The Corsican (46 page)

The tables seemed to have been placed only a foot apart, packing in as many as possible, and Peter squeezed between them, searching through the hazy smoke for Morris. Halfway into the long, narrow room, Peter spotted him waving from a corner table. Approaching the table, Peter decided Morris seemed entirely in his element; the gaudiness and smoke, the heavily made-up bar girls dressed in almost nonexistent mini-skirts, seemed to blend perfectly with his disheveled, well-worn look.

“Thought you got lost, or chickened out,” Morris said, as Peter shoehorned himself into a chair at the small round table.

Peter rocked back and forth in the chair. It, like the table, was bolted to the floor. “Are they afraid of earthquake or theft?” he asked.

“Breakage,” Morris said. “Furniture's tough to get, and this way these wahoos can't use it to dent each other's heads. They lose a lot of bottles, though—empty ones, thank Christ. I do hate waste.”

As Morris finished speaking, Peter felt an arm drape around his neck. He looked up and saw a hard but pretty Vietnamese face only inches from his own.

“You buy drink for Sou Yet,” the young woman said, leaving out any hint of a question.

Morris snorted. “Not now, Sou Yet. Later, he buy drink, buy blow job, buy everything. Not now.”

The young woman grinned at Peter. At the corner of her mouth, he could see some teeth were missing.

“Okay, I come back.” She ran her hand up the side of Peter's neck. “You no find other girl,” she said. “They number ten. They no same me. Me beaucoup good. Number one. You see.”

The woman turned and quickly moved to another table, her slender hips undulating in an exaggerated way. Peter looked back at Morris and exhaled heavily.

Morris laughed. “Don't worry, kid, these girls hand out a penicillin prescription with each trick.”

“I'm allergic.”

“To which?”

“Both.”

He snorted. “Wanna drink? You're not allergic to that, I hope.”

“Beer will do fine, thanks.”

Peter looked around the room, as Morris caught the attention of a waitress and ordered. The cramped room was filled with at least a hundred GIs and half as many bar girls, each dressed in an outrageous costume, each plying her trade to drunken semi-enthusiastic response. Along the bar there was a girl for every third man, and if one potential customer's response was not eager enough, the girl would simply rotate in place and begin work on the next. When Peter turned his attention back to the table, Morris was grinning at him.

“The Saigon meat auction,” Morris said. “You see those kids outside, the ones who looked like they'd like to cut your balls off?”

Peter nodded.

“Boyfriends and brothers,” Morris said.

“Pimping?” Peter asked.

“Surviving,” Morris answered.

There was a note of compassion in Morris' voice that seemed to contradict the hard-bitten image he tried to project. Peter felt Morris might well be a far better man than he had first assumed.

“How long have you been here, Joe?” he asked.

“Almost two years.” Morris snorted at himself. “Believe it or not, I asked for the assignment. For ten years I struggled through a bunch of small daily newspapers in New Jersey. Then finally, after I managed to win a couple of regional awards, I was offered a job with UPI.” He laughed, then took a long pull on his drink. “You know what they did? They assigned me to their Newark office. And bingo, I was right back where I started.” He shook his head and smiled at the irony of it. “Anyway, I thought some duty here would change my luck. But so far all I've had to report is the bullshit that comes out of the Five O'Clock Follies.”

Peter cocked his head, questioning the term.

“The press's name for the briefing reports we get every day from Westmoreland's PR staff,” Morris explained.

Peter smiled at the disrespect. “And you want to go beyond that.”

“You bet your ass I do.”

Peter looked back toward the door. The young Green Beret was gone, his place taken by a middle-aged petty officer, dressed in navy whites. He was talking to the same ugly young woman. His beer arrived, and Peter took a long drink. “Tell me about heroin,” Peter said.

“Why?” Morris asked.

Peter remained silent. He just stared at Morris, knowing that would make any man say more than he intended.

