The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (11 page)

Her smile brightened. “I’d like that,” she said.

“But first, we’ve got to decide on the prize.”

“The prize?”

“For winning the race.” He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Jaguar.

“I didn’t know we were racing for a prize,” she said.

“Oh sure,” said Chung. “I won a date with you.”

“A date with me?” she said, flustered. “What would I have got if I’d won?” Chung grinned. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “A date with you.”

“Good job I won, huh?” smiled Chung. “How about next Saturday? I’ll pick you up here at eight.”

Debbie thought about it for a moment or two, then nodded. “Okay. But one condition.”

“Sure.” He already knew what it was.

“You bring the Ferrari.”

“Deal,” he said. “Till next Saturday, then.” He took his hand off the roof of her car and waved once. “Bye,” he said.

Debbie drove the car up the drive towards the house. She had been sure that Anthony Chung would try to kiss her and was vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t. She’d been annoyed that he had so easily beaten her, but she realised that there was little she could have done against a Ferrari. He hadn’t gloated, either, like so many men would have done. No, a date with him wouldn’t be a trial. In fact, she was already looking forward to it.

She parked the Jaguar next to her mother’s black convertible Saab and switched off the engine. She stroked the steering wheel and wondered what it would be like to drive Chung’s Ferrari. She jerked herself out of her daydream, locked the car and went into the house through the connecting door at the rear of the garage.

There were lights on in the lounge and Debbie pushed open the door. Her mother was sitting on the low leather sofa in front of the fireplace, a drink in her hands and a faraway look in her eyes. The fireplace was only lit during the winter months but it made a perfect focal point for the room. On top was a line of printed invitations, some embossed, most with gold around the edges. Anne and William Fielding received a constant stream of invitations to cocktail parties, dinners and junk trips. From where she stood by the door, Debbie could see her mother’s face reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror above the white marble fireplace. She looked sad and lost, like a little girl who’d mislaid her parents.

“Hi, Mum,” said Debbie.

Anne Fielding jerked as if wakening from a dream and the clear liquid in her glass slopped over the side and down her hand. “Shit,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her beige Chanel dress and wiped her hand, shaking her head as if annoyed at her loss of control. The dress was one of her favourites. It showed off what she thought was her best feature – her long, shapely legs – though it was her green eyes and long lashes that men usually found most appealing. Debbie had always been grateful that she’d inherited her mother’s hair, eyes and legs, though she felt cheated when it came to her figure. At forty-five, Anne Fielding had curves that would do credit to a lingerie model, firm breasts that turned the heads of men half her age and hips that were only an inch or so wider than when she was a teenager and before she’d given birth. She knew how good she looked, too, and enjoyed showing herself off. The reason she liked the Chanel so much was because it emphasised her cleavage, though she’d never have admitted it.

Debbie’s first thought had been that her mother had been waiting up for her, but she clearly had something on her mind. She walked into the room and sat down on the grey sofa. “Are you okay, Mum?” she asked, concern in her voice. It wasn’t unusual to find her mother sitting alone in the lounge with a drink late at night, but this was different. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

Anne Fielding rubbed her nose with the wet handkerchief. Debbie could smell the gin. “It’s stupid really,” said Anne. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it Dad?” Relations between her mother and father had been cool since before she’d left to go to university in Britain. But when she’d got back nine months earlier with an upper second-class degree in Communications Studies she’d sensed that the twenty-four-year marriage had taken a turn for the worse and the double bed in the master bedroom had been replaced by two singles.

Anne smiled thinly and shook her head. “No, it’s not your father.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s Sally Remnick. She’s leaving Hong Kong.” She brushed a lock of blonde hair from her face.

“For good?” Sally was just about Anne’s best friend and confidante, as well as her regular tennis partner at the Ladies’ Recreation Club.

Anne nodded. “She and Michael are being transferred to Singapore. Their bank is relocating its head office.” She threw the handkerchief on to the coffee table. “It’s not fair!” she said. “It’s not bloody well fair!” She picked up the glass and took a big swallow of her gin and tonic.

