The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  Behind me, I could feel Morgan had stopped. I turned around and watched as he pulled out a few planks and flipped them in the river. It only took him a second, and he was up and following, motioning me to get moving. Now, no one could tail from this side.

  A bend in the river meant the walkway made a sharp turn. It ended on a dirt path that wound through palm trees, plastic bags, Coca-Cola bottles, melon rinds, and disintegrating furniture. Within a hundred yards, we reached the boundary, a dock with a small boat tied up to rotting timbers. Luong didn’t hesitate to jump in the dinghy once we’d skipped over the gaps in the wood. He beckoned me to leap next, trying to steady the wannabe craft against a piling. Boats were something I’d never felt comfortable with, especially ones as wobbly and decayed as this one. Besides, what did a mountain tribesman like Luong know about steering this death trap with the 150 horsepower Evinrude hanging from the stern by a few nails and a bungee cord. There were none of those orange life preservers I’d seen in pictures. A couple inches of brown water swished around the bottom as Morgan leaped on and headed toward the back, pushing me down onto a slatted seat as he passed.

  Luong was in the rear, watching as Morgan pulled the starter cord. I’d been right. Luong appeared to be viewing a hadron collider, his face in a frown of total befuddlement. The motor started with just a couple pulls, and Morgan signaled me to unloose the mooring line. By the time the rope was inside, Morgan had hit the throttle and the bow shot up. Within seconds, we were in the main channel heading toward the bridge. There would be no chance of conversation until Morgan eased up on the gas.

  Since I’d entered Luong’s hootch, I’d not seen another face other than Morgan’s. Except on the boats. The riverside Bhinh Thanh community was obviously controlled by Luong and his clan. They must have been told to stay inside and keep their eyes closed. None followed us as we sped away.

  I had no idea what had happened to Phan or why the shooting had started. I could only guess that someone from the An Ninh had found me and their pursuit had been foiled by Luong’s people. If it was Phan who’d alerted them, it might save his life. Now, it seemed I was part of the gang whether I wanted to be or not. At least I was with people who wouldn’t call me “MSG” or “Kung Fu” or one of a thousand insults.

  “Hey, panface,” Morgan yelled. “Move to the middle so you don’t capsize us with all the spring rolls in your belly.”

  At least he was smiling, apparently happy with our escape and the thrill of steering the boat through the river traffic. The wind in his longish salt-and-pepper hair blowing in the breeze, the khaki shorts, and the grin made him look like a modern-day white devil pirate. I slid a few inches to the center and stared at Luong, who seemed as tortured as me.

  Luong was crouched just ahead of Morgan, his hands held out to the rails on both sides, rolling with each sway of the boat. I thought I saw his lips moving in a silent prayer, but couldn’t believe this man was frightened by anything other than a grenade. The only thing that distinguished him as a Degar was his face. His features were much less cramped, his cheekbones fuller, and his eyes were not nearly as angled as a lowlander. His dress was one of a Vietnamized hill person, not a tribesman attempting to hold on to his regular mountain outfit. To me, it was a clear attempt to blend in with his collared shirt and black pants. What did give him away were the leather sandals. They were thick brown and strapped tight to his ankles.

  Within minutes, we’d bisected the river and were in Phuong 28, the district mostly famous for its transvestite bars, like Creme of Sum Yung Gy’s. Morgan piloted the small boat to shore next to a dock that bordered a few industrial warehouses that were open to the air and covered with metal roofs on thick hardwood poles. Workers scurried between piles of bananas, eggplants, lotus roots, opo squash, and hundreds of other Southeast Asian fruits and vegetables. Many of the mostly men struggled under huge loads in baskets balanced on their heads. Normally, this wholesale market would be jammed with screaming buyers disembarking in small dugouts and clients arriving on the street side in their carts, mopeds, and Japanese trucks. It was now late enough in the day that the chaos was decreasing and preparations were being made for tomorrow morning’s commerce. Soon, the evening deliveries would begin. Morgan nodded at me to tie us up to the pier. He shut down the Evinrude, and we climbed onto the dock. No one paid us any attention, and Luong led us through the overflowing piles and wooden containers toward Tran Nao, the main thoroughfare in the neighborhood.

