“That’s why you took your phone off the hook,” said Calvino.
“You know how many of those lowlifes phoned me?”
Calvino shook his head.
“Many. And I said to each one, ‘Sir, kindly go and fuck yourself.’”
“It’s not your fault, Harry.”
“Of course it’s not my fucking fault. But I might have stopped it.” Markle reached over and used an opener on another bottle of Kloster. He handed it to Calvino and then opened another one for himself. “You think that I’m drunk?”
On the coffee table were color photographs. There was a youngish looking version of Harry Markle holding an M16.
“You’re drunk, Harry. But so what?”
“Of course, so what?” he smiled, the beer suds squeezing out of the corner of his mouth.
Noi came into the room with her hair down, her eyes wild with fear.
“It’s so bad for him,” she said, as if Harry Markle weren’t in the room. “Harry was out when I heard...”
Harry cut her off in mid-sentence.
“I had a job. I finish the job and then I find out Drew’s dead. You see, my little brother phoned me and said he had a problem. And what did I say? I said, ‘You are going through some adjustments. Vietnam’s a new culture. Keep cool. Saigon is safer than New York City.’ ”
“It’s very terrible,” said Noi. She stood behind him, her hands massaging the back of his neck, tears running down her cheeks.
When people are feeling the kind of pain that the Markles were going through there was absolutely nothing to say or do. Calvino sipped the beer, sat back in his chair, and wondered when Harry’s guilt was going to transform itself into a kind of hate- filled rage. Then what? The guy had a life, a family, a career. The last thing he needed was for his young brother to get himself killed in the streets of Saigon.
“You know how long it’s been since an American has been killed by hostile fire in Saigon? I will tell you. It happened late April 28th or early morning April 29th, 1975. The last 122 round fell short at Tan Son Nhut and killed two American marines. Sergeant Darwin Judge and Sergeant William McMahon. That’s a long time ago, Vinee. I did two tours. I saw a lot of men die. But that is ancient history. How is it, after all that, my kid brother gets a grenade thrown at him?”
“You want me to go and find out?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. I’m going in-country to pick up the body. After I get Drew’s body out, I want you go find the cocksucker who did it. Give it a week or so. Let things calm down. Then go, Vinee. Find this sonofabitch.”
“Can I take this?” asked Calvino, picking up the photograph of the younger brother holding the M16. Drew was standing next to a stunning looking Vietnamese woman, strong nose, beautiful teeth, and haunted, sad eyes; she wore a bamboo hat and the barrel of the AK47 she held touched the barrel of Drew’s M16. They were smiling at each other like lovebirds.
“Her name’s Jackie Ky. Drew’s girlfriend. I met her once and I liked her. Nice kid. Viet Khieu looking for her roots. They are at Cu Chi Tunnels in the picture. The communists have turned them into a tourist attraction. You crawl through the tunnels where Charlie crawled, and then for one dollar a bullet, you can fire an M16 or an AK47. Drew chose the M16. Jackie an AK47. Why? Because he thought I would be proud of him. Holding an M16 in Vietnam. How can a guy get through law school, graduate second in his class at Columbia and be such a dumbshit? The last thing I ever wanted for him was to touch a gun.”
“When are you going in?” asked Calvino.
“I am on the 10.40 flight out of Don Muang tomorrow. When you go in, look up a Viet Khieu named Marcus Nguyen. He a good shit. Ex-RVN Marine Colonel who’s gone back into business after eighteen years in the wilderness.”
“In America.”
“That’s what I said, in the wilderness. Marcus will finish the job.”
“Meaning?”
“You find who killed my brother and Marcus will take care of the rest.”
Calvino was shaking his head and looking at his beer.
“It’s right, Vinee. You know it’s right.”
“I am not a middle man for contract murders,” said Calvino. “Who said anything about a contract? And the only murder
anyone has talked about is that of my brother. So, what’s the problem?”
Calvino was thinking how did a Vietnamese Marine Colonel ever come to be called by the name Marcus.
