Petain had paid the bill and now was standing. His eyes were on the door, signaling the maître d’ to have the valet summon his limo. He checked his watch for the tenth time and again put his hand possessively on Van’s shoulder. As Condley stood, Petain made a great display of reaching for his hand and shaking it dismissively.

“Bonjour, Mr. Condley. Good luck with all your skeletons.”

“Yeah, well, I hope you sell a lot of perfume down there in District Four.” Condley turned his back on Petain, leaning down to shake the hand of Tho, the wife of Colonel Pham. He spoke to her gently in Vietnamese. “Mrs. Pham, I will look forward to praying with you.”

“You must come to our home very soon,” she answered, her eyes then shifting to Van.

And as he walked out of the restaurant, Condley’s last glance was at the mischievous grin of Van herself. Petain’s hand was on her shoulder, but her eyes were on Condley.

Dzung had drunk three beers. He teetered atop his cyclo as he steadily pedaled Condley back toward District One.

“So I gave you too much dinner allowance,” teased Condley, noting Dzung’s reddened face and neck and the wetness in his eyes.

“No, Cong Ly,” laughed Dzung, his gaze now staring far away into the quiet darkness. “You gave me just the right dinner allowance. But I used it very badly!” He pedaled harder, working his way up a small hill, and now grew serious. “My little baby very sick, Cong Ly. Yesterday I take him to the hospital. They say they can do nothing for him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He just sick,” answered Dzung blandly, as if no further explanation were possible. They were nearing Condley’s hotel. Dzung pulled on his brake, stopping the cyclo. “Maybe he die. My wife, she very sad. I can do nothing. So tonight I drink beer.”

“I’m sorry, Dzung. If I can help, I will try.”

“Thank you, Cong Ly. But you are not a doctor.”

Condley jumped down from the cyclo, heading for the hotel’s front door.

“Tomorrow?” asked Dzung somewhat dizzily, watching him depart.

“Eight o’clock,” said Condley, waving good night. “Right here.”

Condley kept a permanent room in the Vien Dong Hotel, even though he spent more time in Hawaii than in Viet Nam. In his simply furnished room were a half dozen changes of clothes, a long shelf of books, a full medicine cabinet, a useless TV, and, incongruous with his normal style, a fax machine. He had arranged for the hotel to supply him with his own fax machine after numerous telephone messages from Hawaii had been boggled in translation by the well-meaning clerks who worked the front desk.