by Don McQuinn
“What are you doing?” He pulled to the side.
“Admiring the gray color.” At his quick frown, she couldn’t resist adding, “And wondering what you’ll look like when you start losing your hair.”
“What?” He twisted to look at her. “Who’s losing hair? And there’s not that much gray, either. One minute you’re telling me I’m going to be a father and the next you’re telling me I’m growing old.”
“I didn’t say that,” she laughed. “I said you have some gray hair. It’s very distingue.”
“Let’s just forget about my hair, shall we?” He looked away, making her giggle. At the sound he pulled her down into his lap and kissed her fiercely.
“Think about that,” he said, “and tell me if that’s what you’d expect from an old man.”
She put a finger to her lips and pretended to give it serious thought and he roared like a gored bull. When she tried to roll from his lap he held her firmly in place.
“You know,” he said, his face squirming to cover a smile, “in all this time, there’s one thing about you I’ve wondered about and never investigated.”
A sense of alarm crept through her at the light in his eyes, threatening, but not in the least dangerous. Her heart beat faster.
“What do you mean, investigate?” she demanded. “I am no criminal.”
“I don’t know if you’re ticklish,” he said.
The word wasn’t familiar but it sounded ominous. She struggled against his grip before sinking back and asking, “Tickle? As to make a child laugh?”
He nodded and she watched in horror as he raised his free hand. She began to thrash, but he held her too tightly.
“I am not ticklish, Charles!” She strained to get some semblance of dignity in her voice. “This is stupid, Charles! I am not a child! Let me go!”
The hand dropped onto her ribs and the last word was an unintelligible screech.
“Don’t!” She abandoned pride and begged. “Please don’t! I’ll scream! The neighbors will hear! They will think you beat me! I will swear to it! Oh, Charles, please!”
He closed his hand and she laughed and yelled at the same time. She managed to gasp, “No more!” and inspiration gripped her. “The baby! The baby, Charles!”
He stopped and his smile turned unsure, skeptical.
She tried to calm her breathing. “I could get over-excited and hurt something. You’d better stop.”
He loosened his grip and she snuggled comfortably into his lap. “I promise not to talk about your gray hair anymore.” She traced a line down his shirtfront. “I think it looks nice, anyway.”
He kissed the top of her head, and she said, “And if you tickle me more, I’ll be too nervous to do anything else tonight.”
He turned her head to look into her face, his own a blend of concern, desire, and a faint hint of suspicion. “You’re sure it’s OK? I mean, if the tickling—you know, the baby?”
Another laugh came to her and it felt like a light in her heart. “That’s different,” she said, stretching to kiss him, feeling the stretch of her muscles, feeling good, knowing that if there was never another happiness in her life, she would be satisfied.
Book Three
Chapter 36
The highway to Long Binh erupted from the northeast quadrant of Saigon, a four-lane concrete artery connecting MACV with its closest major tactical headquarters. If peace ever came, the road would link the population center with a superior deepwater port. Today machinery streamed in both directions on it in the sweltering afternoon, massive trucks and heavy equipment, buses and bicycles. On its shoulders small businesses struggled for life, constructions ranging from four scrawny poles and a poncho to shade a one-cooler soft-drink stand, to squat stucco monstrosities of functional-modern universality that sold whatever the proprietor had managed to acquire. They all crowded the highway, hunkered down into the red earth with their backsides nervously exposed to the open country behind them.
Duc, discreet in casual civilian clothes, guided his motorcycle around a truck and risked taking his eyes from the green Toyota ahead of him long enough to look at the scenery. From the vantage of the raised road he saw the last of the marsh reeds on his right bow in the wind in random fan patterns. The shape of the land changed again and they were back to gentle curves where pale gray-green scrub grew close to the ground, spreading wide patterns of mottled shade that softened the rusted color of exposed earth.
