Comfort Zone (Vincent Calvino Crime Novel) by Christopher G. Moore

Author:Christopher G. Moore [Moore, Christopher G.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Crime, recent
Publisher: Heaven Lake Press
Published: 2010-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

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RUNNING a cover story about wanting to open a Saigon bar made for a good excuse, but changing the cover story to opening a nightclub gave him a perfect reason to be hanging out in a swank District One bar; it wasn’t just drinking, it was studying how the competition made it all come together, the layout, the staff, the furniture and, above all, the way they handled the clientele. Calvino eased onto an empty stool at the first bar, the Caravaggio wing, just inside the front entrance to the Q-Bar, and no sooner had he settled in and ordered a drink, than some guy in his late 20s, blonde hair, red-eyed, his jaw a little slack from drink, leaned over and pressed his shoulder against Calvino. “I remember you from the other night. You’re Doug’s friend, right? He said you’re gonna open a bar in Saigon. Not an original idea but it seems cool.”

“I’m thinking about it real hard,” said Calvino.

“Well, you should think real hard about putting your money here,” he said, taking a long drink out of the Tiger beer bottle.

“What’s your name?” asked Calvino.

“Josh.”

“Vincent,” extending his hand.

The young, well-built American shook it. “If you really want to know what I think, it’s that opening a bar in Saigon is a fucked idea.”

“Yeah, you got a bar?”

Josh shook his head.

“No, but I got an English school. In Saigon, running a bar is easier than operating an English school. Fewer people to pay off. I taught English in Jakarta before coming here. Jakarta is corrupt but it’s not a patch on Saigon. One day I’m painting the walls in one of my classrooms and some asshole guy from the government comes around. He says, ‘What are you doing? Painting walls? Drinking beer? Listening to music? Teachers don’t paint walls in Vietnam,’ he said. He couldn’t understand how a teacher could paint a fucking wall with one hand, drink beer with the other, listen to music and rap with his students. Get students to help paint their own school. It was unheard of. You know what he was afraid of?”

Calvino looked at Josh’s bloodshot eyes and saw a lot of pain which the booze was keeping just below the surface. This was what running a bar entailed—listening to other people’s suffering as they drank your booze, thinking that somehow, between the talking and the drinking, some of the pain should drain away.

“What was he afraid of?” asked Calvino.

“He was afraid that the school might be successful. His message was pretty clear. Keep it dirty and ugly. Don’t paint the fucking place. You might make the government school look bad. We can’t have foreigners doing things to make us look bad. He didn’t give a fuck that the school would help the students or his country. All he cared about was what was in it for him. He was motivated by greed. All of Saigon is motivated by greed. After you take out one of those government assholes for dinner you want to wash out your mouth, ears, nose, throat and hands.

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