His utility blouse unbuttoned, flapping as he bounced on his toes, exposing the clenched-black-fist design printed on the front of his green T-SHIRT, Elmore sauntered mindlessly between passing cyclo-taxis as he ambled his way across the busy boulevard. From the belt up, his body looked like that of a man who stood more than six feet tall, but below the waist, his stubby, out-of-proportion legs held him to an elevation of just less than five feet, eight inches in height. His long arms swinging as he strode with his hat perched on the back of his wooly, puffed-out Afro-style hair, the cover’s bill pressed perfectly flat, the jaunty Marine seemed to openly insult gravity as well as the Corps’ dress standards.

“Brother Bear,” Harris said, stepping from the open vehicle and walking around it to greet the culprit who had introduced him to dope peddling in Da Nang shortly after his arrival in Vietnam, and had then kept him supplied with ample stocks to sell.

“Look at you now, soul,” Elmore said, rapping his knuckles with Harris’s. “Done lost that I-want-a-be-just-like-Jimi Hendrix look. Got yourself all high and tight. Starched and squared away. Got sergeant chevrons on your collar. Ain’t you the pretty picture of what’s right all right.”

“Hey, man, just getting by,” Harris said, looking up and down the busy boulevard that followed the river. “Keeping cool. You know. What you doing wandering back here, off the air base in the middle of the day?”

“My off-day, bro,” Elmore said. “Got a meeting with my main man. You know, business.”

“That dude?” Harris said, and nodded toward the open front of the bar where Brian T. Pitts stood inside the shadowed entrance, dressed as a Marine first lieutenant and talking to a heavyset policeman with a cluster of diamond-shaped brass buttons on his epaulettes, and two helmeted bodyguards lurking behind him. Pitts glanced out the doorway, took note of Elmore, and then shifted his eyes back to the high-ranking cop.

“Could be,” Elmore said and smiled. “You connected with the Snowman?”

“Yeah, man,” Harris said. “Pitts and me, we tight, three, four months now.”

“I can see you be tight with the man,” Elmore said, eyeballing the backseat of the jeep where he noticed an open canvas bag with two cameras and several lenses. “Got you chauffeuring his ass around all day. Probably shining his boots, too. Kissing his pearly white ass. Seeing how you done changed and all, you probably like that dark-brown taste in your mouth now.”

“Fuck you, monkey-looking motherfucker,” Harris snarled, putting his hand on the U.S. Government model .45-caliber Colt pistol he wore. “I ain’t gotta put up with your tired bullshit no more.”

“Be cool, man,” Elmore said, flashing his gold front tooth as he smiled. “I’m just fucking with you, man. You know me. I fuck with everybody.”

“You don’t fuck with me, motherfucker,” Harris warned, looking cold-eyed at his former supplier. “Shit happen to your flaky bag ass you keep fucking around. I don’t put up with that kind of shit no more, for nobody.”

“Hey, yo, I apologize, man,” Elmore said, seeing Harris still angry at the insult. “Come on, brother, chill out. I’m just passing time with an old friend. No offense.”

“Okay, cool, but I ain’t your fucking friend,” Harris said, looking again down the street. “Not even peas. I ain’t forgetting how you rode my ass when I be selling your shit. Fucking ripping me off, and I have to take it. No more. Not anymore, motherfucker. I’m on top of you now, man. You best remember that, too.”

“So you got all spiffy and shiny, man,” Elmore said, and put his fingers on the sergeant chevrons pinned to the collars on the crisp, neatly ironed utility blouse that Harris wore. “Wearing jump boots, spit-shined. Got yourself promoted to sergeant. Last I hear about you, they say you took a dive out the backseat of a brig jeep four months ago and disappeared down in Dogpatch. You still owe me for that shit you done lost then, too.”

“Why don’t you talk to Snowman about that, motherfucker. You can see what the fuck’s going on,” Harris said, now more irritated than ever. “Just go ahead on and ditty-bop your jive ass down the block and leave me alone.”

“I gots business with your boss, man,” Elmore said, now reaching in the drab-green canvas satchel and pulling out a new Canon F1. “This got a government property tag on the back, man. You done ripped off Uncle Sam. You in deep shit now.”

Elmore laughed as he spoke, and put the camera to his eye and snapped a picture of Mau Mau Harris with it.

“Leave the shit alone, man,” Harris said, taking the camera and dropping it back in the bag. “Anybody asks, we’re with the public information office.”

“Cool, man,” Elmore said, now looking at another, but much larger canvas bag in the jeep’s front floorboard. “I seen him playing that PIO act before, and his lawyer act, too. So now he got you out showing you the collection route. Things must be going good for my man Mau Mau then. That what I think it is down there?”

“It ain’t dope, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harris said, “but you go fucking around with it, and those three cowboys you see standing up the sidewalk, they’ll hustle your weak ass down an ally and your mama won’t ever see you no more.”

“Got cash in there, huh,” Elmore said, backing away from the jeep, looking at the Vietnamese gunslingers who had their eyes trained on him.

“Yeah, man,” Harris said. “American green. More than you ever see in your life. We pick it up two and three days a week. You’re here to drop off your payment. I know that all along. You come up here all jive ass acting like you on top of me still. Brian be dealing with you in a few minutes, and I’m gonna laugh watching you dance for the Snowman.”

“Word tell he got suitcases full of greenback Americans over at his ranch in the Patch,” Elmore said, still eyeing the drab-green canvas valise.

“Never cross my mind,” Harris said. “First place, Pitts don’t fuck over his people. So I don’t want to fucking rip him off. He make it worth my time to play straight with the dude. All his cowboys know that, too. They kill your lame ass for just thinking about copping any of that money. That’s cause Pitts give us all a good share of the wealth. When I go home, I go a rich man.”

“I don’t do bad my own self,” Elmore said, holding open his front pocket to let Harris see the wad of cash he had folded there. That’s just my walking-around money. You know, for tips and drinks and pussy and shit. Got Snowman’s money here in this paper sack, his cut of what I make last month. I be sitting fat, too, you know. You not the only nigger here be gettin’ rich.”

Brian Pitts shook hands with the policeman, passed him a small, brown paper bag that he took from a briefcase, and then turned back to look at the street where Harris and Elmore stood talking.

“So where’d you get the jeep?” Elmore said, running his hand down the vehicle’s front fender and picking at the white painted numbers across the side of the hood. “Steal it? MPs keep a list of stole vehicle numbers. They nail your ass they see you.”

“Ain’t stole,” Harris said. “Snowman’s people down in the Patch made this jeep.”

“Fuck you, no way,” Elmore said, eyeing the vehicle front to rear. “This ain’t no homemade jeep.”

“Fender here, bumper there, seat here, hood there, all come together one piece at a time,” Harris said. “Jeeps all the time getting fucked up over here. South Vietnamese Army or Americans, they be junking out the shit, and the Vietnamese be scarfing it up fast as they junk it out. We got parts floating in all hours. They be building a six-by truck for Pitts right now.”

“Fuck no, you shitting me, man,” Elmore said, smiling his gold tooth at Harris and looking at the jeep with admiration. “So these numbers ain’t on nobody’s list, and it ain’t no stole jeep, so nobody be looking for it. You clean, man. You real clean!”

Harris smiled proudly, seeing his old dope boss from the flight line now sincerely impressed. Then he caught the eye of Brian Pitts, standing in the shadows of the bar’s doorway, and nudged Elmore to take note. Pitts then motioned with his index finger for the gold-toothed Marine to come inside.

“Who’s the asshole watching us across the street?” Pitts said to Elmore as soon as the Marine walked through the doorway.

“Nobody, man,” Elmore said, looking over his shoulder to see a sandy-haired enlisted Marine with his hat cocked to the back of his head now walking across the street to where Harris again sat in the jeep’s driver’s seat.

“Looks to me like he followed your ass,” Pitts said, seeing the Marine shake a cigarette from a Marlboro pack as he sauntered to where Harris sat.

“You got a light?” the sandy-haired stranger said to Harris.

“Sure, here,” Harris said nervously, and pulled out a cigarette, too, after he had handed the fellow his Zippo lighter.

“Where you from?” the Marine asked as he lit his cigarette.

“Chicago,” Harris said, taking the lighter back and touching off his cigarette, too.

“I mean your unit here,” the sandy-haired man who seemed just a bit too old for a corporal said.

“Oh, man, sure,” Harris said. “I work over at the Da Nang Press Center. I shoot pictures and shit.”

