by Mark Dapin
Nashville watched, surprised.
Caution shrugged off Shorty. He tried to make it look casual, but it was an effort. Shorty was young and strong, and Caution’s fingers were shaking. Shorty hadn’t noticed they did that. Shorty pressed his body against him, crowding Caution’s holster.
Moreau touched his own pistol and only Nashville knew. That was the thing about Moreau: he would never show his hand. He appeared angry, but Nashville wondered if even that were true. Somebody had to dispose of Caution, and it might as well be here, over this. A Frenchman, a neutral, would have a better chance of getting away with it.
Caution jabbed Shorty with his elbow. It caught him under the ribs and made him gasp.
Nashville looked around the bar, and the girls had all gone. Caution saw it too. Only Shorty didn’t understand the situation. He thought it was a battle between him and Caution.
Shorty was getting tired of people thinking he couldn’t fight. With his hands down by his sides, he began to muscle Caution out of the bar. Just lately he had started to get the feeling that the Yanks were all piss and wind.
Caution was easier to move than Shorty had imagined. Shorty made sure he stayed lightly off balance as he bullied him to the door.
Moreau laid his hands flat on the bar. It made him look stronger, as if he drew his power from the hardwood. This was his place.
Caution stared at Moreau, to show he wasn’t backing down, while he backed down.
‘You’re a dead man, Frenchie,’ he said.
‘From one to another,’ said Moreau.
Shorty huddled Caution out. Berger followed them both, with his documents.
‘Sergeant Caution,’ he said, ‘you have something of mine and I have something of yours.’
Caution felt he’d walked out of a drama and into a comedy. His relief kept him fixed to the ground for a moment, and he stood face-to-neck with Berger as the little man argued at his throat.
‘Under the terms of our deal,’ said Berger – Caution smiled at the words ‘terms’ and ‘deal’ – ‘I was to supply you with a top-quality, all-girl disciple act, which was guaranteed to be a sensation with the heroes of the US Army. According to the contract I have in my hand, I was to arrange passports and visas for my girls, and advance a daily stipend totalling twelve hundred dollars, to keep the three of them financially secure during their month-long tour of this great, young nation. In return, you were to buy their plane tickets and book them concerts from Vung Tau to the DMZ, from the proceeds of which you would repay both my advance and a premium on my investment.’
Caution composed an expression designed to look as if he was giving all this due consideration.
‘But instead,’ said Berger, ‘an inexplicable situation arose, in which you cancelled the tour and locked up the girls on a military base.’
‘And so?’ asked Caution.
‘And so I want them back,’ said Berger.
Caution shook his head. ‘Those girls,’ he said, ‘are dogshit. They’re stuck on the base because they’ve been blacklisted by the United Services Organisation. They’ll never get another gig. Even the fucking Koreans wouldn’t have them. All I’ve done is give them a safe place to stay while they wait for their flight home.’
Berger raised both eyebrows, which made his hat move up and down. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ he asked.
‘Can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t play,’ said Caution.
Berger sucked his teeth. ‘My associates in Kings Cross assured me they were of hit-parade quality, or better,’ he said.
Caution listened coldly. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll cut you a new deal. In Vung Tau, I know guys who’d kill any man for ten bucks.’
Berger nodded. ‘I’ve met them too,’ he said.
‘If you hop back to fucking Australia,’ said Caution, ‘I won’t pay them to shoot you.’
Berger smiled, as if he and Caution were men of equal size, strength and authority.
‘You’re not the only one with ten bucks,’ he said.
Caution laughed. ‘If any asshole was gonna grease me in Vung Tau,’ said Caution, ‘they’d’ve done it long ago. The people who don’t like me are all scared of me, and ain’t nobody in this whole country afraid of a Jew in a yellow hat. Anybody you give money to kill me is going to take it from you and walk away, just like I did.’
Berger turned his back on Caution and stamped off towards town.
The next day, Nashville seemed more calm, although he still wasn’t talking the way he used to. He sat with Shorty in the jeep, his fingers interlaced in his lap, as if he were waiting for something. The radio paged car one. Shorty cringed.
