The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “I’m booked solid today, detective,” Ngo said. “I have a tee time at two this afternoon at Long Thanh. It’s the Men’s Club Tournament, and I’m the defending champion.”

  Nguyen looked at me, his brow curled in a question mark.

  Ngo and I started to laugh at the same time. To think for even a heartbeat this gnome was able to swing a five iron was ridiculous. He might as well have said he had a modeling job with Ringier, the leading Vietnamese fashion magazine.

  It didn’t take long for Nguyen to recover. He scowled and pushed his hands in the pockets of his pressed suit pants.

  “Well,” he said, “when you’re finished with your round, please make your way quickly back to the morgue to mingle with the people you’re more comfortable with. Dead ones.”

  Ngo tried to come to attention and gave a sloppy salute to Nguyen that made him look like a troll in some beastly alien army.

  “Always at your command, General,” he said. Turning away, he yelled toward the men waiting with a gurney to transport the body.

  “What are you idiots waiting for?” he yelled. “Your brains to explode with a useful thought? Maggots to hatch on your mother’s pubes? Take this man to the office. I have work to do for the master class, heh, heh.” He loped away, swinging his arms like he was Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant.

  Both Nguyen and I shook our heads in amazement that such a being still walked on the earth, realizing he was as close to a genius as our stunted society could tolerate. He would come up with more answers, using the prehistoric equipment at his disposal.

  Ngo’s discoveries weren’t of much interest to me. Four murdered and the pace was accelerating. If there was to be an end, we had to find the fifth man. Or the killers. Nguyen had already shown he was capable of murder himself by the killing of the Montagnard woman, even if he continued to deny the slaying. He wouldn’t hesitate to fire if either Luong or Morgan came into his sights. I walked outside, searching for Phan among the group of policemen smoking and swapping stories on the street. I wanted to talk to Luong or Morgan before they were killed.

  Many of the Montagnards had become Catholics, and those who lived in Sai Gon tended to camp out in the Bhinh Thanh District that sat on a peninsula in the river. Since they were still hunted and persecuted, it was nearly impossible for Montagnards to find work anywhere in Vietnam outside the Central Highlands. Still, a few stubbornly remained, mostly in cardboard or tin shacks by the river and could be seen begging in the more wealthy areas of the city along Le Loi Street. If there was anyplace I could go to hunt Luong, it was the area of ramshackle huts where the mountain people camped.

  As I went toward the Toyota, Nguyen yelled at me to stop and caught up before I could open the car door.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing more to see here,” I said. “I want to check out a few things.”

  By now, Phan was in the driver’s seat and I put my fingers on the door handle.

  “What ‘things’?” Nguyen asked.

  “They’re not fully developed in my mind yet,” I said. I stooped to get into the back seat, but Nguyen held my arm.

  “Don’t be holding back on me,” he said. “I can find you anytime and make sure you have an unpleasant evening.”

  Closing the door, I said, “You can always reach me on Phan’s cell. That’s if he’s not too absorbed in Sponge Land.”

  Phan pulled away. Within blocks we’d passed the police barricades and immediately melted into the chaos of Sai Gon.

  “Where to?” Phan asked.

  “Not Trang Long Street in Bhinh Thanh,” I said. “Close to the river.” For once, I was too deep in thought to remember the dumpling stuffed into his head.

  At every intersection, we were surrounded by motorcycles and bikes, with the occasional oxcart. It looked like many of the people were carrying everything they owned piled on their heads and their burdens teetered with every step. Horns meep, meeped, and the fumes from the engines cast a blue cloud over every scene. The cloying smell of ripe fruit and simmering garbage overcame my sense of smell. It was a perfect moment, cloaked in this madness, to try to figure out my next step. There wasn’t much time.