“Wow, hey, that’s something else, man,” the curious stranger said, sucking smoke from the cigarette and looking at Harris, the jeep numbers, and the canvas bags in the backseat and on the front floor. “You want to take my picture and write a story about me for the Sea Tiger?”

“Not right now, man,” Harris said, acting cool. “I got my lieutenant doing shit today, and I got to drive his ass around all over Da Nang. Give me your name, and I’ll get one of the guys to check you out.”

“Naw, that’s okay, man,” the Marine said, “I’m just bullshitting you. I don’t do nothing but type shit and make coffee.”

“Fuck, that’s cool, man,” Harris said, relaxing back in his seat.

“Hey, you working over at the press center, you gotta know Staff Sergeant Jordan, and Corporal Dye and Thurman, and what’s that other dude over there?”

“Fast Eddie?” Harris said.

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” the stranger said.

“We all peas,” Harris said. He had no idea who Fast Eddie was, but Brian Pitts had given him several press center names to remember, and that was the one the suspicious fellow did not say.

“You see them, say that Gustav said hi,” the Marine said.

“I’ll be sure to tell them,” Harris said, and watched the man walk down the block and disappear down a side street.

“That a CID tail?” Pitts said to Elmore, watching the Marine talk to Harris.

“You know me, Snowman,” Elmore pled, his eyes darting in all directions, “I always make sure nobody follow me when I see you. That dude just needed a light and shot the shit a minute.”

“That turn out to be a narc, and you know what I will personally do to you?” Pitts said, locking his eyes on Elmore’s shifting peepers.

“He ain’t no tail, man,” Elmore whined. “Here, man. This what you after. Just don’t fuck with me no more.”

“My guys dropped your shit at the laundry this morning, so you can pick it up anytime. Its all wrapped and ready. Here’s your receipt. Just give it to the clerk, and don’t open the package until you get someplace you can unpack six kilos,” Pitts said, handing the green paper slip to Elmore.

“Snowman, when you open that bag, don’t get all pissed off and shit,” Elmore said, seeing Pitts now looking inside the paper sack he had just handed to him.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Pitts said, pulling out a handful of South Vietnamese piaster notes mixed with government script.

“Hey, that shit’s money, too,” Elmore said. “You got thirty-five hundred in cool green American, and another twelve-hundred-fifty bucks in funny money. It still spend.”

“You spend the shit then,” Pitts growled. “I don’t have time nor do I want to go through the hassle of fucking with this Monopoly money. We’ve been doing this shit a long time, fuck-stick, and you know the rule. No funny money. Just cold American green. You got until Friday to bring me fifteen hundred in Stateside cash. You got that?”

“Man it’s only twelve-fifty,” Elmore pled.

“That’s two hundred fifty bucks worth of penalty,” Pitts said, stuffing the sack under his arm and handing Elmore the piasters and script. “After Friday, its another five hundred dollars interest, on top of the fifteen hundred. You got that?”

“Fuck man, that’s gonna break my ass to pay you that kind of interest,” Elmore whined. “I get this shit change to American green right now, get you pay off now. I bring you twelve-fifty today. How ’bout that?”

“You’re already late. Fifteen hundred by Friday,” Pitts said.

“Why you do that to me, man?” Elmore pled. “I treat you right for damned near a year now, and you fuck me like this.”

“You don’t pay me, my cowboys will come and get you. No matter where you try to hide, they’ll find you, and drag your worthless ass to the Dogpatch,” Pitts said cooly. “Then, while you piss your pants and cry, I will personally carve you a second smile under your nasty little chin and pull your tongue out the hole. Understand?”

“Don’t fucking worry, Snowman,” Elmore said, backing out of the shadows in the doorway, stepping into the sunshine, and fighting the urge to run. “You’ll have that fifteen hundred on Friday. Just like you say. American green cash money. I promise.”

“I ain’t worried,” Pitts said. “You need to worry.”

“Hand over that flash roll, and that green paper that this character gave you,” a uniformed Marine gunnery sergeant wearing a gold policeman’s badge said. “He really a first lieutenant, or did he just dress the part?”

“He no officer,” Elmore said, climbing into the backseat of a white passenger van.

“What’s the story?” the sandy-haired narc said, looking at the laundry receipt.

“That’s the drop,” Elmore said. “We go down that laundry and pick up the dope. That’s how it works.”

“How come you didn’t tell us about this place right off, when we arrested you last night and you wanted to make a deal? We could have had it staked out this morning and nailed him red-handed at the drop,” the narc said.

“Every few weeks a different place, mostly laundries. The Snowman, he like laundries for drops. But the last six times, I go at six new places. The Snowman, I think he gettin’ paranoy,” Elmore said, relaxing in the van’s backseat and lighting a cigarette. “I go where the receipt say. Hand the paper to the gook ’hind the counter, and he give me the dope, all wrap like laundry.”

“Other people pick up dope when you get yours?” the narc asked.

“Could be,” Elmore said, stretching out his squatty legs and leaning his head back as he sucked smoke. “Could be laundry, could be dope. It all wrapped in brown paper, so how’s I gonna know?”

“You talked about seabags full of heroin getting shipped out in air force cargo planes, dope crammed in tires, body bags, and camera lenses, how do you know all this? I mean, you don’t even know most of the drop zones, so how do you know all this?” the Marine gunny said, slapping Elmore in the back of his head and making him sit up.

“He got that street name, Snowman, don’t he? Sure’s shit not ’cause he like Christmas. He call Snowman ’cause he sellin’ smack. Mostly Burma white, ain’t hardly got cut, neither. Snow by the ton. Nearly all it go Stateside, too. I know where the dude live, man. I show you,” Elmore said, rubbing his head and picking up his hat that the gunny had knocked to the van’s floor.

“He got a ranch in Dogpatch, a whole string of fine-ass whores,” Elmore continued. “I go there for a luau a few months back, and this fat American dude he tell me all about this shit and that shit, how he and Snowman tight. He tole me the dude’s got suitcases full of American cash stacked in his closets. Snowman give free dope and pussy at that party for anyone wants it. Bowls full of smack, you like that shit. Weed, too. Lots of weed. Ain’t no back-street hustle got shit like that, man. Dude called Snowman ’cause he deal shit big time.”

“Where’s this fat American now? Think he’ll talk?” the CID narc asked.

“Fuck if I know,” Elmore said, pulling a drag off his cigarette. “I just got invite that one time, and seen the dude then. They lots of fat white dudes in the ville if you open your eyes. One fat white guy look like any other. Take your pick. He a contract dude, though, I know that much. He build shit for the government.”

“You think Harris will talk to us if we cut him a deal?” the gunny asked.

“Fuck, that nigger ain’t talkin’ nobody,” Elmore said, sucking more smoke. “Mau Mau have his little club of Blackstone Rangers going on. They don’t talk. They kill.”

“Harris killed a dude?” the gunny said.

“Fuck if I know he kill somebody. Probably. He kill a dude, fuck him over, that for sure,” Elmore said, and then looked at the sandy-haired narc. “You give me immunity on this shit, but now I think about it, I need something more.”

“What’s that?” the narc said, looking over a clipboard filled with pages of notes he had taken.

“I needs protection, man,” Elmore said. “Snowman, he a Marine deserter just like Mau Mau. Brian Pitts his real name. He tole me today he kill me I don’t pay up on that funny money I try to hand him. He waste me for that, I know he kill me for sure I rat him out. Harris kill me, too. They got cowboys, and dudes go hunt me down. Snowman say he gonna cut my throat, pull my tongue out the hole.”

The sandy-haired CID narcotics investigator and the military police gunny sat quietly in the van. Then the officer who had disguised himself as an enlisted Marine and had gotten the light off Harris and talked with him spoke.

“Here’s the deal. Go to court, and testify, and we’ll make sure that Pitts and Harris get nowhere near you. Connect them to all the dope traffic and racketeering that you described to us, and for that we will give you immunity in the case we have against you now, and no jail time,” the narc said, not taking his eyes off his notes.

Then he looked at Elmore. “What you gave us today, this bullshit, eyeballing these two guys, doesn’t do a thing.”

The narc glanced at the gunny. “Did your dick get hard with any of this, Jack? You even get a tingle? Mine sure didn’t.”

Then he stared straight back at Elmore. “What have we got? A couple of deserters joyriding in a jeep, a couple of stolen cameras, and a sack of money. That ain’t shit. You talk about murders of local civilians and military personnel. You talk about heavy dope traffic, and I don’t mean the lightweight bullshit in the bars and on the flight line you do, but the major tonnage that flies out of here. You make all that shit good, go to court as witness to those crimes, and we will take care of you.”

