By 1971 the crowd at the Stardust had dwindled to a core group of GIs. More bar girls were let go, and Madame cut everyone’s hours, including Mai’s. Mai saved as much as she could, but between the cost of babysitting, gas for the Vespa, her rent, food, and clothes for Đêm Nguyệt, she was stretched thin. Around the middle of the year, Madame motioned her into the kitchen.
“I can’t pay your extra salary anymore. We are just hanging on. I must let more bar girls go.”
Mai had been expecting it. She nodded unhappily.
“There is something else.”
Mai looked up, suddenly frightened. Was Madame going to fire her?
“We have been thinking we must allow Vietnamese men to come into the Stardust. Otherwise, we will be forced to close.”
It was an unwritten rule that Vietnamese and other Asian men were not welcome at the Stardust. Americans had been given priority for years. Madame Thạc said Vietnamese men didn’t tip like Americans. Or drink as much. It wasn’t intentional; a Vietnamese paycheck was much lower than a soldier’s.
The girls would have to adjust, Madame Thạc said. Mai was relieved that she hadn’t been fired. “Is there no other solution, Madame? Perhaps if we advertised more, we—”
Madame Thạc cut her off. “We have tried to come up with ideas, but they either cost too much or will take too long to show results.” She bit her lip. “I know it is not the best solution, but you’re our top bar girl, Mai. Will you stay under these new conditions? The girls who are still here look up to you. If you stay, I think they will.”
Mai thought about it. Allowing Vietnamese men in the Stardust would fundamentally change the Stardust. She would end up making even less money. Freddy, his friend Joe, and some GIs still came in, but empty tables yawned at her every night. On the other hand, Đêm Nguyệt needed clothes. Food. A babysitter. Mai had no choice.
So Mai stayed. She tried to make the best of it. She still tried to look her best. Over the year she had developed a flair for fashion, and on her everything, whether jeans or an áo dài, looked good. She had admirers, both white and Asian.
Many of the other bar girls depended on her to help them socialize with the men, and she didn’t let them down. Perhaps it was misplaced loyalty, but she remembered how Hạnh had helped her when she first came to the Stardust. Although Mai was only eighteen, she felt almost motherly toward the other girls. Perhaps her love for Đêm Nguyệt had softened her heart. Despite her need for extra money, she often let the other bar girls take money for the drinks she helped them order. She told herself she would make up the difference by offering manicures.
One night Joe, Freddy’s GI pal, sat down at the table they usually took, a table that would seat up to six. Mai assumed Freddy would be joining him shortly so she didn’t say anything about the size of the table. Twenty minutes later, though, after a bar girl had brought him a Jack Daniel’s and he’d waved her off, Mai went over.
Joe tossed back the Jack Daniel’s.
“You want another?” She smiled.
He nodded but didn’t return the smile.
She brought him another. He downed it in two gulps.
“Slow down, cowboy,” Mai teased. “You don’t want to lose your cool.”
He patted the empty chair next to him.
She sat. “Where’s Freddy? And the others?”
He stared at her. “I have bad news, Mai.”
Her stomach twisted. “What?”
He let out a breath. “Freddy is dead.”
Mai sat stock-still, as if any movement on her part would verify what Joe told her. If she didn’t move a muscle, it wasn’t true. They could rewind the conversation and start over fresh.
“Did you hear what I said, Mai?”
She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut. After a long moment, she said in a low, throaty voice she hardly recognized, “What happened?”
Joe tapped his empty shot glass on the table. “It was a freak accident. He was with another soldier and they took a jeep out from base to a meeting with a South Vietnamese lieutenant about some equipment. He drove over a land mine. It was over like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Mai’s eyes teared up. Freddy had been like a brother to her. An American, but a good and trusted friend. She remembered the night he’d brought her a fruit from his mess hall. An apple, he’d said. She’d heard of apples. They grew everywhere in America. But not Vietnam. He’d sliced it in half and made her eat it. She loved its crisp, part-sweet, part-tart taste, but more than that, she loved Freddy for caring enough to bring it to her. Why did he have to die? Why did all the people she loved leave her in the end? This war had robbed her of everyone she was close to. Her mother. Father. Brother. Tâm might as well be dead. Sandy. Now Freddy. The only person left was her son.
Joe’s voice cracked. “And I’m shipping out soon.”
Tears filled Mai’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “Where—where are you going?”
“Home. Indiana. Munster.”
“Where is that?”
He told her. “It’s not far from Chicago. Mai, I’d like to stay in touch with you. May I give you my address?” He jotted it down on a napkin.
“Of course,” she said, trying to wipe her tears away. “But I will never go to America. Do you plan on coming back?”
“Who knows?” He passed it to her. “Now give me yours.”
“But I do not know how long I will be there. Everything is so—so uncertain.”
“Give it to me anyway. Just make sure to tell the landlord when you move where you are going.”
She smiled sadly. “Okay.” She wrote her address on another napkin and gave it to him, then picked up the one on which he’d scribbled. “Okay,” she repeated. “Mr. Joe Hunter. From Munster, Indiana. And what if you move?”
“That is my mother’s home. If I’m not there, she will know how to get in touch with me.”
Mai laughed. “How true that is.”
“Freddy used to say your beauty, kindness, and good cheer helped make his time here bearable.” He dug into his pocket and brought something out. “Freddy was half in love with you, so I think he would have wanted you to have this.” He handed it to her.
It was a heart-shaped medal bordered in gold. The center of the heart was purple, with the profile of a man on it, also in gold.
“It’s a Purple Heart. It just came in. It’s given to soldiers who are wounded or killed in battle. His captain decided Freddy should have it.”
Mai fingered it gently. She teared up again. “But what about his mother? Shouldn’t she have the medal?”
Joe nodded. “I think Freddy would rather you have it. At least for a while. Show it to your son when he’s old enough. Let him know there were Americans who lost their lives trying to do the right thing for your country.” He almost smiled. “And when you come to the States, bring it with you, and we will give it to his mother.” Joe rose and extended his hand. “I’m glad I got to know you, Mai. Good luck to you.”
Through her tears, she felt suddenly shy. It wasn’t common for men and women to touch in public. She extended hers. “Thank you, Joe.”
He held her hand for a moment, then went to the bar to pay his bill. He left through the front door.
In September, a bomb exploded inside one of the most popular GI bars on Tu Do Street, only a block away from the Stardust. The Tu Do Night Club provided entertainment every night, and the bomb went off during the middle of a show, killing fifteen people and injuring fifty-seven. The ceiling and front walls of the two-story Tu Do Night Club were destroyed. Debris tumbled down on tables, and shards of glass were found as far as a block away. The bomb also demolished half a dozen motorbikes parked outside.
Despite an official investigation, the perpetrators were never found, but most were sure it was the Viet Cong. It was one more reminder of growing anti-American sentiment in Saigon, and now physical danger, for those who supported them.
The Stardust closed at the end of the year.