‘I didn’t turn it on,’ he said.
‘I did,’ said Nashville.
They were called to an accident at the Grand Hotel, whose notepaper was found all around town, and where Izzy Berger had been tricked into sleeping with a man.
‘By a strange fucking coincidence,’ said Nashville. ‘I was at the Grand last night. Tâm was not in Le Boudin, so I sought solace in the ass of a stranger.’
Shorty felt suddenly concerned. ‘Did you do it with the light off?’ he asked.
Nashville took a gulp of water from his canteen.
‘We did,’ said Nashville, ‘as a matter of fact.’
‘Did you pat her pussy?’ asked Shorty.
Nashville spluttered. ‘Did you say pussy?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t think they had a word for pussy in Austral-alien.’
Shorty blushed.
‘Is that your thing, Shorty?’ asked Nashville. ‘Pussy patting? Are you a pussy patter? Does your nurse let you pat her pussy?’
‘The next time you mention her,’ said Shorty, ‘I’ll break your jaw.’
‘Ease off,’ said Nashville. ‘Pussy patter.’
Shorty looked pained.
‘I don’t even know what it is,’ said Nashville. ‘Pussy patting.’
Outside the Grand Hotel, Simpson from Simpson was directing stove carts and cyclos around the Captain’s black Cadillac, which had a pair of ears sprayed on the bonnet and another on the trunk.
‘The Captain was inside, carrying out a routine inspection,’ Simpson told Shorty. ‘I was assigned to watch the car, but there was a traffic accident on the corner, so I went over to see if I could help. When I came back, the Caddy was like this’ – he waved at the bonnet – ‘and the zipperheads had siphoned all the gas.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Shorty.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Simpson.
‘In the accident,’ said Shorty.
Simpson turned away from him and spoke to Nashville. ‘I’ll get the car cleaned up in town,’ he said. ‘Reckon you could take the Captain back?’
Nashville shrugged.
The Captain was waiting in the car. Simpson opened the door for him, and led him into the jeep.
‘Nashville,’ said the Captain.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Nashville, as if he been asked a question. ‘And this is Corporal Long.’
Shorty saluted.
‘He’s my pussy patter,’ said Nashville. ‘I mean, my partner.’
It was only a short trip from the Grand Hotel to the PMO on Le Loi Street, but the Captain counted three pairs of ears on the walls along the way.
SIXTEEN
When Betty asked where they were going, Shorty said it was a surprise, but told her to wear her best dress. She put on a long silk frock, which she had brought to Vietnam in case she had to attend a function at the officers’ mess, which she’d imagined might be housed in a French colonial hotel, rather than a sandbagged hut. Her low neckline showed the rise of her breasts, which were paler than her arms.
Shorty was wearing his new suit. He felt it had absorbed clouds of cumin, and he worried people could tell the jacket was freshly cut, and there might still be threads hanging off the back. His perspiration would make his shirt smell, and the sweat would soak through to the jacket. He wished he hadn’t put on his suit, or even bought it.
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p; Nashville had arranged Betty’s passage with the duty sergeant, but by agreement with the US Army, she wouldn’t leave the base until their transport arrived. Shorty waited with his hands in his pants pockets. Betty, who felt Shorty looked adorable in his suit, took out a cigarette.
‘When did you start that?’ Shorty asked.
‘I only smoke socially,’ she said, waiting for the guard to offer his Zippo.
Shorty kept a lookout for the jeep, but the only vehicle on the road was the US captain’s staff car. It drove right up to the gate. The guard saluted and raised the boom for the Captain, but Nashville stepped out, wearing officers’ whites, a cap, and a pistol in his belt.
Shorty was astonished.
Nashville saluted the guard and opened the back door of the Cadillac, took Betty’s hand and led her into the car. The driver was Simpson from Simpson, who was also in whites.
‘Where the fuck did you get all this from?’ Shorty whispered to Nashville.
‘Simpson had the Caddy washed,’ said Nashville, ‘and it happened to have the Captain’s uniforms in the back.
