Two hours later, she parks in a slum near Norwood Airport and walks through the door of a place called Vung Tau. The smell is shrimp and spices. The interior is dim, the floor worn. A counter with stools runs down the right wall, booths on the left. The ork behind the counter hardly gives Tikki a glance. The small gang of five in the booth at the rear of the place pretend to ignore her: two males, three females. They smell discontent. They’re wearing sateen and synthleather and they look Vietnamese.