Inside the glossy black Citroën Traction Avant, a well-dressed man, Mr. Liễu, sat puffing on a cigar. Behind the wheel was a pale-looking young man, Dung Tây, with his left shoulder wrapped in gauze. The older man spoke up.
"I didn't ask a guy who just cheated death to come pick me up. With that arm still bandaged, what the hell can you even do?"
"I'm fine, sir, good as new. And with this job, if I'm not the one tagging along with you, then who else can?"
The man chuckled. "Cocky little bastard, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't dare," the Dung replied smoothly. "Just saying… with this kind of job, one wrong move and the whole thing blows up. That's why it takes someone real damn careful to pull it off, sir.
"Guess that's why so few are dying to pull off the fine art of whoring others out."
Dung didn't flinch at the jab. He smiled politely, still calm as ever.
"I've been working your messes long enough to know how these things go, sir. No matter how busted I am, I've gotta show up, grease the wheels, make sure everything runs smooth. And more importantly… keep Mrs. Liễu from getting suspicious."
"You really think my wife's that dumb, huh? You think she doesn't know the crap you've been pulling?"
Dung shook his head.
"Even the kindest wives always know when their husbands are fooling around. I just try to make sure… they never have to lose face in front of other people."
The old man stared at Dung, took a long drag from his cigar.
"How long you been in this line of work?"
"Three years, give or take."
"Three damn years and you're already one of the most notorious fixers in this city. Gotta say, not bad!"
Dung flashed a humble grin. "I've got flowers and gifts ready for you, sir. Shall we head out?"
"I'm not in a rush," the man said, waving his hand. "I'm just wondering… Say you had a shot at something brighter. Would you have the guts to take it?"
"From the way you talk, sounds like this job's even trickier than pimping, huh?"
"It's not tricky, just takes a hell of a lot more effort. But you'll get twenty percent of Liberty's profits once it's done. And you know damn well Liberty's the most profitable club in Saigon."
"So... you want me to kill someone? Or twist the truth into something it ain't?"
"I want you to keep an eye on my youngest son, Út (Út is a Southern Vietnamese birth order title for the youngest son, often used instead of the given name.) He's coming back to Saigon to start college."
"Young Út?"
Dung blinked, thrown off by the request. As far as he remembered, the youngest son had been sent off to seminary. He had no clue what the kid looked like, let alone what kind of person he was.
"When you say 'keep an eye,' you mean what—feed him, bathe him, tuck him in at night?"
Mr. Liễu waved his hand and laughed.
"Something like that. Think of it as being a babysitter, but your real job is to keep the boy away from trouble: no factions, no movements, no schemes—and definitely no slipping into that spoiled Saigon nightlife. He needs to stay clean—mind and soul."
"So if he gets in trouble, it's my life on the line?"
"No, if you keep him out of trouble, you stay alive. Simple as that."
"And how long is he staying here, sir?"
"Hell if I know. Two, maybe three years?"
"Not sure this damn city's gonna last that long," Dung muttered, clearly unimpressed by the whole setup.
"Two or three years ain't exactly short, which is why I'm offering you the Liberty manager post, on top of the babysitting job. Take your time to think it over, but remember, I don't hand out fat deal like this every day. This deal alone could feed your whole orphanage."
A flicker of surprise crossed Dung's face.
"Mr. Liễu, you really do know everything, don't you? Still... this fat deal might be too heavy for a cheap little life like mine to carry."
"I get why you're wary. But anyone who wants to rise up in this world's gotta have a little risk in their blood. Anyway... head up to Đà Lạt this weekend and bring my son back for me. Meet him first, who knows, maybe you'll change your mind."
Mr. Liễu tossed his cigar onto the street and flicked his fingers. The Citroën rolled forward without another word.