The cold six thousand

63

(Saigon, 11/11/64)

Stanton said, "You fucked up."

The Go-Go was dead. That bar-b-que'd monk deterred trade.

Pete lit a cigarette. "I didn't feel like negotiating. Tran was up for it, so we ad-libbed."

"'Ad-lib' doesn't cut it. I went to Yale with Preston Chaffee's father, and now he won't be able to bury his son."

Pete blew smoke rings. "Toast a monk and ship him in a body bag. He won't know the difference."

Stanton slapped the table. Stanton kicked a chair. It roused Bongo. It roused two whores.

They twirled their stools. They looked over. They looked back.

"A fuck-up is a fuck-up and money is money, and now I'm going to have to pay some Can Lao guys to go up to Laos to guard the fields _you_ stole and replace the guards _you_ kill-"

Pete slapped the table. Pete kicked a chair.

"Tran had some napalm. Chuck and Bob Relyea flew over and dropped it last night. They waxed the barracks and the ops huts at both of the camps next to Dong's. They spared the refineries and the jails, so you tell me what the fucking upshot of all that is."

Stanton crossed his legs. "You're saying…"

"I'm saying we now own _the only three poppy farms_ south of Ba Na Key. I'm saying we've got viable slaves at all three locations. I'm saying Tran knows some Chinese chemists we can bring in to work the morphine base and get it ready for Wayne. I'm saying all three camps are fucking physically connected, with forest, mountain, and river cover, and all I need from you is some warm bodies to run the slaves and work under the Laotian end of the kadre."

Stanton sighed. "Warm bodies cost money."

"The Marvins work cheap. Bob said they fucking desert a hundred a day."

"You're missing the point. Money is money, and we're stage-1 covert. I'm accountable to other Agency sources, and now I'm going to have to tell them that the cost of your escapade is coming out of the 45% profit nut that we've earmarked for the Cause."

Pete shook his head. "The Cause gets 65. You told me that."

Stanton shook his head. "There's too many hands out. The ARVN boss heard about your little adventure and upped the rent on every transport vehicle and live body he lets us have."

Pete kicked a chair. It hit the bar. It reroused the whores. They twirled their fingers. They touched their heads. They mimed he claaaazy.

Stanton smiled. "Let's hear some good news."

Pete smiled. "We took ten kilos of morphine base out of Laos. Wayne's doing tests now."

"You shouldn't have risked him on that raid. He's the only heroin chemist we've got."

"I needed to see what he had. It won't happen ag-"

"What else? Did you talk to Litt-"

"Heads up on that. Dracula gave him a hundred grand for the ordnance. It's coming in on the pouch flight at noon."

Stanton smiled. "That means…"

"Right, he swung Nellis. Five G's a month, cheap for what it gets us."

Stanton coughed. "Have you got a source?"

"Bob does. Some breed in Bao Loc. He's got some U.S. shit captured back from the Cong."

"Don't skimp. Let's make Hughes and the Air Force look good."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"I'm not so sure."

"_Be sure_. We're in this for the same reason."

Stanton leaned in. "We're here now. We're _not in Cuba_. When the buildup starts next year, we'll have a lot more cover to work in."

Pete looked around. The whores went you claaaazy.

"You're right. And I've been in worse places."

o o o

Bao Loc was north. 94 clicks. They limo'ed up.

Mesplиde booked a stretch. Chuck and Flash reclined. The pouch flight landed early. Drac delivered. Ward delivered Drac.

Old bills-C-notes-one hundred K in all.

Pete reclined. Pete dug on the countryside.

He'd called Ward. They'd talked-Saigon to Vegas. Ward ragged him. Ward ragged on narcotics.

Flash _back_-ten months-Ward _loves_ dope then. Ward lauds dope at the Summit.

Dope made money. Dope pleased Drac. Dope sedated jigs.

Flash _up_-Ward is pissed-Ward has _ideals_.

Dope is bad. Dope is crass. Dope means risk. Don't disrupt my fundbook plan. Don't disrupt Drac's incursion.

Ward was Ward. Ward got pissed easy. Ward lugged a Jesus cross in his sewer.

He told Ward to visit Barb. He told Ward to watch Tiger. Check the hut/tail the cabs/vet my no-pill policy.

Pete yawned. The stretch hauled. The wheels kicked mud. Mesplиde ran the radio. Chuck and Flash gawked. Dig the rivers. Dig the inlets. Dig the sampans. Dig the kute and komely gook quail.