CHAPTER 3
FIVE STAR SUITE
A FLARE FILLED the sky with a streak of blood-red light, a fissure of brightness illuminating the ground and throwing a web of shadows over power lines, houses, shops and cars. In every direction, the sky was on fire. The power of the light blinded him. Calvino rubbed his eyes, looked away, and then at the sky again. Another flare had exploded, floating to earth on a tiny parachute. No more than a hundred meters ahead of his position, the United States Marines had dropped their end of rope, scooped up automatic rifles, and begun firing towards a two-story concrete building which stood like a bunker at the end of the school grounds. The other team members, eyes wide with panic, stood as if their hands were frozen to the end of the rope, mouths open, faces upturned toward the flare scorched sky. One ran away. Two others dropped with swells of red stains on their chests and backs. Muzzle flash came from the south. Someone returned the Marines’ fire and, a moment later, other people who had been watching were hit and made that strange gurgling noise as they clutched at their bodies and tumbled headlong into the grass. Women started screaming, picking up their kids, tables fell over in the scramble to get out of the line of fire.
“Who are they?” he found himself asking Harry Markle.
“Religious zealots? Terrorists? Or maybe they are nothing more than your home-grown garden variety crazies. The Fourth of July in Bangkok. Great news story. Attack. And one billion people will watch you do your thing.”
“You going to do something?” asked Calvino. A Viet Khieu came out of the darkness.
“Marcus, long time no see,” said Markle.
“They are holding the perimeter, Captain.”
Marcus Nyugen, a middle-aged Vietnamese with short hair, bloodshot eyes and sweat-soaked face, smoked a cigarette and rested his M60 over one shoulder. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept for days. Over his chest he wore two ammo belts. His face was painted black and, in the light of the flare, Calvino could see his white teeth as Marcus smiled, looking in the direction of the bunker.
“We got a job to do, Colonel,” Markle said to Marcus. “And you are the ranking officer. So, the way I see it, it’s your call.”
“We take them out, Captain,” said Marcus.
Calvino crouched down on one knee, sheltering beside the table. Jets of fire whizzed overhead. There were explosions and more screams. Markle knelt down on his haunches next to Calvino, put an arm around his shoulder.
“And you didn’t pack,” said Harry Markle, shaking his head, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips. But he was calm as if all of this was just a normal Fourth of July picnic and some assholes had stopped praying and started shooting in the grand tradition of cult members gone to the edge and crossed over to the other side.
“Can you handle this?” Marcus asked Calvino.
“He can handle the weapon, Colonel,” said Markle.
Marcus tossed Calvino an M16 rifle which hung like a Tune gun in the air.
Calvino caught the rifle as a man next to him went down with the front of his face shot away, leaking brain and bone.
“So they want to have some fun, Colonel?” asked Markle.
“Follow me. I have an idea,” said Marcus.
Markle and Calvino fell in behind the ex-Marine.
“An old dog like the Colonel doesn’t forget his training. Trust me,” Markle said to Calvino. He dropped back and found his wife beside a pushed over table.
“Noi, take the kids home. We will be along after the Colonel and me finish up with the assholes across the field.”
Calvino’s heart pounded hard inside his chest as he ran a few feet behind Harry Markle. Marcus was ahead, laying down fire with the M60. A heavy thunder of angry rounds flying overhead. Then they ran a zig-zag pattern on the outer edge of the flare light, circling behind the ferris wheel. In the distance, someone was on the loudspeaker asking people to stay calm, not to run, not to panic.
“Lay on the ground. Do not move. The situation is under control.”
Harry Markle stopped, knelt, gestured for Calvino to get down. He whispered, “Whenever you hear from a civilian that the situation is under control, you know you’ve gotta real problem.”
Marcus crawled on the ground, lifted up his head and spoke to them. “Now, what we are going to do is hit that hooch about fifty meters to the right. I want you to go behind. I will take the front. Anything that moves, shoot it. Don’t think. Just kill what’s inside. That was our job last time out. We didn’t get it done. This time let’s move it. Let’s do it right this time.” Marcus reached under his shirt and pulled two hand grenades.