‘Also,’ said Nashville, ‘you said “where the fuck”.’
Betty and Shorty sat together in the back seat of the car, as if they were riding in a limousine, although Shorty had never been in a limousine. Betty’s dress rode up her thighs. Shorty lingered his hand on her knee.
‘You smell lovely,’ said Shorty.
She was wearing perfume from the American PX. Shorty wondered who had bought it for her.
They drove along the esplanade, watching old people miming tai chi forms by the water in the dusk. A cluster of women waltzed with the ghosts of men lost in the French war, while a ballroom-dancing teacher barked commands.
The Cadillac parked outside Le Boudin, as if every vehicle with Nashville inside had to stop there. Nashville got out, and opened Betty’s door.
Shorty realised Nashville was playing a joke, but this one wasn’t funny. How was Shorty going to explain to Betty why all the girls knew his name? They would take hold of his hands, rub his shoulders, wriggle onto his knee. Baby Marie would offer him boom-boom, as if they’d done it before.
He refused to get out of the car.
‘Trust me,’ hissed Nashville.
There was a puddle outside the entrance to Le Boudin. Nashville laid an army blanket over it, so Betty could cross.
Shorty knew he was defeated.
The gramophone in Le Boudin played ‘Les Sucettes’, which made Moreau chuckle. A huddle of diggers took no notice of anyone who wasn’t from their unit, who didn’t know what they had lost.
Tâm said good evening to Nashville, and waited to be introduced to Betty and Shorty. She was wearing a long black dress, which made Nashville want to tear it off. Moreau bowed to Betty.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘enchanté.’
He kissed her hand, like a Frenchman in a movie.
Tâm led them to a stairwell behind the bar, and began climbing the stairs to Moreau’s apartment, where he lived with a woman no soldier had seen. There were no pictures of her in the dining room, although there was a framed photograph of two smiling children who could’ve been light Moroccan or dark Chinese. It sat inside a gold frame on a timber bookshelf, among the novels of Paul Féval, Gaston Leroux and Georges Simenon, all bound in leather. Below the ledge was a writing desk.
An oak table was covered with a stiff white cloth, and set with silverware. In the centre of the table was a candle in a wine bottle and a paper rose.
Nashville showed Betty and Shorty to their chairs.
‘Good evening,’ said Nashville, ‘lady and gentleman. On tonight’s menu, we have for entrée – as they say in la France – French onion soup. For main course – as they say in Troy, Tennessee – we have a choice of steak au poivre, or sole meunière made with locally caught flatfish.’
Shorty couldn’t speak.
‘The fish for me, please,’ said Betty, ‘and Shorty’ll have the steak.’
‘Of course, mademoiselle,’ said Nashville. ‘And would you like red or white wine?’
‘White, please,’ said Betty. ‘No, red.’
‘One of each?’ suggested Nashville.
Betty was uncertain.
‘It’s on the house,’ said Nashville.
‘But what if we don’t drink it all?’ asked Betty.
‘It won’t go to waste,’ said Nashville.
Shorty wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to know Nashville, or pretend he was a waiter. Nashville spread napkins on their laps, poured two glasses of water then left them alone. There were bubbles in the water. Shorty wondered if it was champagne.
Betty beamed at Shorty.
‘Is that your partner?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Shorty.
Then Nashville asked if he’d like to start with a beer, ‘as they say in Bendigo, Victoria’.
Betty blew a kiss across the table at Shorty.
‘Thank you, Sean,’ she said.
‘Enchanté,’ said Shorty. He thought it might mean ‘you’re welcome’.
The wine was brought to the table by Simpson from Simpson. He opened the white, poured a quarter of an inch into a glass and offered it to Shorty. It seemed a very small serving.
Shorty picked up the glass, threw back his head and downed the wine in a shot, as he had seen Moreau drink brandy. Simpson just stood there, as if waiting meant waiting around.
Eventually, Shorty took the bottle out of Simpson’s hands, and poured a glass for Betty. He gave her only a splash, as that seemed to be the thing to do in a French restaurant.
