The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “Cuc,” Nguyen barked. Shit. He stared down in horror as if there were a bamboo snake about to climb up his leg.

  “I think you’re right about that,” I said, walking away.

  Outside, the early-evening shift was transforming the street into its nighttime incarnation, food carts closing and packed up on their tall bicycle tires, the vendors pedaling off to huts close to the river or in the slums of Districts Four and Five. Steel doors enclosing the more permanent stalls slammed down and were bolted shut, using brand new “Made in the USA” padlocks. The volume of rock music went up as the bars tried desperately to attract those getting off work with bands playing Beatles and Stones music the listener would swear was the real deal. Tourists were tempted by the sound and light shows that made the road pulse with color, while the sweet smell of rotting fruit was overwhelmed by the exhaust fumes from the increased motor traffic that sounded like a thousand beehives had been overturned nearby. Women in groups and couples holding hands went past, single people squawking on cell phones, the faint scent of violet perfume trailing behind their giddy smiles. I took in the panorama, breathing slowly, having made the decision to fuck Nguyen and his kind with as sharp a stick as I could carve.

  By the time I reached Phan, he’d shifted his concentration from the dolphin chirps of SpongeBob’s world to shock of watching my behavior with one of the masters-of-the-universe category, rebellious actions no good patriotic Viet would dare take.

  “Should I drive you to Ma Jing’s?” Phan asked. “You look like you need to relax.”

  Out of the mouth of babes. Or something like that. I’d heard it said on TV by American actors and on infomercials. Or maybe it was one of those Christian psalms. Certainly not Buddhist or Chinese. Sometimes Phan amazed me with his childlike ability to reduce things to their lowest, most obvious element. While SpongeBob was his opiate, he could easily grasp my need for a bowl of the Golden Triangle’s finest. The possibility made me smile and not worry that Nguyen or one of his lackeys would follow.

  As we drove toward Cholon, the District Five Chinatown, I began to unwind, the dreamworld so close I could smell the clouds. Outside, advertising on the shops changed from the snakelike cursive of Vietnamese to the boxy writing of Chinese. The building fronts began to display the rounded tiles of Chinatowns I’d seen pictured around the world. Dragons and lions were everywhere in more colors and shades than I could ever describe. Cooking rice, boiling chicken, and MSG smells replaced the decaying aroma of the rest of Sai Gon, and I knew we were getting close by the views of the river that appeared between the houses and businesses. My arms were the first to begin itching, then my head. I didn’t bother to scratch, knowing full well we were minutes away from Ma Jing’s.

  The black Toyota with tinted windows behind us probably held at least two detectives who’d been ordered to keep track of my movements. They weren’t there to enforce the strict laws against opium passed over a century ago to keep the scourge brought into the country by the Chinese devils out of the lungs and minds of Vietnamese. For now, I was useful and might help Nguyen solve the killings. Not tonight. I had earned a dragon ride at Ma Jing’s, and political ambitions of others or the possibility of rescuing Luong weren’t going to keep me from her door. It would take something along the lines of five megatons of high explosives.

  Phan pulled to the side of Ngo Luo Street on a block fronting the Sai Gon River between a long row of ramshackle warehouses that appeared to be slowly sinking into the water. They’d looked that way for a hundred years. Only a fire or bomb would change their history. Ma Jing’s didn’t have a sign advertising “Thuoc Phien Den,” opium den, nor a drawing of a pigtailed Chinese man sucking on a long pipe. What it did have was a blinking red Coca-Cola sign and no windows opening to the street, just a warped wooden door and a man who seemed to be asleep sitting on an old metal chair that was about to collapse at the same time as its occupant. I got out of the car and walked to him.

  “Good evening, Jinhai,” I said. He didn’t open his mouth, only nodded toward the door. I knew the right hand in his soiled silk jacket pocket held a buzzer. Two pushes on the button would alert Ma Jing that a customer had arrived. Three would mean trouble, but Ma Jing had spent millions over the years to keep the district police smiling and not pestering her business or clientele. Besides, if they wanted to shut her down, she wasn’t about to jump into the river and swim to safety, only hold out more dong.