The narc shifted his eyes down at his clipboard, pausing for his prisoner turned star witness to consider what he said. Then he looked back at the snitch.

“You don’t testify,” the narc then added, staring straight at James Elmore’s eyes, “you go to the brig. Case closed.

“Rest assured that we will toss Brian Pitts and James Harris in that same brig. They may not get much time on the petty charges we manage to prove without your testimony, but they will go to jail. Same jail with you. Think about that for a moment. Cooperate, and you go home alive, administrative discharge from the Marine Corps, free as a breeze. We have a deal?”

“He just now getting counsel? How long have they had him?”

“They arrested him last night,” Pride said, grabbing his cover, too. “You’ll probably need me to record any depositions or statements, so I’ll drive, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” O’Connor said, walking toward the legal center’s two jeeps parked side by side in front of the office complex.

“Apparently this character is the main distributor for most of the dope sold along the flight line,” Pride continued, climbing in the driver’s side of the general-use vehicle parked next to Lieutenant Colonel Prunella’s jeep. When he pressed the starter, the engine lay quiet, and only a clicking noise came from under the hood.

“Doggone it. I think maybe the starter’s gone bad or the battery’s dead, sir,” the staff sergeant groaned. “We can maybe push it and get it going, or I can run inside and call the base taxi to pick us up.”

“Forget that,” O’Connor said, tossing his briefcase in the backseat of the colonel’s jeep.

“Sir! Major Dickinson will write us up for violating his written order!” Pride said, his face quickly draining of color. “Look what he did with Lieutenant McKay for going off with his friend on that disastrous patrol at Con Thien.”

“His fucking do’s on the wall of his office do not constitute a written order,” O’Connor said, honking the horn. “Besides, nearly four months and McKay’s charge sheet’s growing mold at the bottom of the colonel’s in-box. Dicky Doo wants to burn me, I will supply him the matches. Besides, I am the one taking the colonel’s jeep and driver, not you. So sit your ass in the backseat and let me worry about Major Dickinson and the colonel.”

Then the unblushing lawyer cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward the hooch where he knew that Lance Corporal James Dean most likely lay with his hand in his pants and his eyes on the latest Penthouse centerfold.

“Movie Star! Get your ass out here now!” O’Connor bellowed, his voice echoing among the buildings.

In a moment the blond-headed lance corporal came dashing from his quarters, buckling his trousers as he ran. In the doorway of the staff judge advocate’s office, Lieutenant Colonel Lewis Prunella stood and casually waved at O’Connor.

“Battery’s dead on the office jeep, and I’ve got to get to CID right now, so I’m taking yours,” O’Connor called to the colonel.

“By all means, Captain,” the colonel answered. “I have an appointment at seventeen hundred, so please make sure that Lance Corporal Dean has it back to me before then.”

“Not a problem at all, sir. I’ll make sure he gets back well ahead of that time,” O’Connor shouted, sitting in the passenger seat while James Dean climbed behind the steering wheel. Then he looked over his shoulder at Staff Sergeant Pride. “See Derek, no problem at all. The colonel’s a reasonable man.”

“Sir, Colonel Prunella never says no to anything reasonable,” Pride said, and then sighed. “It’s Major Dickinson. He will still rip you and me both for whatever he can dream up. Now he’ll be doubly pissed off because we went around him and got permission from the boss.”

“Fuck him and his dinky-dao Dicky Doo don’ts,” O’Connor snarled, resting his right foot in the door well and motioning for James Dean to hit the gas.

“Right on, sir,” Movie Star said, happily tromping the throttle and sending gravel flying from under his rear wheels.

“Keep your opinions to yourself, Dean,” Pride said, crossing his arms. “Sir, looks to me like after the past few months that you’ve been here you’d know by now that Major Dickinson will stick the knife in you any way that he can. Sir, I know that you’re not staying in the Marine Corps, so you don’t care what he writes on your fitness report, but I care what he does to mine. You’ve got a career waiting for you back in New York. My career is right here, sir. Dicky Doo has my future on the tip of his ink pen.”

“You think Colonel Prunella would ever let him get away with slamming you with the velvet hammer?” O’Connor said, looking over his shoulder at the staff sergeant. “You know he has to review anything that Major Dickinson writes on the fitness reports. You’re A-J-squared-away, Johnny on the spot. I bet you even iron your boxer shorts. You think the colonel would let him write anything less than outstanding on you?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we,” Derek Pride said, sighing again as he tipped his hat back and stretched his arm across the back of the seat.

“Speaking of wait and see, any news on that notorious charge sheet that Dicky Doo wrote on Lieutenant McKay?” O’Connor said, again looking over his shoulder at the staff sergeant.

“Sir, you know I am not supposed to discuss personal matters like that with anyone except authorized personnel,” Pride said.

“Bet you talk to Major Dickinson about it,” O’Connor said, and let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“I only talk about it to Captain Carter, the defense attorney in fact, or Lieutenant McKay himself,” the staff sergeant countered.

“Well, I heard some scuttlebutt,” O’Connor said, smiling at Derek Pride. “I thought you might be smiling about it, too.”

“Sir, nothing has changed yet,” Pride said. “You know that the charge sheet went to Colonel Prunella the day after Lieutenant McKay refused nonjudicial punishment, three months ago. That’s as far as it has ever gone, at the moment.”

“I heard the colonel tell General Cushman that he was damned proud of Lieutenant McKay, and that he had commended him for his heroism,” Lance Corporal Dean said as he wheeled the jeep to a stop in front of the military police headquarters. “He said he’d like to see more of his staff out with the fleet Marines, sharing their meals and seeing how they live. I also heard tell that Lieutenant McKay has got the Bronze Star with Combat V awarded to him for what he did up there by Con Thien, back when his buddy got killed on that patrol he went on. First sergeant told the guys at formation this morning that we’re going to have a MAF ceremony and General Cushman will pin it on him Friday afternoon during the wing parade.”

O’Connor looked at Pride in the backseat.

“I heard exactly the same news, and that Lieutenant Colonel Prunella has the Officers’ Club locked on for a luau in McKay’s honor, day after tomorrow, right after the ceremonies,” the lawyer beamed, taking his briefcase and stepping out of the jeep. “Bet Dicky Doo is choking on that charge sheet about now. Like to see how the motherfucker two-faces his way with Colonel Prunella on this one.”

“Sir,” Pride said, climbing out of the jeep, “I suspect that Major Dickinson has choked on the charge sheet ever since he got the telephone call from the squadron office last week that Lieutenant McKay would get the Bronze Star with Combat V. I think he choked on it for several days before he finally addressed the colonel with it. Probably choked even worse when the colonel told him he already knew all about it days ago from General Cushman.”

“Like I told you,” Movie Star said, smiling as he slouched back in the driver’s seat, relaxing for the wait, “the colonel’s cool with things. So don’t sweat the small shit, man. He knows what’s happening.”

“Even still,” Pride sighed, walking toward the building at the left of the captain, “it doesn’t stop the major from exacting his revenge in other ways. The major may well drop his disciplinary action against Lieutenant McKay, but nothing else has changed. Except maybe, after today, after this stunt, you moving to the top of Major Dickinson’s shit list.”

“Hey, Derek,” O’Connor said cheerily, swinging open the door to the provost marshal’s office, “think about it this way: We’re on top now. Number one, man. Number one!”

“Fucking rat Elmore, I knew it,” Pitts said, looking over his shoulder and seeing a shaggy-haired white man standing casually on the corner wearing brown slacks and a yellow, square-tailed sport shirt untucked over his belt with a poorly hidden pistol under it.

“That’s the dude that busted me on the flight line,” Harris said, making a sharp right turn and speeding out of Dogpatch.

“They’ve got the ranch covered, too, then,” Pitts said, slinking down in his seat. “Can’t go back. I got a stash of money down south of town, we can go there. I’ll give you half. Then we split up. What we got in this bag won’t last long, so we need the stash. Couple two, maybe three hundred grand. It’ll get us out of the country. Set us up. You like Bangkok?”

“Yeah, man,” Harris said, cracking a nervous smile as he drove. “Good pussy there.”

“Like there was ever any bad? Easy to get lost in Bangkok, too,” Pitts added. “Benny Lam and Major Toan, they’ll fuck us over soon as they know we’re running, so we can’t depend on anyone outside you, me, and my cowboys. Come to think of it, that fat son of a bitch Major Toan acted awfully sweet when I paid him his cut Wednesday. Guaranteed he and his cops helped CID stake us out. Benny Lam’s probably backing him, too. Both those assholes would love to see me gone.”

