The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “Cam on,” I said, thank you, bowing low in my shame. I tried to brush the slime off my knees, watching the young man’s face and wondering, harshly, if he had anything to do with keeping me from catching the old woman.

  “I would compliment you on your strong facial features, but that might be misinterpreted in these times,” I said. He was astoundingly handsome, with strong cheekbones and a hairstyle that must have cost him more dong than I made in a month. He bowed back, a smile curling his lips.

  “No problem, uncle,” he said, grinning even wider and forgetting I’d been his grandfather less than a minute ago. “Somehow, I feel we’re related. Or our karma would not have merged.”

  Before I could tell him he wouldn’t want an old Chinese half-breed exile in his family no matter how the stars were aligned, a pistol shot echoed down the street. It sounded like it came from a Norinco Type 54 9 mm, a Chinese knockoff of the popular Russian Tokarev TT-33 handgun. There was the distinctive click after the firing that could be heard meters away. It was the automatic most of my colleagues carried and practiced firing on the department range in the basement of police headquarters off Tran Hung Dao Boulevard. My first thought was that one of the policemen had shot the old Montagnard mamasan. I hurried through the crowd to find out.

  With still a block to go, the screams and wailing were already louder than the meep-meep of the cyclos and growl of the old Citroen taxis. A cluster had formed, everyone looking down at something on the side of the road. Being the practiced sleuth I was, it was fairly easy to surmise by the clothing and size that the crumpled heap was the aged woman I’d been chasing.

  As I shoved through the mass of stunned gawkers, I caught sight of two flip-flop-covered feet sticking out at angles that could only mean death. Or too much Son Tinh rice liquor. They were the calloused feet of a hill tribe woman. I pushed the closest civilians aside, barking, “Canh sat, canh sat.” Policeman, policeman.

  The dead one wore the typical black slacks and silk shirt with gold and red stripes on her shoulders. Other than the fact that there was a bullet hole in her forehead and blood leaking onto her cheeks, she looked like any one of the other thousands of hill people trying to eek out a grain of rice in the cities of the Republic.

  Dead. I had the odd thought she looked healthier than the deceased policeman I’d examined a few days ago. That one was a sensation on YouTube and other Internet sites where gruesome videos could be posted. It showed a male officer on his back, his upper half completely detached from his lower, the parts separated by four feet of pavement and a few liters of blood. Absurdly, he was talking. He reminded me of a ventriloquist dummy. By the time I got there, he was already lifeless, but the digital recording was shoved gleefully in my face by nearly everyone I spoke to about the accident. He had been cut in half by a truck that lost control on a highway where he directed traffic. Today, I shook my head, trying to release the demon of that vision and focus on the fleeing spirit of the woman below me.

  It wasn’t so much I wanted to discover what had killed this old one. The more important goal was to contact my Taoist side. The metaphysical region where I could, somehow, put myself in the victim’s spirit and listen to her soul tell me who had done this horrible deed. I tried anyway, using more empirical reasoning. Like, did the size of the hole in her skull indicate she was shot from close range? What was the probable location of the shooter? Had she been robbed? What did it have to do with me or the dead guys without ears? Questions I would have to resolve myself without the help of a true forensics team or even a capable assistant.

  As the sirens got closer, I knew I wouldn’t have much more time with the body, no matter my rank or position. Someone had been murdered in our socialist, crime-free, tranquil society, and that always made the security forces nervous and angry. They’d start swinging their batons before separating out the innocent. If I objected, I’d have to hold up my papers or I’d be kicked to the gutter, especially being part-Chinese, a feature I couldn’t disguise.

  The most important finding so far had nothing to do with the corpse. It was the handsome young man who had helped me up from my unwanted taste of chicken guts a few minutes ago. He was staring intently at me, not the woman with a new eye in her forehead. I noticed only because I was trying to work out the angle of the bullet and where the killer might have stood. If I could figure out where, the police who decided to listen to me would harshly interrogate anyone who might have been in the vicinity when the shot was fired. No lawyers would be present during the questioning, and of course, no one would have seen anything suspicious. No need to complicate life because of a murdered old Montagnard.

