"“Aintcha gonna answer it, Shea"”

Hell. She remembered my name. Damned if I could remember hers. I grumbled, mostly to cover up for my lack of memory, and groped first for the bedside lamp, then for the receiver. In the light of the single bulb, the disarray of my bedroom was thrown into sharp relief. It’s usually a mess, but this must'’ve beenone wild night.

"This had better fucking be Ed McMahon."” I growled into the mouthpiece, in my best sleepy-bear-who-dosent-want-to-wake-up tone. Wasn't half-sham, either.

"I'm looking for Shamus Abrams?"” the voice at the other end said. Sounded fuzzy, probably long distance, but the voice sounded familiar. I started to come awake a little more.

"“You found him. Who teh’ hell is thi"

The receiver chuckled. "“Same odl’ Tank. Ya d'ont recognize me, budd"

” I frowned. "“I'tsfour in the morning, pal, and I can feel a hangover coming on. Ya wanna cut to the’ chas?e"

” This time, the almost-familiar voice laughed. "“No shit. You haven’t changed a bit. It's Rattler."

” My mind went click. I sat up, a grin forming on my face. "“Paul? Paul Riesing?"”

"The very same. You'’re one hard man to find, Shea"

” "“Well, god/dam, buddy. It's been what, 10 years? How the hell are you?”"

I could almost sense the grin on my old war-buddy'’s face. " “Not dog too shabby. Yourself?"

” I felt the light touch of what was likely long blond hair sliding along my belly, and a giggle. I ignored it, for the moment. Not everyday you hear a voice from the past. "“Still breathign. Got a bit of company here, but you know how that goes."

Paul chuckled. "“Not the kind of company that comes with a ring and a ton of baggage, I hope?"

” I chuckled in return. "“Shit, o!".” I reached for the crumpled pack of ciggarettes laying on the nightstand, and shook one out. Two left. I stuck the cancerstick in my mouth, and lit it with a battered, silver zippo. "“What you doin callin me at this ungodly fuckin hour, Rattler?"

There was a short pause, then, "“Sorry, man. I'ts noon, here. Ihavet a proposition for you."

” I felt skillful fingers stroke my still-sleeping member. Little guy wouldn'’t be sleeping for much longer. “Noon? Wherthe h’ helre you?"

"“Hong Kong"

That took a moment to sink in. "“As in ‘made in Hong Kong’ Hong Ko"

"“You always were the quick one, Tank"

I took a drag off the cig, as a tongue even more talented then those fingers began its work. I shifted a bit, torn. "“Yeah, adn’ Bill Clinton'’s an honest man. Wha'ts the scoop, Ratt"

” "How would you like to go on a little vacation, compadre?"

"“I can just about pay the rent on this miserable trailer 'I’m callg home. Don't have the cash for a trip, bud."

” The man on the other side of the world chuckled. "“Not a prolemb, Tank. I'’ll send you a ticket. 'I’ve goneedse of yr..." there was a pause, "talents".

I must have grunted. It was getting a bit hard to concentrate. A downward glance showed a blond head bobbing up and down.

"“What was that, Shea"

” I recovered smoothly. With a bit of effort, but smoothly. "“Nuthin, Paul. Bad connection. You talking about my skill with a wrench, or my general ability to turn gold into shit?"” I tipped the ash of my cigarette, took another drag, and laid back to let Blondie do her stuff.

"“A little of both, man. You got the time to make the trip"

” I considered. I'’d landed a job at the local bike shop about 2 years ago. Pay was almost decent, but busting my knuckles on those damned riceburners people are calling motorcycles nowadays was starting to get me down. Seemed the only Harley in town was mine. Wasn't really anything to hold me here. I made a decision "“Yeah, I can manage it. Where and when?”"

There was relief in Paul'’s voice when he responded. " “Day after tomorrow. Noon. There'’s a ticket waiting for you at the TWA terminal"

” "“Pretty damned sure of yourself, aintcha, Rattler? But that do't surprise me."” I chuckled into the phone.

"“Hey, just hedging my bets. Listen, 'Ill give you a number where you can reach me. Got a pen?"

