The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  By now, Ngo had finished his inspection of Nguyen’s head. My thoughts weren’t following enlightened Buddhist teachings. Mostly, I wasn’t able to summon any sympathy for Nguyen and his fellow political tools, a sentiment I couldn’t speak aloud. Ngo might feel the same. Still, there was no way we could let an opinion like that out into the universe without ending up hung by our toes in a Chi Hoa interrogation cell. I was barely able to enjoy stroking my penis when the American barbarians scrambled away in their helicopters from the roof of the Sai Gon embassy. I don’t remember anything except my mother wailing, knowing the life of a Chinese woman and her half-breed son would forever be changed for the worse. While there were claims of racism leveled continually against the Yankees, no culture is more bigoted than the Vietnamese, who despise anyone who isn’t a descendent of the dragon king Lac and his wife Au Co, who bred and hatched one hundred eggs that held one hundred humans, the origin of the superior species.

  Ngo was watching me. At least I thought he was. It was hard to decide if his face was even turned in my direction. I had to focus on his black eyes, nearly encased in a roll of lumpy flesh that couldn’t even come close to being called “cheeks.”

  “You look like a monkey eating ginger,” Ngo said. “Time you quit being a vomiting cat and get to work. Put your dick down and get your hands out of your pockets for once.”

  “Repulsive” was a word I’d learned in my English classes and from the war survivors who treated their guilt with massive amounts of whiskey in the Apocalypse Now–themed bar on Thi Sach Street in District One. While Vietnamese weren’t welcome there, my People’s Police ID card got me inside, where I practiced my English and listened to drunken ex-GIs drown in their guilt. Ngo was repulsive, and I couldn’t keep these unkind thoughts from my head. I tried not to wince, risking only a glimpse at Ngo’s battered face. It was time to relent and listen to this honored uncle’s wisdom. I bowed.

  “You eat the flies from your mother’s pussy and lick the wings,” I said.

  Ngo attempted a smile, and I cringed, almost ready to make the sign of the cross I’d seen on The Exorcist.

  “Good, nephew,” he said. “One day, you might get the boy seed out of your ears and become a real man.”

  I took this as a compliment and, encouraged, ventured forth.

  “First,” I said, “we need to discuss the obvious.”

  “You mean the air conditioning in this citizen’s head?” Ngo said, nodding toward the corpse. “He won’t be tasting the Cayenne spice in his fish ball dinner.”

  “When the tree falls,” I said, “any child can climb it. We need to look past what is visible. Someone is trying to send a message.”

  “Sometimes, I watch the evil empire’s TV shows,” Ngo said, stating the obvious. “There always seem to be these young women with huge breasts, an attribute I do not understand as a target of lust.” He shook his pot sticker head back and forth. “Anyway, these girls often say ‘duh’ when the question is so elementary it is beyond comment.” He studied my face as if I were a gecko on his pillow. “Duh.”

  “When eating a mango,” I said, “think of who planted the tree.”

  “Du ma nhieu,” Ngo snapped. Go fuck yourself. He stood up, pushing off the teak floor with his hook. “You state what is clearly in evidence. We have three murdered commissars, and you continue to coat me in the vomit of your worthless proverbs.” He took a step forward, forcing me to back away. “How about this one?” he asked, his black eyes shooting streams of napalm into mine. “A frog living at the bottom of the well thinks the sky is as small as a cooking pot lid.” He stopped only long enough to take a breath. “Your thinking had better expand beyond the pot. You need to start coming up with answers or our masters will find a camp where you can be permanently re-educated.”

  Threats. Another pastime for those in power. Just as cheap as insults and far less expensive than a bowl of noodles. It didn’t matter if the warning had no teeth. Once, when I had eaten nothing but grubs, swamp grass, and mud for a month in a Delta camp, one of my wardens had blustered, “If you do not acknowledge there is nothing more important than independence and freedom, I will be forced to cut off your food ration.” Unfortunately, I barely had the strength to laugh. Regardless, my grin was enough for him to beat my skeletal shoulders with a bamboo stick, while I could only dream of what a real “food ration” would be like. This time, I smiled, knowing full well Ngo wouldn’t hit me with a tree limb using his one good arm.