Chuck loved Laos. Mesplиde said napalm glowed. Tran said he saw a white tiger. We own it now-the Bolaven Plateau.

Three poppy farms. The Set River. Big tiger tracks.

Guйry was there now. Tran was there now. Tran ran a shorthanded crew. Six goons for three camps-slaves thus on hiatus.

The slaves survived the bombing. The old goons fried. The refineries stood untorched. Tran knew potential chemists. Tran knew potential Marv guards. Tran knew geography.

Tran say you smart. You raid Bolaven. You no raid Ba Na Key. Ba Na Key north-closed to VC-tribe farms _boocoo_. Hmong tribes. Tough. No slaves there-Hmong work _en famille_. They fight. They no hide. They no run ricky-tick.

The radio blared-discordant shit-Mesplиde loved nigger jazz. The highway veered. They hit Tran Phu Street. Bao Loc-2 km.

They cut right. They passed silk looms. They passed rubber farms. They crossed the Seoi Tua Ha River. They passed beggar squads.

Mesplиde tossed some chump change. The beggars descended. The beggars scratched and clawed. They passed a province hut. They passed tea farms. They passed gook priests on mopeds.

There's Bob. There's the ARVN's dump.

Dig it:

ARVN guards. K-9 Korps. Gun stacks under dropcloths-open for biz.

They pulled in. They got out. Bob saw them. Bob walked a breed up.

"This is Franзois. He's half French, and I think he likes boys, which don't discredit all the fine shit he's got for sale."

Franзois wore pink pj's. Francois wore hair curlers. Franзois wore Chanel No. 5.

Chuck vamped him. "Hey, sweetcakes, have we met before? Did you take my ticket at Grauman's Chinese?"

Franзois said, "Fuck you. You cheap Charlie. American Punk No. 10."

Chuck howled. Flash yukked. Mesplиde roared. Pete took Bob aside.

"What have we got?"

"We got.50-caliber HMGs, MMGs up the wazoo, M-l32 flamethrowers with replacement parts,.45-caliber SMGs with 30-round magazines, a fucking shitload of M-14s and 34 M-79 grenade launchers."

Pete looked over. Pete saw six pallets-fat under dropcloths.

"You figure six planeloads?"

"I figure six _big_ planeloads, 'cause each stack has two stacks behind it, and we got to string out the flights to keep Wayne's shit going in."

Pete lit a cigarette. "Run down the quality."

"It's just below Army standard, which is what we want, 'cause then it qualifies as surplus, which means it won't draw no suspicion when it goes through Nellis."

Pete walked over. Pete pulled dropcloths. Pete smelled cosmoline. Wood crates/nailed planks/stencil-mark designations.

Bob walked over. "It goes to Nellis, right? Some EM unload it and drive to an Agency drop."

"Right. They won't know that they're transporting covert, so we've got to hide the shit in with some stuff they won't want to pilfer."

Bob scratched his balls. "Flamethrower parts. I got to say there ain't much demand for them in Lost Wages."

Pete nodded. Pete whistled. Pete cued Mesplиde. Mesplиde grabbed Franзois and bartered in.

Pete signaled-six loads/six payments.

Mesplиde bartered. Franзois bartered. Mesplиde bartered back. They talked polyglot-French-Viet-diphthongs and shouts.

Pete walked up. Pete listened. He got the _bonnes affaires_. He got the _tham thams_. He got the Lyonnaise slang.

Francois rolled his eyes. Franзois stamped his feet. Francois steamed up his pajamas. Mesplиde rolled his eyes. Mesplиde balled his fists. Mesplиde smoked three Gauloises.

Franзois went hoarse. Mesplиde went hoarse. They coughed. They slapped backs. They bowed.

Franзois said, "Okay, big daddy-o."

o o o

They drove back. They talked shit. They cut through Bien Hoa. The Cong hit ten days back-mortars predawn.

The stretch got close. They saw the mess. They saw flags at half-mast.

They cut back. They laughed. They slugged Bacardi. They told tales-Paraguay to Pigs-they goofed on CIA gaffes.

It's '62. Let's pluck the Beard. Let's shave him impotent. Let's dope the water. Let's spook the spics. Let's stage a visit from Christ.

They laughed. They drank. They vowed to free Cuba. They stopped and hit the Go-Go.

There's Wayne.

He's alone-per usual. He's pissed-per always. He's watching Bongo and his whores.