  Opening the door, I waved to Phan. The men in the Toyota parked across Ngo Luo in front of a fruit stand that seemed to specialize in bananas. Huge piles of them threatened to fall with the passing of a truck or one of the regular “Ring of Fire” earthquakes that rattled Vietnam.

  Immediately, my world turned dark. I stood just inside, the door closed behind me, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the blackness and the sour smell of comatose men and smoke from the dream sticks. Ma Jing was at her station just to the right, acting like a ticket taker at the cinema. No warm smile of greeting. No words. No gestures. Nothing. Only patience while I got my mind and body ready to make a purchase of her imported magic.

  Two hundred thousand dong, or about ten US dollars, and I’d have enough to enter the floating world for the next few hours. Five hundred thousand and I wouldn’t wake up until tomorrow afternoon. I handed over two hundred thousand and got back two small balls of black tar, no pipe. I carried my own, now resting next to the pistol I’d confiscated. Ma Jing pointed down the hall, flicking her wrist and dismissing me like I was a smelly street beggar. Small talk wasn’t allowed inside these tarred walls

  The space was divided into dingy cubicles lit only by low-watt bulbs or candles that kept the rooms in near yellow darkness. As I wound my way down the narrow hall, I passed men lying on wooden beds, surrounded by ancient mahogany beams, most of the clients with unblinking eyes staring into the void. The only noise was the bubbling or hissing of pipes and an occasional moan. No one seemed to care at all that they were on display for anyone who walked by, their arms straight out and teeth reflecting the muted light. Everywhere, decades of smoke covered every surface as if they were the lungs of a seventy-year-old who’d smoked three packs a day for his entire adult life. It wasn’t like Ma Jing would invest in the latest ventilation system on the market. The rows of unconscious men were her best advertisement and the quiet was a major part of the ambience she was selling. But, mostly it was about the opium.

  The drug was first recorded in fifth century Greece, spreading east to where it had become a cash cow over centuries for numerous civilizations. Strangely enough, archaeologists have found evidence it was used for medicinal and religious purposes in the Stone Age. The British had built an empire on its trade and enslaved millions of Chinese while they built their Hong Kong fortress. Because it could be shipped in bulk over long distances, unlike most foodstuffs, opium became the currency of trade throughout the East, facilitated by Europeans who wanted to dominate the market routes. While Asian warlords still controlled much of the world’s current production, Afghanistan was the leader in growing the plant, aided by the CIA. I didn’t care, as long as Ma Jing sold me high-grade opium with over 16 percent morphine, the fog that sent me to a world far away and not the tobacco leaf and pig’s feet oil most of her shoppers could afford.

  The hallway twisted and turned like a dark maze lit by only the occasional flaring match and grime-covered bulbs. After a few turns, I found my favored spot in a dim alcove. I liked it there because I didn’t have to climb over drugged men or worry about them doing the same. It was a rare individual recess and even gloomier than the rest. A wooden pillow was barely visible at the far end of the plank bed. The walls were slats of bamboo blackened from years of exhaled ecstasy. I crawled in, taking out my pipe, making sure not to overturn the opium lamp as I lay down.

  As with most things in the netherworld, I wasn’t about to put fire to the first tiny ball I placed gently in the bowl. My custom-made antique pipe didn’t danh tu, burn, the opium. The silver and glas
s lamp provided the steady heat through its three-inch chimney to raise the temperature of the ball enough that it released the active alkaloids, primarily morphine, vaporizing the poppy milk and letting me draw in its enchantment. One of the few things I’d inherited from my grandfather was a long, ivory pipe stem with a fired earthenware bowl at the end that could be screwed off and cleaned, attached to the stalk by a metal fitting. I held the bowl over the Ma Jing–provided oil lamp. I was lying on my side, making sure the clouds were released properly and prodding the opium ball into the heat channel. Within seconds, the fumes were being sucked into my chest and I was entering floating heaven.