“Why you interested?” Morris asked. “You want to look into it?” Peter waited, holding Morris' eyes until he shifted in his seat. “Let's not play games, Joe. Let's just say I'd like to find out about it if I can. Purely informational. If you can help, fine. If not …” He allowed a shrug of his shoulders to finish the sentence.

“I'm not interested in giving out information, kid. Not unless you're a lot smarter and a lot tougher than you look. This scam isn't being run by a group of guys who are looking over their shoulder for the cop on the beat. They own the cop on the beat. All of them.” He paused, taking a long drink of Jack Daniel's.

“I'm particularly interested in a Corsican I've heard about,” Peter said.

“That's not surprising. The Corsicans here are involved in just about everything,” Morris said. “What's so special about this one?”

“He's supposed to be running a heroin operation out of North Viet Nam, and selling it in the south.”

“And you think the North Vietnamese get a cut of his action?”

Peter nodded his head, then repeated the information his grandfather had given him. “And use it to help finance the war.”

“Jesus. That's a great story, if you can prove it. What's this guy's name?”

“Francesco Canterina. Have you ever heard of him?”

Morris shook his head. “Never. Do you know who his buyers are here?”

“That's where I hoped you might help,” Peter said. “It could be local merchants, politicians, or even corrupt ARVN brass.”

Morris' face filled with frustration. “Christ, if I knew any of that, I'd have the Pulitzer in my hip pocket.”

“Do you know anything about distribution?” Peter asked. “How they get the stuff out of the country? If I could find that out, I could trace it back to the buyers, and then to Canterina.”

Morris rubbed his chin, trying to appear thoughtfully calm. But Peter could see the excitement in his eyes.

“All I've heard are rumors, and a few code words.” He stared across the table at Peter. “If I tell you what I have heard, what do I get out of it?”

“Everything. All the names, even photos and tape recordings of a deal going down, if I can get them.”

Morris' eyes narrowed. “What if it involves some heavy people in the south? People whose names might embarrass the boys at the embassy?”

“You get whatever I get,” Peter said.

“Your bosses won't like that,” Morris said.

Peter smiled. “No, they won't, Joe. But that's the deal. If you don't want it, I'll find somebody who does.”

Morris held up both hands. “Okay. Don't be such a hard-ass. What I have to tell you isn't all that great anyway.” He took another long drink. “About six months ago there was a young kid working in G-2 who started poking his nose around. His name was Constantini, and seems he had a kid brother who was hooked on junk back home.”

“Why'd he come to you?” Peter asked.

“He claimed he told the officer he worked for, and was told to butt out. Anyway, he said the stuff was being stored right on base at Tan Son Nhut, which would indicate some ARVN involvement, and would also explain why he was told to mind his own fucking business.”

“That's all he found?”

Morris shook his head. “No, but the rest of it is crazy shit. He said the junk was going out of the country on something they called the ‘long silver train.' And that everything went through somebody they called the ‘green vulture.' Had his special stamp of protection on it.” Morris shook his head. “He said it was so simple it was sickening. Said he stumbled across it while doing a routine investigation on somebody in his unit who had bought the farm.”

“So why didn't he tell you more?” Peter said.

Morris' lips curved up into a sickened smile. “He was going to. But the next day some VC sapper blew his brains out about three blocks from here. And if you believe that, I've got a bridge back home I want to sell you.”

“It doesn't make any sense,” Peter said. “It all sounds like something out of a comic book.”

“No shit, Red Ryder. There are no trains in this goddam country, long silver ones or any other kind. And the green vulture …” He raised his hands and let them drop back to the table.

Peter sipped his beer and stared at the grimy, knife-scarred table-top. The words
FUCK VIET NAM
had been scratched in the wooden surface. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, it's a start,” he said at length.

“What can I do to help?” Morris asked.

Peter smiled at him. “Start asking around about Mr. Canterina.”

Chapter 30

Francesco Canterina ran his fingers through his gray wavy hair and looked around at the cramped dank chamber. His nose and mouth wrinkled with discomfort. The room was nothing more than a carved-out section of tunnel, running beneath the streets of Cholon, the ceilings so low even the smaller Vietnamese had to stoop to walk through them.

