Satori (29 page)

116

S
O
, N
ICHOLAI THOUGHT
as he walked out to find a cab, L’Union Corse wants its cut.

Why not? The cost of doing business.

He got into the back of the blue Renault, which took him down Gallieni Boulevard, across the Dakow Bridge, and back into Cholon.

The cab pulled up on Trun Hung Dao Street by a two-story art deco building with a gaudy mauve-and-green façade. Nicholai went into L’Arc-en-Ciel, through the long grenade-screened terrace into the restaurant, and upstairs to the nightclub. The bar was packed with attractive Chinese prostitutes in skintight
cheong-sams
who struggled to chat up customers over the loud Filipino orchestra’s dismemberment of Artie Shaw hits.

De Lhandes was at the bar.

“What are you drinking?” he asked Nicholai.

“What should I be drinking?”

“Well, they have Tiger and Kadling beer,” De Lhandes answered,
“cold,
but they make a mean gin fizz.”

“I’ll have one of those, then,” Nicholai said, taking some piastres from his pocket. “May I?”

“You’re a gentleman.”

Nicholai ordered and paid for two gin fizzes, then, in Chinese, politely declined the invitation of a working girl who tried to perch herself on his lap and offered carnal delights previously unheard of in the mundane world.

“You are a man of iron will,” De Lhandes observed. “A veritable fortress of restraint.”

“I will admit it is tempting.”

“Give in.”

“Not tonight.”

De Lhandes gave him a long evaluative look, then asked, “Or are you a man in love?”

Nicholai shrugged.

“Ahhh,” De Lhandes said, “not only a man of iron will and restraint, a man of fidelity. I am impressed and inspired.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“But I will doubtless yield to the temptations of the flesh,” De Lhandes said, “later tonight. If, that is, I have the cash to do so. It is a mournful state of affairs when the considerable girth of one’s masculine member is adversely affected by the regrettable slimness of one’s money clip. Alas, the unique nature of the rest of my physiognomy generally precludes amorous arrangements of a less commercial nature. Women find me a charming companion at the table but less desirable for the walk into the boudoir. Suffice it to say, I am therefore limited as to the menus from which I can select. That being the sad case, my sexual future depends on fickle affections of the little wheel at Le Grand Monde — Saigon’s finest temple to the gods of chance — in my unceasing attempt to make one vice pay for the other.”

“And do you?”

“Rarely,” De Lhandes said sadly. “If experience is the best teacher I am an exceedingly poor student. How was your chat with Antonucci?”

“Fine,” Nicholai answered. “He just wanted to warn me off the saxophone player.”

They both knew it was an evasion.

“He’s L’Union Corse, you know,” De Lhandes said, watching for Nicholai’s reaction.

“What is that?”

“Don’t play me for a fool,
mon pote,”
De Lhandes said, “and I’ll return the favor.”

“Tell me, then, do I have in you a friend, or a police informant?”

“I can’t be both?”

They laughed, and Nicholai ordered another round of drinks.

“You seem to know what’s going on,” he said.

“It’s my business.”

“I’m looking for a group of French film actresses,” Nicholai said.

“Who isn’t?”

“They arrived last week,” Nicholai said. “You wouldn’t know which hotel they’re at, would you?”

“Would I know?” De Lhandes asked. “I’ve parked myself across the street like a dog, hoping for a glimpse. The Eden Roc.”

Nicholai wanted to set his drink down and go directly to the hotel. She was
so close.
But he curbed his impulse and disciplined himself to take care of business. First things first, he told himself, then you can go and find her.

“Do you have an interest?” De Lhandes asked.

“Same as yours.”

“Not the same,” De Lhandes observed. “You have a chance, my friend. By the golden pubes of the village virgin, you have a chance.”

They finished their drinks and crossed the street to Le Grand Monde.

The casino was in a courtyard protected by a high stucco wall topped with strands of barbed wire. Outside, Binh Xuyen troopers patrolled on foot and in Jeeps with mounted machine guns. Guards at the entry gate stopped and gave them cursory searches for weapons or explosives.