“Let’s go kill the motherfuckers then,” Harris said, steering the jeep through the back streets of Da Nang, weaving his way south to Pitts’s emergency stash.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you your split, and you stick around here and kill the motherfuckers,” Pitts said, lighting a cigarette. “While you’re at it, you can kill that waste of skin Elmore, too. Shit, kill him first, the fucking rat.”

“He a dead man now,” Harris said, biting his lip and steering the jeep along the winding, narrow roads. “I ain’t going no place till I drop the cocksucker to his knees, make him beg, and then I put a round from my .45 through the top of his head.”

“We get down here, you keep your cool,” Pitts said, watching the homes along the roadsides change from block buildings to shacks and huts. “Got this stash with some Viet Cong. They’ll take two hundred grand as commission. That leaves us with about three hundred thousand. One-fifty each.”

“They ain’t spent it all and not tole you?” Harris said, wondering at Pitt’s trust in the VC.

“It’s there, believe me,” Pitts said. “These are Huong’s family.”

“Fucker slapped me with his gun first time he see me,” Harris said, and rubbed the side of his head. “He never tole me sorry or shit after it, either.”

“You pissed about it? I’ll let you settle it with Huong if you are,” Pitts said and laughed. “He’d probably kill you, but you’d have your chance at satisfaction.”

“Naw, I ain’t pissed,” Harris said, turning the jeep onto a dirt road that led along an irrigation canal toward a small village of thatched huts. “Huong did his job. All the time serious. He think your shit don’t stink, too. He’s okay.”

“I treated him and all the others fair and square, just like you,” Pitts said, lighting another smoke. “Give what’s right, do what’s right, loyalty automatically goes with it if you pick right guys.”

“You sure you picked right guys?” Harris asked, slowing the jeep to a crawl as he entered the village that looked deserted of life.

“Yes, I am,” Pitts said, relaxed in the passenger seat, smoking his cigarette. “Loyalty goes two ways, my friend. Those not right, we killed. Huong saw to it. He believes in loyalty and trust. Just like I do.”

“So he got your six covered in case the bust came down,” Harris said.

“Exactly,” Pitts said, looking at the end hut, where he saw a familiar-looking dog. “We knew this day would come, so we prepared. Every few weeks Huong took cash to hide here, in case of emergency. In case we have to run. Huong and all the others scattered their stashes down in this ville, too. Our money is here, don’t worry. So is Huong.”

“How you know he here, man?” Harris said, pulling the jeep to a halt behind a large wooden house with a thatched roof and a wide porch.

“Look at that mutt coming to greet you,” Pitts said, laughing.

“Turd!” Harris said, and jumped from the jeep and wrapped his arms around his ugly brown dog. “I figured CID done shot my boy, Turd, cause he not about to leave the ranch for nothing. I had heartache the whole time driving down here, my dog getting left back. Huong got you out with him, didn’t he, boy.”

In the edge of the trees, Huong stood and nodded at Harris, and cracked a fleeting smile.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” McKay slurred from behind his cubicle. Still wearing his skivvy shorts and T-shirt, he lay on his bunk, swigging a canteen filled with Wayne Ebberhardt’s old North Carolina family recipe.

“Oh, fuck, Tommy,” O’Connor said, seeing the lieutenant lying on his bed and stinking of the homemade booze. “I’m sorry, you guys, Lieutenant McKay isn’t quite ready. You want to wait outside until he gets dressed?”

“Sir, if you don’t mind,” Staff Sergeant Paul Rhodes told Terry O’Connor, and stepped past the captain, along with Sergeant Lionel McCoy and Hospital Corpsman First Class Ted Hamilton. The three quickly swarmed the drunk lieutenant, flung open his wall locker, and began rummaging for materials to make some hasty repairs on the officer.

“Captain,” Rhodes said, looking over his shoulder, “we’ll have him outside, squared away in ten minutes. You need to go let Colonel Blanchard know what we’re doing. He’s an old salt and has walked many a snake-infested trail. He’ll make sure we’re covered.”

Terry O’Connor shrugged, smiled, and then headed out the door to intercept Doc Blanchard, the Third Reconnaissance Battalion commanding officer, and pass the message that today’s recipient of the Bronze Star Medal with Combat V device for valor, had gotten himself drunk early: A full two hours ahead of the Hawaiian-style party and pig roast that Lieutenant Colonel Prunella had arranged to celebrate the occasion with the commanding general of Third Marine Amphibious Force.

With no witnesses now present, the wiry staff sergeant threw the 225-pound lieutenant across his shoulders and route-stepped to the showers.

“Sir,” Rhodes said as he walked with Doc Hamilton and Lionel McCoy, carrying soap and a towel, “I don’t know what got into you to get yourself all fucked up today, but you’ll not embarrass me and my entire platoon in front of my commanding officer, all of whom flew down here today from Dong Ha to see you get decorated.”

“Hey, Doc,” McCoy said half joking, looking at the corpsman, “you think the dispensary down the block might have some vitamin B-twelve or something you can inject in McKay’s ass that will straighten him out?”

“From what I’m told, that’s mostly a myth,” Doc Hamilton said, watching the staff sergeant strip off the lieutenant and push him under a shower of cold water. “Time and metabolism are mostly what remove the alcohol. I might have a pick-me-upper in my kit, though. Could help to perk him a little bit so that he at least stands still while he gets the medal.”

“We’ll douche him in cologne to hide the booze stink,” Rhodes said, now stripped off, too, neatly laying his solid green, jungle utility uniform on a dry bench. He helped the lieutenant soap off his body and then rinsed him, and pushed him into the arms of Hamilton and McCoy, who dried and dressed the officer.

“What the fuck got into you in the first place?” the staff sergeant said, putting on his clothes. “You having some kind of pity party because your buddy didn’t get out alive and you did? Shit, sir, I’ve seen a dozen pity parties just like yours. I know what I’m looking at. We’ve all had our turns.”

“You don’t understand, Staff Sergeant Rhodes,” Tommy McKay wept as he snugged his field scarf around the tight-fitting eighteen-inch collar on his khaki uniform shirt. “Jimmy Sanchez was my best friend. My college roommate. And he’s dead because I fucked up. I had to be the hero, and run across that open field, trying to save thirty minutes, and cost us three hours, because I dumped off the platoon doc and the radioman. He could have made it to Dong Ha had I not done that stunt.”

“The man died on his own, Lieutenant,” Rhodes said, buffing off his boots with McKay’s towel. “Nothing you did caused him to die.”

“Sir,” Doc Hamilton then interjected, “do you know anything about how damaged Lieutenant Sanchez’s lungs were? The bullets clipped through the tops of both organs, destroyed most of the branches of his bronchial tubes. He never had a chance.”

“Doc, he’d of had at least a shot at a chance if I had gotten him to the rally point with you and Sneed aboard,” McKay said. “I cannot accept a medal when I am responsible for my best friend dying. Responsible for your platoon commander, your friend, too, dying!”

“Fuck it, man,” Sergeant McCoy finally said, and looked at the lieutenant. “We love old Jimmy Sanchez like he’s one of our snuffies. Don’t you know that if any of us believed you had anything to do with him dying, we’d be someplace else than right here going to watch your lily ass get a medal.”

McKay stood still for a few seconds, still feeling the glow of the moonshine, and then put his hands out to the black sergeant, who gave him a strong hug.

“Sir,” McCoy said, holding on to the officer as Doc Hamilton shot a syringe filled with a yellow liquid into the man’s arm, “you don’t know it, but you saved at least three lives with what you did that night, running across that minefield like you done.”

“That’s right,” Paul Rhodes said, pulling a pipe from his pocket and putting it in his mouth, and then finding a paper towel and wiping the fog off his black-framed glasses, still fixed with the green tape over the bridge of the nose. “You have to take the word of our experience. You, Doc Hamilton here, and Bobby Sneed, who’s waiting outside with the rest of Lieutenant Sanchez’s platoon, all made it out alive because you drew the enemy’s focus.

“Think about that night. The lieutenant got shot, waving at the NVA like a schoolkid on the playground. He slacked off for only a second, but that’s all it takes. Like I said, shit happens when you go slack. He did, and he got shot for it. I don’t blame him for getting killed. I miss the shit out of him. He was about the best I ever saw. But he went slack at the wrong time.