Over the past year at least a dozen of Anne Fielding’s close friends had left the colony, and Debbie knew that her mother was feeling increasingly isolated.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” she said helplessly, knowing there was nothing she could say that would make it better.

“Everybody’s leaving,” said Anne. “The rats are deserting the sinking ship and soon I’ll be the only one left.” Her hands were shaking. Debbie took the glass from her hands and placed it on the table next to the discarded handkerchief.

“They’re not rats, they’re just being sensible,” said Debbie. “They’re moving because they’re worried about what’ll happen after 1997, you know that. Everyone’s doing it, all the companies are moving to Singapore or Thailand. You mustn’t take it personally, Mum.”

Anne shook her head. “Oh, I know that. But they’re my friends, my last real friends in this godforsaken city. You don’t know how alone I feel, Debbie.”

“But doesn’t Dad …”

“Ha!” snorted Anne. “Your father’s only concern is the bank and his blessed racehorses. You know that.”

Debbie nodded and took her mother’s hands in her own. They felt hot and she could feel them trembling. “I know, Mum. But you know how much the bank means to him. He has to safeguard its future after 1997.”

“And what about me, Debbie? What about my future? He’s fifty-eight years old and he’s got to retire at sixty, come what may. He has the bank for two years at most, he’s got the rest of his life with me. Where do you think his priorities should lie?” She pulled her right hand away and reached for the glass again.

“Please, Mum, don’t drink so much,” pleaded Debbie.

Anne watched her daughter over the top of her glass as she drank. She drained the gin and tonic and slowly put the glass back on the table.

“I don’t think I can take much more, Debbie,” said Anne quietly. “This place is going to the dogs. The crime rate’s up, the Hong Kong Chinese hate us, the mainland Chinese just want us to get the hell out, all the good people are leaving. Somebody spat at me while I was shopping yesterday.”

“What?”

“Somebody spat at me. Down my back. I didn’t realise until I got home. They’d spat all down the back of my jacket. I tell you, Debbie, they hate us for what we’ve done to them. You can see it in their eyes. It’s going to get worse, too, as 1997 approaches. It’s a pressure cooker just waiting to explode. And I don’t want to be here when it happens.”

“Please, Mum, you’re over-reacting, you really are. You’re just upset because Sally’s going, that’s all. You’ll feel better tomorrow, I know you will.”

Anne wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I suppose so,” she sighed. She stood up and smoothed the material of the dress around her thighs.

“Where were you tonight?” asked Debbie.

“Dinner at the Mandarin with Chase Manhattan,” she said.

“Dressed to kill?”

Anne’s smile brightened. “You know these Americans. Once they get into their fifties they drop wife number one and get themselves a trophy wife. I wanted them to see that your father already has one.”

“You look stunning,” said Debbie.

“Yeah, your mother can still cut a dash when she tries,” said Anne.

“I hope I look half as good as you when I’m your age,” sighed Debbie.

Anne raised a warning eyebrow. “Don’t push it, kid,” she said. “You’ve cheered me up, no need to overdo it.”

Debbie laughed and hugged her. There was the briefest flush of resentment when she felt her mother’s soft breasts press against her own flat chest but she suppressed it and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mum,” she said.

Anne broke away and bent down to pick up the glass. On her way to the kitchen she stopped and put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that policeman called. What’s his name? Neil?”

“Oh, hell.”

“Three times.”

Debbie pulled a face.

“Why don’t you put the poor lad out of his misery?” said Anne. “Just tell him you’re not interested.”

“He’s thirty-four years old, Mum. He’s hardly a lad.”

“That may be, but he’s acting like a lovelorn teenager,” said Anne.

“It’s worse than that,” said Debbie. “He wants to get engaged.”

“That’ll please your father no end,” said Anne, arching one eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t tell him, Mum. Please. Neil’s just being stupid.”

“For a policeman, he doesn’t seem to have much in the way of common sense.” She looked at Debbie, suddenly serious. “Don’t lead him on, Debbie. It’s not fair to him, and it could be embarrassing for you.”

