The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “No problem. We win,” he grunted at Lehman, who could see that he was barely out of breath. His upper body was bathed in sweat and water was dripping off his forehead but that seemed to be more to do with the hot, clammy night than with the physical exertion. A small Yamaha motorcycle cruised up next to Lehman and a teenager with a pudding-basin haircut and thin moustache shouted over to his driver, obviously asking what was happening. The driver shouted something back in Vietnamese and the teenager laughed and whooped and then fell back to taunt Carmody and his driver for lagging behind. Tyler’s cyclo began to draw away from Lewis and Horvitz, probably because he was lighter than they were and the slight incline of the road was starting to tell on the drivers.

  By the time they reached the statue of Tran Nguyen Hai Lehman’s lead had been narrowed by Tyler, who was urging on his driver. Lewis and Horvitz were neck and neck and risking life and limb by reaching over and trying to pull the rear brakes of each other’s cyclos, narrowly escaping getting their fingers chewed up in the wheels. Carmody had taken a ten dollar bill from his wallet and was screaming to his driver that if they won he could have that, too. The man was nodding and grinning and doing his level best, but he was clearly not as fit as the other four drivers and Carmody slumped back in his seat, grinding his teeth in frustration. The teenager on the Yamaha revved his engine and laughed until Carmody lashed out with his leg and knocked the machine into a roadside hawker’s noodle soup stall which promptly collapsed amid a cloud of steaming broth.

  As the cyclos turned into Ben Chuong Duong Street and raced parallel to the Saigon River, Lewis finally managed to jam the brake on Horvitz’s cyclo and it skidded to a halt by the side of the road. The driver cursed at Lewis and jumped off to free the back wheel while Lewis’s driver put on a spurt and managed to catch up with Tyler who was still waving his twenty dollar bill in the air. With the drivers of both cyclos matching each other pedal for pedal the two cyclos began to gain on Lehman. Carmody’s driver had managed to increase his speed in response to his passenger’s cursing and shouting. Lehman’s driver was gasping for breath and rocking in his saddle as his thighs pumped up and down and Lehman could feel his hot breath blowing against the back of his head. The hotel came into view in the distance and in front of it he could see bicycles circling the statue of Tran Hung Dao in Me Linh Square. Carmody had grabbed a bicycle pump from his cyclo and was trying to jam it in between the spokes of Lewis’s near-side wheel.

  “Leave it alone, man,” yelled Lewis. “You’ll turn us over.”

  Carmody laughed harshly. “Screw you!” he shouted. He jabbed the pump at Lewis’s face and then threw it at the cyclo driver. It bounced off the driver’s head, but he ignored it, concentrating on trying to catch Lehman.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” shouted Lewis.

  Carmody was about to reply when Horvitz’s cyclo drew level. Horvitz began to kick at Lewis. “That was a bastard trick back there,” shouted Horvitz, each word coinciding with a hefty kick at Lewis’s cyclo. While Lewis was distracted, Carmody leaned over and clipped him around the head with his claw, drawing blood. Lewis put his hand on his injured ear, his eyes blazing at Carmody, then he lurched forward as Horvitz kicked the wheel brake. As the cyclo squealed to a halt, Lewis leapt out and chased after Carmody who raised his good hand and gave him the finger. “Up yours, Lewis!” he yelled, then turned and urged his driver to pedal faster.

  Realising that he wasn’t gaining, Lewis stopped and waited for his own cyclo driver to catch up. His stomach ached and he bent double, trying to ease the pain.

  “Can’t take it any more, bro?” jeered Horvitz.

  “Fuck you,” said Lewis. He climbed back into his cyclo and rejoined the race.

  Lehman was still in the lead. “Nearly there,” gasped his driver.

