He bought some gum, angering the little girl selling postcards. She pouted, slapping him playfully.

“Cong Ly, you nguoi xau, you told me okay before, now I sell you for ten thousand dong, muoi ngan, muoi ngan!”

“Muoi ngan mac qua!” he replied laughingly, telling her she was charging way too much and then giving her a dollar, half again as much, for her useless postcards.

The cyclo drivers laughed merrily, teasing him for being a sucker as the two girls ran away. As they chattered he looked at the narrow, hopeful faces, the broken and missing teeth, the dirty baseball caps, the eyes that read his every move with an intuitive exactness, the suborning invitations that he knew were all a part of their routine, a practiced and professional game. Each of them wanted to work for Condley, but they also knew that he would not hire any of them other than Dzung. In Sai Gon a cyclo driver was much more than a ride. Used properly, he was part valet, part protector, and part courier. Treated fairly, he was also fiercely loyal, but he expected loyalty in return.

Dzung waved perfunctorily again, a silly smile on his face, stepping forward and claiming his longtime client and friend. The others laughed, a few of them pushing Dzung away, keeping him behind them even though they knew that he was Condley’s only choice.

“No, you take me, you take me! Dzung no good, Cong Ly! He lazy-y-y!”

But now Dzung was standing in front of Condley and the two grinned at each other as if they were brothers. Which in a way they were.

Just after his arrival in Sai Gon five years earlier, Condley had stood before a similar group of drivers, asking which one of them had been the best soldier during the war. And they had immediately turned to the serious-faced, tight-muscled little man, with a deference that had been palpable.

“Dzung,” said one of the gathered drivers, pointing to the man as the others began to fall away, looking for someone else to haul. In English it sounded like “zoom.” “He airborne soldier, many, many fights, many awards for bravery. His father was a general. He very smart, sir, already he study in the Vietnamese Military Academy at Da Lat. He do good job for you.”

Dzung had stepped forward, wearing a shy and almost weary grin, and addressed him in English. “Yes, sir. I was soldier Viet Nam Cong Hoa.”

“Dzung?” Condley had smiled, tasting the name on his tongue and liking the man instantly. “Dzung cam, huh?” Condley’s pronunciation changed the meaning to “Fearless,” giving Dzung his nickname.

“Thank you, sir.”