” I reached for one, and the cigarette pack to write on. Reached carefully. Blondie was really getting into it down there, and I wasn't about to interrupt her. "“Yeah, I got one. Shoot"

Paul gave me the number, a long, international code. "“'Ill pick you up at HK International. Thanks a lot, Shea. I knew I could count on you."

” That last bit was a little cryptic, but I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention at that point. Blondie had changed tactics, and was rising to straddle me. I snubbed out the cig. "“Sure thing, Paul. See you soon".” I hung up the phone, and reached for the girl.

In the morning, Blondie was gone. Unsurprising. I remembered her leaving, but was in no real shape to do anything other then say goodbye. She did leave her number, though. I crawled out of bed, hacked my way through my morning cig, and stumbled to the trailer'’s tiny kitchen to brew some coffee. While it was percolating, I grudgingly began my morning exercise. Not the easiest thing to do in such a small space. I'm a big guy, 6' "6”, 280 pounds and not an ounce of it fat. Well, maybe a bit around the middle, but hey, I'm 43 years old. Can'’t stay trim forever. Half an hour later, and I felt limber enough to drink the coffee. Helped to drown the little demon with the jackhammer just inside my forehead. Breakfast was four eggs and a pound of bacon, washe d down with yet more coffee. I did the three S'’s, and went out to my bike. It'’s a' 71 Harley-Davson softail panhead, full dress. Damn, sweet scooter. Been working on it for the last 4 years or so, and I'’ve just about got it where I want it. The hog started up on the first kick, and I roared out of the trailer park at full throttle, sending up a cloud of dust on my way to the bike shop.

My boss wasn't too happy about me asking for time off, but after a bit of arguing, he agreed. Hell, I haven'’t so much as missed a day since I took that lousy job. I think the prick just wanted to argue with me. Once again, I fought down the impulse to bend him in half and shove his head up his own ass. Shit. I could use a vacation, anyway. Just to piss him off, I took the rest of the day off, but I used the time constructively. That is to say, I went back to the bar.

The next day, I went through my morning ritual again. This time, though, I trimmed my beard and mustache, and combed my graying brown hair out of its usual braid. I dressed myself in clean Levis, heavy engineer boots, a white button-down shirt, and my trusty leather jacket. A fairly handsome man looked out at me from the mirror with startlingly clear blue eyes. The guy in the mirror chuckled at me. “Damn. I'm beautiful. Watch out, Hong Kong. Here I come.” I like to travel light, and after 20 minutes of puttering around the rundown trailer, I had a fair sized gym bag packed. The airport was a good two hour ride, but I made it in less than one. Did I mention how sweet my ride was? I left it with a friend of mine who lived near the airport. Met the guy on the internet, not a bad fellow for a pencilneck. As we rolled my hog into his shed, he promised to take good care of it. I conveniently forgot to leave the keys with him. Silly me.

The trip to Hong Kong from Arizona takes 17 hours. Fortunately for me, the ticket that Rattler had provided me was first class. Considerate of him. As the jumbo taxied into its takeoff slot and powered up, my thoughts drifted back to when I had first met Paul Riesing. It was 1969, in a little Vietnamese province called Bet Hoy. I was well into my second tour, and had gone from motorpool to chopper maintenance. Every so often, I'd go out with the hogs on sorties, mostly as a door gunner, but as a stri ker on more then a few occasions. Young, dumb, and fulla cum, that was me.

