The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “Ngoi,” sit, Luong said, nodding toward a crooked folding chair someone must have salvaged from the Dong Thanh dump. I stood, brushed myself off, and sat, putting my arms on my thighs in the most unthreatening posture I could take. I was smiling, actually joyful and excited that I’d found my long-lost friend. Luong didn’t return the grin. He’d always been of the opinion that smiles were costly, and he was without a dong.

  “Why are you trying to find me?” Luong asked.

  The shadows flickered around the small room, revealing wall hangings of tropical mountain scenes and pictures of Degars in American clothes, laughing in front of SUVs in what had to be the United States. It was probably in the state of North Carolina, where most of the Montagnard expats had emigrated.

  “I think you know,” I said. “If you haven’t guessed, Hacmon must have told you.”

  There would be no customary waltz of asking about relatives and ancestors. No pleasantries masking the real intent. Luong always went straight to the meat and ignored the rice.

  “Tell me anyway,” Luong said.

  “First,” I said, “you must understand I’m a captain in the Security Forces. Really, I’m a homicide detective responsible for cases in all of Sai Gon. Or Ho Chi Minh City if you prefer.” I waited to see if a pistol would emerge from the folds of Luong’s shirt. Or a knife. Either one would mean the end for me. He didn’t show any change in posture or facial expression.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Enlighten me with something I don’t already understand.”

  I bowed and went ahead, intending to give Luong the condensed version.

  “Then you will know about the dead politburo members,” I said. “All murdered in the last week and an old picture of them smirking above some dead young girls left on their bodies, their ears cut off, and a toy cobra on their chests as well. All were shot in the back of the head. The last one, Comrade Sang, was tortured before he died.”

  I stopped, waiting for Luong to confirm or deny. He wouldn’t say anything, but I hoped his body language would give me a hint. Not a chance. He was like a statue of a truly stoic but thin Buddha.

  Not the typical inscrutable Chinese, in these tense situations, I tended to want the silence broken. Luong could be still and quiet forever, a trait I believed he groomed to perfection when he was in the jungle waiting to ambush more lowland Vietnamese.

  “The police and An Ninh are already looking for you,” I said. “And a ghost Yankee named Morgan. The clues you left were too obvious. That’s the part I don’t understand. You could have killed them discreetly, and no one would have suspected you or a roundeye. But you left a trail even the morons in my department could follow.”

  “Do you remember the stories I told you of the girls the Night Snake, Frank Morgan, and I saved?” Luong asked. “On the nights you and I had enough strength even to talk. Maybe you’d found a beetle or a fly and shared it with me. I was never good at hunting anything but gooks. If you recall, those girls were rescued from the closet of the son of the former president of South Vietnam, Nguyen Cao Ky, before we thought we killed him. Morgan entrusted the girls to me, and I took them to Dac Sun while Morgan was shipped back to America.” He cleared his throat and spat on the floor. “I snuck them to the mountains, and the men in the picture slaughtered the girls along with many more of my tribesmen. I told you all this thirty years ago. I want you to understand what is happening now.”

  “How could I ever forget? You were so filled with hatred it coated you more than the mud. But why now?”

  “I never knew who murdered the girls other than they were Viet Cong forces. Then, Morgan came back to Sai Gon, and I was contacted. Being part of the police, you must have heard about the deaths at Ky’s mansion a while back?”

  “Yes, but it was kept out of the papers and very low-key.”

  “I will tell you only that, during that period, I came into possession of a picture showing four men grinning above the bodies of the girls. Since then, my mission has been to identify all of them. I did. Except the one who took the photo. Morgan has gotten his revenge with me. We’re still looking for the last man.”

  “So Morgan helped you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know a man like him is very hard to hide in Sai Gon. Most all foreigners are followed after they enter the country, if only for a short time. Particularly Americans of his age.”

  “Yes. And I won’t tell even you where he is. Morgan will evaporate in the wind when this over.”

  “How do you contact him?”