  “A man’s tongue is more poisonous than a bee sting,” I said, laughing and holding up my hand before Ngo could spit out more venom.

  Both of us knew it was time to move from proverbs to action. For me, it was more that I couldn’t concentrate when the deformed gnome was nearby. I closed my eyes and took a cleansing breath, folding my hands and concentrating on my personal mantra. Asato ma sad gamaya. Lead me from ignorance to truth.

  “Earth to stupid Chinese captain-soon-to-be-relieved-of-duty-and-disappeared,” Ngo said, nudging me with his hook. “We’d better start making some progress or a real Viet will be in your position by daybreak.”

  “Vang,” I said. Yes. I turned toward him, but still couldn’t make eye contact with his Play-Doh head. “I’ll summarize and you tell me if my opinions are as out of place as an elephant in a minefield.”

  “Hurry up before Phan slithers under the door,” Ngo said. “There could be some delicate thoughts rattling your brain. I’d hate for it to be recorded and analyzed tonight at Public Security Police headquarters.”

  He was right. Some of what I was thinking might land me in a chair with electrical clips attached to my balls and my feet in a puddle of water to help the juice flow easier toward my prick. The problem was trusting Ngo. He hadn’t betrayed me in the past. This time, we were in the swamp without mosquito netting. Ignoring my instincts for protection, I went ahead, wiping the sweat bubbling on my forehead with the sleeve of my white shirt.

  “You will remember better than me the Americans’ practice of leaving cards on their victims,” I said. “I was too young to witness this, uncle, but I know it to be true.” I pointed to the toy cobra. “I think that snake is what the Yankee soldiers said was a ‘calling card,’ meant to leave a message they would be back, were everywhere, and should be feared.”

  “I see you are a student of our history,” Ngo said.

  “More than the snake trinket,” I said, “it’s the way the three men were killed. And the picture.”

  “Go on.”

  “All were shot in the back of the head in broad daylight. No one heard a gun. I believe it was a .22 bullet. Fired from a pistol with a silencer.”

  “I agree. So far.”

  “The photo shows three of the five former NVA we’ve found bled out in the last few days. Now, the motive.”

  “And that is?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was sex. Or even dong.”

  “The pictures I showed you provide much information.”

  “Such as?”

  “Three murdered. Two probably still alive. It appears they were posing. Proud of the bodies below them.”

  “Go on.”

  “In the picture, the dead ones seem to be a Montagnard and two flatlanders. The Montagnards were hunted then by the NVA and are still outcasts in our modern, progressive society. The other two, I’ll have to give more thought. But they were all too young to be soldiers.”

  “That Degar was ugly too. With those sloped foreheads, they all look like rock apes.”

  “Thank you for that esteemed wisdom. May I continue?”

  “Lam on.” Please.

  “Early in my police training, I became fascinated with the story of the Gan Con Ran. The techniques the Night Snake used to hunt and kill his prey were intriguing. Part of what I remember was he had a Montagnard sidekick and guide who helped him move around the south.”

  “And you think this Night Snake is back to avenge some wrong?”

 
“No. Not necessarily. It could be the Montagnard. We need to find out more about him.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “First, we must decide if these clues are herding us like the old woman and the water buffalo.”

  “Not me, lo dit.” Asshole. “My job is to collect the dead. Yours is to discover why they became that way.”

  “Da.” Yes. “Still, I may need your vast intellect and connections to assist me.” I bowed.

  “Thang nguc lon.” You suck dirty vaginas. A simple slur that meant Ngo was softening. “I’m not crazy enough to get involved in this kind of political case. I want to keep my cac.” Penis. Ngo tried to smile, the result something nearly as hideous as a dog hit by a freight train. “It’s the only part of me that still works.” He reached for his belt. “Want to have a looky-look?”

  “Khong.” No, I barked, backing away, waving my hands in front of my face like I was trying to ward off a waterfall of leeches.