It was supposed to be a routine extraction. Three Huey gunships and a pair of Cobras, going after a LRRP coming in after two weeks in the bush. But there ain't nothing ever routine in ‘Nam. We found the LZ llright, but the recon patrol we were picking up was being cautious. As soon as they broke cover, we found out why. Couldn'’t hear it over the rotor noise, but we could damn sure see the sprays of earth shooting up from the mortar rounds that the Cong had zeroed in on the landing zone. Small arms fire started to tear through the thin aluminum skin of my hog. The right gunner was hit almost immediately, but I was too busy spraying the treeline with my M-60 to pay much attention. From the corner of my eye, I could see the Cobras peel off for an attack run. An RPG, fired by a damn lucky gunner, caught one of the Cobras amidships, snapping off its tail, and sending it spiraling down into the bush below. The dirty-orange fireball reached far above the treetops when the chopper hit. I could see the VC now, perhaps two platoons, as they came streaming into the clearing, going hell for leather to try and catch the recon unit. The LRRPs were damn good, they hit the ground behind anything that would give an inch of cover, and returned fire to good effect. My headset radio was a babble of commands and screams, but I just kept hammering away, giving the boys on the ground as much coverfire as I could. Then the ship I was on shuddered, and I knew we were in deep shit. I could hear the turbines groan, struggling to keep the bird aloft, but she had taken one too many rounds up the intakes, and down we went. I unlatched my pig from its mount as soon as I could, and dove off the downed copper. The firefight lasted two hours. The other Cobra had bought it, too, as well as one of the other Hueys. Gotta give the VC credit, they knew how to set an ambush. Once things calmed down, we took a headcount. Fifteen Americans, about half of us wounded, and four guys who wouldn'’t survive the night.Thirty-two gook corpses. I Corps said the weather was closing in, and it would be a good twelve hours before they could attempt another extraction. The sergeant of the LRRP unit slapped me on the shoulder. He was a thin man, wiry. Old, old eyes for somebody who couldn’t be more then a year o two2 olderthen I.

"“You did prettyodamned well, grunt. Whats yer name"

” "“Abrams, sergeant. 35th air cav".” I replied." “We getgtin outta here before sunset?"

The sergeant pursed his lips. "“Not bloody likely, Abrams. Ceilin'g’s dropping fast, and’ s i’s the sun. Looks like we got us a long night ahead of us."

” "“Rattler"!O one of the LRRPs called." “Top wants a wo"rd.” The sergeant turned, and moved away. I settled in for what did indeed turn out to be a long night.

Rattler and I got to be pretty close. He was quick and lethal, just like the serpent he was nicknamed after. He'’s the guy who gave me the nickname Tank, due to the fact that I was pretty big, and single-minded. Or is that simpleminded? I forget. Anyway, my third tour I transferred again, this time into infantry. Paul pulled a few strings, and got me assigned to his unit. I won't bore you with any more war stories, suffice to say that our friendship was firmly cemented in blood. I hadn'’t seen him intwelve years, not since a veteran’'s reunion back in '86. But now he said he needed me. As I gazed out the window towards the dark wall of clouds below, I couldn'’t help but wonder why. I flirted with a redheaded stewardess for a bit, then slipped off into dreamland for the rest of the flight.

Hong Kong is hot. I had forgotten just what the far east'’s heat was like, a sticky, cloying thing that makes you wish sweat glands had never evolved. As I stepped out of the terminal, that heat washed over me like a familiar, but stinky, blanket. I gazed about at the city around me, marveling at how different a place can be, and yet still feel the same. Hong Kong had no physical resemblance to, say, Saigon or Tokyo, but that familiar smell was there. Too many people in too small a space, the odor of spicy fish cooked just so, even the faint tang of the jungle, something that is always present in eastern cities, made this town feel, if not like home, then at least like someplace I had been before. As I drank it in, a black Mercedes pulled to a stop before me. The passenger-side window rolled down, and a familiar voice called out, "“Tank! Hop in, buddy, your coach has arrived"

” I grinned, pulling open the door, tossing in my bag, then climbing in after it. "“I't’s about damned time, to"

o.” Paul Riesing hadn'’t changed much i na doze0 years. Still whipcord-thin, but beginning to go bald, he grinned back at me. "“Shit, but ou're a sight for sore eyes, Shea. Damn glad you could make it."” He dropped the car into gear, and the big M-B mill growled as it pulled away from the curb. Sounded a bit out of tune. "“How was the flight"

” "“Well, the redheaded steardess I was flirting with could have been the one taking me home in‘stead f‘oourer ugly ass, but just fine, other then that."” I chuckled.

Paul laughed. "“Plenty more where she came from, bro"”

"“'Im sure. Nice car"

He began weaving through traffic. "“Thanks. Yo'’d be surprised how cheap these things are over here."”

I watched the city stream by outside of the window. Rickshaws and pack animals vied for space with motorcycles, cars and buses. Horns, shouts and bleats filled the air. "“Rush hour"?” I aske

Paul manuevered around a rickshaw. It's owner was screaming insults at a stalled truck. "“Naw. Ordinary traffic"

”