“Those NVA that you took down, they fucked up, too. They’re dead because they didn’t watch where they were going.

“The gunfire, shit, sir, that drew every Communist soldier within a five-click arc. They focused on that site and came barreling down your throats. We saw more than fifty alone when they hit RP Tango, remember?

“These particular North Vietnamese on our asses out there, they had commando training. A lot like our reconnaissance scouts. They know the woods. They’re sharp.

“When they gave chase to you, right when the lieutenant got shot, you have to believe that they came full bore, throttle down. They wanted to kill whoever got in the firefight with their team. They were hot on your ass when you hit that clearing. What was it, thirty seconds or so after you jumped into the open that they started shooting?”

McKay sat on the end of his bunk, listening, and nodded. “Yes, I cleared the open area in less than a minute, and they started firing at me when I still had a hundred yards to cover,” the lieutenant agreed.

“Now let’s do a little supposing, shall we?” Rhodes said.

“Okay,” McKay nodded.

“Let’s suppose that you did what Lieutenant Sanchez instructed you to do. You stuck with Doc and Baby Huey, and made the circle around that minefield.

“Shit, the NVA weren’t about to tramp across their own minefield in the dark. They circled, too. Even with you running across the clearing, they went around it. Whether or not they saw you running across that open ground, they had already begun pursuit of you. They would have caught up with you at about the point that they ran over the top of Baby Huey and Doc.

“One important thing to consider, though, when you would have gone into hiding with the enemy walking on top of you: What do you suppose Lieutenant Sanchez would have been doing? Holding his wind, too?

“Hell, man, the lieutenant was gasping for every breath. His wheezing carried half a mile that night. The air still as it was. You laying in the bush with Doc and Baby Huey, with the lieutenant hacking like a foghorn, the NVA would have been down on you like stink on shit.

“Now, don’t you suppose that when they caught you they would have had blood in their eyes?”

“It would have been the shits,” McKay agreed, giving himself a look in the full-length mirror fastened to the wall as the three Marines escorted him toward the front door.

“Those pissed-off NVA would have shot your young ass dead,” Rhodes said, pulling open the screen door for the officer. “They would have killed you, Baby Huey, and Doc here.

“Sir, you did not cost Lieutenant Sanchez his life. His bad luck and a brain fart cost him. The fact is, sir, you saved Doc’s life, and Baby Huey’s life for sure, and probably saved my life, too, and every man in this platoon.

“We got out of the shit with every man intact. Not one man wounded. Nobody killed except the lieutenant. That’s damned good, considering where we started.

“My opinion, sir, you getting a Bronze Star with V is a cheap medal for what you did for us. Lieutenant Sanchez is proud of you, sir. So am I.”

Thirty minutes later, the bright midday sunlight blinded Tommy McKay as he stepped from the ranks of his fellow officers when the Headquarters Squadron commanding officer bellowed, “Persons to be decorated, front and center!”

When T. D. McKay stepped forward, and marched toward the empty space between guide-on flags where Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr. stood waiting, Terry O’ Connor and Jon Kirkwood walked in step with him. When they reached the front-and-center point, they stood at McKay’s left. His award was senior to theirs.

From the public address system an announcer read the Bronze Star citation that included the phrase “for conspicuous gallantry.” In three brief paragraphs it told the story of Tommy McKay’s heroism.

Then General Cushman pinned the medal on his shirt, and stepped down to Terry O’ Connor. The announcer then read the citation for his Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V device for gallantry under fire. In three brief paragraphs it told of that night at Fire Support Base Ross, and his running under fire, pulling a machine gun from a destroyed bunker, and employing it against the enemy, repelling them.

After General Cushman pinned the medal on O’Connor’s shirt he stepped in front of Jon Kirkwood, who also received the Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V device for valor. His citation told of his undaunted leadership and tenacity, holding the line with an M14 while his partner retrieved the machine gun, and how together the lawyers demonstrated uncommon valor and dedication.

As they saluted, and then returned to their places in the ranks, they saw Major Jack Hembee smiling and clapping in the grandstand, standing next to Goose, King Rat, and Elvis.

For the Marines who spent most of their time sleeping in holes at Con Thien or Fire Support Base Ross, the sight of the ice seemed amazing. Many of them, used to drinking hot beer, when they could get beer at all, did not realize that the precious cold stuff even existed in Vietnam. Nearly to a man, the entire platoon from Third Reconnaissance Battalion systematically slipped past the pineapple-covered counter time and again, and rather than gobbling cold slices of the sweet tropical fruit, they crammed their mouths with ice. Several of the men even got plastic cocktail cups, and rather than filling the multicolored sixteen-ounce containers with free booze, they stuffed them with chipped ice.

Tommy McKay smiled happily, watching his recon blood brothers delighting themselves with the ice and the cold pineapples, which they soon began to devour by the plateful. Just having them here, knowing they held no grudges, and even applauded him for what he did in combat, made him feel as though half the weight of the world had suddenly lifted from his chest.

Still, the other half of the world, occupied by Jimmy Sanchez’s mother, sisters, and brothers, remained pressing on his conscience. But now it seemed less troubling to him than it had before Paul Rhodes had talked to him. September still loomed dark for him, though. Time to pack up and go back to Texas, and face his family, and talk to his best pal’s mom about how her son died.

Watching the recon Marines celebrate the existence of ice in Vietnam, however, made the stocky first lieutenant feel good overall, for the first time in four months. His emotions had gone so low that even during the heavy rocket attacks of January 29 and 30, kicking off the Tet Offensive, he didn’t get excited or at all afraid. When everyone at Marine Aircraft Group Eleven went underground from the massive barrages of 122-millimeter rockets the North Vietnamese launched against them, T. D. McKay remained outside and watched the chaos.

He even went flying with Lobo when they got news that Hue City had momentarily fallen to the NVA, and the enemy had taken prisoner the Marine lieutenant who commanded the American Forces Vietnam Radio station there in the ancient capital. Stocked with hand grenades and an M60 machine gun, T. D. McKay and Lobo went flying over Hai Van Pass, determined to wreak havoc on the enemy. They got grounded for two days at Phu Bai.

Thinking of his and Archie Gunn’s stupidity, Tommy McKay chuckled out loud. Paul Rhodes, puffing intellectually on his English briar calabash pipe, enjoying the taste and smell of a fresh pouch of Borkum Riff black cavendish tobacco he had bought that morning at the Da Nang Air Base PX, just after they had landed, stood next to the lieutenant, watching his platoon, and laughed, too.

“Lieutenant McKay, congratulations. Good show, chum,” a voice from behind spoke.

“Oh, thanks,” Tommy McKay said as he turned to see Captain Charlie Heyster with Stanley and Manley Tufts close at his side.

“Have you met my brother?” Stanley said, introducing Manley to the lieutenant.

“I saw him at the First Marine Division command post a couple of weeks ago, I think,” McKay said, putting out his hand. “Good to meet you face-to-face, though.”

“Hell of a party, stud,” Manley Tufts said, shaking hands with the lieutenant and then reaching up to take a close look at the Bronze Star Medal hanging on McKay’s pocket. “I spent three months with a grunt platoon before joining division legal, living in the shit, and I never got more than a letter of commendation from the battalion commander. Then you wingers go out for a day, just tagging along with some grunts, and you get all kinds of decorations.”

“Shit, man, I’d trade you this medal and my buddy’s life for you a moment in the sun, stud. How’s that?” McKay snapped.

“Oh, don’t take me wrong, old sport,” Manley Tufts said through his teeth, the words ringing in his ample nasal cavities, “I don’t begrudge you the medal, or those other two theirs. My whole point is that it seems that ten men can do the same jobs and no one notices, but in the right place at the right time a man could pick up a Silver Star or Navy Cross doing the same thing. No offense.”

Paul Rhodes puffed his smoke and casually eyed the two brothers standing there with their arms held high from their sides, avoiding spoiling the creases in their shirts, and looking like two hot seagulls on a summer day. The silver Scuba head badge and gold jump wings glistening on the staff sergeant’s green utility shirt caught Stanley Tufts’ eye and he put a finger toward them for a touch.

“Sorry, sir,” Rhodes said, and caught Stanley Tufts’s approaching digit, and stopped it before it made contact. “You can look, but please don’t touch. I hate fingerprints on my shit. I might lose my mind and cut off your hand.”

Charlie Heyster laughed, looking haughtily at the enlisted Marine fending off his pal Stanley’s envious fingers. Then he looked at McKay.