“Be prepared,” said Markle, taking one of the grenades.
“It’s the boy scout’s motto.” Marcus handed the other one to Calvino.
“Move out.”
Calvino’s legs felt rubbery, his breathing was uneven and his throat dry. He shifted around the hooch, waited until Harry Markle dropped his arm, then he pulled the pin from the grenade, arched his arm and aimed for a back window. Harry’s grenade struck a fraction of a second first. There was a loud explosion then a bright flash. Calvino’s grenade blew out the back of the wall and, as men came pouring out, he opened up with the M16. The rifle made no noise. The men fell one upon another until the ground was covered in bleeding, dying bodies. Then he saw Harry emerge from the haze of smoke.
“Behind you, Harry.”
Calvino’s M16 jammed. He squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. He tried to clear the chamber, failed, and threw the rifle on the ground.
A man dressed in a black robe emerged from the shadows, stepping forward with a huge sword held in his right hand and Marcus Nyugen’s severed head in his left. He advanced with the blade of the sword starting its descent onto Harry Markle’s neck.
He tried to shout but no words would come out. He wanted to shout, “The Colonel is dead, Markle. He’s dead.” Calvino recognized the face inside the hooded robe. He had seen it in a photograph at Cu Chi Tunnels, he had been smiling into the camera with a beautiful girl, the two of them touching rifles. Inside the hood was Harry’s younger brother. Drew Markle.
“This is Judgement Day,” the voice roared.
Drew started screaming and the blade was a fraction of an inch from connecting with Harry’s flesh. Then the words started coming back, and Calvino shouted, “Harry, look the fuck out. It’s your brother. He’s gonna kill you...”
As the tip of the sword drew a bead of blood on Harry’s neck, someone was pounding and shouting Calvino’s name. The sword melted into a fist and the blood into sweat as he bolted up in his bed and opened his eyes. He rubbed his eyes. His bedroom was totally dark. He found a light switch and then looked at his watch. It was three in the morning. His pillow and sheet were drenched in sweat. Someone was leaning hard on his front door buzzer, and shouting, “Khun Vincent, wake up.”
Only the voice was shouting in Thai and not in English. He opened the door and outside were three uniformed police officers who came inside without asking for an invitation.
Calvino stood barefoot in jogging shorts and a T-shirt, his hair wet with sweat and a black-blue stubble of beard. He looked bleary- eyed at the officers.
“Colonel Pratt has asked for you to accompany us,” said a sergeant.
Calvino shook his head, trying to figure out if this was a new dream.
“He asked that you go with us now.”
“Go where?”
“To hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
The police officer ran out of English words. After a command was given, answering questions was not their style. He let them into his apartment, thinking, why does Pratt send around real cooperative, friendly cops like these? It had to be his revenge for the cologne smell still circulating inside his new BMW. The cops walked around Calvino, picking up dishes, ashtrays, opening the fridge, basically making themselves at home, staring and not smiling.
“We go now,” said an officer.
“I guess I should get dressed then.” He turned and walked off to the bedroom. It was as hot as hell in his living room. An ancient air-conditioner gathered cobwebs in the window. The officers eyed the layout of Calvino’s rundown apartment, the floor broken in places, kitchen walls pockmarked, and green curtains, that looked like they had been dry cleaned in bus exhaust fumes, hanging at each of the windows with their gnarled, dusty screens. There were half a dozen plants in various stages of death, starved for lack of water, and an empty fish tank with green slime growing inside the glass. It was suitable for either a bachelor with an uncertain income or an impoverished family with no other choice in a place like Bosnia.
Calvino, an ex-Brooklyn native, lacked a green thumb and never had a definite timetable on fish feeding, a combination guaranteed to cause household ecological damage, if not a bore hole in the ozone above Soi 27.
“How much rent you pay?” asked one of the officers.
Asking a man’s rent, salary, or the amount he had in the bank, was a Thai custom. The worth of a man was in fixed assets. Doing a balance sheet on net worth helped everyone decide how much power, authority and respect were re-quired.
“Let’s say my rent pays for a medium night inside the Zone, all-in.”
