man! Zip, zap!”
It was a woman’s bawling. It came from somewhere near the cart. The cart was splashed with blood.
Stink licked his lips and grinned.
“Stupid,” Doc said. He was shaking his head. “Stupid, stupid.”
The cart was piled high with lamps and rugs and furniture. Three women sat there. The two old women were bawling. The other was a girl. A girl, not a woman: maybe twelve, maybe twenty-one. Her hair and eyes were black. She wore an
ao dai
and sandals and gold hoops through her ears. Hanging from a chain about her neck was a chrome cross.
“Greased lightning,” Stink said. “Hands like bullwhips.”
“Stupid.”
“Zingo, bingo, bang!”
“Criminal stupid.”
All three women were bawling now. Madhouse sounds. The bawling flickered in and out, sometimes very high, other times seeming to tremble and fade. The dead buffalo kept bleeding.
“Fastest hands in the West,” Stink tittered. He looked at Paul Berlin and flicked his eyebrows. “Zip, splash, totaled!”
They spent the night in the clearing.
Unbuckling the harness, Eddie and Doc dragged the dead buffalo off the road and covered it with branches. Oscar managed to quiet the other animal. Patting its nose, clucking, he led it to a tree and tethered it and brought it water. Stink built a campfire. Afterward, as dark came, the lieutenant began the interrogation.
“Refugees,” said the young woman, the girl. She glanced nervously at Stink Harris. “You know refugees? My aunts, they take me away. But the war chases us.”
As if on signal, the two old women began howling, their noses at the moon. The lieutenant waited. He rubbed his eyes.
“Look,” he said softly, “I’m sorry about this. War’s a lousy thing.”
“And now poor Nguyen.”
“Who?”
Sadly, moving only her head, the girl gestured in the direction of the dead water buffalo. “My aunts raised him from a tiny baby. Their own breasts. And now poor Nguyen—”
“Stupid,” Doc Peret said.
Stink looked up. He shrugged, picked up his weapon and began cleaning it.
They were silent. Leaning back against his rucksack, the lieutenant stared for a time into the fire. Then he blinked and looked at the girl.
“Again, I’m sorry. I am. These things—you know—these thingshappen. But right now, why not just spill the facts? Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“You will pay solace?” the girl said. “For Nguyen, you will pay reparations?”
“Maybe. Just tell the facts.”
She sighed. Her name was Sarkin Aung Wan. Part Chinese, part unknown. For many months now she had been a refugee, traveling west from Saigon with her two aunts. Home was Cholon. Many Chinese in Cholon, she said, many fine restaurants. Her father had once owned a restaurant, but now it was owned by her uncle. Her father had died in childbirth. A very sad thing. As her mother gave birth to twin babies, her father was led out of the waiting room and taken down many corridors and then shot. VC Number Ten, she said. VC, bad news. Her father, a dedicated and honest restaurateur, had been executed against a hospital wall for pilfering chickens from the cadre’s Cholon slaughterhouse. Unjustly, for he had always paid his bills and taxes. Two years later her mother died of grief. The family dispersed, brothers going to live with cousins, sisters spreading out among uncles and aunts, and the war continued, and Cholon became a combat zone, and in the end there was no choice but to leave. So the pair of buffalo were yoked up and harnessed, a few prized belongings were packed, and early one morning the girl and her two aunts began the journey west.
“Those are facts,” she said. “And now my aunts take me to become a refugee.”
Paul Berlin watched: smooth skin, dignity, eyes that were shy and bold, coarse black hair. She was young, though. Much too young. She smelled of soap and joss sticks. The gold hoop earrings sparkled.
“So,” the lieutenant finally said. “It’s a sad story. You
It was a woman’s bawling. It came from somewhere near the cart. The cart was splashed with blood.
Stink licked his lips and grinned.
“Stupid,” Doc said. He was shaking his head. “Stupid, stupid.”
The cart was piled high with lamps and rugs and furniture. Three women sat there. The two old women were bawling. The other was a girl. A girl, not a woman: maybe twelve, maybe twenty-one. Her hair and eyes were black. She wore an
ao dai
and sandals and gold hoops through her ears. Hanging from a chain about her neck was a chrome cross.
“Greased lightning,” Stink said. “Hands like bullwhips.”
“Stupid.”
“Zingo, bingo, bang!”
“Criminal stupid.”
All three women were bawling now. Madhouse sounds. The bawling flickered in and out, sometimes very high, other times seeming to tremble and fade. The dead buffalo kept bleeding.
“Fastest hands in the West,” Stink tittered. He looked at Paul Berlin and flicked his eyebrows. “Zip, splash, totaled!”
They spent the night in the clearing.
Unbuckling the harness, Eddie and Doc dragged the dead buffalo off the road and covered it with branches. Oscar managed to quiet the other animal. Patting its nose, clucking, he led it to a tree and tethered it and brought it water. Stink built a campfire. Afterward, as dark came, the lieutenant began the interrogation.
“Refugees,” said the young woman, the girl. She glanced nervously at Stink Harris. “You know refugees? My aunts, they take me away. But the war chases us.”
As if on signal, the two old women began howling, their noses at the moon. The lieutenant waited. He rubbed his eyes.
“Look,” he said softly, “I’m sorry about this. War’s a lousy thing.”
“And now poor Nguyen.”
“Who?”
Sadly, moving only her head, the girl gestured in the direction of the dead water buffalo. “My aunts raised him from a tiny baby. Their own breasts. And now poor Nguyen—”
“Stupid,” Doc Peret said.
Stink looked up. He shrugged, picked up his weapon and began cleaning it.
They were silent. Leaning back against his rucksack, the lieutenant stared for a time into the fire. Then he blinked and looked at the girl.
“Again, I’m sorry. I am. These things—you know—these thingshappen. But right now, why not just spill the facts? Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“You will pay solace?” the girl said. “For Nguyen, you will pay reparations?”
“Maybe. Just tell the facts.”
She sighed. Her name was Sarkin Aung Wan. Part Chinese, part unknown. For many months now she had been a refugee, traveling west from Saigon with her two aunts. Home was Cholon. Many Chinese in Cholon, she said, many fine restaurants. Her father had once owned a restaurant, but now it was owned by her uncle. Her father had died in childbirth. A very sad thing. As her mother gave birth to twin babies, her father was led out of the waiting room and taken down many corridors and then shot. VC Number Ten, she said. VC, bad news. Her father, a dedicated and honest restaurateur, had been executed against a hospital wall for pilfering chickens from the cadre’s Cholon slaughterhouse. Unjustly, for he had always paid his bills and taxes. Two years later her mother died of grief. The family dispersed, brothers going to live with cousins, sisters spreading out among uncles and aunts, and the war continued, and Cholon became a combat zone, and in the end there was no choice but to leave. So the pair of buffalo were yoked up and harnessed, a few prized belongings were packed, and early one morning the girl and her two aunts began the journey west.
“Those are facts,” she said. “And now my aunts take me to become a refugee.”
Paul Berlin watched: smooth skin, dignity, eyes that were shy and bold, coarse black hair. She was young, though. Much too young. She smelled of soap and joss sticks. The gold hoop earrings sparkled.
“So,” the lieutenant finally said. “It’s a sad story. You
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