  On Tran Nao, we waited for a taxi. Without Phan, I didn’t think it would be easy to hail a ride. We were quite a threesome and not a real Vietnamese among us, since Montagnards were a sub-race and didn’t count. I was even lower on the racist pole than him, almost a nonhuman. Morgan was just plain scary, over six feet tall and a reminder of napalm and Operation Arc Light bombing raids from fifty thousand feet. If we didn’t find one soon, a passing police car would surely notice us and the day would end with us strapped to a chair in different cells.

  It didn’t take more than a minute or two. I should have known this part of the escape would have already been arranged. A white Nissan van with blacked-out windows and a Vinasun sign on top pulled up in front of us. The rear door slid open before it had completely stopped. Luong pushed me inside and followed, Morgan right behind. The driver sped away before my butt hit the cloth-covered seat. I glanced at Morgan, and he was grinning as if he were on the roller coaster at Dam Sen Park.

  This was not the man Luong had described in detail to me at the camp while we tried to keep the leeches from sucking us dry. That one was focused and stern, humor not part of his makeup, totally absorbed in carrying out his deadly missions. Maybe he was exhilarated by being back in the game. At Luong’s hootch, he’d already made a joke, and here he was smiling like a teenager getting his first hand job. But, I didn’t get the impression Morgan had ever retired. This kind of adventure was what he lived for, and he might as well enjoy the ride. I’d soon find out what kept the smile on his face.

  Luong was babbling Degar gibberish to our chauffeur and touching him gently on the shoulder. It sounded like he was trying to slow the man down so we wouldn’t get stopped for speeding or in an accident. In Sai Gon, fender benders often ended up in brawls that included knifings and lots of butchery. It seemed like a new video of a street fight aired on YouTube daily. One of the recent battles on Hoa Da Street had ended up with two dead, both bleeding out on the pavement, and one survivor who’d never use chopsticks again. Over ten thousand people per year died in car accidents in our small country, almost as many as went to the next world from AIDS.

  We were on our way back across the river, using the Thu Thiem Bridge to end up in District One. The cab slowed on Dong Khoi Street, next to a crumbling four-story building close to the Municipal Theater. I immediately recognized it as one of the festering slum dwellings that were popping up across Sai Gon. These abandoned or condemned structures are ruled by the Viet-Ching, an offshoot of the American Vietnamese street gang. Inside, a refugee from the paddies could find a place to sleep for about sixty cents a night. For that, a renter was able to sleep two hundred to a room, stacked like cordwood on top of one another, separated only by a slab of plywood on wooden struts. A working bathroom was a dream. The best that could be hoped for was that the dormitory from hell didn’t burn down during the night. There were hundreds of these structures in the city, and I had seen enough of them in my career as a homicide detective. Murders were a nearly daily occurrence, mostly ignored by my superiors since they saw it as just another lizard squashed. There was no doorman, only a massive Japanese ex-sumo wrestler, obviously on loan from the Yakuza, who collected money and threw out the dead at daybreak. Luong bowed as we hurried past this giant gatekeeper and up the stairs, pushing our way through the hordes of men smoking and chatting in the hallways. No one paid us much attention.

  At the end of the fourth-floor hall, a doorway opened onto the stairwell that led to the roof. We climbed up, and Luong pushed a square metal hat
ch aside, exposing us to the sunlight. He immediately started walking toward a two-by-four thatch-roofed hootch at the far side of the space. Chickens and pigeons pecked on the gravelly surface, while a few hens sat on eggs in wire cages. Odds and ends of rusting furniture were spread around in front of a thin canvas flap at the front of the shack. At each corner of the roof, a man sat on a stool, watching. They had the wide, stern faces of Montagnards and barely glanced at us before returning their gazes to the streets below. Luong pushed inside the hut, and we were met by the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.

  In the West, I’d heard there was a belief that Eur-Asian women were the loveliest on the planet, particularly the offspring of French-Indochinese, the result of racial interbreeding during the French occupation of Vietnam. Of course, Chinese and Japanese wouldn’t consider any woman who wasn’t from their pure strain, since everyone else was a heathen and below contempt. Blacks didn’t count, especially in Asian eyes, since they were all “apes.” Me, I was now convinced the best-looking women on earth came from whatever planet this woman was spawned. She was grinning, her eyes settling on Morgan with a smile that could have made me light a joss stick and drop to my knees in adoration. He went to her and pecked her on the cheek, followed by a long hug, her green eyes closed.

