The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  Within the next hour, three more trucks arrived. When they were unloaded, we were divided into groups of ten and shoved to small areas near the encroaching jungle. Screaming and shoving forced us to begin clearing, mainly using only our bare hands. Some of the crews gathered wood and were instructed to begin building more huts. An especially violent guard with an eye patch and a horrible jagged scar on his cheek took pleasure in beating whoever was closest for no reason whatsoever. His tool of choice was an oiled teak stick with dragons carved up and down its length. A blow would leave an impression of one of the beasts on the receiver’s skin. Or skull. His name was Duc, and he would later die the night Luong escaped.

  The system of informants began immediately. Guards were skilled at picking the weakest prisoners and forcing them to report even minor violations. Things like yawning during a lecture or eating a worm without sharing were punished by skin-breaking blows to the body. More severe breaches meant days in an airless hole with a foot of water at the bottom. Leeches, kraits, and rats were the only company. Of course, any real defiance, like escape attempts, meant death by a thousand whacks from sticks, shovels, and clubs in caves the failed fugitives were forced to dig themselves.

  Supposedly, the purpose of the imprisonment was to teach the true path to those believed to have become social deviants through contact with the murdering Yankee invaders. This was done through constant repetition of political slogans, singing of patriotic songs, reading pamphlets and books, plays based on the superiority of peasant ways and labor, and nightly brainwashing talks both in large and small groups. The camps were a manifestation of Ho Chi Minh’s principle that “fighting is less important then propaganda.” Our brains were to be scrubbed clean through continual, forced re-education. This was promised to be accomplished in thirty days, including weekly visits from family. The average imprisonment was over five years, and I never had a guest.

  At night, after work crews had built enough huts, we were jammed inside and made to sleep on the ground. During the monsoons, that meant floating on a river of water. In the winter, closeness was our only warmth. Luong was in my squad and usually slept beside me. Talking was not allowed. We were instructed to mentally review the day’s teachings and absorb the superiority of a socialist society, totally adhering to rules like “I swear to engage in self-criticism, to be a model citizen of the revolution, and never to harm the Fatherland.” In quiet moments, we were told to “seek truth in thought.” Instead, after a few months, Luong and I figured out a way to whisper in each other’s ears so that not even those on each side of us could hear. That was how I learned his story.

  Because he was a “ban thỉu Degar,” filthy Montagnard, Luong was beaten relentlessly and forced to do the dirtiest jobs like burning shit and skinning rats and snakes. Since there was no such thing as clean clothes, he smelled worse than the rest of us. And that was enough to make even the guards gag. Never once did I see Luong kowtow to our captors. His favorite saying was “chi co ca chet di voi dong.” Only dead fish go with the stream. He never surrendered.

  In the darkness, Luong murmured tales of the Night Snake and the massacres of his mountain tribe. Because of our bond, we were viewed, at best, as untrustworthy outcasts, at worst, lo dit khỉ. Asshole monkeys, now meant to include half-breeds too. Even though I was younger than Luong, he had befriended me as a fellow pariah and protected me from harm whenever he could. This meant diverting the insane rage of the guards toward himself. Then, one night, he was gone. His disappearance meant I was beaten several times a day until the soldiers got bored. Usually, the arrested escapees were paraded in front of us before they were killed. This time, not even a rumor of Luong’s capture spread through Z30-D. Now, at the Quickly Bang, I could sense his presence in Ho Chi Minh City. And, the best way to protect him was to play along with this handsome fool Nguyen and his bosses, who would steal the gold from the teeth of dead Chinamen or any peasant who dared exhale in their presence.

  The young people had finished their tea and left the Quickly Bang in search of cold 333 beer, yelling and pushing one another in mock karate battles as they went out to the still-busy street. Now, I was alone with Nguyen and the scowl on his face showed he wasn’t content with my tales of re-education and broken ribs. Without a plan, my only strategy was to follow SunTzu’s advice, “If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near.”