  The release of dopamines in my brain was the furthest thing from my thoughts. Science was immaterial and meaningless. What I knew was that the first smoke inhalation raced to my head and quickly spread throughout my body, causing a slight grin to appear on my face and the warm fuzziness of a few shots of King Cobra Whiskey to tickle my arms and face. The next ball would take me away for two or three hours, and I needed only to stay sober enough to let the lamp do its wizardry. I fumbled the last ball into the bowl and held it over the chimney for a few slowed heartbeats. I sucked and collapsed to my wooden mattress, letting the spirits transport me to the land of endless dreams.

  Time meant nothing. Calm was the best way to describe the next hours. A serene feeling of quiet. No more dead politburo members, two-faced detectives, Yankee devils, or vengeful Montagnards. I drifted above all the earthly madness, forgetting, for now, that I would awaken to the same trouble I’d just escaped. Nothing could possibly disturb my sense of calm.

  From somewhere in the clouds I couldn’t identify, I was being summoned.

  “Captain,” the voice whispered. Then, as I ignored the call, preferring to stay in a land of gold, jungle, and tranquility, the demand became louder and harsher, accompanied by someone shaking my shoulders.

  “Captain, wake up,” the voice demanded. “There’s been another murder, and you’re needed. Wake up. We must go.”

  Slowly, my eyes opened as if I’d used a screwdriver to pry the lids apart. I turned a head that weighed a thousand kilos toward the invading noise, trying to shake out the spiderwebs as I moved. It was Phan. And he looked desperate.

  “If I don’t bring you out,” Phan said, “Nguyen will send in a squad.” He looked at his iPhone. “We’ve got less than two minutes.”

  The most amazing observation was that Phan saw anything but Krabby Land and the Klown in his field of vision. I tried to sit up and all the muscles in my body felt like mud. Even raising my head in order to rest it on my palm was like trying to lift one of the Mekong elephants. I blinked, hoping this was just a bad dream caused by some undeserved karmic disaster.

  Phan decided I needed help to get out of my cave and he began to pull at my legs, whispering, “Day di,” get up, as he gently steered me toward the plank floor. Under the influence of the Joy Plant, there was no fight in me and I let Phan be my guide back to the planet.

  Fortunately, Phan already had gripped the best tool to awaken me steaming in his hand. A venti nonfat cappuccino from Starbucks, containing the caffeine blast that might chase the serpent away. He moved it back and forth in front of my nose, pulling me forward all the time but not letting me touch the container until I grunted to my feet, sitting back down on the edge of the wooden bed before I passed out. Phan pushed the coffee toward me and said, “We must go, Captain Fang.”

  I grabbed the lifeline contained in the cup and took a few long gulps. Thankfully, the liquid had cooled in the time it took Phan to make his delivery, and I savored both the flavor and the rush of caffeine I knew would soon sprint to my heart, kicking the dreamworld to the gutter. Phan clutched my elbow and pulled up again, steering me down the dark hallway toward the door.

  On the nights when I was alone, the path to the front was hard enough to follow in the darkness. Now, still under the spell of when shee, I would never have made it by myself. Phan was my leader, and he made sure I didn’t break my nose every time I crashed into a greasy wall or stumbled on a pair of slippers. No one said a word as we made our way through the web and into the light. Not even Ma Jing, who only scowled as Phan opened the door to the street.

  Immediately, I was blind and had to stagger against Phan in order to keep from falling, making sure I didn’t spill a drop of Buddha’s blood from my cup. Phan had parked the Mitsubishi close to the exit, and he opened the back door, bundling me inside. As the seconds passed, I returned to low-level awareness, the jolt of a new drug streaming through my limbs. It took all my strength and concentration to sit up. I managed, cursing Phan with every twist.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Phan was now in the driver’s seat, pulling the SUV into the limited traffic.

  “District Two,” he said.

  The rocket fuel in my cup was doing its magic, and I was fast coming awake, beginning to break through the cobwebs and realize the case was taking an even more sinister turn.

  “Ah-ha,” I said, trying to sound like I had recovered and had a newly minted PhD in life and investigation.

  “Is that ‘ah-ha’ meant to tell me you have an opinion on murders in District Two?” Phan asked. “Or were you just clearing your throat?”

  I scratched at my thinning hair, wondering if Ma Jing’s was a vast breeding ground for lice or if it was just nerves giving birth in my head.

