“Brandon,” he said, clutching the top of her thighs in an effort to slow her down. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Hi, guys.”

She rolled from Simolzak’s belly and clutched a sheet around her shoulders, crouching on her knees on the mattress. She was still panting heavily. Her eyes were wild and her hair was a sweaty tangle that stuck to her face and neck. She started looking from Simolzak to Condley and back again, as if waiting for one or the other to rescue her from her dilemma.

Simolzak sat up in the bed, slowly pulling a part of the sheet over his crotch. His eyes were glued to Condley’s, looking for clues. Condley leaned against the doorway, holding Simolzak’s gaze. Both men were fighters, and both knew the other would fight or die if the wrong words were said.

“I can explain this,” Simolzak finally said.

“Look—” started Condley.

“No! Don’t say anything, Cong Ly!” Van cut him off, raising two fists full of sheets up to her chin, not waiting for the inevitable to play out. “I’m not going back to Sai Gon!”

“She called me,” said Simolzak. “She asked me. Is that any different than Sal Marino’s daughter asking you?”

Despite himself, Condley started chuckling softly. “Keep the girl,” he said. “I need your gun.”

Simolzak glanced tensely down toward the floor. Condley knew there would be a pistol underneath the bed. “Can I trust you if I give it to you?” he asked.

“Can I trust you if you reach for it?” said Condley.

“Brandon! Of course you can. We’ve been friends for a very long time. The last thing I want to do is kill you.”

“Then you can trust me.”

Slowly, Simolzak reached under the bed, pulling out a new nine-millimeter Glock. “It’s loaded, Brandon,” he said. “There’s an extra magazine in my desk, plus a box of ammo.”

“Give it to me.” As Simolzak started forward, Condley pointed quickly at him, a warning. “Turn it around so the barrel is toward you.” Simolzak turned the weapon around, giving it to Condley handle-first, then lay back on the bed.

Condley checked the pistol, pushing the slide back to make sure it was loaded. Then he pointed it at Simolzak. “Get up. You owe me five thousand dollars.”

“Now, wait a minute, Brandon! That was a fee!”

“Fuck your fucking fee, get me the money!”

Simolzak stood warily, starting to dress, but Condley moved toward him. “No clothes, no pit stops. Hands in the air. Move it!”

Simolzak moved slowly from the bedroom and down the stairs, naked, with his hands above his head. “This is unethical, Brandon. That was a deal.”

“Let’s just say I’m giving you a reciprocal charge for transporting a woman from Sai Gon.”