Don Winslow - Satori

One of Antonucci’s thugs – a tall, thick man – leaned against the wall, the bulge in his jacket doubtless intentional. Antonucci relit his cigar, rolling it carefully around the flame of his lighter. Satisfied with the even burn, he turned his attention back to Nicholai and said, “You’re a young man. Ambitious.”

“Is that a problem?”

Antonucci shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He waited for a response, but Nicholai knew that any response to such a wide opening gambit could only be a mistake. So he sipped his brandy and waited for Antonucci to move the next stone.

“Ambition is good in a young man,” Antonucci said, “if he is mature enough to know that with ambition should come respect.”

“Youth thinks it invents the world,” Nicholai said. “Maturity respects the world that it finds. I didn’t come to Saigon to change it or to disrespect its traditions, Monsieur Antonucci.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Antonucci said. “Tradition is that no one conducts certain kinds of trade in Saigon without paying respect to certain other people.”

So, Nicholai thought, the Union Corse already knows about my deal with the Binh Xuyen. Did Bay Vien inform them, or was it their fellow Corsican Signavi? Nicholai would place his money on the latter. “If certain men traditionally control, for example, the armaments trade – ‘men of respect,’ shall we call them – then that is one tradition that a young man would certainly wish to honor.”

“You are wise beyond your years.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Nicholai said, “what is the percentage on tradition here?”

“I am told that it depends,” Antonucci said, “on the particular cargo that is going in and out. But, say, three percent is traditional. So I hear, anyway.”

“Three?” Nicholai raised an eyebrow.

“Three.”

Nicholai raised his glass. “To tradition, then.”

“To tradition,” Antonucci said. “Per tu amicu.”

Nicholai downed his brandy and stood up. “I’ve taken too much of your time. Thank you for seeing me and providing me with your wise counsel.”

Antonucci nodded.

After Nicholai left, Antonucci told his thug, “Tell Yvette I wish to see her on the next break.”

Fifteen minutes later the saxophone player came into the office.

“You make eyes at strangers?” Antonucci asked her.

“No! I was just trying to be hospitable to the customers!”

He slid his belt from its loops and doubled it over.

SO, NICHOLAI 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.