“No,” the lethargic hotel clerk told Baker, he hadn’t seen anyone hanging around the hotel. And no betel-chewing youth either. Baker pulled out two dollars to help his memory. It didn’t, and the clerk didn’t seem as upset over a burglarized room as perhaps he should have been, but then maybe the new Republic of Vietnam, like everywhere else, was experiencing more crime than usual.
“You’d better call the police,” Baker said.
At this suggestion the clerk seemed to suddenly come to life, his alarm evident. The police would not be good for business. Besides, was Bac Baker sure he wanted to get involved with the police who, as Bac Baker must know, were often — he paused and looked about—”very difficult to deal with if you are a foreigner — and especially if you are American”?
“My understanding,” Baker said, “is that Hanoi has issued directives to this specific problem — that foreigners — potential investors, customers, especially Americans — who are here helping them fight the Chinese aggression are to be accorded all respect. Is this not so?”
The clerk spread his hands in the universal plea for understanding. “Yes, yes, of course,” he answered. Everyone knew about the official directives, but the police were sticky beaks, shoving their noses into all kinds of things that didn’t concern them.
“I don’t care if you call them or not,” Baker said. “Nothing of mine is missing, as far as I can tell.” The clerk seemed relieved. “How long,” Baker asked, “would it take me to get to Lang Bian and the nine hamlets that make up Lat village?”
“Ah!” The clerk was smiling, showing a row of dark brown stained teeth. “I can be of assistance. You cannot walk — is too far. You must take bus. Round-trip, you understand?”
“Never mind the bus. I’ll get a taxi.”
The clerk was shaking his head, eyes half closed. Baker sighed wearily. Couldn’t anything in this country be done simply, without either a bureaucratic hassle and/or money under the table?
“How much?”
“You will need a permit. This is fifteen dollars.”
Baker said nothing, waiting.
“Ah, yes. Twenty-five dollars for rental car. Bus take too long.”
“Who do I rent the car from?”
“Government office,” the clerk said, smiling. “Or you can ride bicycle.”
“Yeah, right,” Baker said. “Where do I get the permit?”
“Ah, Bac Baker. Here I can be of assistance.”
“I’ll bet.”
“No, no, no betting allowed. Strictly forbidden in—”
“How much?” Baker cut in.
“Forty dollars,” the clerk said, now the epitome of helpfulness, hastily adding, “Lat village very beautiful.”
“Where can I get the permit?”
“At police station. But you no worry. I can fix.”
Baker shook his head resignedly and paid half the total of forty dollars.
“You wait here, Bac Baker. I will arrange for car to come here.”
“The permit?”
“Permit also.”
“All right. But hurry it up.” The clerk was already on the phone. “Can I stay overnight in Lat?” Baker called out.
The clerk made a face. “Difficult, I think.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollar. Maybe no stay is possible.”
“Then how come you know it’s twenty dollars?”
“Ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” Baker imitated. “You wouldn’t have a connection with a hotel in Lat, would you?”
“Ha ha.”
“Look,” Baker demanded, “stop screwing me around. Fix the police permit, fix the goddamn rental, and fix me up overnight.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but why overnight?”
“Well, you tell me. Lat village”—he pronounced it correctly now as “Lak,” as a way of showing “Ha Ha” that he was more familiar with Vietnamese practices than Ha Ha had given him credit for—”is very beautiful, you told me. Maybe I want to take the walk up K’Lang in the moonlight.” K’Lang was the eastern peak of Lang Bian Mountain’s five peaks.
“Yes, yes,” Ha Ha agreed readily. “Beautiful in the moonshine.”
“Right. Now I want all this fixed up—” He glanced at his watch. “—by eleven this morning or I’m out of here. Understand? I’d just as rather be back in Saigon.” Baker still refused to call it Ho Chi Minh City — a little private rebellion.
“Okay-you pay ten dollar more. Overnight stay.”
“No I don’t. I don’t pay squat till I see a vehicle, a permit, and anything else I need. Understand?”
“ ‘Squat’?”
Baker didn’t elaborate. After a few seconds Ha Ha had figured it out.
“I will fix,” he said, and went out.
“Good,” Baker said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. By now his obsession with trying to find just one MIA or POW from ‘Nam was waning, at least for this morning. It was unusually hot for Dalat, normally an ideal climate year-round, and the haggling one had to go through to get the simplest government approval seemed twice as oppressive in the heat. Officially, Hanoi had issued more of what amounted to “help American” directives, and while this was being practiced in the north with regard to the USVUN alliance, to the south there were still many old former North Vietnamese Army regulars and cadres who were either too corrupt or too resentful of their old enemies to be of much help. Right there and then Ray Baker vowed that if nothing turned up in Lat village or Lang Bian Mountain, he’d head back to Saigon and turn his attention to some other problem that was more satisfying, maybe helping with the American Vietnamese adoption agency.
When the clerk arrived, he came in beaming. He had everything Bac Baker needed, and was especially proud of the rental. It was a jeep, either U.S. Army surplus, or as the Vietnamese had done with all the helos the U.S. had left behind, it was made up by cannibalizing the wrecks of several jeeps. The fact that he was now hiring a U.S.-made jeep to look for U.S. MIAs and POWs captured by the Vietnamese who were now allies with Americans struck Baker as an irony that only Vietnam vets would fully appreciate.
“Four-wheel drive!” the clerk announced proudly.
Baker nodded. “So I hear.”
“Good luck.”
Baker thanked him, then immediately wondered what the clerk had meant. Good luck for what? Did Ha Ha know more about his reason for going to Lak village, or had he, Baker, let it slip somehow? Then again, there wasn’t anything particularly secretive about an American official investigating a report about U.S. MIAs and POWs. In fact, maybe Ha Ha could help him. “You know anything about American MIAs and POWs?”
“No, no, nothing,” Ha Ha said.
“I’d pay good money.” Baker held up a twenty, and could have sworn he saw the clerk salivating at the prospect of more American dollars, but the Vietnamese’s answer was still no.
It was odd, Baker thought, because the clerk could have made up any old story and taken the twenty.