  “An cac tao ne.” You can eat my dick. Again, he was trying to be nurturing. “When they have hanged you by your eyelids from the bamboo rafters, I will remember you as the foolish half-breed you are.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, “can you find out if any foreigners who might meet the description of the Night Snake have recently entered the country?”

  “There are hundreds of Yankee devils arriving every day,” Ngo said. “They come out of shame for the atrocities they committed. Somehow, fucking one of our con di (whores) in Dong Khoi seems to make the nightmares disappear for a few minutes.”

  “I seem to recall the name Morgan. Try that first. He was supposedly involved in that nighttime assassination of Comrade Ky not long ago. I will hunt for the Montagnard. I believe our Central Research Agency will have a dossier on the Night Snake and his accomplice.”

  “Don’t call me,” Ngo said, shuffling toward the door. Over his knurled hunchback, he said, “I’ll call you. Remember, my job is the dead, not old wives’ tales.” He stopped. “Oh, that’s right, yellow demons like you aren’t given phones. I’ll call the retard Phan. The code word will be lon.” Pussy.

  Before I could blink, Ngo had limped outside and Phan was coming toward me, still engaged in his SpongeBob screen, the mongoloid smile on his lips.

  “Did you make it to the Goo Lagoon?” I asked.

  “No, Captain,” Phan said. “But I got the Bubble Blower twice.”

  Behind him, one of the uniformed officers came into the room, scowling to see the department half-caste in charge.

  I sighed, realizing full well there was no way the next few moments would be calming to my inner peace.

  “Captain,” the man said, “can we take the body away or will you be using it to stuff spring rolls in the Chinese Quarter? I hear you chinks like human flesh even better than puppies.”

  Phan couldn’t help himself. He laughed as if he’d reached Bikini Bottom unassisted.

  The prejudices were never-ending. Often, I felt the Vietnamese suffered from an inferiority complex that caused them to respect, fear, and hate the Chinese all at the same time. Starting with the Ming Dynasty, their Northern neighbors had dominated every aspect of Vietnam’s government, society, and commerce for over five hundred years. The scars had not healed, and it seemed many of my countrymen thought the next invasion would happen any day. And I was possibly the reincarnation of Mao, sent to eat their children.

  “If the coroner has released the body,” I said, “go ahead. If I find you have had sex with the corpse like your kind is known for, I will be forced to inform your superiors. They will surely demand pictures.”

  This caused another outburst of giggling from Phan and didn’t gain me any points with the scowling sergeant in front of me. I moved aside, letting the man approach the body. The officer was short even by Vietnamese standards, and Phan towered over him like a king cobra stalking a mongoose. The sergeant’s fangs would sink deep if I told him how I thought his brain didn’t work any better than the dead one at his feet. I stayed still, knowing any further comment from me wouldn’t be taken well.

  “On the street,” I said, “it is told that policemen eat so much rat rac ruoi (shit) they have their babies in the gutter beside the garbage. Is that true, officer?”

  There was no reason to give the speech about “contaminating the crime scene” that seemed to be required in every episode of the CSI dramas. We didn’t have yellow tape, gloves, smocks, or those cute little booties. All I could hope for was that one of the policemen didn’t put his cigarette out in Nguyen’s head wound before Ngo was able to dig out what fragments he could. At some point, we might be able to verify what we already knew. Nguyen died from a silenced .22 caliber bullet, the pistol forced against the back of the politician’s head.

  Stepping outside onto the small porch, ignoring the nasty Chinese stereotypes sputtering from the mouth of the policeman, I inhaled the essence of Saigon. Today, the heat had cooked up what must be a shipment of overripe hog that was now simmering from the butcher stalls in the nearby Ben Thanh Market. Many of the pedestrians wore masks like the city was in the middle of a SARS breakout, but I doubted the filthy mesh had any success against the reek of rotten pig. Two more policemen pushed by, headed inside to help the sergeant load the carcass onto the old Renault meat wagon parked a few yards down the street.