“Saigon these days,” De Lhandes observed, his arms raised to shoulder height to allow the guard to pat him down. The guard nodded De Lhandes in, then searched Nicholai and passed him through. That accomplished, they went through broad doors into the enormous white building.

High-ceilinged and lit by chandeliers, the casino was a decent attempt at its progenitors on the Riviera and in Monaco. The thirty-odd gaming tables were covered in rich green felt, the furnishings, mock fin de siècle, were clean and well kept up.

The crowd, save for being predominantly Asians, could have been from the south of France, dressed expensively in the latest styles. The working girls, and there were many, were suitably muted in their nevertheless seductive attire, and the wives, girlfriends, and mistresses of the well-heeled men gracefully ignored their presence. White-jacketed Chinese croupiers worked quickly and efficiently, while larger men, obviously security, stood in the corners keeping watchful eyes.

The large room was filled with excited chatter, shouts of victory and curses of loss, the clatter of dice, the clack of chips, and the spinning of roulette wheels. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered like protective coverage over the triumphs and disappointments.

Haverford sat at a roulette table. Giving Nicholai only the slightest glance, he pushed some chips onto the table and watched the wheel spin.

He won.

Bay Vien, resplendent in a sharkskin suit and a beautiful Chinese woman on his arm, stood and watched the action.

“Who’s that?” Nicholai asked.

“Bay Vien,” De Lhandes answered. “Boss of the Binh Xuyen. He and Bao Dai own the joint. Would you like to meet him?”

“Not especially,” Nicholai said.

“You will, sooner or later,” De Lhandes said, “if you’re going to do any business in Saigon.”

“Right now,” Nicholai said, “the only business I’m going to do in Saigon is at the roulette table.”

They went to the cashier’s window and purchased chips, then walked back to the table where De Lhandes promptly lost on his first try.

“By the hirsute sack of Saint Anthony!” De Lhandes cursed. “By the inexhaustible appetites of the daughters of the Dordogne! By the unspeakable perversions of the sisters of—”

“Not going well?” Nicholai inquired.

“I am condemned to a chastity born of penury,” De Lhandes answered.

Nicholai stepped up to the layout and watched the game. It seemed quite simple — players made bets based on the ball landing on a number from one to thirty-six. They had to choose to make difficult “inside” wagers on a specific number or a cluster of numbers, or more likely yet less remunerative “outside” bets on the even odds of the ball landing on red or black. The combinations of types of wagers seemed infinite, but a child observing the game could readily discern that the odds were always in favor of the house.

“I hope you have better luck than me,” Haverford said. He looked a little glum, a dwindling stack of chips on the table in front of him. He offered his hand. “I’m Ellis Haverford, by the way.”

“Un bon ami
,” De Lhandes said. “A genial pal, for an American.”

“Michel Guibert,” Nicholai said, then added, “And what do you do in Saigon, Mr. Haverford?”

“Ellis,” Haverford answered. “I’m with the United States Information Service.”

“Do you dispense information,” Nicholai asked, “or acquire it?”

“First the latter and then the former,” Haverford said, enjoying the game. “And you? What brings you to Saigon?”

“The weather.”

Haverford laughed. “The ferocious heat or the stultifying humidity?”

“First the latter and then the former.”

“Are you going to try your luck?” Haverford asked.

“At …”

“The roulette wheel.”

“I might take a spin,” Nicholai said.

He started conservatively, placing a modest two-piastre “outside” bet on black, and won. Leaving his winnings on the layout, he added chips and placed three more bets on black, won, and then shifted to red.

The croupier spun the wheel, the ball rattled around and landed on 27.

Red.

Two more reds and a single shift back to black later, Nicholai had acquired a tidy stack of chips. A small crowd, driven by the herd instinct of gamblers toward a “run,” had gathered around the table. One of them was Bay Vien himself, who stood at the far end and regarded Nicholai with a look of slightly jaded curiosity.

Nicholai merely glanced back at him, but wondered when, and if, he would make good on his promise of payment.

