the bet.”

  “But not on the Q-Bar?” “Ten,” said Webb.

  Calvino pushed through the door which swung shut behind him and a moment later as he waited at the elevator, Mai appeared carrying two file folders. Webb watched them talking. Calvino had his hands calmly resting at his sides, his head tilted to one side. It seemed odd, thought Webb. A wiseguy from Brooklyn not using his hands to talk with a woman...not using his hands to talk with anyone. This Mr. Vincent Demato was an unusual character, he thought. Mai made no effort to walk away. She waited until Calvino had walked inside the elevator and the door closed. When she turned away, her face had a red blush and she was smiling like a girl who suddenly had a thought about a man that she could never otherwise betray.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MARCUS MESSAGE

  PRATT LOWERED HIS reading glasses and sat back in a bamboo chair. Raising the glass to his lips, he took a small sip of his white wine. Enjoying the taste, he noticed a hedge-like tree in a huge black planter that had been cut to resemble an elephant. The fashion was for businessmen to drink wine on a terrace garden decorated with tropical plants, flowers and birds. He had ordered a glass of 1987 La Tour, a Sauterne, a little on the sweet side, he thought, but not too bad. No doubt the waiters had taken note that he had asked for a glass out of two hundred bottles of wine. What was the English word for trimming trees into the shape of animals and birds? he asked himself. He studied the leafy elephant trunk, taking in some bare spots in the leaves and he could see the branches underneath. The wo
rd, what was the word? asked Pratt. All around the outer edge of the rooftop bar were plants cut into a zoo of green animals looking out at Le Loi Boulevard on one side and the square, with a large statue of Ho Chi Minh with a child under each arm, across the street from the entrance to the Rex. The bartenders wore the same uniform: black trousers, white shirts with bow ties, and vests. One of the waiters came to Pratt’s table and set down another glass of wine.

  “Topiary,” Pratt said.

  “Excuse me. What language do you speak?” asked the waiter. “Topiary is Latin for trees trimmed into animal shapes,” he said.

  The bartender blinked, followed Pratt’s eyes over to the elephant trimmed plant. He shrugged and walked away without another word.

  Pratt ignored the bartender, making a note of the conversation as he returned to the bar. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the Asian Wall St reet Journal and turned to the editorial page. Markets in emerging Asia were bullish. Hedge bulls cut from potted financial derivative plants. Stockbrokers had taken the ancient craft of topiary and adapted it to a new stage of ornamental art, he thought. He already missed Manee and remembered that anguished look as he left the house.