by Ron Lealos
While I moved more pieces around the Go board in my brain, we drove to District Five, Cholon. The Chinese had settled this District as they migrated southward and taken up residence in Cholon at the time of the founding of Sai Gon in the eighteenth century. The area was still controlled mostly by its Chinese populace rather than the laws of any country, including Vietnam’s. The rulers of China held more sway in Cholon’s alleys and sweat shops than any ranking political hack or police officer of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Herbal shops, restaurants, food stalls, and tiny markets selling everything from cat meat to rubies lined the narrow streets. The population dressed more like they were in Shanghai than Sai Gon. Beside the crumbling multistoried buildings, temples appeared on most blocks, again wearing the hats of the maze of electric wires that seemed to crown Sai Gon. I knew the traffic would move even slower when we reached the main street, Nguyen Trai. There would be barely enough room for two cars, let alone the rickshaws, cyclos, and carts that still covered the neighborhood.
Just by watching the skyline out the window from my prone position, I could tell Luong had turned onto Lao Tu Street and, after a block, into a dingy alley. I sat up, knowing we were safe. Morgan and Hatati were already glancing out the windows. In this confined, dark passage, there was only one lane, and the street was compacted from bicycles leaning against the walls on both sides. The alley was in eternal twilight, surrounded by old, crumbling buildings three stories high. Wash hung on frayed telephone lines that crossed over the street from balconies outlined in wrought iron, and the shutters to the sides of most of the windows had only a few crooked slats remaining. The walls were blackened by years of soot, dripping tiles, and boiling grease. When we passed, any pedestrian had to press his back against the filthy walls or be crushed. There were none, but I could feel many eyes watching. Luong stopped at a wooden door with cracks that showed blackness on the other side. He stepped out and slid the side door open for his passengers, leaving the engine of the Mitsubishi running. Before we entered the building, a man emerged from the gloom and drove the van away.
Within seconds, we were standing close together inside a tomblike space. The others didn’t wait and began to climb splintered steps that groaned and wheezed with every footfall.
“Follow us,” Luong said.
“And don’t touch anything,” Morgan said. “Spiders.”
“Cuc,” I hissed. Shit. I hated the furry bastards. Living just a few blocks away, I knew the District was infested with hairy jumping spiders, the kind that could sense movement and reacted by hopping onto exposed skin they could somehow sense and biting. They seemed to have created a synergy with the ticks that lived alongside them, comfortable homes in the dark and decay. It was yet to be determined how many spider punctures were fatal. Even one was quite painful, feeling like being poked by a sharpened chopstick. They had a white strip down their backs and a round head that held two bulbous brown eyes. The crawling monsters loved the gloom. I made sure not to rub against the walls and slowly trailed the chatting Morgan and Hatati who seemed to be at home in the blackness and unconcerned about the evils that surrounded us.
Suddenly, a muted lightbulb fizzed on above us and I could see the outline of a man at the top of the stairs. Greetings were given as Morgan, Hatati, and Luong went past the man and into an open door.
“Wanshang hao, Captain,” good evening, Captain, in Mandarin, the man said, bowing as I went by. I stepped into the astonishingly bright room, followed at once by the distinguished-looking man with the white hair and beard.
The tall, thin gentleman wore a black skull cap and a delightful smile, a grin that could have been curling the face of a local child offered a spicy honey squid candy. His outfit was black silk with flecks of gold, cut perfectly to conform to his body. His feet were encased in gold slippers and his fingers glossy with a fresh manicure. The beam on his unwrinkled face made me feel welcome and terrified at the same time.
Mr. Liu motioned me to sit on a long satin-covered couch that already held Morgan and Hatati. Luong had walked over to the far wall and was admiring a collection of ancient Chinese war helmets that seemed to be from the Ming Dynasty because of the many dragons painted in gold around the sides and the blunted spike poking from the top. Everyone was as relaxed as if they were in their own living room. I sat and marveled at this strange family, none from the same ethnic background and at least three of them stone killers.
“Tea, Captain?” Mr. Liu asked, sitting in a padded wooden chair with intricate flower scrolls cut into the armrests and back. “I’ve just brewed some Monkey King Tea that arrived this week from Anhui Province. It smells like orchid blossoms and leaves a sharp, sweet aftertaste.”
“I would be honored,” I said.
He turned to Morgan and Hatati and said, “I know you would like a cup. I’m quite sure Mr. Luong would not. I don’t think his stomach will rest until his soul is healed.”
Dancing. Nothing would happen until the ritual was complete. We would discuss the lateness of the monsoons, the recent mysterious die-off of ten thousand buffalo in the northern mountains of Cao Bang, the health of elders, and the astonishingly high price of pork dumplings. Nothing of any significance would pass between us until everyone had a chance to sort out their strategy and position based upon body language, speech patterns, comfort, nerves, tics, and anything that might give someone the upper hand. Or surrender. This was a tradition in which I was well-versed and usually calmed me, especially after sipping some of the excellent Monkey King Tea that was as crisp as it was sweet. I put down my porcelain cup and sat back on the couch, waiting for the waltz to begin.
