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nobody, from the top brass on down, changed money at the legal rate of seventy-three Vietnamese piasters per U.S. dollar. Nobody. MACV generals sent their drivers out with their many dollars.
    You changed downtown for 120 to 130, depending on how close to payday it was, the higher number the day before, the lower the day after. The East Indians ran that show, and Mr. Singh’s rates were as competitive as anybody’s.
    “Got goodies you’re gonna love,” I told him.
    “I anticipate eagerly,” Mr. Singh said, peeking under the blanket we’d laid over the back seat.
    Though he wasn’t too thrilled about the lunchmeat, he swooned at the rifle and ammo.
    Yeah, I was a goldbrick and a dud. I would have been voted Soldier of the Month when the Mekong River froze over. But I was no traitor. No one hated commies more than I did. In the hands of a real soldier, the M-14 was a solid, reliable weapon, but we were phasing out the 14s in favor of the M-16. The VeeCee and NVA used the AK-47 the Russkis gave them, a weapon some claimed was superior to the 14 and 16 combined.
    Mr. Singh wouldn’t be selling this junk gun to the Reds, who’d laugh in his face while slitting his throat. It was destined to wind up in the hands of a wealthy Saigonese who wanted firepower around the house, and who could blame him?
    “Mr. Joseph, I have a special treat in store for you.”
    Which meant Singh had decided how he was gonna screw us. He led us through a bead curtain to a back room. He reached inside a lacquered table and said, “Mr. Joseph, I recall that you expressed concerns regarding personal security for yourself, did you not?”
    I’d once mentioned to Singh that I felt naked without any protection. I hinted that a stiletto would feel comfortable in my pocket in case I had to do close-order drill with a VC sapper or an angry bar girl.
    “Is there anything you don’t recall?”
    Mr. Singh smiled, his hand still in the drawer.  
    I played it cool, saying, “Ziggy and I figured on booze and cash. Fifty bucks minimum and a gallon of Johnny Walker Black Label, our favorite flavor of Scotch. Whatever else is icing on the cake.”
    I looked at Ziggy, who nodded, his neck creaking.
    Mr. Singh pulled out a tiny little Browning .25 caliber automatic pistol. It was as cute as a button. In its holster, it would be no more noticeable in my pants pocket than a wadded-up hankie.
    He commenced negotiations by making a face at the Spam. “This is a pork substance. As you gentlemen are two of my dearest friends, I shall endeavor not to take offense.”
    I couldn’t take my eyes off the peashooter. As I was the principal negotiator and weakened beyond repair by desire, Singh knew he had us by the short hairs. I settled for the popgun, a half-gallon of Johnny Walker Red Label--a lesser brand than Black--and a fat wad of piasters that added up to the grand sum of seven bucks.  
    On the way back to the 803rd, we stopped at an Esso station and slipped the pump jockey those piasters to paint over the Jeep’s old markings and stencil on 803 LD. If Ziggy was pissed about me giving away the farm to Singh, selfishly caving in because of the .25, he didn’t say so.
    His focus was on his sci-fi magazine, probably at the section in the story where Troy was obliterating an invading armada of the potato salad critters. The closer Mariner 4 got to Mars, the less interested Ziggy was in this planet. A sci-fi yarn could be set anywhere in the universe.
    The planet Mars, relatively speaking, was right around the corner from us. Mariner-4 was bringing reality and escape together for him. I hoped it wasn’t gonna be a head-on collision. His sci-fi was Ziggy’s greatest of escapes.
    My reality was the twelve months I was spending in Vietnam. That was the standard tour. Then it was Back to the World, the Land of the Big PX, the U.S. of A. You didn’t have to extend unless you wanted to. I had four months left. When you hit one hundred days to go, you were entitled