  For thirty years, I’d let the ruling powers control my life. I’d risen as high, or even higher, in the ranks than ever expected by me or anyone else. Chinese were so inferior they were held in less regard by the Vietnamese than the cockroaches that filled every gutter on Sai Gon’s streets. And hated more. I would go no further and always have hacks like Nguyen questioning my every move and being spied on by morons like Phan. My only defense, and often attack, was words. I tried to make the government zombies I encountered at least a little ill at ease with my caustic remarks. There wasn’t another way to vent I could see that wouldn’t put me in the eternal re-education camp meant for dead traitors. With Nguyen, I’d pushed it to the limit. But that wasn’t what was itching at my brain like head lice. It was Luong. He was the most honest and forthright man I’d ever met. While he was simple in his needs and wants, he had been forced to become a killing machine because of the slaughter of his people. I wasn’t going to let Nguyen and his kind execute him. At least, not without speaking to him first.

  The problem was keeping my findings from Nguyen. I’d have to make sure Phan was planted firmly in a place where he would be so engaged with Bubble Trouble he wouldn’t care if I was about to assassinate the Premier.

  There weren’t more than a few kilometers to drive. It still took nearly an hour before I could see the river in on our right through the gaps between the cement block buildings. Wires were strung like cobwebs and were almost thick enough to block the view. Ahead, struggling palm trees marked a break in the ragged construction.

  Women in bright headdresses and long, full skirts squatted by the road, hands out. Behind them, shabby lean-tos filled the narrow space between the street and the Tu Thiem Bridge. Nearly naked small children raced between the women, chasing one another in some kind of a tag game. I told Phan to pull over and got out, instructing him to “spend some time having a cup of tea at the Treedome.” Phan grinned and took out his cell, fingers blazing across the screen.

  The woman had milky eyes. She nursed an infant, and her smile showed only a few stumped yellow teeth. Brown wrinkles creased her leathery face. The scarf wound around her head was checked with reds, greens, blues, and blacks. Cross-legged, her flowing dress was brown with dirt and nearly covered her calloused feet. The babysan slept, and black hair poked out of a threadbare blanket that covered everything but its face. Beside the woman, an open cloth basket held pots and pans, small bags of rice, cans of Nestle milk, and a few pieces of what had to be clothing. If a tourist had to guess the woman’s age, they would probably say 70. But I knew she was less than thirty. I approached slowly, knowing she’d most likely been warned that Chinese were devil spawn. I held out a few dong and bowed.

  “Mamasan,” I said. “I honor you and your child.” I bowed lower and handed her the money that disappeared into a fold in her blouse faster than I could follow. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. First, may I know your name?”

  She nodded slowly and said, “Hacmon.”

  I squatted beside Hacmon and tried to seem even smaller than I was. The traffic noise made it hard to hear, and the children playing added to the noise. I pressed closer.

  “Do you know a man named Luong, Hacmon?” I asked. “I am his friend. I know he’s from Dac Sun. We spent many years together in the camps, mamasan. I know he would like to see me again.”

  No hesitation. She bored into my skull with those tapioca eyes and held up four crooked fingers.

  “You come back,” she said. “Four hour. Bring many more dong.”

  From behind the woman and the shadows of the palms, I could feel I was being watched. It was just a slight rustling of the dead fronds and movement in the darkness of the hootches. It reminded me this was a place where only hill tribesmen were welcome and it was easy to be disapp
eared in the brown water of the Sai Gon. I bowed again and said, “Cam on, mamasan.” Thank you.

  At the Toyota, I had to slam the door to pull Phan’s eyes away from Bob’s adventures. He started the engine and turned back to me with his regular “where to, boss?” He’d been watching too many of the Hawaii Five-O reruns on VCTV. The stupid grin on his face reminded me it was correct in our socialist society to be kind to those less fortunate than ourselves.

  “To the coroner’s,” I said. “Maybe Ngo will have some scraps for you to eat.”

  Phan nodded in anticipation and pulled into the traffic.

  Within a few blocks, I was wondering if there was time for a detour to Ma Jing’s for an afternoon delight. Trembling with the fantasy, I decided I wouldn’t be able to leave the dreamland and still make it back to meet Hacmon.

  Ngo’s office and facilities were located in District Five at Cho Ray Hospital, the biggest in Vietnam and one that claimed to “meet all global standards.” I’m sure this was true if it were being compared to worldwide butcher shops or beauty salons. It was a standing joke in Sai Gon that, when sick, it was better to see the neighborhood barber or bartender, the historical caregivers and dentists in Vietnam. The place had a dozen floors and 1,200 beds. Ngo’s morgue was in the basement, just like it was a real hospital.