“Don’t worry about Stanley, he’s like a greedy little magpie when it comes to shiny objects. Haven’t seen you in court for a while, T. D.,” Heyster said to the lieutenant, fingering the Bronze Star hanging on his shirt, and then glanced at Staff Sergeant Rhodes to see if he had anything smart to say to him.

“Doing mostly research,” McKay said, “helping Terry O’Connor and Wayne Ebberhardt with their murder case, coming up in two weeks.”

“Supposedly, they’re talking about shipping this ax-wielding maniac to Okinawa for trial, or maybe even Kaneohe Bay or Pendleton,” Stanley Tufts said, smiling. “The Brothers B have gotten that word directly from the Fleet Marine Force Pacific judge advocate’s shop. The idea of some of you turds getting a trip like that has Dicky Doo going crazy. He’s already talked to Colonel Prunella about reassigning himself as the lead defense counsel.”

“Lead defense counsel?” McKay said, surprised. “Pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“He can do it,” Heyster said.

“You know, Kirkwood’s wife teaches school in Okinawa,” Stanley Tufts said smugly. “Bet he’s already promising his Siamese twin O’Connor extra blow jobs to let him join the defense. With Ebberhardt’s wife flying in and out of here, he could give a shit about stepping aside for Kirkwood.”

“Ebberhardt’s wife? Where do you pick up this shit?” McKay said.

“You think he has a gook whore in the ville, spending his off-duty with her?” Heyster said. “Lots of scuttlebutt going on about our man Wayne and some mystery woman.”

“Where he goes is his business,” McKay said, defending his buddy.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know about his wife, working as a stewardess on the freedom bird,” Heyster said, arching his eyebrows. “Whenever the plane gets grounded, which is almost every week now, our busy bootlegger lieutenant from North Carolina disappears for the overnight. Don’t tell me you don’t know that, either?”

“I wouldn’t tell you shit if I did know,” McKay said, and looked at Paul Rhodes, who stood there, trying to ignore the insulting cuts by the prosecutor captain.

“Dicky Doo is gunning to catch them,” Stanley Tufts said, spreading a wide smile and watching McKay’s face as he did it.

“Catch them at what?” McKay snarled, throwing the glass of ice water he had nursed into the trash can, shattering the tumbler with a loud crash. “They’re married. If she’s working here legally, and he’s on his own time, not out of bounds, then what the hell does Dicky Doo expect to do?”

“You know Major Dickinson,” Heyster said, smiling, satisfied he had finally uncorked McKay’s anger. “He doesn’t have to have any actual violations to get the guy. He plays by jungle rules, didn’t you hear?”

“Gentlemen, sorry to break up such fine company and warm conversation, but the staff sergeant and I have some business to attend,” McKay said, taking Rhodes by the arm and leading him away.

“What business?” Rhodes said, and caught the eyes of Doc Hamilton, Lionel McCoy, and Baby Huey, who now followed him and the lieutenant.

“I need to get out of here,” McKay said, heading toward the barracks. “I’ve got a couple of canteens of some pretty good homemade whiskey in my locker, if you want a drink. We can come back out here later, once the pig is done.”

“Hey, Doc,” Rhodes said, looking over his shoulder at his comrades, “maybe you and Sneed ought to grab a few of those pineapples and some beers and bring them, too.”

“Sounds good, we’ll be right behind you,” Hamilton said, making a quick stop at the pineapple counter, and another at a trash can filled with ice, water, and cans of beer.

“Sir, what a surprise!” Jon Kirkwood told Major Danger, seeing him and his three enlisted cohorts from LZ Ross standing near the pig turning on the spit. Already, hungry bystanders had snatched small chunks of juicy pork off the loin and hams.

“I told you I was mentioning you in my dispatches,” Hembee said, laughing, pinching a chunk of golden crisp meat off the pig’s shoulder. “When did you guys find out that you were getting medals?”

“We had no idea at all, until this morning, when the squadron first sergeant more or less ordered us out on the parade deck and had us walk through the ceremony while the troops rehearsed,” Terry O’Connor told the major, shaking his free hand and looking past his right shoulder where Goose, Rat, and Elvis stood smiling, each holding a cold beer.

“Glad to see that you guys made the party, too,” O’Connor added, putting out his hand to the trio of enlisted Marines. “Any word on Henry?”

“He’s recovered some vision in his right eye, but they ended up taking out the left one,” Hembee said. “He’s back home in Knoxville, out of the Corps, of course, but he still keeps in touch. We get a letter from him every week. He said to tell you guys thanks for coming out to the hospital ship and visiting him while he was still here.”

“Hey, you know us, Marines first,” Kirkwood said, and put his arm around King Rat. “We’re a team, right?”

“How’s your brain-housing-group these days?” O’Connor asked Rat, holding the rapidly dwindling remains of a six-pack of beer under his arm.

“Still get some pretty wicked headaches, but at least I didn’t go blind,” Rat said, and glanced at Elvis, who still wore a patch on his injured eye. “A few stitches across the side of my head, and a mangled ear, but that ain’t shit.”

“Funny how you seemed worse off at the time, and came out best,” O’Connor said, slapping King Rat across the shoulder.

“Anyone see McKay?” First Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt asked, joining the cluster of Marines.

“Wasn’t he with that bunch from Third Recon?” Kirkwood said, looking at the growing multitude of faces filling the lawn behind the Officers’ Club, eating fresh pineapple and sipping cold beer while awaiting the roast pig.

“He had a snootful this morning,” O’Connor said, looking at the crowd, trying to see any of the reconnaissance Marines or navy corpsman who had accompanied him in the barracks earlier. “I see that recon colonel over there with General Cushman and General Anderson, along with Colonel Prunella and Dicky Doo, and I see some of the recon platoon here and there, but I don’t see McKay or the two sergeants and the corpsman, either. If I had to look for him, I think I might try the barracks. Ten to one that motley crew went back to his cube to sample some of your white lightning that he’s got stacked in the bottom of his wall locker. Besides, from what I saw of our boy Tommy, he probably ducked from sight to stay out of trouble. A few belts, and no telling what he might say to our favorite major, and he’d do it in front of all that heavy brass, too.”

“Probably for the best that he’s not here,” Ebberhardt agreed, looking at the cluster of senior officers glad-handing with the Third Marine Amphibious Force commanding general, Lieutenant General Robert E. Cushman Jr., and the commanding general of the First Marine Aircraft Wing, and Deputy Commander for Air, III MAF, Major General Norman J. Anderson. Among the circle of colonels and two generals, Major Dudley L. Dickinson beamed with excessive animation, and now hastily beckoned Kirkwood, O’Connor, and Ebberhardt to join the conversation of the elite group of officers.

“Maybe we should have ducked out with McKay to the barracks,” O’Connor said, waving back at Major Dickinson and nodding, acknowledging the summons. “This ought to be good.”

“What ought to be good?” Kirkwood said, walking toward the group of Marines where Major Dickinson busily licked boots and kissed ass.

“I want to hear what that son of a bitch has to say about Tommy and us in front of General Cushman and General Anderson,” O’Connor muttered as he walked to the circle, beer in hand. Then he gave Dicky Doo a loud slap between the shoulder blades and asked, “How’s my favorite mojo?”

“Terry, my boy,” Dickinson heartily bellowed, clapped O’Connor across the back, and then pulled Kirkwood into the circle by his arm. “Great here. How are my favorite two defense lawyers?”

“Where’s Lieutenant McKay?” Lieutenant Colonel Prunella asked happily.

“I think he’s having a few private drinks with some of the boys from that reconnaissance platoon,” Kirkwood said, and then looked at the two commanding generals. “General Cushman, General Anderson, gentlemen, I have to say, honestly, I am overwhelmed. I know I can speak for Terry when I say that today’s ceremony will be a high point in both our lives. I know that Lieutenant McKay is equally honored at your presence here today.”

The big-shouldered, square-jawed three-star general who commanded all Marines in Vietnam, offered the two captains a wide smile and put out his hand to them. “I enjoyed reading in the report from Seventh Marines how you two fellows gave up your helicopter for their wounded, and then when the enemy attacked, you pitched in the fight out on the perimeter. I know officers who you couldn’t blast out of the bunker with a stick of dynamite.”

“Marines first, sir,” O’Connor offered, and put his arm over the shoulders of Major Dickinson.

“Damned right,” Major Dickinson said, putting on a proud-faced show. “As I told both you and General Anderson, I am encouraged to see initiative like some of my attorneys have shown, getting out in the bush when they can, eating grub with our men on the front lines.”