  “If you paid attention to what’s happening in this city rather than drowning in SpongeBob’s adventures, you’d know of the vast investment our esteemed rulers have made in District Two.”

  “Oh, please enlighten me, master,” Phan said. “I so much respect your knowledge and leadership, especially after I drag you nearly senseless from Ma Jing’s.”

  This was the longest lecture I’d ever heard Phan make, and it made me giggle. Or maybe it was the ah pen yen, opium.

  “Would you curse me going to the hospital?” I asked. “Or seeing the fortune-teller? I don’t understand your dislike of Ma Jing. Furthermore, I don’t care.” I yawned and turned away. “Go back to smoking SpongeBob in your pipe or dreaming of slaying the sea monster like all the other ten-year-olds in this city.”

  It seemed I’d never learn. Phan seemed about to cry, his shoulders beginning to quiver with the first signs of bawling. I had to stop tormenting this wretched man, even if I knew this was his little act to make me feel guilty and stop. Just because he was a paid informant and a mole in my life didn’t give me the right to terrorize him or taunt him about his massive deficiencies. I sighed, leaning back into the fake leather seat.

  “Phan? Do you often wonder who your father is?”

  “No, Captain. It is not my fate.”

  “During the war with the Yankee devils, many of our women were raped and contracted syphilis from the foreign criminals. I know your mother was so ugly she made the dogs bark and run to escape her face. Still, the Americans would fuck anything that didn’t leave a slug trail and all of them had the clap. I think that’s what ate your brain.”

  Quiet. That was what I craved. And another pipe full. I couldn’t shake the fact that Phan, the seemingly harmless idiot, would put a bullet in my head from his .45 without hesitation. He knew who paid his cell phone bill and kept the latest SpongeBob updates coming. And it wasn’t me.

  Saigon was getting wound up for the night’s action, bargirls outside every door where music blasted to the street. They wore skin-tight ao dis, the first modern designs created by Dung and Dung Tailors, with a slit up the side nearly to their hips and their breasts pushed high. Some were that stunning mix of French and Vietnamese, one of the most beautiful female combinations on earth, even if Chinese women were the finest. Behind the hostesses, lights in every imaginable color throbbed to the beat of the knockoff songs and drunken men fought with themselves about which door to go through. The few remaining food carts hawked fried chicken satay or some substitute species on a bamboo stick disguised to look like it. Everything seemed to be a shabby
, worthless, overly bright copy. Or maybe it was just my mood.

  Long before we arrived in District Two, I knew what we would find. I wouldn’t have been summoned unless it was another Night Snake attack. Unfortunately, I believed I already knew one of the killers in real life and the other by his legend. Soon, I’d have to make a choice. Nguyen wouldn’t let me stall much longer or I’d find myself the one with the blindfold on in the basement. It would be best for my soul and Luong’s life to steer the investigation toward Frank Morgan and make his myth real.

  The New District Two was the invention of our rulers, an attempt to create a thriving upscale neighborhood for the growing wealthy class. Thatch-roofed hootches had been burned or bulldozed to make space for modern high-rise apartments, roads, and houses. It was the home to many politburo members who didn’t relish brushing shoulders with the unwashed masses and wasn’t an area I hung out in or wanted to visit often. Everything that happened inside its boundaries seemed infected with crooked politics, and a half-breed like me was easily blamed for anything out of the ordinary.

  Phan stopped the Toyota behind the barricades and police cars blocking Dang Giai Street. Uniformed officers milled about, smoking and chatting, on the alert for anything possibly suspicious. Near the front of a stand-alone modern house a block away, Nguyen stepped out the door, craning his head stiffly from side to side as if he were looking for something. Or someone. When his eyes found mine, he relaxed some and beckoned me with his latex-gloved right hand.

  The street was lined with immature palm trees, lit by the corner lamps that cast shadows on the newly constructed villas. In the distance, the horizon was broken by the outline of several cranes and bats out for an evening feast. The noxious smell that seemed to coat every inch of the city was replaced by the dryness of construction dust, somehow having overcome the ever-present dripping humidity. I walked toward Nguyen, trying to brush the vermin from my head, knowing the next few minutes might determine if he started the interrogation by pulling out eyelids if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.