  Across the way, an old Montagnard woman held a baby to her chest, the infant wrapped in the colorful weave mountain people sold alongside the winding Central Highland dirt roads. The woman squatted against the wall separating two shops, one selling dumplings, the other Coca-Cola, flip-flops, and fresh fruit. This scene would normally be unremarkable, repeated a thousand times around the city. But the wrinkled woman was staring at me, behavior neither the Montagnards nor purebred Vietnamese normally practiced. Gawking at another was considered rude in our society. An invasion of privacy and theft of a soul. Nonetheless, she watched every move I made as if I were a scorpion crawling toward her sleeping mat. I stared back, trying to understand the significance of her disrespectful actions.

  In decadent western crime novels, there seemed to be an attention to the chance of the “perp” returning to the scene of the crime. That wasn’t part of the Sai Gon culture as far as I knew. It was better to flag down a taxi and get hundreds of kilometers away before the national police began arresting everyone within blocks of the area. Nonetheless, I didn’t see this old Montagnard woman as an assassin.

  The police had barricaded one lane of traffic and the cyclo horns and ringing bike bells caused by the congestion drowned out any other sounds. Like swatting at a ghost, I reached in my pocket for a Gitane, a thoughtless, empty gesture since I hadn’t had a smoke for over twenty years. The only thing I touched was the Sig Sauer. I was trying my best to be relaxed while I put together the Montagnard’s scrutiny with the dead commissar inside. In the next few seconds, I chewed over the possibilities like a wad of betel nut. The woman continued to watch, no sense of peace or love drifting across the road from her black eyes and wide, squashed mountain-people head. The baby on her lap was quiet and motionless.

  Scoffing at my old, fake loafer-like sandals bought for a few dong and advertised as “Authentic Guchii” in the Cholon Market, I continued to attempt nonchalance while I analyzed the absurdity of the beggar woman across the street being involved in these murders. She gave me the answer with a cell phone. There was no call, only a photo op. I was the subject and barely saw her take the picture. Her hand was hidden under the multicolored quilt. Still, she had to expose the lens to capture my image.

  Immediately, I started across the road, trying to thread my way through the swarm of cyclos, cars, pedestrians, and bicycles. When I stepped into the street, the woman rose and began to shuffle down the sidewalk. Within a few strides, she dropped the blanket and baby, increasing her pace. The infant bounced hard on its head and lay motionless on the filthy sidewalk.

  One of the oldest tricks in modern Sai Gon. Wrinkled, raggedy women with dolls. At leas
t, the way this plastic one rebounded on the concrete, I could tell it wasn’t a real dead baby. I had seen too many of those pulled from the river or sewers. The ruse happened often enough to call it “doggy style,” because the third-world mongrels that populate the city will play with a dead baby more than a live one. They get tired of chewing the fakes into shreds with no protein content. Locals knew the trick, but tourists never seemed to stop being fooled, cooing over the “cute, sleeping child” while they dropped their dong into a dented tin bowl made from old canteens.

  For a supposedly-starving elderly beggar, the woman moved amazingly fast through the stalls and around the crowd of shoppers and strollers on the street. Still, I was gaining, until I found myself on the pavement, staring face-first at a puddle of chicken blood, the intestines, feathers, and lots of other colorful items I didn’t want to know about staining my recently clean shirt and poking into my nose.

  Someone in the crowd had tripped me. The beggar woman was escaping. I sighed and tried to get to my feet, needing a helping hand from a young man dressed in the uniform of working Saigon. Dark slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, open at the neck, and no tie. At least his shoes were polished and buffed.

  “Are you OK, ong?” grandfather, he asked. I tried to peer over his shoulder and spot the woman somewhere in the chaos of the street. Nothing. She’d melted into the mixing bowl.

  “I’m no more your grandfather than any of the other thousands who fucked your grandmother like she was a street bitch in heat,” I said, pulling away. I was ashamed of the blood and guts on my shirt, the way I had fallen, and the old age that was causing me to shamble more like a one-legged cripple than a man. I’d lost sight of a woman who appeared at least as old as me. There was no one else to take it out on other than this poor comrade who’d helped me stagger upright. I felt the guilt of my harshness surround me like the white shroud before cremation.