Lieutenant Colonel Prunella sipped his beer and tried to hide any appearance of incredulity that might creep across his face, hearing his deputy lie so boldly, and in front of him, too.

“Well, Major Dickinson,” the staff judge advocate then said, looking cooly at the military justice officer, “I take it then, based on these expressions of yours, that little bit of paperwork sitting on my desk that I have thankfully neglected to forward to headquarters squadron for processing needs to come back to you?”

Dicky Doo flushed red. Terry O’Connor and Jon Kirkwood did their best to hide grins that wanted to burst out in laughter. Wayne Ebberhardt, who stood on the fringe of the circle, did begin laughing, and quickly walked away.

“Oh, sir,” Dickinson stammered, blinking and smiling at the two general officers who smiled back, oblivious to the meaning of Prunella’s comment. “Oh, that. Yes, it’s just some routine garbage, and it’s already been overtaken by events. Just toss it in the can, sir. You know how things get sometimes, so busy and all. It’s just some meaningless forms, already replaced, and there are no problems. No problems at all with it, sir.”

Both generals now looked more confused, but resisted asking any questions that delved into matters best handled well below their pay grades.

Prunella smiled at Kirkwood and O’Connor and then turned to the generals. “Gentlemen, let me escort you to our table. I think that pig ought to be roasted by now pretty close to perfection,” the lieutenant colonel said, leading the two commanders, followed in trace by a gaggle of colonels. Several steps away he glanced back at the major and two captains and smiled again.

“Don’t you fucking laugh at me. Don’t you dare!” Major Dickinson hissed between his clenched teeth, and smiled and waved back at Lieutenant Colonel Prunella. Then he snapped his face toward the two captains and seethed, “Go ahead and gloat at my humiliation today, gentlemen. I know you will. All I can say right now is, wear those medals proudly. My turn will come. You’re going to fucking pay. Believe me, you’re going to pay. Both of you, McKay, Ebberhardt, and that idiot Carter, just stand the fuck by. I may have had to tear up McKay’s charge sheet, but it doesn’t mean that the shitbird’s gotten away with anything. I’ll still have his ass, and yours too. Your latest stunt, O’Connor, taking the colonel’s jeep, usurping my authority, I have some special plans for you. Enjoy the day, gentlemen. Have fun at your luau. Drink up! Because payback is coming, and it is a motherfucker.”

Dickinson hurled his half-full beer at a trash barrel three steps from him and missed. Michael Carter, who had skulked nearby, watching the show, dutifully picked up the can and dropped it in the waste bin. The major shook his head at the gangly captain’s pitiful gesture and walked away, stopping momentarily at the bar, where he picked up a six-pack of beer, and then tromped, heavy-footed, toward his office.

Buck Taylor and Archie Gunn stepped quickly past the array of flower-festooned tables draped with white and red cloths set beneath a line of general-purpose tents with the sides rolled up, rigged as awnings for the party. Wayne Ebberhardt chased close behind them, all three of the men laughing.

“I see the asshole left your little shindig,” Taylor said, popping open a beer and handing it to Kirkwood, and then giving one to O’Connor.

“I guess Ebberhardt already filled you in,” Kirkwood said, taking a gulp from the can.

“Wayne, you left too soon,” O’Connor added, guzzling several swallows of beer. “The funniest part came when the colonel left us alone with the son of a bitch. Oh, and Wayne, he included your name in his tirade, too. Consider yourself mentioned in dispatches.”

“My name? What did I do?” Ebberhardt asked, and then laughed. “Like I give a shit.”

“Speaking of not giving a shit, where’s McKay?” Taylor asked, opening himself a beer.

“Drunk, no doubt, by now. He got an early start,” O’Connor said, and then looked at Ebberhardt. “You didn’t happen to look in the barracks for him?”

“Yeah, he’s there,” Ebberhardt said, and then frowned. “He and those recon guys. They threw me out of my own cube. They weren’t drunk or anything. No booze. Nothing. Just talking. Sitting on my rack, shooting the shit. Personal stuff, I guess.”

Archie Gunn sucked down three beers without saying a word and then belched as he said, “Ole T. D.’s got the bugaboo.”

“Bugaboo?” O’Connor asked.

“Yeah, he hates living,” Gunn added. “Maybe those recon boys that was with him in the shit can help him shake it off. Hope so. Two weeks ago, he went flying over Charlie Ridge with me, and we dropped half a box of grenades on some gooners running down a trail. Dumb motherfucker tried to jump out the door on top of one of them. Like Gene Autry or something. He’s got that bugaboo bad.”

“He did come out and get his medal today, that’s something,” Ebberhardt said, pulling a beer from a six-pack that Gunn held under his arm.

Kirkwood, O’Connor, Buck Taylor, and Lobo sipped beer in their circle of friends and said nothing.

“All the cash!” Pitts sang out and hugged Huong. “You got the money out!”

“This dog name shit make it so,” Huong said, kneeling by the mangy beast and putting his arm around him.

“He have some kind of CID radar?” Pitts said, still laughing at the sight of their loot.

“You make joke, but he do,” Huong said, putting a pan of roasted pork ribs on the floor for the mutt. “We owe him plenty ribs, rest of his life.”

“If he’s responsible for getting our money out, I say treat him like one of the family,” Pitts said, and then looked at James Harris, who now sat on the floor smiling at his dog.

“I tole you he’s good to keep around,” Harris said, watching Turd chomp on the bones as he gobbled the cherry-colored, fire-roasted meat.

“That our dinner you feeding him?” Pitts then said, looking for more roast pork on the wood-burning stove that stood in the back corner of the thatched-roof farm home.

“We eat rice and bean,” Huong said, walking to a pot. “This Turd, he need to have the meat.”

“Well, that’s a lot of meat. Four whole racks of ribs,” Pitts said, studying the dog’s rapidly expanding belly.

“He eat his fill now,” Huong said, “then he come back later for more. We save for him. You okay with this, boss?”

“Oh, sure!” Pitts answered, walking to the pot and taking a bowl from the shelf and filling it with the rice, beans, and some variety of seasoned meat dinner that sat steaming on the stove. “You got some nuc-mom and chili peppers to throw on this?”

“Take cover off that dish, you see nuc-mom,” Huong said, pointing to a red and white ceramic bowl with a yellow ceramic lid, and a small ceramic ladle inside it. “It plenty hot, boss. I no think you want more chili with it.”

James Harris, famished, had thought of stealing one of Turd’s giant helping of pork ribs, but when he reached for an untouched rack of the meat, the dog snapped at his hand, and raised the hair on his back at him, showing his teeth.

All three cowboys in the room and Brian Pitts laughed watching Mau Mau scoot across the floor, dodging the dog’s slashing choppers.

“You better get a bowl of this shit, my man,” Pitts said, and looked at Huong. “With three million bucks laying on the floor, I hope we can afford something to drink.”

“Chung got some 33 Beer, but we no have ice,” Huong said, pointing to his brother, who took the lid off a tub of water and pulled out two bottles of the Vietnamese brew. “It taste best when you drink like this anyway. American make taste bad with too much cold.”

“Fuck, this piss?” Harris said, taking a bottle and knocking the lid off on the edge of the counter. “You can’t get it cold enough to make it taste good.”

Huong glared at the black Marine deserter and then walked back to the dog, whose belly now took on the appearance of a dirigible, hanging beneath his bony but now wide-spread hips and ribs. When he knelt by the ugly brown mutt, instead of it growling at the Vietnamese cowboy as he had done to Mau Mau, the beast wagged his tail, and welcomed the man stroking him on the head.

“We take Turd to Saigon with us I think. Okay, boss?” Huong said to Pitts, and then smiled at Harris, who frowned at his pet, who seemed to have betrayed his loyalty to another man. “He still love you, Mau Mau. Turd just no like to share his food. He starve too much his life.”

“Yeah, I know how he feels,” Harris said, and sucked down more Vietnamese beer as he filled a bowl with rice.

“So tell me how Turd saved the day,” Brian Pitts said, taking a wicker-bottomed, straight-back chair from a row of them set against the wall, and sat on it while he ate his dinner.

“This morning, maybe thirty minutes after you go to meet that no-good shitbird Elmo,” Huong began, “Turd, he start cry and whine like he need go ca-ca bad outside. So I hurry open door, and he run to gate, look out, run back, and go hide. Then he start bark and bark like he always do when rocket attack come. You know, he no like thunder or rocket.”

“That all he did?” Pitts asked, shrugging. “From how you described it at first, it sounded like he told you the spooks were on their way.”