The Toyota parked beside one of the stands. The owner of the business had tried to bring a festive appearance to his place. Palm branches festooned the roof of a clearly recognizable pyramidal tent, its military markings carelessly painted out. Colored cloth strips dangled in the open spaces where the canvas sides had been rolled up. The multihued fringe was hectic in the conflicting breezes from the fields and the highway. As a crowning touch, a half-dozen large cable-carrying spools were distributed in the sun as tables, each flanked by aluminum-and-plastic chaise longues.
When the car stopped Duc continued toward Long Binh for about two hundred yards and pulled onto the shoulder. When the two men from the car made themselves comfortable at a table, he waited a few more minutes, then executed a U-turn and joined the southbound traffic. Directly across from the stand was a small garage and Duc mentally applauded his good fortune, coasting to a stop in front of the building. A truck rumbled behind him, thundering toward Saigon, its wind-eddies pulling heavy air from the dark interior of the garage. The smell of hot metal, oil, and rubber was a fog and he waded through it to show his ID to the lone mechanic. The grimy, ragged proprietor half-smiled at Duc’s explanation of a surveillance and lifted his shirt to display a scar that stitched across his stomach like a lightning bolt. He pointed out a packing case for his guest to sit on and found a practically clean newspaper to protect the neat businessman’s trousers. He permitted himself another faint smile as Duc fussily spread the paper. With a quiet wish for good luck, he returned to his work.
Trying to get comfortable, insuring he could see without being seen, Duc massaged painful hams with hands that hurt almost as badly.
Motorcycles! He damned them all. A man had all he needed between his legs and a damned machine there was not only unnatural, it was obscene. Maybe even dangerous. The things were certainly dangerous to life. What else might they do to a person?
He shook his head to dislodge such morbidity, wishing he could hear the conversation across the road.
Failing that, he took some comfort in the observation that Trung was upset by whatever was being said and Barline’s driver was in no mood to soften his argument. The latter leaned across the spool-cum-table, his lips moving in short machinegunner bursts. Trung’s insect face with its reflective sunglasses remained steadfastly to the front. Even at this distance, Duc could see the gouged frown on his forehead. His occasional movements were agitated.
These observations pleased Duc for two reasons. Not only was it good to see Trung in an unpleasant situation, but preoccupation made it all the more unlikely he’d recognize the casual figure following him. Duc adjusted his own dark glasses with a self-congratulatory smile. Not many one-man surveillances were worth the few minutes they lasted. His had lasted much more than a few minutes and had surfaced a positive connection between Barline’s driver and Trung. Colonel Loc would be pleased. If there was any justice in the world, possibly even Colonel Winter would be sufficiently pleased to stop growling and swearing for a day. Perhaps two, even.
A change in the driver’s position brought Duc to full attention. Something had disturbed him, altered his attitude. A gesturing hand froze in mid-air and he turned away from Trung to lower his head and busy himself with a shoe. Duc searched for the reason and saw nothing untoward, except a young man dressed in the dark trousers and white shirt that was practically uniform for students cruising toward them on a motorcycle. The youth appeared to be looking for someone, and quick excitement stirred in Duc’s mind.
At the sight of the green Toyota the young
man swerved off the highway. Sudden braking billowed dust and he walked his machine clear of it. He was little more than a boy and his nervousness as he surveyed the customers made Duc think of his own eldest son. He forced the thought away and studied the driver and Trung, hungry for their reactions to this development.
Trung paid the scantest interest. The driver remained bent over, still fumbling at his shoe.
The new arrival wallowed in indecision, alternately moving to start the motorcycle or park it. In the middle of his difficulty, the driver gave up his effort to disappear and glared naked rage at him. The youth shied, but gathered himself and strode to that table. The driver rose quickly and snapped a curt phrase at Trung before leading the younger man off to the side. Duc leaned forward, enjoying the spectacle.
After a short dressing down, the young man drew himself erect and spoke furiously to the driver, and to Duc’s surprise, the latter listened. In fact, he changed his whole manner, dropping his aggressive, chin-forward posture and becoming pensive. His head bent forward and one hand absently massaged his stomach.