Simpson planted the white wine in a bucket of ice, and left the red standing on the table. It seemed to Shorty that Nashville had thought of everything except training Simpson to behave like a proper wine waiter. But Shorty didn’t want to embarrass Simpson, so he waited until he’d left the room before he put the red wine on ice too.
Tâm brought him his beer, in a glass. Shorty had never seen a beer glass in Le Boudin, or anywhere else in Vung Tau.
‘Is everything très bien?’ she asked Betty.
‘Oui, merci,’ said Betty.
Tâm took the red wine out of the ice bucket.
‘Je suis desolée,’ she said. ‘Simpson is an idiot.’
Shorty was careful not to watch her as she left.
Betty told Shorty about her work at the hospital, how it made her happy and broke her heart. The other nurses were wonderful to work with, and they were from all over Australia. She’d learned so much from them, and not just about medicine.
She couldn’t explain to Shorty, but she was thrilled by the physicality of fresh wounds, the sensuousness of damaged flesh. She had revelled in the act of repair. She felt it was perfect that a needle and thread could be used to mend broken skin as easily as to fix a button on a blouse, and marvellous that sewing was women’s work. But she’d cried quietly for Tommy Callaghan, because she recognised there were limits to the tasks her hands could perform.
Betty’s world had been so small before, she said, but now it was big enough to fit in everything. In Vietnam, she was learning who she really was, or perhaps who she could be. She felt she was a fireball of potential, she said, using words Dr Clarke had given her, one slow afternoon in the ward. She was determined not to let any of it go to waste.
She liked everyone in the hospital except Anderson the orderly, who was a pig of a man. Dr Clarke, she said, was a saint.
Shorty liked her description. A saint wasn’t the kind of man you messed around with. Saints weren’t interested in women. Except Roger Moore, and he wasn’t even real.
When the French onion soup arrived, steaming in a deep bowl, Shorty was surprised to find the bread already dunked in the broth. He generally preferred to do this himself. He hoped the soup wouldn’t be too oniony for Betty.
‘It’s delicious,’ she told Shorty, and he poured her another thimble of wine.
Betty’s fish was ‘beautiful’, she said.
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br /> Shorty felt he had eaten rashers of bacon in Australia that were thicker than his steak in Vietnam – yet Moreau’s chef had still managed to undercook it. Shorty was also disappointed in the pepper sauce, which wasn’t a real sauce from the bottle but some kind of gravy. The matchstick chips disappointed him, too. Shorty thought the French had a bit to learn from the Aussies about cooking fries.
But Betty said her potatoes dauphinoise were ‘wonderful’. She told Shorty they should take their R&C together in Saigon. It was known as ‘the Paris of the east’, said Betty, and she just adored French food.
‘We could get a hotel room,’ she said.
Shorty thought she meant two hotel rooms.
‘Together,’ she said.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he said.
Shorty realised it would save money, but expected they would be able to find somewhere reasonable if they looked hard enough.
‘I want to,’ she said. She slid her knee between his legs.
Shorty blushed and laughed. ‘That’s not what this is about,’ he said, gesturing at Moreau’s room.
‘I want to show you how much I love you,’ said Betty. ‘Shorty, every day I see boys dying’ – actually, she had only seen Tommy Callaghan – ‘before they’ve had a chance to live.’ She looked at Shorty gorgeously.
‘We’re not really in any danger in Vung Tau,’ he said.
Betty began to feel slightly irritated. ‘What I’m saying,’ she said, ‘is I don’t think we should wait. There’s no need. We’re both grown-ups, we’re in the army, and everyone around us is doing it.’
‘Are they?’ asked Shorty.
‘Well,’ said Betty, ‘some of the other nurses are.’
‘That’s pretty fast,’ said Shorty.
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ said Betty. ‘Everyone’s making the most of life.’
Nashville returned to offer desserts. The choice was crème brûlée or chocolate gâteau. Shorty thought the word ‘gâteau’ meant castle.
Nashville winked at Shorty over Betty’s shoulder. He also poured them full glasses of wine. That must be allowed after the mains are finished, thought Shorty. It’s so you don’t fill up on alcohol.