Spiral

making up his mind to ask somebody for a dance.
    Climbing the steps, I went to shake hands with him. ”Justo, it’s—”
    He came forward, enclosing me in a bear hug. ”Truly good to see you, John.”
    ”Same here.”
    Justo broke the hug. ”No problems with your flight?”
    If my eyes gave anything away, Justo’s didn’t. ”Fine. Just fine.”
    He nodded once, then spoke in a grave, modulated tone. ”I am afraid the Skipper hates pity, so please, brace yourself for seeing him.”
    I closed my eyes, then nodded once, too, as Justo led me into the house.

    As the rear foyer yielded to real rooms, I blinked, but less from the lighting and more from the contrast. While the architecture viewed from the street was modern, the inside felt like a Maine hunting lodge. Each room seemed to have its own cathedral ceiling, with exposed beams of rough-hewn, stained wood. Same look to the walls, and even the Parts of the floor not covered by thick rugs or carpeting. Taste is a personal thing, and I found myself warming to the interior of the house in a way I never could to its exterior.
    ‘To the right, now,” said Justo, as though comforted by giving directions.
    We turned into a massive den, fully twenty-by-forty, another cathedral ceiling looming overhead. The colors red and buff dominated—on leather sofas, plaid chairs, and seascapes-at-sunset hanging from the walls. Two men were in front of a stone fireplace I could have entered without bumping my head on the mantel. One was standing, no more than five-five and slight of build. His black hair ran to medium length, parted on the right side but so straight it didn’t quite lie flat against his skull. A long-sleeved rugby shirt swam on his torso over shiny athletic pants that had a designer logo stitched into one pocket. It was more his features that caught you, however. Vietnamese, I’d have bet, with piercing eyes that didn’t smile despite the nod and upturning of the corners of his mouth. I ballparked his age at early thirties.
    When I looked into the face of the sitting man, I thought, Jesus Christ.
    ”Good to see you again, Lieutenant,” said Nicolas Helides from the chair to the Asian man’s right.
    The voice was still there, the intonation a rounded baritone that caught your attention without having to demand it. But the words came out garbled, as though someone were pulling down his right cheek, making it into a jowl. That sagging cheek caused some of his teeth to show, both too pearly and too big for his mouth, kind of like a ventriloquist’s dummy. His hairline had evolved into a long, narrow widow’s peak, the hair itself gone a dusty gray though the eyebrows were still a bushy black. And the hands—large and strong in my memory—were both nearly skeletal, the right one crabbed enough that the fingernails nearly touched the underside of his wrist. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I realized that the Skipper would be only about seventy, but somehow he looked more reduced than the elderly man in the wheelchair at our departure lounge back in Boston.
    I realized Helides was waiting for me to reply. ”It’s been a long time, Colonel.”
    ”And nearly as long since I merited being called ‘colonel,’ though I appreciate the courtesy and would understand if the old way is more comfortable for you.”
    ”Thank you, sir.”
    Helides gestured with his good hand. ”Quite the view, eh?”
    Until then, I hadn’t looked to my left. Through a picture window twelve feet long and nearly as high, I could see a big yacht putting along the canal behind that moored sailboat. Even moving slowly, the yacht created a three-foot wake that rolled toward us.
    Helides said, ”The Intracoastal Waterway, Lieutenant. A water taxi could pick you up from here and deposit you at the Jackie Gleason Theater in Miami Beach, a good twenty-five miles south.” He looked up at the Asian man. ”Mother Goose, I’m forgetting my manners.”
    Mother Goose. The man who never cursed.
    Helides gestured with the crabbed right hand. ”This is Duy Tranh. He’s been with me since the Fall.”
    I didn’t have to ask whether the Skipper meant our prior autumn or the last helicopter out of Saigon in seventy-five. ”Pleased to meet you. Is 'Tranh’ your family or given name?”
    ”We can talk about that when you have a paper and pencil so you can get it right.”
    His accent gave the words a clucky overlay, but the man spoke without inflection, so I couldn’t tell quite how