  Luong took out a cell and punched in a number. Again, he was speaking Degar and I couldn’t understand a word he said, but it seemed clipped and commanding. After he finished, he went back outside, leaving me alone to watch the couple whisper and hold each other. Now, I knew why Morgan was such a happy soul. After a few minutes, the woman looked to me and gestured I sit on the end of a cot by the near wall. I did without taking my eyes off her.

  “Nin hao,” she said in Chinese. Hello. “My name is Hatati. I’m a very good friend of Mr. Morgan here and also, Luong, who you know. I’ve heard good things about you and hope we, too, can be allies.” Without waiting for my answer, she turned back to Morgan, and they renewed their hushed conversation.

  It was a simple request. I already knew I’d probably learn to use Twitter, dance naked in Lam Son Square, abandon the Buddha, or do anything ridiculous Hatati asked just for a chance to get to spend more time with her. I had found rapture. And it wasn’t at the bottom of a bowl.

  While I watched Morgan and Hatati talk in voices too low to hear, I wondered about my relationships with women. Or lack of. Sure, there was the one most lasting and dreamlike. That was Ma Jing, though my love was never consummated. There had been a few that lasted more than a night and only cost a couple duck eggs and a bowl of scorpion soup to impress her. Those were rare and always ended with the siren’s call to the dragon world. Lately, I’d been seeing a shopkeeper who sold umbrellas and used tires. But we spent more time fighting than fucking, and even Buddha knew it was doomed. Generally, the dealings I had with ladies were commercial-only and I spent my time covering my back as I slowly climbed the police ladder and relaxed moments with the long pipe. If I’d met a female like Hatati, I may have switched vices.

  She had a dimple in her tanned cheek and a cocoa face that probably wouldn’t whiten even in Hanoi. Her skin seemed like it was as delicate as a Ming Dynasty urn. Thick black hair hung straight to her slim shoulders and there was a suggestion of the weight room in the bulge of her biceps. Lush, heavy lips covered teeth white as coconut meat. Still, it was the eyes that drew me. No hint of contact lenses. They were emerald green, a rarity in Asian women, maybe even a birth defect, one that could make her Miss Universe. She wore sensible shoes, real Nikes, loose jeans, and a white blouse that showed only slight curves. Her outfit was nothing special, but she would look breathtaking in a garbage bag. Morgan was a truly lucky albino.

  Voices from outside. Urgent. In Degar, although it was clear something was happening, even if sounded more like warthog grunts than a language I recognized. Morgan and Hatati were on their feet, dashing toward the door before I could even look away.

  On the roof, an evening mist was promising a deluge. Maybe it was global warming. Every year, the typical afternoon rain torrent had been moving to later in the day. Three of the guards in the corners had moved in the direction of the door and were pointing .22 caliber handguns at the opening. They must have been disciples of Morgan with their choice of weapons. Luong pushed us away toward the fourth sentry who was muscling a long plank over the edge of the roof. Luong and Morgan instantly began to help the man, while Hatati and I swiveled our heads between the hatch door and the men steering the long board into space.

  The first man to appear had a white helmet on his head, the kind Vietnamese policemen wore with the narrow beak. None of the lookouts hesitated, firing enough rounds to force him back into the darkness of the stairwell. In the meantime, Luong, Morgan and the other guard had wrestled the plank so it provided a fifteen-meter skyway to an open window in the adjoining building. This surely had been planned and was meant to be our escape hatch. Nothing high-tech here. Jason Bourne wasn’t part of this scene, and I wondered if I’d make it across without a swan dive to the pavement below. I much preferred to stay on the ground and wasn’t a fan of elevators, airplanes, or mountains.

  Morgan was the first to cross. He disappeared through the window. Back in seconds, he motioned Hatati to follow and I watched her run like a sika deer over to the other side, her firm buttocks pressed hard against her jeans. The sight prompted me to go next. I glanced backward and saw that someone had pulled a basket of sand over the hatch, making it nearly impossible to open from the stairwell. Luong flipped his wrist, gesturing I should di di mau. I did, trying to follow the age-old tenet to not look down. Unfortunately, after the first few steps, the plank began to sway. I figured that’s why Hatati had gone so quickly. I needed to get it over with before the fear froze me.