They stared at him. How did such a man have a friend like Pratt? They could not figure out the connection. A couple of minutes later, Calvino came out of his bedroom. He wore his .38 calibre police revolver in a leather holster under his left arm.
“You guys spoiled a great firefight,” he said in English.
******
THE police, with red light flashing, cut from one lane to another, sometimes driving in the wrong lane. Calvino sat in the back seat looking at the fear in the faces of those who saw the oncoming squad car weaving in the traffic. The squad car passed Erawan Shrine and gunned down the ramp to the parking lot in the basement of the five-star hotel. Calvino towered over the two Thai police officers on either side of him as they stood inside the elevator to the fifth floor. No one spoke during the ride. When the elevator door opened, Calvino was the first to step into the corridor which was a beehive of uniformed Thai police. Several of the cops stared hard at the farang who had appeared without warning. What was he doing on the floor? Calvino walked ahead a few steps when he was finally stopped as a policeman stepped in front of him.
“You, you, where you go?” snapped one of the Thai cops. There was a bull whip snap to the word “you”. The police officer concentrated hard, then stepped forward. Calvino stood very still, kept his hands in front and showing. The officer glared at him as if Calvino was something foul and evil on the bottom of his shoe. Calvino didn’t blink, he kept smiling, that smile that moves across the lips of the feeble minded, hovers for no apparent reason but renders them a harmless, non-threatening shadow against the face of the night. Calvino followed the second rule for surviving long term in Thailand—don’t flap around in public, no sudden moves, no gesturing with hands, arms, head or body.
One of the Thai police officers who had come to his apartment on Lt.Col. Pratt’s order grunted a few words in Thai, and the other cop blocking his path backed off; he turned his back on Calvino as if he no longer existed. Calvino had satisfied the third rule for surviving the duration in Thailand—he was connected to a powerful and influential person. In this case a police colonel. In fact, he probably could have gotten away with a little flapping around once Lt.Col. Pratt’s big name registered on the spectrum of power, authority and fear. Ten was a perfect score. Let’s say, it was an eight and a half in a town where a five was good enough
to keep you alive.
“Room 509,” said the officer.
Calvino nodded, found the door already open with people coming in and out with the grim, tired look of having been witness to something bad. He had slipped into his New York Yankees T- shirt and rumpled trousers, which gave him the distinct look of a tourist. If he had put on a shirt and tie, his presentation would have guaranteed at least minimal respect from the police officers. He did do one thing right—out of respect for Pratt—he had avoided putting on the rest of the cologne.
“It’s almost four in the morning. Mekhong and Coke, and murder time.”
Pratt looked up from a chair as Calvino walked into the suite.
“At least you are fifty percent right,” said Pratt. “Come here. I’ve got something to show you.”
Calvino followed him into the bedroom where three or four officers circulated gathering evidence and photographing the room. On the king-size bed, which was still made up, was one slightly plump Asian male body wearing gold-rimmed glasses, the eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, arms sprawled out on the bed.
“Mr. Mark Wang,” said Pratt, nodding toward the body.
“Taiwanese?” asked Calvino.
Pratt shook his head. “Hong Kong.”
Calvino walked over to the bed and looked down at the body. A police photographer was still taking pictures.
Two bullets had ripped through Mr. Wang’s chest, rupturing the heart and lungs. Calvino could tell the lungs had exploded from the bullet causing a thin layer of foam around the dead man’s lips. The bullets had passed through the dead man’s expensive, tailored white shirt with gold cufflinks bearing the initials: MW. He was found dead wearing red suspenders, tailored trousers and a pair of Italian loafers that looked like they cost five hundred dollars. On the ring finger of his right hand was a gold ring with diamonds which looked like it must have cost a few grand wholesale. Robbery was not the motive, he thought. The knot in his tie was slightly pulled down, otherwise, Mr. Wang looked like someone who had just come out of a board of directors’ meeting. That was the thing about Bangkok: you were in the middle of one nightmare, then the cops woke you up and transported you into the middle of another one.
Comfort Zone Page 4