  Now, the good-looking man moved behind one of those typical ageless Vietnamese women. She wore the conical peasant hat and full-length pink ao dai like she just stepped off the set of 1940s a French movie production. Modern Ho Chi Minh City females wore jeans and a T-shirt, unless they were going to the office in a skirt and blouse. His attempt at concealment was almost laughable, since such striking features would stand out in any Vietnamese crowd. Something didn’t fit, especially with the way he stared at me and paid no notice of the dead woman.

  The flies had arrived, along with a few roaches and even a starving dog trying to push between legs to get a lick. Every surrounding building was inscribed with the squiggly snakelike Vietnamese cursive and English translations, hocking products from lizard skin gloves to crunchy spider candy. All sold prepaid phone cards. Some of the watchers clutched rags or handkerchiefs to their faces, fighting a losing battle against the car fumes and festering trash. In a tangle of electrical wires above the nearest shop, sparks were popping close to the stucco sides of the two-story building. As the first whooping police car arrived, signal at full blare, the crowd began to melt away into the shops and down the nearby alleys. No one would want to answer questions. I stayed where I was. So did the handsome man.

  The first security officer ran up to me, his gun drawn and about to bury a polished black boot in my gut. The kick would be mainly because I was Chinese, a sin worse than kneeling next to a woman who’d been shot. He was shouting, “Ve lai, ve lai.” Get back. I reached into my pocket to pull out my ID card. Before I could open it to show him my picture and official credentials, the good-looking man stepped forward and grabbed the policeman’s arm, hissing something firmly into his ear. The traffic noise and my advanced years kept me from hearing what he said, but it was obvious he was a man of powerful words and high-placed friends. The security officer immediately stopped and came to attention, looking as if he might faint. The other policemen were close behind. Seeing the man holding their fellow officer and the way he was reacting was enough to slow all of them down. I stared, enjoying the rare treat of witnessing Ho Chi Minh City Sai Gon police, who thought they were gods, being treated as if they were ordinary worthless citizens.

  In hindsight, I should have recognized this too-pretty man for what he was. Tall, attractive, confident Vietnamese men were movie stars, politicians, volleyball players, or agents of TC2, the Second Central Commission of Military Intelligence, our own CIA, Homeland Security, and FBI all-in-one. He was the latter, and I could guess why he was following me. It had to do with dead politburo members and missing ears more than protecting me from these goons.

  The man must have told them who I was and given me some room to examine the body because all the police stood rigidly, watching to see what I would do next. It was time to astonish them with my detective skills. I looked back at the woman, reaching down and turning her head slowly back and forth, almost groaning at her singular brown tooth and an astonishing mole the size of a swiflet egg with long hairs hanging down tickling her chin. I made a few cluck sounds and then lifted her gently to her side, this time groaning a long “hmmmm.” I took her hand in mine, marveling at the dirt under her fingernails and the calluses on her palms, expressing my surprise with a loud “oh.” All of these sounds were for the benefit of the princely man and the cowed police officers. I didn’t have a pl
an or much reason to continue my inspection, even though I’d viewed hundreds of murdered victims. I stood, wiping my hands on my trousers, not having the luxury of latex gloves.

  Immediately, I stepped to the fine-looking man of mystery, a smile of gratitude on my face. I bowed slightly.

  “Cam on,” I said. “It was very kind of you to keep these thugs from kicking in my face.” I nodded to the policemen. “May I please know your name?”

  No smile. He didn’t even look at me, continuing to scan the crowd.

  “Truoc,” he said. First. “What did you find out about the dead woman?”

  “I believe that is police business,” I said. “Can I see your ID card?”

  He chuckled, no teeth showing. It sounded more like a grunting ape.