  “Go for it,” said Lehman, suddenly embarrassed by the man’s enthusiasm for the race. He wasn’t doing it out of any competitive instinct, any desire to be first, he was doing it purely and simply so that he could put food on the table for his family, as opposed to the Americans who seemed to want to win for the sake of victory itself. Lehman sensed with a tightening of his stomach that Tyler was manipulating the Vietnamese the way an animal trainer can make sea-lions do tricks by tempting them with pieces of fish. He folded his arms across his chest and settled back in his seat, his lips tight together, not caring any more whether or not Tyler and the rest were catching up. He was still sitting like that when his cyclo screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, closely followed by Horvitz and Tyler. Carmody was a full thirty seconds behind them and he glared at his driver while putting his ten dollars back into his wallet. “You weren’t fucking trying,” he said to the man who was bent double over his saddle and panting. Carmody climbed out of the cyclo and stormed off towards the entrance to the hotel where a young Vietnamese in a sailor suit opened the glass door for him and wished him a good evening. “Fuck off,” Carmody muttered and jabbed at the lift button with his claw, hard enough to scratch the plastic.

  Outside, Lewis arrived, his ear still bleeding, and Tyler made a big show of handing the twenty dollar bill to Lehman’s driver, then the four vets walked after Carmody.

  “I thought that would get them going,” said Tyler.

  “Yeah, that was some ride,” agreed Lewis. “I think Carmody was taking it a bit too seriously.”

  “Just goes to show that capitalism gets results,” said Tyler.

  Lehman smiled ruefully. “How do you explain that, then?” he asked, pointing back to the parked cyclos. The five Vietnamese men stood together and Lehman’s driver was handing out money to the other four. “They’re sharing the prize,” said Lehman. “It didn’t matter who won, they all get a piece of it.”

  Horvitz frowned. “Now why the hell would they do that?” he mused.

  Tyler shook his head and snorted disparagingly. “Who knows?” he said. “Looks like they haven’t quite got the hang of the free market after all.”

  The four Americans walked together to the lifts. Carmody had already disappeared upstairs.

  “Drink?” asked Tyler.

  Lehman declined, saying that they had a busy schedule for their last full day in Vietnam. Judy had arranged a visit to a local factory, an orphanage, a Saigon hospital and in the evening they were to attend a dinner with a number of local dignitaries.

  “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” said Lehman as the others went through to the lobby bar.

  In the lift on the way up to his room Lehman thought about the Vietnamese and the way they’d shared the prize. It didn’t make sense.

  Debbie Fielding walked down the stairs and straightened her hair in the hall mirror. She leant forward and pursed her lips, checking that her lipstick hadn’t smudged.

  “You look fabulous,” said her mother. Anne Fielding was standing at the doorway to the lounge, a drink in her hand. She was wearing an Yves Saint Laurent gilded brocade silk dress, gold, black and red, caught at the waist with a delicate gilt chain, but she was standing barefoot. Her toenails were painted the same dark red as her fingernails. She looked tired, thought Debbie, and the drink in her hand clearly wasn’t her first of the day. Debbie looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock. “That look was loaded with criticism, young lady,” chided Anne, raising the gin and tonic and tilting the glass from side to side.

  “That’s not what I was doing, Mum, honest,” said Debbie. “I was just looking to see if he was late, that’s all.” She smoothed the pale green velvet dress over her hips. It was split up the sides to the top of her thighs and cut low across her chest.

  “He?” queried Anne. “Are you going out with that policeman?”

  “Neil? Oh, God, no. He’s history, Mum.”

  “So who’s the lucky guy tonight? He must be pretty good to merit the Gaultier.”

  Debbie playfully stuck her tongue out at her mother. “You haven’t met him. His name’s Anthony. Anthony Chung.” She walked by Anne into the lounge. Her father was sitting on one
of the sofas, a pile of bank papers at his side and an open briefcase at his feet like a loyal dog.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said.

  William Fielding looked up and smiled. “Hello, Debs. Party?” He had a gold pen in his hand, a present she’d given him for his fiftieth birthday, eight years earlier. Her mother had given her the money but she’d chosen the pen and ordered the engraving on it. Her father had carried it with him ever since and had already gone through three gold nibs.