Francesco hated cramped spaces, this one even more so because it was dark, illuminated only by the light of two Coleman lanterns stolen from the U.S. military. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The tunnel smelled like a sewer. No place for a fifty-five-year-old man to be doing business, he told himself. This was worse than the days in the resistance. At least the hills of Provence didn't always smell of shit and rotting food.

Cao sat behind the makeshift desk, watching Francesco, amused by his discomfort. “You would not make a good revolutionary. You've learned to enjoy your comfort too much.”

“It would be nice to meet somewhere that wasn't a hole in the ground, my friend,” Francesco said. He gestured with his hands, trying to dismiss his words even as he said them.

“Oh, perhaps a nice restaurant, or a bar in one of the nicer hotels.” A disquieting smile filled Cao's face. “I'm afraid being seen with you in public would harm my reputation.”

Francesco laughed. He was older now, but still strikingly handsome and fit. He lit a cigarette and allowed it to dangle from the corner of his mouth. “We all know what an excellent reputation you have,” he said. “I wouldn't want to tarnish it. It might upset your father-in-law, Ba Lin.”

“I prefer you to use my revolutionary name,” Lin said. “And you never will harm my reputation. Not if you wish to continue working under our protection in the north. You see, Francesco, you're a necessary evil. Your expertise provides a way to fund the war against the imperialists, while not using manpower needed in that fight. But we could spare the manpower if you forced us to do so.”

Francesco smiled at the warning. “But that would make it difficult for those in authority to earn some small personal profit, would it not?”

“That's an interesting point, Francesco. But don't rely too much on it.” Lin fitted a cigarette to a small ivory holder, lit it and exhaled the smoke in a direct line toward Francesco's face. “I do enjoy your company, but I think it's time we turned our attention to business matters. We will need an additional twenty kilos by the end of the month.”

Francesco's eyebrows rose at the figure. “I'll have to work my chemist day and night,” he said. “Why the sudden need for more?”

“It seems our customers have run into difficulty. There seems to have been some pilferage. They will fall short in the amount that has been ordered. And since the latest silver train has already been arranged, they don't want to send any of it off empty. You can deliver, I assume.”

“I'll have to pay my chemist more.”

A hand covered Lin's mouth, as laughter filled the small dirt-walled chamber. “You have no grace about you at all,” Lin said, eyes hard now. “The additional amount will be a private transaction that will not involve the north. If you can arrange that as well you can expect another ten percent.”

“I always think of how much more I could make if I dealt directly with the generals myself,” Francesco said.

“Yes, but then you would have to worry about finding a certain old man standing at your door some evening.”

“Even Buonaparte Sartene cannot live forever,” Francesco said.

“That's true,” Lin said. “But I'm told Corsican vendettas can outlive any man.”

Francesco felt the hatred build in his belly. Having to rely on someone for protection offended him. Being forced to hide in the boredom of Hanoi cut him even more. Fourteen years and he was still at that bastard's mercy. And every time he came to the south to earn his bread he was forced to watch for Sartene's hand. He forced a smile. “Vendettas, my dear Cao, are the dreams of old men. Today's young people forget the need of them.”

Lin laughed again. “You lie to yourself as easily as you lie to me.” The cigarette smoke streamed across the chamber again. “There's one other matter we must also discuss. This American newspaperman, Morris. You remember him. He was involved with that young man, Constantini.”

Francesco nodded.

“At a dinner party a few days ago, Mr. Morris became very involved with a new young officer in Colonel Wallace's foolish little group of spies. I'm afraid the investigation the generals so cleverly put an end to may start up again.”

“The solution, my dear Cao, as I told you before, is to mange a traffic accident for Mr. Morris.”

Lin raised a hand. “We do not want to kill newspeople. They have been useful, and killing one might turn others to the side of our enemies. But we should find out what he is up to, so we can neutralize this new officer if necessary. I am already keeping close watch on him, but it is something I must do carefully.”