  “Mutual friends. Some even in Cholon with the other Mao lovers.”

  “Did you ask him to come here?”

  “Of course. And he didn’t hesitate.”

  “So you know I’m trying to hunt you down too?”

  “Certainly. Now you’ve found me. What are you going to do?”

  “I was thinking about using my Cuong Nhu skills to tie you up in knots like a noodle ball.”

  There it was. He almost cracked at my absurdity. The corners of his mouth tried desperately to turn up in a smile, but the weight of his heart pushed them back. He did blink, another reflex he had totally under control, signaling me I would live a little while longer.

  We’d gotten through the basics. I’d already made up my mind the path I would take, no matter if it led me into darkness. In this moment, he was the judge, and I had to convince him I was on his side or I’d never be soaring on the dragon’s wings at Ma Jing’s again.

  The only sounds came from the hiss of the kerosene lamp and sampans on the river, the worn-out boats coming home with the day’s catch of one of the species of swamp eels or 1,200 varieties of fish that inhabited the Sai Gon. Luong continued to focus intently on my every movement, mostly my face. If he was trying to wait me out, he was the winner.

  “What about the woman who was shot on Hoa Da Street?” I asked. “Was she with you?”

  “Yes,” Luong said. “She was there to find out who was leading the investigation. She was killed for that, and her slaughter will be avenged too. She was called H’Khar. She was from my village and helped with the girls. She was out gathering tangerines when the soldiers came.”

  “You know who shot her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  He hesitated, his impenetrable face giving no tells. After a few seconds, he answered.

  “His name is Nguyen. He works for the An Ninh. He will be punished.”

  “Are you planning to kill everyone who is trying to find you?”

  “No.”

  “So, there is an end point?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. I have a copy of the picture that seems to have started all of this. As you stated, you and Morgan have killed four, and now you are looking for the fifth man, the one who took the photo. I believe I can help.”

  “Why?”

  The big question. Just because I’d been called “squint” and “slant” and much worse for fifty years, mostly when I was working as a policeman and by my own comrades. Just because most of them would shit on my head before they shared a bowl of rice with me. Discriminated in housing, cars, guns, promotion, and every other aspect of life while I found the killers who don’t exist in our utopian society. None of those reasons gave me the right to become a traitor to the worker’s paradise of the Republic of Vietnam. Of course it did. I’d never joined.

  “Do you remember that night at the camp when the monsoons were so heavy we thought we’d be able to paddle to freedom right from our sleeping mats? When the scorpions became so heavy with water they dropped from the thatched roofs, and we devoured them in a feeding frenzy like they were duck eggs? When even the ants couldn’t dig deep enough to keep dry and we gorged on their crispy bodies?”

  “I remember.”

  “And what did you do when the guards came and began to beat us for ‘eating what belonged to the people without permission’?”

  No response. It wasn’t in Luong’s makeup to take credit
for anything valuable or promote himself. He would never be one of those Vietnamese soccer players who danced after they scored a goal, pointing to their chests. He waited for me to finish the story without comment.

  “You told them I was innocent, standing up in front of me and taking the blows from their batons until they knocked you into the mud. You said I had tried to stop you and I gathered the bugs for tomorrow’s soup to share with all of our socialist brothers, but you took them from me. You said you were the one who needed more rehabilitation. For that, you were thrown in a tiger cage in the swamp, tied down so only your head was above the water. You almost drowned. When you were released back into the camp, your legs were shriveled like you had polio and your face was bulging like a giant red chile from mosquito bites.”

  “What is your point?”

  “It’s simple. That was only once. There were many others. You saved my life. For some reason, you were my guardian. Now, it’s time for me to settle the score.”

  “How?”

  “I won’t kill anybody. What I will do is try to keep Nguyen and the others from finding you. I’ll also help you locate the fifth man.”

  “We already know who he is.”

  “Did Sang tell you?”

  “Yes. But it took more than one cigarette.”

  “Please tell me more about Morgan.”

  “I think that would be unwise. You know he’s in Vietnam. That’s enough.”