  “Date,” she said.

  “Chung, did you say?” said her mother, following her into the lounge. “Did you say Anthony Chung?” She put the emphasis on the surname, and Debbie knew exactly what her mother meant by the inflection.

  “Yes, Mum, he’s Chinese.”

  “What does he do, this Anthony Chung?” asked her father, putting the pen down on top of the pile of papers.

  Debbie shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad. This is our first date.”

  “Where did you meet him?” asked Anne.

  “Mum!” wailed Debbie, plaintively. “It’s just a date. I’m twenty-three years old, you know.”

  “I know you are,” said her mother. “I just wondered who he was. You’ve never been out with someone Chinese before.” She took a big swallow of her gin and tonic.

  “Mum, I have so. Several times.” She resented the veiled accusation of racial prejudice, though she knew that her mother was right. She’d never been out on a date with a Chinese, not one to one, though she’d often been part of mixed-race groups.

  Anne frowned. “Well if you have, you kept it a secret,” she said.

  “I don’t tell you about everyone I go out with,” said Debbie, beginning to feel defensive.

  “I think what your mother means is that we worry about you, especially the way things are going in Hong Kong just now,” said William. “The streets aren’t as safe as they used to be. The police are undermanned and there’s a great deal of anti-British sentiment among the locals.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I needed a translator, William,” said Anne frostily, crossing the room to the drinks cabinet where she refilled her gin and tonic.

  “I hardly think Anthony is going to attack me because I’m British,” said Debbie.

  “That’s not what I meant, Debs, and you know it,” said her father. “If you intend to go out late at night, your mother and I would like to know where you’re going and who you’re with, that’s all. I don’t want to sound like a Victorian father, but I do expect you to keep your mother and me informed.”

  He pushed his horn-rimmed spectacles up his nose. With his grey hair and plump face he looked like a kindly schoolmaster, the effect increased by the sleeveless pullovers he wore at home. He looked over the top of his glasses at his daughter, the action giving him a double chin. “Understand?”

  Debbie wanted to argue but she knew it wasn’t the time, not with her date expected at any moment. “Yeah, Dad, I understand.”

  He smiled benignly, nodded as if he were concluding a meeting of his board of directors, and then returned to his paperwork.

  Anne sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace, at a right angle to where her husband was working. As she crossed her legs, the silk dress slid across her thighs. Anne Fielding had long, shapely legs and she dressed to show them off, but it had been a long time since her husband had appeared to notice. She tapped a fingernail against the glass. “What time is Mr Chung expected?” she said.

  Debbie walked over to the white marble fireplace and turned so that her back was to it. “Mum, call him Anthony, please. ‘Mr Chung’ makes him sound like an old man. He said he’d pick me up at eight. You’ll really like him, I’m sure. He’s cute, really cute. And he drives a Ferrari.”

  “A Ferrari?” said her father, lifting his head from his work.

  “An F40,” said Debbie. “It’s the best, and he said I could drive it.”

  “Only if you’re insured,” her father said, giving her the schoolteacher look again.

  Debbie sighed. “Yes, Dad.” A car growled outside, crunching on the gravel as it drove up to the porch. It was the unmistakable throb of a thoroughbred racing car. “That’ll be him,” said Debbie.

  “Invite him in, then,” said William Fielding.

  Debbie knew that her parents were more interested in inspecting Anthony than they were in being sociable, but she knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to refuse. Besides, she was certain Anthony was more than capable of handling their scrutiny.

  “Okay,” she said, and skipped to the door, beating Maria, their Filipina maid, who had rushed from the kitchen at the sound of the car door slamming.

  “That’s okay, Maria, I’ll get it,” she said, and opened the door just as Anthony was reaching for the doorbell.

  “Good evening,” said Chung with a wide smile. He looked her up and down. “Nice dress.”

  “You don’t think it’ll clash with the Ferrari?”

  “Green and red? My favourite colours.”

