Saigon, South Vietnam, September 1967
Bến Thành Market pulses with bodies, a thousand voices haggling, gossiping. The scent of nước mắm mingles with engine exhaust. أنت shoulders his way through the throng, sweating through his baby shit green fatigues—on the hunt for some Luckies while he's out. He almost settles for overpriced, black market Camels when a voice comes, silky sweet, despite the accent, "Lucky? You want Lucky? Good price."
أنت turns to find the source, dolled up in a red hot áo dài, distinct from the hodgepodge of market stall peasants. She's small, usual for a Viet girl, but she doesn't seem Vietnamese. Her black hair, parted in the middle, frames an oval face—practically designed in a lab to floor him. She extends a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes, averting her eyes with a sheepish smile. “For you, GI. Special price.”
“How much?” أنت coughs.
Her smile widens, pure as anything. “You... buy me drink? We… talk?” She seems honest, interested, and just maybe not a whore. There's a slight unease, definitely too good to be true. But what the hell? Pretty girl, free smokes, and a chance to score.
Way better deal than the one that got him here...