Duc caught himself teetering on the edge of the crate and was reestablishing his balance when another motorcycle growled to a stop in front of the building. The rider stepped inside, nodding nearsightedly to Duc, blinking in the dark. He shuffled across the greasy, littered floor and Duc was mentally dismissing him when sudden erratic leaping of the shadows spun him around. The customer had his feet entwined in the cord of an extension light. He tripped, put out a hand, and swept a workbench clean. The owner screamed anger and leaped from behind the motorcycle he was repairing. It fell with a grating thump at the same time the light crashed to the floor, contributing its own sharp pop.
For an instant all three men posed in rock-like immobility watching fuel from the downed machine gurgle toward the lamp. Duc moved first, jerking the extension cord just as the gas ignited with a muffled shudder that sent them all flying. Scrambling to his feet, Duc realized he was in the doorway just as the owner appeared, shoving the flaming motorcycle past. It careened away and the owner shot Duc a silent plea before turning back into the acrid, boiling smoke. Calling down curses on the man’s idiotic disregard for personal safety, he hurried along behind, pausing to pitch out the hapless customer.
The blaze, for all its smoke, was essentially restricted to the oil-impregnated earthen floor. Scooping up uncontaminated dirt from under benches and out of corners, beating stubborn flames with rags, they smothered it quickly. Duc stumbled into daylight and felt the delicious first breath of clean air solidify in his lungs as he blinked into the startled gaze of Trung. At his startled exclamation, his partners froze beside him. A muttered phrase and the young intruder was trotting for his motorcycle.
Trung whispered more to the driver, a hand at his side twitching erratically. The driver never deigned to look at Duc before moving at a very fast walk toward the car.
The motorcycle was already spewing dirt and grass as the youth wrestled it onto the cement, fighting across traffic to get into the southbound lanes back to Saigon.
Even as that was happening, Duc was moving in pursuit, shoving through the rest of the small crowd, determined to salvage something from the accident.
He told himself, I can always find the driver and Trung is no problem. But the boy was searching for the driver! An obvious breach of security! And news so important the driver had to think about it!
As he roared off down the highway, Duc tried to convince himself that the two Colonels would overlook the aborted surveillance in their pleasure at learning what the young man could tell them.
If he could be caught. Duc gained because of his more powerful machine but the boy was skillful and he was rapidly approaching the city.
Once into that maze—, Duc swore and twisted on the throttle, ramming past a lumbering lowboy. Ahead, the other man dipped in front of a tank truck passing a bus, gaining precious time while Duc had to wait for the olive drab monster to make its way around. He allowed himself to hope someone at the city-entry checkpoint would stop his man, then hastily amended the thought. If anyone there was alert enough to do anything about a fleeting target, their answer would be to shoot him off his motorcycle. Duc prayed the man would survive to be captured.
Unimpeded, he closed the gap between them and then they were flashing past the checkpoint, QCs shouting and waving excitedly. Some rounds cracked overhead a few seconds later when they were intermingled with traffic again, clear of any danger.
Dodging through suicidal gaps, passing on the shoulders, pushing his machine to its limit, the young man managed to keep just ahead of Duc. On one occasion Duc was almost close enough to reach out and touch the rear fender and it occurred to him he had no idea how he was going to make the capture. If his quarry chose not to stop, what could he do?
If I get next to him, he told himself, I can shoot his leg. But if he crashes he’ll kill himself. And what if he turns into me? Can I shoot out a rear tire? But that still makes him crash.
He made up his mind to force the man off the road and hope for the best. Colonel Loc would forgive him if the man died, providing he was sufficiently damaged himself. Duc deplored the unsatisfactory compromise.
His eyes were watering severely now and his forearms ached. Still, he was almost on top of his man. They roared past another bus together as if in formation, engines laboring in chorus, and Duc realized they were approaching the bridge leading to the first major built-up area. It was almost too late. He changed his mind, deciding to shoot out a tire.