  The men who’d been watching from across the street hadn’t returned. They might have been more my comrades than Nguyen would ever be. Regardless, it was puzzling why Montagnards would be following me unless it had to do with Luong and the murders. Their spots were now occupied by two women in skirts short enough I could see mounds of black pubic hair through their pink undies. They were chatting with a ragged man in a T-shirt who looked like he couldn’t afford them and was old enough to be their ong noi, grandpa. But, I had been duped before by a neighborhood rag picker who died with a few million dong hidden in his rickety oxcart, the money found after he was killed by a runaway cyclo in the gray roar of a monsoon evening.

  As Nguyen continued to study his manicured fingernails, my assistant, Phan, appeared on the sidewalk outside the open doors. His hands were stuck in the pockets of his black pants, and he looked sheepishly down at the line of cockroaches crawling by his loafers, trying hard to make sure I noticed how much his feelings had been hurt by my abandonment. I raised my hand and motioned him inside, the width of his body blocking the glittering neon that made the street shimmer like a sparkler at a funeral celebration.

  When Phan stood next to our table, I pushed out a chair and told him “ngoi.” Sit. This made Nguyen look up and frown even more, mainly because Phan’s head was nodding and he was smiling like a mentally challenged infant. I put my hand on Phan’s arm and presented Nguyen with my most sincere face.

  “This is Sergeant Phan,” I said. “He has been given the job of watching over me so that I do not piss myself or on my superiors. Every day, he reports back to headquarters so they will know I haven’t betrayed them or our socialist paradise, especially to our communist brothers across the northern border. He’s also my chauffeur and bodyguard. I’m not honorable enough to be allowed a driver’s license or a pistol, but they do let me out in public once in a while as long as I am spied upon at all times like the secret agent I’ve obviously become. I only wish they would tell me who I work for so I could get a new Sony TV from my foreign pay masters.”

  As I checked that the newly found revolver was still in my pocket, I watched Phan keep on wagging his head and staring at Nguyen, the grin getting bigger every second.

  Nguyen wasn’t impressed. It was obvious by the way he glowered and turned back to me.

  “Is this your youngest son? His stupid smile is just like yours.”

  “No. He has been blessed with only Vietnamese blood.”

  “Again, you test my patience.”

  “I was only pointing out that he doesn’t look at all like me. No slanted eyes and he favors the wide brow of someone whose seed came from along the Mekong.”

  “I don’t care whose spawn he is. Tell him to go. Our business is about over.”

  Turning to Phan, I pointed to the door and said, “Cho doi ben ngoai.” Wait outside. He went, looking like a whipped street mutt.

  Nothing seemed to faze Nguyen. At least none that I could tell by the impenetrable look on his poster-child face. He was staring at me in judgment, his black eyes clear and intense, and I thought I might soon be sorting slugs in the nearest farm collective, trying to occasionally chew one without being beaten bloody by an observant guard. Nguyen cleared his throat as if he was about to address the politburo.

  “I will let this go for now,” he said, leaning closer to make his point. “But, first I need to know everything about this American Night Snake you describe. I do not believe the Luong character could have done the things you claim without outside help. He has to be led by a capitalist agitator. As they say on farang TV, ‘even your impressions will help.�
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  Little by little, I was becoming more convinced my theory was true. Even if Nguyen wouldn’t tell me everything he was aware of, unwilling to let a humble Chinaman in on the details, the Luong–Night Snake connection was more than plausible. The dilemma for me was trying to satisfy Nguyen while pursuing my own investigation, all without ending up having my finger- and toenails slowly removed as Nguyen watched while using a buffer and clear polish on his. While I agreed with Nguyen’s conclusion, I knew nothing about the modern-day Night Snake and I was sure Nguyen could find out much more. And faster. Still, by remembering the descriptions and stories Luong whispered during our miraculous transformation into patriotic citizens facilitated by our compassionate leaders, I could guess the Montagnard was a player in the murders. Nothing I could tell Nguyen about the Night Snake was firsthand, only hushed conversations gathered between sessions of mud eating and beatings, while we felt our bodies leech slowly away.

