Satori - Don Winslow [101]
“I’ll introduce you to my tailor,” Mancini said. “Vietnamese guy at the ‘Botany’ shop, just down Catinat.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“You’re new to Saigon?”
“First time here.”
“You’re in for a treat,” Mancini said. “It’s a beautiful city, beautiful. So many pleasures on offer.”
And which, Nicholai wondered, are you going to offer me?
“Pastaga?” Mancini asked, using Marseille slang for pastis. He searched Nicholai’s eyes for any blink of incomprehension.
“I could do with a pastis,” Nicholai answered. Solange had covered the word with him many times and familiarized him with the thick yellow liqueur, a close cousin of absinthe.
“Ah, you’re from the south,” Mancini said.
“Montpellier,” Nicholai said, deciding to end the honeymoon. “But you knew that already.”
“I know everything, young man,” Mancini said amiably. “Come on, then. I won’t insult you with the crap we serve the colons. The real stuff is out here.”
As he led Nicholai out of the bar into a private garden, Mancini said, “Me, I’m from Corsica originally. But you already knew that. Did you also know that Corsicans make the best assassins in the world?”
“Is that right?” Nicholai answered. He wondered what the ninja might have to say about it.
“Take it as a fact.”
And a warning, Nicholai thought.
They walked into a narrow strip of garden where several older men sat around two white wrought-iron tables. The men all wore white short-sleeved shirts and either white or light khaki loose-fitting trousers. A couple of them sported broad-brimmed hats for protection against the sun.
Nicholai knew that he was looking at L’Union Corse.
Mancini took off his jacket, draped it on the back of a chair, sat down, and gestured for Nicholai to do likewise.
“This is my newest guest,” Mancini said as Nicholai took a chair. “Michel Guibert.”
He introduced each of the five men — Antonucci, Guarini, Ribieri, Sarti, Luciani — each of whom offered a hand with a gruff nod. Mancini filled Nicholai’s glass with pastis. The men looked on as Nicholai took the carafe of water set on the table and poured some in to dilute his drink. Then he raised the glass, said, “Salut,” and sipped. His familiarity with the pastaga seemed to relax the group, who sat back in the chairs, drank, and took the sun.
“So,” Mancini said, “what brings you to Saigon?”
“Business,” Nicholai answered.
“How is your father?” asked Antonucci.
Antonucci looked to be in his early fifties, and was as skinny as Mancini was stout. But the deeply tanned forearms under his rolled-up sleeves looked like iron, and despite his casual but expensive clothes, the man looked like he could be a day laborer.
“He’s well,” Nicholai responded. “You know him?”
“We’ve done business,” Antonucci said. “In the past.”
“Well,” Nicholai said, raising his glass, “here’s to the future.”
They drank a round. Then Antonucci raised his glass toward Mancini and said, “To my new neighbor.”
Mancini explained to Nicholai. “After years of trying, I just managed to acquire the Majestic Hotel, next door to Antonucci’s nightclub.”
“Your nightclub?” Nicholai asked.
“La Croix du Sud,” Antonucci said, then added pointedly, “In the Corsican quarter, on the harbor. Where all the imports and exports come and go.”
“You’d like his club,” Mancini said to Nicholai. “One of those pleasures we talked about.”
“Come tonight,” Antonucci said.
“Tonight?” Nicholai asked.
Antonucci leaned across the table and looked Nicholai full in the face. “Tonight.”
A little while later, Mancini and Antonucci went out the back gate and strolled across the broad Opera Square. On the other side, the Saigon Opera House loomed in all its French colonial glory. The other Corsicans had drifted home. It was that hour, “the hour of the pipe,” and these longtime residents of Saigon had acquired many local habits.
“What do you think?” Mancini asked.
“Smart young man,” Antonucci said, pausing for a moment to relight his cigar. “Maybe we can