Alexandria, Virginia
I
t was 0320 according to the garish glow of the bedside clock-radio provided by the staff of the Weston Hotel about 15 miles south of where Shake Davis had spent an exhausting day. He fumbled for his phone and stared at the caller ID, trying to decide if he should let it go to voice mail. It was Mike Stokey, so he punched up the call. It would save him trying to get his old friend on the phone later in the day.
“Are you drunk?”
“Damn near…but that’s not why I called.”
“I thought you were in Thailand.”
“I am. In fact, I’m deep in the snake pit…sitting in Bernie’s Bar. And I’ve got somebody here wants to talk to you.”
Steve Berntson’s voice was unmistakable. “Shake, you horrible bastard! Why aren’t you over here with The ARVN?” Bernie always sounded like a carniv