  It was difficult to be coy with this man. I would have to take advantage of the belief among Nguyen’s kind that anyone tainted with Chinese blood, even if a half-breed, could never be truly understood. I made my face as blank as the waitress who sat behind the Formica counter, scrubbing flowered teacups with a brown towel she might have pulled from the gutter.

  “I’ve told you everything,” I said. “The rat will never understand the snake, even as he kicks his legs and slides down the krait’s throat. He only knows he is being eaten.”

  “Spare me from the Buddhist phan bo,” bullshit, Nguyen said. “I have no desire to be lectured on my karma making me come back as a cockroach or listen to your boring proverbs. Just give me some notion of the Night Snake from what you heard.”

  “That’s like asking the monkey to tell you why the cow moos,” I said. “I had no—what do they say—‘point of reference.’ The only white face I’d seen when I was thrown in the re-education camp with Luong was carrying an M16 and handing out cans of Spam to starving people in my village while the huts burning from his Zippo smoked behind us. I later was taught they were all farang devils and would eat my eyeballs if I didn’t fight them. In that context, I knew only that the Night Snake was even more powerful and had more magic than the rest.”

  Nguyen wasn’t one to smile, even if he meant it to be eerily threatening. Or seductive. As I once heard said about Vietnamese government officials, “smiles are expensive,” and Nguyen must have been a beggar. He just stared, trying to make me feel like I was guilty of some unstated major offense, while he refused to blink and his eyes attempted to turn me to stone. Sorry, I was as good as him at this game, an old Chinese skill.

  “You are testing my patience,” Nguyen said. “I do not think your brain has been completely boiled by the opium you smoke most nights.”

  Uh-oh. This was something I needed to squelch. He must have read my file even before this supposed accidental meeting and was making it known he was aware of my vices. Blackmail would be a minor sin for Nguyen, and I smiled as if I were being tolerant of a grandchild who’d just pissed on my sandals.

  “‘Boiled’?” I asked. “I have allowed my thoughts and action to take me to the place most desired by the Buddha. That is to end my suffering and help those more in need than myself. I do not need the magic sap to keep me on the right path.”

  “Then why do I have an entire picture portfolio filled with photos of you going into Ma Jing’s?”

  “Strictly for police reasons. I am not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “More phan bo. You even look guilty, while trying to not shit your pajamas, old one.”

  “I do not need the dream world for escape. There is too much work to be done on this earth to chase the dragon.”

  “Enough,” Nguyen snapped, slamming his fist on the table and spilling what was left of his frothy tea. “I will not tolerate anymore of your lies. Tell me about the Night Snake or I will have boiling soybean oil poured down your treacherous throat.”

  My internal enemy, the bubble that started in the back of my head when I was about to smash someone or something, was building and about to burst like Nguyen’s skull would if I squashed it between my calloused hands. This disrespectful mosquito’s head was filled with sour blood and would splatter the walls of the Quickly Bang with brain matter if he didn’t cease with the insults and demands. The anti-Buddha was about to run amok, and I would use the years of martial arts training to pinch his ears together and… .

  I did nothing. Standing, I politely slid my chair into its resting place under the table and turned to leave before the red monster growing behind my eyes overwhelmed me and Nguyen’s head was made into rice paste. My fingers brushed the pistol I’d stolen from the dead man’s house, tempting me further. But I nodded and bowed, starting to leave without the requisite smile.

  “Ngoi fuck xuong,” Nguyen hissed. Sit the fuck down.

  I didn’t and started toward the honking horns and chaos on the neon-lit street where Phan was waiting, totally absorbed in defeating the anchovy assault on his SpongeBob cell phone game.

  Fury. I had trouble with the Third Noble Truth. I had allowed the anger samsara to control my energy too often, and it was time to light a thousand joss sticks. Again. Beyond being a half-caste, my episodes of rage had assured a slow rise through the detective ranks and guaranteed I’d be a captain, or lower, for my earthly cycle. I took a step toward the bouncing fish on Phan’s screen.