  There was no trouble finding a parking spot, since Phan ignored all the signs except the ones that read “Reserved for Government Vehicles.” Usually, that meant an army Jeep or a politician’s Mercedes. When he pulled in near the door, I looked around as if I’d be able to see if anyone had tailed us. I didn’t think we’d been followed to Bhinh Thanh, but I was certainly no expert and would be surprised if Nguyen let me roam free. I sat forward and patted Phan on the shoulder.

  “Wait for me here, nephew,” I said. “I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll find some chicken satay for you to chew on at Ngo’s.”

  “Excuse me, uncle,” Phan said. “I’ve been ordered not to let you out of my sight. I have to come with you.”

  There was no use arguing. Anyway, Phan was easy to distract if there was something I didn’t want him to see or hear.

  “Em,” I said. OK.

  Inside, I walked downstairs and past Ngo’s secretary, ignoring her calls to “dung lai.” Stop. I just waved and let Phan deal with any problems as I went through the swinging doors into a frigid hell.

  At the end of the darkened hallway, Ngo’s theater opened up into a large room lined with steel doors about one meter square. The middle of the space was covered with metal tables and trolleys filled with instruments on white cloths. The lights were muted, but lamps hung from the ceiling if more illumination was needed to find a bullet wound or intestinal worm. The smell was like the 150 proof snake wine, a favorite with the tourists in District One bars, mostly because the snake was still in the bottle and had been distilled along with the rice. Straight alcohol. Ngo was hunched over a table in the middle of the space, the hump higher than his head making him look like a camel slurping at the oasis.

  Without looking up, Ngo said, “Just in time, Captain. I was about to check his cac for any signs of recent sexual activity. I don’t think that’s relevant in this case, but it’s procedure. Besides, I figure you’d enjoy getting an eyeful.”

  “Have fun,” I said, walking slowly toward Ngo, praying to the Enlightened One that he’d finish soon.

  As I got closer, the putrid reek filled my nostrils. I half expected flies to be circling in hordes as would be the case with most decaying bodies in this part of the world. We were inside, and I was immediately able to identify the smell of insecticide mixed with the alcohol and rotting flesh odor. No flies. Gore only. And I wanted to run.

  I slowed and reminded myself of my Buddhist beliefs. We were all meat, and a time came for every one of us to feed the living and move forward to another incarnation. I should be happy for this dissected body who I assumed was Sang’s, the fourth victim. The only thing I was sure of was that I had a handkerchief in my pocket in case the scene of a dismembered body caused the bile to rise from my stomach. I squeezed it and moved beside the bent-over Ngo.

  The naked corpse was still mostly intact, and the bruises that covered the upper part of Sang’s body and neck were dark blue and sunken. There were a few cuts across his chest that had been cleaned of blood and his cac was in Ngo’s fingers.

  “You want to give me a hand?” Ngo asked, chuckling and not looking up. “I don’t need much. It’s tiny even for a Vietnamese.”

  “Not my thing,” I said, trying to stop from gagging.

  Ngo dropped Sang’s cac and moved up his body, pointing to the contusions.

  “It appears someone thought Sang was their wife,” Ngo said. “Or a punching bag.” He waved his hand over Sang’s chest, stopping at his forearms and pointing. “As I suspected, they used a lighter or cigarette to fire him up.” He probed one of the burn marks with a forceps. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

  Too much more of this, and I’d certainly hurl the morning’s fish balls on the tiled floor. There wasn’t a lot I needed to know, now that I saw this cadaver had been treated harsher than the other three victims.

  Moving his hand like a baton, Ngo placed the forceps next to Sang’s ghost left ear.

  “Notice the tear marks here,” he said. “The wounds are ragged. Unlike the other three where the ears were sliced off cleanly with something very sharp. This time, it seems like someone strong just jerked them off, so to speak. Shows some rage. Or the need to act quickly.”

  “Could one person do this?” I asked.