“He do tell me that,” Huong insisted. “I close door, he run to it again, cry, cry, cry, I open door, he run to gate, bark and run go hide, and bark, bark, bark. Then he run door again. Pretty quick I go take look at what make him bark. No thunder, no rocket. But I see white van down street. Then I see Benny Lam and Major Toan standing on rooftop. They watch us with what you call these thing?”

“Binoculars,” Pitts said, helping his top cowboy find the words as he held his hands around his eyes, mimicking the field glasses.

“I know we got set up. That no-good shitbird Elmo,” Huong hissed, and then spit on the floor after saying James Elmore’s name.

“I tell Chung to take Ty and Bao, get in black Mercedes, and go where you meet Elmo,” Huong said, and then spit on the floor again. “We know CID watch us, so we take suitcase, valise, box, all pack full of junk, clothes, what we can find, and we put in backseat and boot of car. That way they maybe follow them so I can get out with our money.”

“Good thinking, Huong,” Pitts said, scraping the last of his rice from the bowl.

“We lucky that old man Tran Giap Nguyen come today and clean courtyard for party you plan tomorrow, you know?” Huong said, smiling.

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about that,” Pitts said. “Should be interesting when the guests start arriving.”

“Yeah,” Huong said and laughed. “Maybe Nanna and some girls still be there. Benny Lam, he probably already put them working for him.”

“So old man Tran is there with his boys?” Pitts said, putting his empty bowl in a pan, and then fishing out another 33 Beer from the tub of water.

“He there with his two boys,” Huong said, now getting himself one of the beers. “They cut bush along outside wall and patio. I tell Tran to back his three-wheel truck onto porch and then start cut leaf off palm tree.”

“Yeah, that big date palm by the back door, sure,” Pitts said, sitting back in the chair and sipping the beer.

“While he have that little truck park by door, I go inside and get cash and lay in back of truck,” Huong said, squatting on his heels and sipping the beer. “I put in all six seabags, and then we pile dirt and trash, and palm leaf on top. Hide money good. I give Tran ten thousand American cash so he help good. No talk, nobody.

“While CID go follow Chung in Mercedes, maybe take look at your laundry,” Huong laughed, “I put on work clothes, straw hat, and get in truck with old Tran. His two boys get in back with this dog, Turd, and sit on top palm leaf and trash. We drive out like we go dump. We look like worker no matter much. Two Marine MP and two cop belong Major Toan they stop us at corner. We no talk English, just Vietnamese. We play dumb, good. Look at truck. Look at me. Look at two boy and Turd in back, then wave past.”

Huong smiled and shrugged, “That dog you name shit, he do good. I no see CID before too late. This way we get out, get money, and all okay now.”

“Yeah,” Harris grumbled, crouched in the corner, looking at his spit-shined boot toes.

“What you be piss about?” Huong scowled at Mau Mau. “You always piss off. Why? We got money, we okay.”

“James Elmore got me pissed, man,” Harris said, looking up at Pitts.

“When I said you stay here and take care of him, I was only kidding,” Brian Pitts said, looking at Harris scowl. “Benny Lam has already taken over the house, and like Huong said, probably got the girls and Nanna working for him now, too. I guarantee you that as soon as CID went through the place, he moved in. He’s wanted the ranch ever since I killed Tommy Nguyen. Meanwhile, I guarantee Major Toan and Benny already had our business split between them last Wednesday, when they knew CID was taking us down. We don’t have a fucking thing to prove by killing James Elmore, that sack of worthless scum. No way I’m going back there.”

“Like I done tole you,” Harris glared, throwing his beer bottle, shattering it in a sack of trash, “I want to put that motherfucker on his knees while I drill a .45 through the top of his head. I don’t want to go to Saigon or Bangkok or anyplace else until I kill that son of a bitch.”

Brian Pitts stared at the floor and looked into the top of his beer bottle, as though the answer to how to handle his cohort’s anger floated in the suds drifting across the top of the yellow brew. Then he looked at Huong.

“What if Harris stayed back with you, helped you take care of that business we talked about, should I need to disappear,” Pitts said to Huong.

“Sure, he stay,” Huong said, and looked at the dog. “Turd stay, too. We ride Saigon, the three of us. I think this dog be happy that way. Ride Saigon with his friend.”

“Tell you what, Mau Mau,” Pitts said, and looked cold-eyed at the angry man, “you go to fucking up, and Huong or Bao will kill your ass. My orders. Discipline, my man. That’s how to win. Discipline. The Marines taught me that much, and I believe it. You go off half-cocked, running on a rampage, slinging lead in the ville, killing people all sloppy and shit, then you become a liability. Understand?

“I want you, Huong, and Bao all three in Saigon with me in two weeks. Got it? Two weeks. You can help them take care of this business. I’ll explain what we aim to do. You can kill Elmore if you get the opportunity. That’s if you get the opportunity. We will not compromise what we have going to Saigon by some blind hunt for rabid vengeance. Fuck, man, he only ratted us out. We’re sitting on nearly three million in cash right here, plus that small change we got stashed. Huong and the boys got their stash down here, too. All that in Saigon, man, we’ll take over down there.”

Harris looked at Brian Pitts, smiled, and nodded his head, agreeing.

“You right, boss,” Harris said, and then looked at Huong. “Just tell me what we need to do. I get it done. Me and old Turd here.”

“Discipline, Mau Mau,” Pitts said. “Anytime you feel the urge to rebel, you just remember, discipline. And Huong with his .45 in your ear.”

“I got that, man,” Harris said, rubbing the side of his head where the Vietnamese cowboy had slapped him with the pistol nearly four months ago.

“So you leave to Saigon tomorrow, yes,” Huong said, looking at Pitts and his brother, Chung.

“Say,” Harris asked, clearing his throat and looking at the six seabags full of money, “how you going to haul that much cash down there without some inspection finding it?”

The light-skinned Marine deserter laughed and tilted his head sideways, giving Harris a smug glance.

“After all we’ve done here, you wonder how we can haul six seabags of money to Saigon?” Pitts asked, still chuckling. “We’ve shipped hundreds of pounds of heroin to the States, and never a hitch. Getting this money down south is nothing.”

Harris looked at the floor, feeling stupid.

“I’m sorry, Mau Mau,” Pitts said, seeing the man’s embarrassment for asking the question. “Look, I keep forgetting that you have no scope of what kind of business we did. You just got a glimpse at the very surface when we had to yank up the stakes. You saw that old blue dump truck outside?”

Harris, feeling a bit of his pride returning, looked up and nodded, “Yeah, I saw it out there.”

“It has a three-yard bed,” Pitts said, raising his eyebrows to emphasize the capacity of the dump truck. “That’s a lot of topsoil if you don’t know how big three square yards of dirt is. We lay the duffels full of money on the bottom of the bed, zipped inside some rubber body bags we have stashed, and then pile pig shit on top of it. A few square yards of pig shit on top will stop about any cop from digging to the bottom of that truckbed.

“We get to Huong’s family out west of Saigon, and we dump the shit, and the money lands on top. Unzip the body bags and take it to the hooch.

“I’ve got a bank in Bangkok, set up the account a year or so ago. I got a friend, who owes me a big, big favor, and he flies a puddle jumper for Bird Airways in Cambodia. You know, they’re what Air America is over here. Anyway, when we get going in Saigon, we will ship a large part of our capital on his plane to Bangkok. There, my bank will wire it to a Swiss account in Zurich.

“We get tired of Saigon, we can go where we want. New identities. Everything. Rich as a motherfucker.”

Turd, with his belly almost ready to burst, walked to James Harris and laid his head across the knees of the young man, who sat cross-legged on the floor. Mau Mau looked at Brian and Huong and smiled happily at the two men.

“That be real cool, man,” Harris said, leaning over to the tub of water and fishing out another 33 Beer, knocking off its top on the rim of the tub. “Maybe I go back to Chicago in a while, too. Rich as a motherfucker. Got me a nice suit. Nice car. Have me a nice house. All that shit.”

While the world grew dark outside the Vietnamese peasant farmhouse and the surrounding village that lay quiet in the night, the light from small fires flickered from the windows as noisy insects and frogs chirped beneath a drizzle that began to fall. Inside, warmed by the glow of the cooking stove and a kerosene lamp, the two Americans with six Vietnamese cowboys made their beds. While they casually dreamed of the wonders that their fortunes might soon buy them, they considered with reverence the hard tasks that lay ahead of them in the coming few days.