  “No,” he said. “But we can go down to Hung Dao Street and have a quiet chat. You know. Share a cup of jasmine tea and get acquainted, ignoring the screams from down the hall.”

  Hung Dao Street was the headquarters for the internal intelligence division of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Lots of invited citizens had crossed the threshold. A few had even come out scar-less and with all their fingers. On the rare occasions I had visited the well-guarded sand bagged offices, there was a lingering scent of fear, sweat, and gallons of cleaning fluid. Worst of all were the ghosts. The Ho Chi Minh City rumor mill told of the many bodies buried below the building. I had no idea if that was true, but I did easily sense the torment of lost souls as they tried to escape the evil place. Their spirits screamed in agony as I walked the halls. I never wanted to go to Hung Dao Street again. I smiled and stood, hoping I hadn’t gone too far.

  “Maybe we could just go across the street to Quickly Bang Thanh,” I said, nodding to my right. “I hear they have an excellent tran chau milk.”

  “Are you finished with the corpse?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe she’s dead.”

  “Any orders for your comrades before we leave?” he asked, motioning toward the policemen still standing at attention. Now, there were at least a dozen, none daring to interrupt our friendly talk.

  “The size of the bullet hole means she was shot from very close range,” I said. “It could’ve been anyone walking by. Whoever did it is far away by now. The police should try to find out who she is. There was no identification I could find.”

  He turned to the officers and barked a few commands, then back to me. Taking my elbow, he steered me through the few remaining onlookers. The normal chaos of Ho Chi Minh City traffic was already stalled because of the police presence. Now, it was du tai hoa, a fucking disaster. The man said something, but it was completely drowned by the meep meep of a hundred stuck mopeds and the horns of the Korean-made minivans that crowded for space. He guided me between the Hondas and Vespas, all jockeying for a slim chance of negotiating through the mess.

  Inside the Quickly Bang, the striking man took a seat opposite me on a black-lacquered chair that faced one of the green Formica tables. It was cool inside, a testimonial to the sign on the window written in English, claiming it was “Air Conditional.” Of course, the shop also advertised “Free Parking,” as if they impossibly had a lot somewhere in this district customers could use rather than the few open inches of space in front that weren’t occupied 24/7. Looking at the menu while I tried to compose myself for what was to come, I decided on a “Fruit Juit,” made from mangoes and bananas. The man ordered a “Frothy Tea” from the waitress in a pink miniskirt and inspected me like he was trying to find a landmine in the dead leaves of a jungle floor.

  “My name is Nguyen,” the man finally said. “I have a story to tell you. Then, I want your help.” All of this was said with the utmost of seriousness making ruts in his forehead.

  I nodded, knowing full well there was no choice but to sip my juit and listen to “Nguyen” spin his tale. At least he could have picked a better alias. Every Ton, Dinh, and Huynh in Ho Chi Minh City was named “Nguyen,” including one murdered commissar. I stirred my drink with the thin straw and waited.

  “Please do not ask questions,” Nguyen said. “Know that I am aware of your history and work.” He bowed. “And your file is quite impressive, grandfather.”

  Again with the old man cut, shit, but he couldn’t have offered me a much greater compliment, especially given to a half-breed Chinese and coming from a pure-blood Viet. Still, I was tiring of the “grandfather” description and the bouncing back and forth. I wasn’t yet an elder, even if my knees hurt like I was when I made the daily walk to the noodle shop.

  “Vang,” I said. Yes.

  “During the war with the American imperialists,” Nguyen said, “the Montagnards sided with the Yankees. These inbred traitorous hill people, mostly called Degar, have always hated the flatland Vietnamese and found a way to get even for the supposed harm, exploitation, and murders allegedly committed by those from the cities below. They joined the Americans, bringing with them their tracking and jungle skills, becoming some of the most fierce and unforgiving troops in the Yankee military.”