  “Not likely. I don’t see any evidence of restraints. Ropes, handcuffs, plastic. Nothing. That means someone must have held Sang down while the other one played inquisitor. If you want to wait for the fun part, I’m about to split him from chin to groin. If we get lucky, they’ll be worms crawling around in there. As you know, nearly 15 percent of all our comrades are infested with the grubs.”

  I’d seen enough and had no interest in worms. Whoever was committing the murders, their behavior was escalating, showing some kind of desperation. They needed to locate the fifth man before we found them, and they must know a nationwide dragnet was already in place. I had to find Luong before Nguyen and his death squad.

  “Thank you, esteemed uncle,” I said, wiping my mouth. “I need to get going.”

  “If you need a barf bag,” Ngo said, “clean up after yourself. I hate the smell.” He shook his doughboy head. “You amateurs need to get a stronger stomach. Or stay away.”

  I kowtowed, not bothering to answer, and staggered toward the hallway, wondering if the Buddha had ever watched an autopsy. If so, he might not have gotten so fat.

  Walking down the dim passage, I knew my opinion that things were ratcheting up had been confirmed by Ngo’s findings. I still had a few hours before meeting Hacmon and decided I should spend them doing a little research down at the station. Outside, Phan was waiting. No surprise. His head was down and an elephant herd wouldn’t distract him from Krabby Land. I nudged him with a slippered toe.

  “Back to the station, Sergeant,” I said. “You can call Nguyen and tell him what we thought was true. The killers are getting anxious.” My stomach was rolling like a sampan in a typhoon, and I was in no mood to harass Phan.

  “No Ma Jing’s?” Phan asked. “You look like you could use some medicine, Captain.”

  “Just go,” I said, grabbing my belly and groaning, visions of slime-ridden worms crawling out of Sang’s discolored body playing on my eyelids.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some rice porridge and ginger?” Phan asked. “You’re starting to turn white, and I don’t want you mistaken for a gweilo.” He chuckled.

  “If you don’t start the motor in the next two seconds,” I said, “I’ll be forced to tell your mother about the sex change you’re saving for.”

  Phan gasped. “That’s not true and you know it, Captain.”

  “Yes, but your mother doesn’t. Den bay gio.” Go now. />
  As we drove through the smog of Sai Gon toward police headquarters in District One, the blue fumes and ever-present fester of decay made me even queasier. But it was the daymare in my head that was most unsettling, sparked by the memory of a recent news story that appeared in the Saigon Times. It seemed a thirty-four-month-old child, Tran Van Dat, had gotten seriously ill. When he was examined at the Ministry of Health Clinic at the Tam Tra commune in the Nui Thanh District, he was diagnosed with ileus, or intestinal obstruction, caused by two pounds of worms. Pictures of the heaving mass accompanied the story, and it had put me off bowls of pho noodles ever since, even the ones with Mekong duck and saffron, my favorite. I could tolerate black and blue marks, knife wounds, bullet holes, and even the red puckered circles from cigarette burns. But the thought of what might be slithering around in my abdomen made me want to blow my rice ball breakfast.

  The traffic assured the two-kilometer trip back took nearly fifty minutes. By the time we arrived, I would only have a moment to check in before we had to head back to Binh Thanh. That would give the denizens inside enough opportunity to make sure I knew how much I was hated. I told Phan to park in a Du Tru space. Reserved.

  My office was a windowless room on the top floor that used to be the janitor’s storage area for cleaning supplies. It still smelled like Lix Floor Liquid, the most popular washing brand in Vietnam. The aroma had seeped into the walls and reminded me of the chemical plants that spewed their poison into the atmosphere and were clustered around the toxic city of Phu My. My workplace was high in the building, a location that assured it would be constantly airless and sweltering. I ran the gauntlet and made my way to the stairs, since the lift rarely worked.

  I half expected to hear the normal “fuck the eighteen generations of your ancestors,” the most common and supposedly hurtful insult to lay on a Chinese. I’d grown the thick scales of an iguana against that one, but still didn’t like the words of the uniformed officer who hissed, “You wear a green hat, chink.” Loosely translated, that meant I was a man-whore who was the offspring of another man-whore and only fucked other man-whores. I ignored the mong, asshole, not wanting him to know that one stung.