  Mistake. I peeked down. Below was a tangle of electric wires, some sparking in the twilight like firecracker tails. Neon lights from Dong Khoi Street cast shadows down the passageway, giving some color to the gray concrete walls. The narrow alley was deserted except for the rats and few ulcerous dogs that raced between piles of rotting trash. A solitary gigantic cat sitting on the windowsill watched the rodents fighting over a slab of decaying fish guts, waiting to strike when the dogs slunk away. I took this all in with a trained detective’s eye in a heartbeat, convinced I’d better get moving or I’d soon be the main course for the denizens below. Wobbly legs and all, I dashed toward the window and Morgan yanked me inside. Luong was right behind, followed by the sentries. When the last one jumped through the window, all of the men except me grabbed the board and pulled it into the long room, closing the opening without any hesitation.

  Morgan and Luong took pistols from the men and went to the door of the room. I noticed the guns were Browning .22 Buck Marks, made of aluminum and highly reliable. They held ten rounds, and while they weren’t much good outside twenty-five yards, they would certainly make anyone trailing us think twice.

  Morgan opened the thin wooden door a few inches and peered outside. After a few seconds, he stepped into the hallway, signaling us to follow. It was easy to figure out we’d have to get out of here quickly before the entire neighborhood was blocked off. Someone must have noticed us getting out of the taxi and called in the troops. There had to be a city-wide alert in affect, those in power positions at the Communist Party in horror that any of the lower class would dare threaten their control, especially since they were worried they might be murdered next.

  Elevator. Maybe I’d get to confront all my fears before this day ended. A man stood beside the lift door, holding it open. Maybe it was one of the cell phone calls Luong had made, but I was getting more impressed with the planning of this op as the minutes passed. We went inside and Luong pushed the “G” sign, a worldwide Otis standard I assumed meant “Garage,” even in gookinese, as Morgan might call it. No one said anything as we went downward, pressed close together in the small metal-lined space. Now I remembered I had claustrophobia that was usually only treated by a pipe full of Ma Jing’s finest
or the memory of its calming cloud. For a substitute, I used the sight of Hatati to slow the devils. The door opened before the panic attack could take a firm hold and I began quivering like a bowl of Che Dau Trang, the delicious Vietnamese white bean, sticky rice, and coconut milk dessert I usually ordered after a superb pho dinner.

  In the basement, we hurried to a late-model white Mitsubishi DX minivan parked close to the exit with its engine already running. Luong took the wheel, and I wondered where he learned to drive any kind of vehicle other than a water buffalo cart in the highlands. By the time we’d slid the door closed, Luong was accelerating up the ramp and onto Hai Ba Trung, the street behind Dong Khoi, where the police would have already been marshalling to storm the building.

  “Stay down,” Luong barked. “We’ve got a few kilometers to go before we get to Cholon. The police are scanning traffic.” He put a chauffeur’s billed cap on his head, along with a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses, while the rest of us squeezed lower to get below the windows.

  The sirens wailed, and no one stopped the van. Within a few blocks, the howling decreased and we were headed home, District Five, the place where I was born and now lived.

  From the seat behind me, I could hear Hatati whispering. Morgan and this stunner were having a lark, it seemed. I supposed it was because he hadn’t shot anyone in a few hours. Morgan peeked up.

  “You want me to call Mr. Liu now?” Morgan asked Luong.

  “Co,” Luong said. Yes.

  Cholon and Mr. Liu. This couldn’t be a mere coincidence. The past few days had been filled with mysterious symmetry that made perfect sense when I was able to be rational and thoughtful. Of course these foreigners and mountain people would be involved with the most notorious Mandarin in all of Vietnam. They needed help to battle the entrenched power elite. No one better than the leader of the Chui Chao Triad. He was always referred to only as Mr. Liu or the “Dragon Head.” That is if you didn’t want to be treated to the Five Pains, the classic Chinese execution that starts with a very sharp blade and the amputation of the nose, followed by one hand, then one foot, and finally ends with castration and cutting the body in half at the waist.