Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“Do you speak English?” he asked the cashier. “Yes, please.” “Do your facilities have a flushing device?” “Sorry, I don’t understand.” “Plumbing with water.” “I don’t know what you say.” “Where is your bathroom?” “Yes, sir. To the back.” He took a seat. Almost everyone in the place was Vietnamese. Only three tables away, alone, sat an American he recognized from

the earlier assignment in the Philippine Islands, the nephew, he believed, of the bullish colonel who’d so enjoyed joking with Filipinos. His contact? A flush of warmth, familiar ground under his feet, a friend to work with, or anyway an acquaintance.

Basic craft required they not greet each other without a pass-sign. Fest headed for the men’s room, passing close to the American’s table as he made his way. He leaned his tubular parcel against the damp wall, washed his hands, and waited three minutes, until exactly twelve-thirty. When he went back out the American was gone and a different American waved to him from a different table—Johnson, who’d picked him up at the airfield yesterday and so quickly disappeared. A Vietnamese officer in uniform, wearing aviator’s sunglasses, sat facing the Negro; nothing before him on the table but a pack of cigarettes.

Johnson rose as Fest approached. “Mr. Reinhardt, meet Major Keng.” “It’s a pleasure,” Keng said, and reached up to shake hands. “Where can I sit?” “Take my place,” Johnson said. “I’m running late. You’re in capable

hands.” “It’s local business?” “What’s that there?” “Maps of the area. I just bought them minutes ago.” “Walk me to the door.” At the entrance Johnson handed him a business card on which the

name was Kenneth Johnson, of Meeker Imports. “In the event of something unforeseen, go to the basement of the Armed Forces Language School. I’ve written the street address on the back there. The basement, okay? You’ll be greeted by a U.S. marine, so hand him this card.”

“Many thanks.”

“That’s only as a last resort. Only and absolutely.”

‘Tes. I understand you. A last resort.”

Once again the black man vanished like a fugitive.

Fest placed the card in his money clip, taking extra time for himself. Another native handler. That meant the same kind of business as in the Philippines. Over at the table the Vietnamese had removed his sunglasses to look at the bill of fare. His khaki uniform looked slept in, but his black boots shone brightly. Local business. Fest didn’t like it.

He took the seat across from his contact.

“Mr. Reinhardt, what will you eat?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Some tea?”

“Tea, all right. And bread, if possible.”

“Of course it’s possible. I’m having pho-ban, some beef soup with noodles. It’s very inexpensive here.”

Without the sunglasses Major Keng’s eyes seemed small and black and polished. As Fest looked at the faces around him they all had their differences, but all the faces, including this man’s, were identical to his recollection of, say, the face of the desk clerk Thuyet, or any others he’d seen in this city. Their language sounded impossible. Fest observed he was now the establishment’s only white patron.

He remained stubborn and had only bread and weak tea. The major asked him what he’d seen of the city, shoveled into his noodle soup a salad of greens and pallid sprouts, and slurped viciously at it, using enameled chopsticks for everything, including, somehow, the liquid, and spoke of his university days here in Saigon.

“Do you like your baguette?”

“Yes,” Fest said sincerely, “it’s wonderful.”

“Many things survive from the French.”

“I see. Of course.”

Keng pushed his empty bowl aside, took a cigarette from his pack, and brought a lighter from his tunic. “May I offer you a cigarette and also a light?”

“No, thank you.”

With a look Fest interpreted as one of light contempt, or disappointment, the major produced a flame. “It’s a Colibri of London. Butane.”

“Is this a good place to discuss business?”

“Of course. That’s why we’re here. I have some things for you.” He reached for the floor between his feet, almost laying his chin on the table’s surface, and sat back with a brown briefcase in his lap. “I have the goods.” It was a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. “Now you have two packages. Did you say you have some maps there?”

“Yes.” “I worried that perhaps a rifle.” “No. Is this the pistol?” “Yes. Use the silencer.” “Is it as I requested?” “It’s a three-eighty automatic.” “I asked for twenty-two caliber.” “We don’t have anything that small.” “Do I have surveillance photos?” “At this time there has been no surveillance.” “What can you tell me about the target?” “Not yet identified to me. You’ll be told.” “How long can I expect to stay in Saigon?” “At this time the schedule is uncertain.” “I was told I’d receive the timetable at this meeting.” Keng made a long business of finishing his cigarette and stubbing it

out in a small dirty ashtray. He folded his hands in his lap. “We lost him.” Fest believed this man was amused. What now? Even to remark on

such incompetence seemed pointless. “I am here as a courtesy only.” “We’ll find him.” “Can you understand me? If I stay or go, that’s completely up to me.

My decision. That is my brief.”

“I can only give you the facts. Then you must make your own decision,” the major announced, as if Fest hadn’t just said precisely the same thing.

“All right, give me facts. Who is the target?” “A Vietcong.” Fest kept silent. “You don’t believe me.” “There are a couple of armies here for killing Vietcong.” Keng lit another of his cigarettes with his marvelous silver butane. “A couple of armies, yes. And today also one extra guy, eating lunch with me. Reinforcements.”

Now Fest believed him. This man was angry. Possibly the extravagance of this operation insulted him, and he’d decided to view it as an entertainment.

“I can tell you it’s simple to find him. The Americans are working

on it.” “So you know him.” “I can be a little more specific. The truth is that we don’t have his lo

cation, and we are trying to get more specific information without caus

ing alienation of the source.” “You have a source, but you don’t want to jeopardize.” “Correct. We have to be careful. We can’t put a gun to someone’s

head in this case. Do you see what I mean?” “This is not my area, Major.” “We need our sources for future use.” “I understand.” “In the meantime, we have a secure drop point for communication

close to your hotel.” “I want another one.” “Two drops?” “No. Just one. The lavatory of this restaurant. On the underside of

the sink.” “You’re going to check it every day? It’s a lot of trouble to get here.” “No. You will check it in three days. The message will give you the

location for a new drop.” For a full minute the major didn’t reply. “I’m not going to fight you,”

he said at last. “But don’t make the new drop too far from here.” “Then we’re agreed?” “We are agreed, Mr. Reinhardt.” They parted, and with his maps and the weapon in their two brown

packages Fest charged down the walk looking for a cab. He perspired heavily but kept his pace, daring anybody to block his course, the beggars rushing at him to display their stumps, their crumpled heads, their stick-figure infants blotched with ulcers, and what does this one want— attacking my flank with offers of opium, U-globe, grass, and what is U-globe? It was 3:00 p.m. before he reached the Quan Pho Xa.