Vo showed Condley to Muir’s table, speaking with a humble voice that was as soft as a church usher’s. “Good morning, Cong Ly. We don’t see you very much anymore.”

“You see me all the time, Vo. Everywhere I go.”

“Ah, Cong Ly. You are such a funny man.”

“That’s because Sai Gon makes me so happy! The government takes care of me. It makes sure that I am never really alone.” The two men shared a secret, knowing smile as Condley reached Muir’s table.

It was eight o’clock, straight up and down. Muir was sitting near a window, sipping on filtered coffee and eating an omelette. He was wearing tan Bermuda shorts, Nike running shoes with white calf-length socks, and another one of his ostentatious luau shirts. He checked his watch, nodding approvingly as if evaluating or perhaps merely establishing Condley’s promptness. “Very impressive, Brandon. You’re never on time in Hawaii.”

“I’m never on time in Viet Nam either. But you’ve got me curious.”

Muir chuckled, enjoying the mystery. “Well, I told you I deserved at least a day of R and R in Sai Gon.”

“Did you have to bring that shirt? You look idiotic, Professor.”

“And I suppose you think you’re a model for Calvin Klein?”

Condley fingered his old T-shirt, looking down at his faded jeans. “I dress like this for a reason. Half the people on the street are going to laugh at you. And the other half are going to try and rob you.”

“Ah, yes,” said Hanson sarcastically. “The mean streets of Sai Gon.”

“You make the wrong people mad around here and your life’s worth maybe twenty bucks.”

“They’d never touch an American, you know that. You’re always so melodramatic, Brandon.”

“Have you heard of the Hai Phong gangs? Go ahead, piss somebody off, Professor, and try going for a walk by yourself at night.”

Condley took a seat, quickly ordering an omelette, a sliced mango, and coffee from the waiting Vo. Watching the old waiter shuffle toward the kitchen, he nodded to Muir, casually stealing a piece of his French bread. “Don’t talk business in front of that guy. He’s a spy.”

Muir chuckled indulgently, folding his arms across his vast chest so that they rested on his ample belly. He looked as if he felt sorry for Condley. “Murder on the street. Octogenarian spies in the restaurants. Oh, my, you live a fantastic life, don’t you?”

“Okay, don’t believe me. But why do you think they always try to put American government people in this hotel?”

“We stay here because the Rex gives us a good rate. And there’s a certain nostalgia to the place, wouldn’t you say? Sometimes I feel ghosts from the war.”

“Did you leave any papers laying out in your room? Half of the bellboys work for the Interior Ministry.”