  “Will you tell me your plans?”

  “Again, unwise.”

  “I might be able to point them in the wrong direction if I knew which way to go.”

  “All I will say is this one will be more difficult. Then, we will have to give our greetings to Nguyen.”

  “Is there anything in particular you think I should be doing?”

  “Just remembering what it would mean if you betray us.”

  “That is not why I’m willing to help.”

  The threadbare blanket that covered the door was pushed aside, and a white man stepped in. He was under two meters, but still taller than most Vietnamese—other than Nguyen—and had to duck to keep from hitting his full head of hair on the wooden struts of the tin roof. The white shirt he wore was untucked and hung over the waist of his khaki shorts, not disguising the pistol at his waist. His grossly hairy legs ended at leather sandals. He was a typical Yankee devil tourist, probably a vet coming back to mend a soul blackened by the imperialist invasion. He would easily blend in with the legions like him seeking forgiveness. Unlike Luong, he was smiling.

  “I’ve heard much about you, Captain Fang,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Frank Morgan.”

  I stood and shook, bowing.

  “By the way,” he said, “I love that name. Sounds like a breakfast cereal. Or maybe a new species of snake.”

  I had no idea what he meant and just shrugged.

  After the hand clasp, he moved past me to stand by the still-squatting Luong. For sure, it was now two against one, though I doubted either of them needed any help if they wanted to restrain me by themselves.

  “I think you have a driver out there who’s getting quite nervous,” Morgan said. “One of Luong’s cousins had to take his phone away before he called in the cavalry.”

  Sitting down again, I tried to look relaxed.

  “He’s probably more upset he’s being kept from SpongeBob SquarePants than worried about me,” I said.

  “Oh, I love that game,” Morgan said. “But I like Angry Birds better. Death to the nasty little piggies.”

  There couldn’t be anyone more opposite than Luong than this man, and he was nothing like the cold-blooded killer Luong had described all those many years ago. In fact, he seemed more like a buffoon in a Cheo play at the National Theater.

  Eyes. As the light danced on the walls, I got a better look at his eyes. They weren’t laughing. Years of interaction with criminals and sociopaths had exposed me to the black, bottomless void that served for eyes among many of the crooks and murderers I’d encountered. I’d also seen this phenomenon among high-level politicians and military commanders. While they often could joke and hoot like jesters, no one could ever find a sign of life in their eyes. Maybe it was the shadows or my imagination, but I couldn’t find anything reflected in Morgan’s. They just sucked everything in like black holes. He continued to stare, a slight grin curving his mouth.

  “So, Captain,” Morgan said. “Are you here to arrest me? Take me to the basement at Nguyen Du Street and play doctor with my balls while I confess to murdering Buddha, Uncle Ho. Or anything else you tell me to.” He chuckled and shook his head from side to side.

  Then, he stopped. Something had passed over him like a specter of evil, and he was no longer in a comedy. It was a deadly drama. His face lost any joy and was now a mask that made it clear he was serious.

  “I must tell you,” Morgan said, “I am here not only to help my friend, but to rid your country of monsters that should have been exterminated years ago. Nothing will stop us short of our deaths. If you try, I won’t hesitate to use this.”

  I didn’t even see his hands move. Before I could blink, he was behind me and there was a garrote around my neck. He pulled me back into his chest and moved around so his mouth was beside my left ear.

  “You can still hear,” Morgan hissed. “The others can’t. You’ll join them if you speak of us to your comrades or in any way betray our whereabouts.”

  The Night Snake tightened the steel wire, and I was sure blood was beginning to drip on my collar. I did know from Luong that Morgan was an expert with the garrote, his second choice for assassination. He probably knew exactly how many pounds per square inch of pressure he could exert before drawing blood or decapitating his victim. Morgan waited a few seconds and then decreased the pressure, his lips still next to my head.

  “Who knows you’re here?” he asked.

  If I shook my head for emphasis to my answer, it might end up in my lap. I didn’t move anything but my lips.