The young man glanced to his left rear to see how close Duc had gotten and looked directly into the muzzle of the .38. Regardless of the pressure of the wind, his eyes flew as wide as muscles would permit. He leaned away from the threat and raised his hands in terrified surrender. The motorcycle eased toward the right hand bridge railing in a gentle curve that altered rapidly at an increasing angle. Duc tried to shout warning and the wind rushed into his mouth and distended his cheeks, pulled his lower lip down against his chin. He choked and waved the revolver. The other man flinched and dropped his hands across squeezed eyes. Duc braked as hard as he could.
The smaller motorcycle made it over the curb, although the jar unseated the rider. He still had his hands clasped over his face as his feet came up and he tumbled backward. He was in mid-air, horizontal to the road, when the front wheel hit the cement bridge railing. The seat rose, catching him slightly off-center, thrusting him up, out, and in the general direction of the city. The man turned over, his legs still shaped to the long-absent motorcycle, removed his hands, opened his eyes, and had just enough time for a short exclamation of unbelieving dismay before he cannoned into the murky water.
An ancient fisherman in his boat paddled once, languidly, as if this sort of thing happened every afternoon, and was waiting when the youth broke the surface, gagging. With easy efficiency, the fisherman grabbed him by the collar and belt and rolled him aboard. That done, he looked up at the bridge and located Duc, who was arriving at the rail with pistol in hand.
“You are with the government,” he declared in a cross tone.
“Yes.” Duc had a strange feeling that all was not over yet, and he spoke warily. “That man is my prisoner.”
The old man spat. “He was. What I catch in this river belongs to me. I sell what I catch.”
“Give him to me. Now,” Duc said.
“I sell what I catch,” the man repeated, and Duc sighed at the set to the antique jaw. Even the gray whisker bristles looked stiff with defiance.
“Bring him ashore. We will discuss it.”
The fisherman nodded and leaned into his paddle.
* * *
“What do you mean, by the kilo?” Loc snapped. His eyes narrowed and he spoke in the edged voice of a man whose temper is near boiling. Duc had only seen him this way occasionally. Each instance was burned in his memory.
Before answering, he dabbed sweat from his upper lip. “What could I do? A crowd was gathering. The old man in
sisted he should be paid for his catch. People were laughing. Some were hostile. It was only a small amount,” he finished lamely. Colonel Winter made a noise and Duc looked to see him trying to stifle more laughter behind a hand. Duc smiled his appreciation but Loc’s voice snapped his head around.
“Whatever you paid, it is your problem. I authorized no payment. And I never authorized the apprehension of a miserable courier. What waste! The man will be able to tell us nothing and the other two are warned that we have an interest in them. I am disappointed.”
“But, Colonel,” Duc protested. “Trung only identified me because of the accident. And we know where they both live. I thought the new man might have some information. What he said to Barline’s driver impressed him.”
Loc made a noise in his throat. “We don’t even know if the man is antigovernment. He might have brought news of a family matter.” He stopped to look away and when he turned back to Duc the angry eyes were damped to a glow. “Well, we shall see. He is being interrogated now. From the way you describe his actions, I think he will tell us what he can, and soon.” He dismissed Duc with a sign.
Embarrassed and hurt, Duc made his way to his office. The sight of Taylor and Harker was at once welcome and disturbing. He knew he would tell them of what happened and they would understand, would help restore his face, but he would still be in trouble with Loc.
The thought of caring about his relationship with Loc brought his attention to a close focus on Harker and for a moment he forgot his own troubles, noting the pinched fold of flesh between the younger man’s eyes and the increasing definition of a downward curve to the full lips. Duc felt a prickle between his shoulders at the awareness that Harker’s expression was beginning to resemble Tho’s. The image ran through his mind as counterpoint while he told them of his adventures.