Satori - Don Winslow [109]
He looked for Nicholai’s reaction.
There was none.
The music ended and the band took a break. A waiter came over to Nicholai and said, “Monsieur Antonucci would like to see you in the back.”
Nicholai got up from his chair.
So did De Lhandes.
The waiter shook his head.
“Him,” he said, jutting his chin at Nicholai. “Not you.”
De Lhandes shrugged, and then said, “I’m going out for a night in Cholon, if you care to join me. I can be found at L’Arc-en-Ciel. Any cabbie will know it.”
“I don’t know.”
De Lhandes said, “We’ll make a night of it. A few drinks, maybe some gambling at Le Grand Monde. My pal Haverford is meeting me. Good man — he says he’s some sort of diplomat but of course he’s a spy.”
“It sounds like fun,” Nicholai said, “but I —”
“Oh, come along,” De Lhandes said. “Rumor is that Bao Dai himself will be there. Not a bad connection for a man hoping to set himself up in business here.”
“I’ll try,” Nicholai said.
He followed the waiter to the back room.
115
NICHOLAI SAT DOWN across the desk from Antonucci.
“You like my place?” the Corsican asked.
“It’s quite good, yes,” Nicholai answered.
The small backroom office was surprisingly cluttered. Somehow Nicholai had expected a neater, more businesslike atmosphere. The desk was a shambles of documents, letters, old newspapers, and overflowing ashtrays. A lamp, its shade stained with dead bugs, hung over the desk.
One of Antonucci’s thugs — a tall, thick man — leaned against the wall, the bulge in his jacket doubtless intentional. Antonucci relit his cigar, rolling it carefully around the flame of his lighter. Satisfied with the even burn, he turned his attention back to Nicholai and said, “You’re a young man. Ambitious.”
“Is that a problem?”
Antonucci shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
He waited for a response, but Nicholai knew that any response to such a wide opening gambit could only be a mistake. So he sipped his brandy and waited for Antonucci to move the next stone.
“Ambition is good in a young man,” Antonucci said, “if he is mature enough to know that with ambition should come respect.”
“Youth thinks it invents the world,” Nicholai said. “Maturity respects the world that it finds. I didn’t come to Saigon to change it or to disrespect its traditions, Monsieur Antonucci.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Antonucci said. “Tradition is that no one conducts certain kinds of trade in Saigon without paying respect to certain other people.”
So, Nicholai thought, the Union Corse already knows about my deal with the Binh Xuyen. Did Bay Vien inform them, or was it their fellow Corsican Signavi? Nicholai would place his money on the latter. “If certain men traditionally control, for example, the armaments trade — ‘men of respect,’ shall we call them — then that is one tradition that a young man would certainly wish to honor.”
“You are wise beyond your years.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Nicholai said, “what is the percentage on tradition here?”
“I am told that it depends,” Antonucci said, “on the particular cargo that is going in and out. But, say, three percent is traditional. So I hear, anyway.”
“Three?” Nicholai raised an eyebrow.
“Three.”
Nicholai raised his glass. “To tradition, then.”
“To tradition,” Antonucci said. “Per tu amicu.”
Nicholai downed his brandy and stood up. “I’ve taken too much of your time. Thank you for seeing me and providing me with your wise counsel.”
Antonucci nodded.
After Nicholai left, Antonucci told his thug, “Tell Yvette I wish to see her on the next break.”
Fifteen minutes later the saxophone player came into the office.
“You make eyes at strangers?” Antonucci asked her.
“No! I was just trying to be hospitable to the customers!”
He slid his belt from its loops and doubled it over.
116
SO, NICHOLAI THOUGHT as he walked out to find a cab, L’Union Corse wants its cut.
Why not? The cost of doing business.
He got into the back of the blue Renault, which took him down