“And for Dad,” said Debbie.

Anne nodded. “He’d hit the roof,” she said. “You’re not serious about him, are you?”

Debbie shook her head emphatically. “I went out with him a few times, that’s all, Mum. He just thought it was more serious than it was. He’s nice, but, you know …” She shrugged.

“Yeah,” said Anne. “I know.” She turned and went into the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the shiny wood floor. “Goodnight, God bless,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t forget we’re on the junk tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Mum,” Debbie replied, and scampered upstairs to her room. She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when her mother tiptoed back into the lounge to pour herself another gin and tonic.

There were ten men on the tour, and two women, and they met for the first time in Bangkok before flying on to Ho Chi Minh City. The men were a mixed bunch, but that was pretty much to be expected because the only thing they had in common was that at some point they’d served in Vietnam. It was obvious to Dan Lehman, though, that they had different memories of their time in Indochina. There was a balding overweight life insurance salesman from Seattle who’d brought his wife and who was pretty vague about what he’d actually done during his tour of duty. Lehman had a gut feeling that the only action he’d seen had been in the bars and brothels of downtown Saigon. His wife had the worn-out look of a woman who’d heard too many of his, probably fictional, war stories and she’d quickly teamed up with the other woman in the party, a perky, slim blonde who seemed to be a good deal older than her husband, Pete Cummings, a grunt who’d served during the last year of the war. He hadn’t been injured but several times he’d referred to friends he’d lost and Lehman reckoned he had a bad case of survivor’s guilt.

One thing had hit Lehman as soon as the group had assembled at the Indra Regent Hotel in Bangkok and been introduced by the tour group leader, a big-boned Australian girl with a bad case of sunburn, and that was that there was only one black guy on the trip. Statistically there was something wrong with that, because a disproportionate number of black Americans, and brown, and yellow, had served and died in Vietnam. The percentage of blacks in the army during the war was about the same as in the States – about twelve per cent. But blacks made up twenty per cent of combat troops and accounted for almost a quarter of casualties. Yet only three per cent of officers weren’t white. Lehman wondered immediately why there was only one black in the group. His first thought was that it was a question of money. Most of the non-whites who’d served had been poor, with little or no prospects, so maybe they just didn’t have the money to relive memories which weren’t all that pleasant in the first place. But then he realised there was probably more to it than that. Maybe it was because they’d been used to hardships all their lives and the Nam was just another load of shit they had to go through, like street gangs, probation and prison, and once they’d done their tour they just moved on. More than once Lehman had been told by black grunts he was dropping into a hot LZ that it was nothing compared to the Bronx on a Saturday night. Guys like Cummings, though, were pulled away from loving homes, small towns full of friends and memories, and thrown into hostile jungles with a back-breaking pack and a loaded gun. The lives they went back to would never seem the same again and the mental scars took that much longer to heal. But it seemed too trite, Lehman thought, to suggest that blacks were more able than whites to come to terms with what had happened during the war. Maybe the answer was even simpler. Maybe they just didn’t want to hang around with a bunch of white vets reliving old times, times when the whites got the medals and promotions and the blacks got the bullets and the latrine duty.

The black guy on the trip, Barton Lewis, had been a crew chief with the 1st Cav and now worked as a mechanic in Baltimore, a city Lehman had visited occasionally but never liked. He was affable and easy-going and usually when the group had travelled
en masse
Lehman had found himself sitting next to him. He was a good talker, not full of the gung-ho bullshit that poured forth from the salesman from Seattle, but made careful observations about the people and places they passed through, told jokes that didn’t have a sarcastic edge to them and stories which more often than not had himself as the fall guy. He had a ready laugh but sometimes it seemed to Lehman that it was a little forced and there were times when Lewis lapsed into long silences. Then his forehead would be creased with worry lines and his eyes narrowed as if he had a headache. Lehman wasn’t sure why Lewis had come on the trip. He’d discussed his theory about why blacks didn’t seem to want to return to Vietnam and Lewis had agreed but hadn’t been forthcoming about his own reasons and Lehman hadn’t pressed him.