  “No one but my driver, Phan,” I said. “We might have been followed. I don’t think so, but I’m not trusted. Also, Phan reports back to our superiors about my movements and activities. Don’t let him use his cell.”

  “Who would he report to?”

  “His name is Nguyen. I believe he’s with the An Ninh, not the police. No one relies on a lizard like me since all Chinese evolved from that species and have forked tongues and slippery skin even if half my blood is Vietnamese. Have you heard of Nguyen? It seems Luong has.”

  It always seemed important to me that I keep the perps talking, just like in the detective novels I read and those that aired on VCTV. At least it resulted in breathing a little longer. Besides, the criminals always spilled their guts before the end of the book or show so everyone would understand the entire story, even if that was rarely the case in the real world.

  Luong hadn’t moved, barely letting his eyes follow Morgan. He was a Montagnard statue, ready to spring to life if needed.

  “Nguyen?” Morgan said. “You might as well ask me if I know someone named ‘Smith’ in Salt Lake City. All you gooks are named ‘Nguyen.’”

  “I’m no ‘gook,’” I said. “I’m what they also call a ‘forty-fiver,’ among another thousand more slurs. They say that’s because my eyes are supposedly on a forty-five-degree angle to my face. And my ancestors weren’t named ‘Nguyen.’”

  “Thanks for the education on Vietnamese racism,” Morgan said. “I’ll stick with ‘gook.’ It has so much history for me.” I couldn’t see him, but I knew he wasn’t beaming any longer. “Where do I find this ‘Nguyen’? I think I heard you tell Luong there was a ‘Nguyen’ who shot H’Khar. If so, it’s just another reason for a visit to his bedroom in the wee hours. Do you know where he lives?”

  “I’ve never seen the man before yesterday,” I said. “And lowly McChink’s like me don’t get invited over for boiled shrimp and wine.”

  “That could be one of your first assignments. Finding out.”
>
  “Oh. I’m part of your crew now?”

  He’d let a centimeter of slack loosen the garrote. Morgan twisted the handles again.

  “You want to di di? Take a nap at Ma Jing’s?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “You’ve been followed ever since you left Danh Nguyen’s. You must not be much of a detective if you didn’t spot the tail. But we did make sure the others who were following you had an accident.”

  “You believe I’m willing to abandon everything I’ve built for decades to join a conspiracy against the rulers of the country?”

  “Yes. I don’t know you have a choice.”

  “I’ll have to …”

  The shots sounded like Chinese New Year’s firecrackers lit off across the river. Everyone in the room was too familiar with the crack of a K-50M Vietnamese submachine gun, the weapon of choice in the Saigon Security Services, to mistake it for a bunch of street kids having fun. Morgan released the steel wire, and we all looked toward the noise, realizing together it came from the direction of the street.

  Luong was on his feet first, pushing Morgan and me through the thin curtain that served for a door.

  “Nhanh, nhanh,” Luong said. Quick, quick.

  They must have practiced an escape. Morgan didn’t head back in the direction we came once we reached the river only a few meters away. Instead, he turned down the rickety boardwalk. The planks swayed gently with the rhythm of the river as we hurried east, toward the Tu Thiem Bridge. Both Luong and Morgan were in better shape than me and seemed to move with the grace of much younger men. I struggled to keep the pace, since my free time was spent mostly at Ma Jing’s rather than exercising.

  On the river, sampans, Ghe Nang three masters, and trawlers crisscrossed the water, and a few dugout canoes loaded with fruits and vegetables battled the wake from the bigger boats. The wooden walkway was bordered by tin shanties on one side and the water on the other. Shrubs and a few straggly palm trees fought for life wherever a few inches of earth opened up. Bougainvillea wound its way around the older huts and the flowers filled the air with their honeysuckle smell, fighting a losing battle with the small streams of sewage that leeched from under every shack. No faces peeked at us, preferring not to get involved with a Chinaman, Montagnard, and roundeye scuttling from something that couldn’t be good.