  Nguyen grabbed my arm and tried to pull me back. I knew there was no chance I could fight without ending up a piece of charcoal floating on one of the funeral barges that passed on the Sai Gon River. Resistance was suicide, a slogan that my masters should have trumpeted around the country.

  I pulled a quick Cuong Nhu serpent kata and had Nguyen’s arm in a grip that would cause bones to snap if he fought back. Or moved.

  Stalemate. He knew I wouldn’t break his arm. It was obvious I hadn’t reached the stage of enlightenment that allowed me to move on to the next level through an agonizing death. If I squeezed even a pound too hard, I’d soon be found rotting in a sewer on Le Loi alongside the cigarette butts and spider turds with no chance for nearing nirvana. Or he’d just shoot me in the face.

  I shrugged and let him go, knowing I couldn’t reach the pistol in my pocket before Nguyen got to his. Even if I shot him, his comrades in the intelligence branch would hunt me down, probably killing everyone they believed was part of my family just for amusement. Besides, I wasn’t that angry. Or foolish. I hated these condescending, overbearing, righteous, superior lo dits. Assholes. They seemed to control my life and wanted my thoughts, too. Still, I wasn’t prepared to die quite yet.

  Nguyen was sending out sparks as he tried to melt me with his hollow black eyes. His hatred seemed even more embedded than mine. Here was a lowlife toad of a half-man challenging the authority of both him and the ruling class in our classless proletarian society.

  This little Quickly Bang drama wasn’t over yet. While I believed I’d been considerate and self-protective in releasing Nguyen’s arm, he couldn’t tolerate the insolence of my grip. Stepping closer, he slapped me, the crack of his hand on my cheek causing even Phan to look startled. I’d seen the blow coming. And let it happen, the film playing in slow motion. Nguyen, while handsome and fit, wasn’t as quick as the lowliest white belt in my Cuong Nhu dojo. His arms seemed muscled, and he must have got his bulk from pumping iron or eating steroids like so many of the deviant Westerners who felt bursting biceps and pushing cement-filled tractor tires made them men. Turning my head slightly nearly canceled the impact to the point that I recited my mantra twice before the breeze settled from his swing.

  We stood there glaring at each other for a few seconds, seemingly deciding who would take the lead in the next act. At least Nguyen knew. I was already floating away in a Black Pearl dream, a remnant of too many bowls the night before at Ma Jing’s. Combined with the drone of my mantra, I was calming the devils, even if it killed me. Certainly attacking this apparatchik
would be terminal disrespect.

  The horrors wouldn’t let me escape. My mind, while trying to blank out the pressures of a world entangled in gargoyles, drifted to another picture that had recently appeared on my desk. It was a composite photo of three journalists who’d been murdered the same night. At least the black lumps of charcoal could have once been humans. All three were doused with gasoline in their separate beds and lit on fire. Coincidentally, they had pooled information on an exposé of corruption inside the Communist Party of Vietnam that appeared in the Ho Chi Minh City News, the closest my countrymen could come to an anti-government publication. I’d been trying to place this man ever since he appeared. Now, I remembered Nguyen had been one of the officers pictured, standing beside a bed, looking truly shocked like all the others, one of whom probably supplied the matches. I slowly exhaled and turned away from Nguyen, moving toward the street, understanding it was time to show the man some deference.

  Cliché. Or maybe it was too much TV. I lipped the words as they came out of Nguyen’s mouth.

  “Ban se duroc nghe tu toi.” You’ll be hearing from me.

  I waited for the “chung toi dang theo doi bạn.” We’re watching you. But it didn’t come.

  It was apparent Nguyen valued his highly polished French leather shoes by the way they were shined to a black-mirror finish and the attempts he had made to keep from stepping near anything that might soil his treasures. He stepped over rotting mangoes, brown storm water puddles, and any other garbage that threatened at every step in Sai Gon. As I went past, I scuffed my filthy sandals against his imported shoes, making sure I left a deposit for Nguyen to deal with later.