Nicholai moved his chips onto the square marked 10. “Straight up,” he said to the croupier.

“That’s a thousand dollars, man,” Haverford said.

“Mon pote,
the odds are—”

“Thirty-seven to one,” Nicholai said. “I’m aware.”

It seemed obvious.

Several people hastily placed bets on black; a few of the braver ones put money on a split between 9 and 10. The doubters among them laid chips on red.

“Rien ne va plus
,” the croupier said, ending the betting as he spun the wheel.

The ball landed on 10.

“How did you know?” Haverford asked.

“Extraordinary,” De Lhandes muttered, “by the pope’s wrinkled scrotum …”

Nicholai shifted the pile of his winnings in a square layout on four numbers, 17, 18, 20, and 21.

“Pick them up, by the puckered anal cavity of—”

“Don’t be foolish, Michel.”

Nicholai looked across the table at Bay, who merely smiled, seemingly unbothered that Guibert was beating the house. Then again, Nicholai thought, he
is
unbothered.

“Corner,” Nicholai said. If the ball landed on any one of the four numbers, he would win.

Bets were quickly laid down for and against him.

“Rien ne va plus.”

The ball landed on 18.

“Cash out.”

“Pick them up.”

“A feast, I tell you, even in this colonial purgatory … and by the pubic hairs of the Mona Lisa, the
women
you could have tonight,
piles
of them …”

Nicholai pushed the chips back onto 10.

“…  tits and asses like Cezanne’s hay bales, and —”

Bay looked at Nicholai and nodded, as if to say,
Be my guest.

“—such a variety, a five-star Michelin sexual buffet, by the boiling hot spunk of —”

Nicholai looked back at Bay. “Straight up.”

“That’s madness,” De Lhandes said.

Haverford just shook his head. The gamblers around the layout scrambled to place counterwagers.

“Rien ne va plus.”

The wheel spun. The ball clattered, rattled, and bounced. Nicholai wasn’t watching the ball, however — he had his eyes trained on Bay, who met his stare with the same fixed smile. Nicholai heard the wheel slow and stop, and heard the crowd collectively gasp as the croupier announced,
“Dix.”

Ten.

Nicholai didn’t move to pick up his chips or change his bet.

“Michel, you won,” he heard De Lhandes say. “Don’t be a fool, my new friend. That’s a lot of money.”

“Encore,”
Nicholai said. “Straight up.”

“Mon pote,
you are throwing your money away!”

“A fortune!”

Nicholai glanced over at Bay, who shrugged.

The croupier closed the betting.

The ball rolled.

Bounced …

Landed on 12 …

And bounced onto …

Ten.

Bay turned away from the table, put his arm around his woman, and walked toward the bar.

Nicholai picked up his chips, worth a little more than $100,000.

Bay had paid in full for the rocket launchers.

The casino was abuzz with the newcomer’s amazing run.

Nicholai walked over to the bar and bought a round of drinks.

“Well played,” De Lhandes said.

“Indeed,” Haverford added dryly.

“By the blue veins on Jane Russell’s sainted breasts,” De Lhandes enthused, “that was spectacular! For a moment I thought that the admittedly fat-clogged arteries of my overburdened heart — which more resemble pâté de foie gras than actual blood-bearing vessels — were about to burst! Thor’s throbbing member, man, you terrified me! But I am happy, happy — no, overjoyed — for your exemplary good fortune.
Santé!”

“
Santé
,” Nicholai said.

“No one beats this casino,” De Lhandes said.

Unless, Nicholai thought, the casino owner owes you a large sum of illicit money and found a clever and entertaining way to pay you.

The roulette wheel was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.

A commotion and a fresh buzz was happening around the entrance to the casino. The security guards made their way toward the noise outside. Through the main door, Nicholai could see a convoy of large, shiny black sedans pull up. Captain Signavi emerged, then a squad of Binh Xuyen troopers, machine pistols in hand, piled out of the lead car as other troopers hastily formed a cordon from the cars to the door.