  “Would you like to come in?” she said. “And meet my parents?” she added in a whisper so that they couldn’t hear.

  “Sure,” he said, and winked.

  He was wearing a black, faintly pinstriped double-breasted wool suit with a green wool roll-neck sweater which Debbie would have thought too hot for the time of the year, but Chung showed no signs of discomfort. She stepped aside to let him across the threshold, closed the door and showed him through to the lounge. Her father put down his pen and papers and got to his feet. He held out his hand to Chung but waited for the younger man to close the distance between them. William Fielding was a man used to subordinates coming to him. Chung crossed the room in easy strides and shook his hand firmly.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Fielding,” said Chung.

  “Good evening,” said Fielding. “This is my wife, Anne.”

  Chung turned to face Debbie’s mother. She remained seated but held up her hand for Chung to shake. He stepped forward, took the outstretched hand in his, and bent at the waist to kiss it. “Enchanté,” he said. Anne looked surprised at his action. “Forgive me,” he said, seeing her confusion. “But in France that is how we always greet a beautiful woman.”

  Anne smiled and took back her hand. “You spend a lot of time in France?” she asked.

  “I am French,” he said. “At least, I have a French passport. Whether or not I could ever truly be French is another matter.”

  “You speak French?” asked Fielding.

  “I was educated at the Sorbonne, and I lived there for several years after I graduated,” said Chung, “so yes, I’m fluent, and I’m told I have a good accent. It’s a marvellous language, so expressive.”

  “The language of lovers,” said Anne.

  “That’s what the French say,” said Chung. “But I think the Italians might dispute it.”

  They all laughed and Fielding asked Chung if he wanted a drink.

  “Not when I’m driving, sir, but thank you for the offer,” said Chung.

  Debbie was quietly amused by the skilful way Chung was handling her parents. He’d had no qualms about drinking and driving when he’d met her at the California. Kissing her mother’s hand was pushing it a bit, though.

  “Very sensible,” agreed Fielding. He looked over the top of his glasses at Debbie.

  “Yes, Dad, I know. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  “Where are you going tonight?” asked Anne.

  “I’ve booked a table at Charlotte’s, in Tsim Sha Tsui,” said Chung. “It’s one of my favourite restaurants.”

  “In the Ambassador Hotel?” said Fielding. “You’re right, it is good. I use it myself whenever I’m over in Kowloon.”

  Chung looked at his watch. “We’ll have to go, I’m afraid,” he said to Debbie. “I booked for eight thirty and we’ve got to go through the cross-harbour tunnel.”

  “Great,” said Debbie.

  Chung took Anne’s hand and kissed it again. “It’s been a pleasure meetin
g you, Mrs Fielding.” He straightened up and went over to shake hands with her husband. “And you, too, sir. I won’t keep her out too long.”

  “That’ll be a first,” said Anne.

  “Thanks, Mum,” laughed Debbie, walking through to the front door and opening it. She and Chung walked to the Ferrari. “Can I drive it now?” she asked.

  “Later,” promised Chung. “I don’t think your father would approve.”

  “I won’t tell him,” said Debbie.

  “They’re watching,” said Chung, holding the passenger door open for her and helping her to buckle herself in.

  Debbie glanced back to the house and saw a curtain twitch at the lounge window. She couldn’t see who was there but she’d have bet a month’s salary that it was her father.

  Chung drove confidently and quickly down the Peak to the towering office blocks of Central where he joined the queue of cars waiting to use the cross-harbour tunnel. It took them a full thirty minutes to cross to Kowloon, twice the time it took the humble Star Ferry.

  Chung parked at the New World Hotel car park and walked with Debbie across Salisbury Road and along Nathan Road to the Ambassador Hotel. As they walked, Chung told Debbie about his time in France, his studies, and how he now spent his time running a number of factories in the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone, making computer parts for American companies, as well as looking after his family’s extensive Hong Kong property interests. She told him of her job with the travel magazine, how it allowed her lots of foreign travel but that it was just to fill time while she decided what to do with her life.