  Stifling a yawn, I put my hand to my mouth, letting Nguyen know he was telling me something every first-level schoolchild in Ho Chi Minh City had been indoctrinated into at an early age. That was fifty years ago for me. The Montagnards were already hated, well before the American invasion and long after the hated Yankees scuttled away with their Satan’s tail between their legs.

  “Are those the same hill people our infinitely wise government has tried to exterminate over the last sixty years?” I asked. “I believe some foreign devils have called it ‘ethnic cleansing.’ Or a few say ‘genocide.’ But I don’t claim to understand the delicacy of the situation and the threat of these vicious Montagnards to our revered socialist society. I’m sure they have WMDs like Saddam.”

  Even in my small, isolated country, we’re aware of global news, especially when it is embarrassing to the lapping dog Yankees. Mostly, the ruling class in this Republic is concerned with keeping power in order to drive the newest model of luxury Mercedes. Threatening their position is defined as treason, and I could tell Nguyen was about to remind me of that reality. He was scowling, neck stretched and chin pointed well above my head.

  “Ngu nhu heo,” Nguyen said. You’re being stupid as a pig. “I won’t save you when your words are repeated. Even the rice balls can hear in this city. And I’m not on your side. Not even slightly. Remember, thang cac be, grandfather.”

  Nguyen was telling me I was stupid and had a small penis. In reality, he was letting me know who was in charge and that I’d better watch my bent backside. I’d lived too long and suffered too many pretty boys like him to be politically correct when it involved murder. I sipped my fruit juit and gave him my most sincere smile.

  “What do you want to tell me, nephew?” I asked. “We’re not here sharing a frothy tea for no reason. You must have some idea what’s going on with the earless bodies. And I don’t think you give a cuc about the murdered woman.” Shit.

  Outside, the neon lights were flickering on, filling the street and walls with colored shapes. Dragons were the most popular theme, followed by rats, vipers coiled to look like the regular Vietnamese writing, and Coca-Cola advertisements. It was usually hard to distinguish rush hour from any other time of the day or evening, but the traffic had now found freedom and increased in speed to the point it was difficult to hear anything above the whine. One upside was the number of young women peddling by on their bikes or steering their cyclos, a meter of thigh showing from the slit in their tight skirts. The more modest girls rode side saddle on their motorcycles, even though that made things difficult when it came to shifting and turning and actually gave a better view of the tunnel of love. At least sundown cooled off the boiling smells of the suffocating afternoon and made it easier to breathe without gagging on the fumes of fly-blown chickens, pigs, cats, and dogs.

  My ruminations of the street noise and almost bearable aroma gave Nguyen time to gather his thoughts. He needed me, or I’d already be
arrested for my subversive remarks. So, I waited, wanting to hear how the next chapter was written and if he was an idiot puppet of the pseudo-communist regime. Sipping my fruit juit, I admired the short skirt on the waitress who was scrambling to service the room, now nearly full with after-work tea seekers.

  The conflict raging inside Nguyen’s head was obvious. There was no doubt he was clever, as well as tall and good-looking. I could guess at the pressure he was under. He was clearly torn by the decision to recruit me or send me to the notorious dungeons on Hung Dao Street for further re-education.

  Unfortunately, I had work to do and wasn’t about to get involved in the dramas that came out of police headquarters. Besides, no one had ever praised my diplomacy, only the results of my investigations. I looked at Nguyen, tiring of his indecision.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but I sense conflict in your thoughts. Let me give you a small piece of advice that came from the Imperialist Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger, during the war for reunification. He said, ‘The illegal we do immediately, the unconstitutional may take a little longer.’ Whatever you need to find the killers will be acceptable, even if it means employing a wormlike Chinese detective. Or even the possibility of killing an old woman.” I bowed, demonstrating more respect than I felt, a gesture well practiced over years of subservient ass licking.

  At this last prospect, Nguyen looked as if I’d insulted his grandmother by saying she ate vomit and not chicken broth. He flinched, snapping his head back like he was trying to avoid a bullet.