“You have been kind enough to pay us a visit in my humble home, esteemed Captain Fang,” Mr. Liu said. “I would like your patience while I explain a few things.” He bowed slowly, and I knew absolutely he would kill me where I sat if I didn’t play my role precisely as he had written the script.
Luong had taken up a position behind Liu. Hatati and Morgan were still to my right and had been quiet during most of the conversation that had taken place in the last few minutes. The atmosphere had changed like the drop in barometric pressure before a typhoon.
There were no rumors of Liu’s power. Only facts. Not even the security forces of the Vietnamese government threatened this man’s empire. No one who crossed him suffered less than the loss of a few fingers. The unlucky ones were cremated alive where they slept without their family having to pay for the service in dong. No one got to scatter the ashes. His control of District Five was total. As long as we were his guests, there wouldn’t be any threat to our safety his army couldn’t defeat, unless the invaders drove tanks. Even then, Liu probably had an arsenal of M136 AT4 Light Anti-Armor weapons stolen from US military bases that would stop the tanks in their tracks and incinerate those inside. Besides, he most likely owned a fleet of helicopters to whisk us to Cambodia or some safe house. Liu was a major arms dealer, as well as heroin smuggler, gambling and prostitution boss, money changer, extortionist, and orphanage owner. Regardless, he was as polite as if he’d learned his manners from loving parents and his genteel demeanor said he wasn’t the sleeping bamboo snake I knew him to be. He had made the offer of kindness, tea, and information. There was no way I could refuse if I wanted to have a second cup of the flavorful hot drink. Or breathe. I nodded, indicating Liu had my permission to continue, a gesture as unnecessary as signaling the executioner to pull the switch.
“I must assume you know who these people are, as well as myself,” he said. A statement, not a question.
“Yao,” I said. Yes. “Except the young lady.”
“She is Miss Hatati,” Liu said. “My niece.”
I didn’t know if he was speaking metaphorically or if Hatati was truly related. She only had a hint of Chinese in her face and I was sure she was some kind of extraordinarily beautiful Asian hybrid. No matter. Liu would tell me if it was crucial.
“Of course,” I said. “But I have no idea how she fits into all of this.�
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“Please,” Liu said, “it will all become clear soon.”
“Mei shi,” I said. OK.
“I will begin with Luong,” Liu said. “You may interrupt at any time if you get confused. I want you to understand and I am not offended by questions.” He bowed. “Sometimes, I assume too much. It is my burden.”
I nodded agreement.
“This story begins in the Ming Dynasty,” he said, “when my Han ancestors rebuilt the Great Wall and constructed much of the Forbidden City.”
I almost groaned, knowing there might not be enough time in my lowly life to hear the rest of the tale, but I remained quiet, not suicidal.
Liu grinned and slapped his knee with an “I gotcha” grin.
“Don’t worry, nephew,” he said. “I’ll skip ahead a few centuries to what is important now.” This was all so bizarre. No one seemed to be taking seriously that there was a manhunt going on across the city or the murders of some of its highest-ranking officials.
“Qing ni,” I said. Please do.
“I am going to speak for Mr. Luong, Mr. Morgan, and Miss Hatati now,” he said. “If I am in error, I am sure they will correct me.”
“Please proceed,” I said.
“Before Mr. Luong met you,” Liu said, “he was a close comrade of Mr. Morgan. That was during the American offensive. You know this, but may not know they rekindled their friendship very recently. The reuniting ended with the death of one of the true villains of our beautiful country, who had lived well beyond when his black spirit should have been condemned to eternal life alone with only despised ancestors to join.”
Liu didn’t name names, but this confirmed what I had heard and I knew he was talking about Ky, the evil egg of the former president and whore for the United States. It had often needled me that this vile creature had lived and prospered after the communists reunited the country. Even the rumor of his death had gladdened me, and now I was being told it was real. My mood was already lightening, and I could feel a few of the mice scurry from my head. I bowed in approval.
“I will let Luong tell the next chapter,” Liu said. “That will have the added advantage that he doesn’t enjoy hearing his own voice as much as I take pleasure in mine. We will be finished before the Monkey King gets cold.” He smiled and the bowing continued.
Luong was standing and it was evident he didn’t relish speaking in Vietnamese, only killing them. Before he started, the hatred oozed from his brown skin like mud between our toes during the rainy season in the camps. He stared trancelike straight ahead.
“As you will remember from our nights together,” Luong said, standing stiff as marble, only his lips moving, “when Morgan and I first went to Ky’s villa many years ago, we found two young girls hiding behind a curtain. They had been raped by Ky. I took them to the mountains with me. They were slaughtered while I was away and I have never forgiven myself for that error. You know this, but I am attempting to keep the story straight.”
“Thank you, Luong,” I said. “Please go on.”
“Not too long ago,” Luong said, “I was contacted by a mutual friend who told me Morgan was back in Vietnam and wanted to see me. Of course, I agreed, and together with Mr. Liu, Miss Hatati, and a few others, we went back to visit Ky. This time, he didn’t live. During our short time at Ky’s, I took a diary from beside his bed. Inside was the picture I’m sure you’ve seen lying on the bodies that have been found in the last few days. Now, there is only one man left. He was the one who took the photo and was harder to find.”
“Who is he?”
“First, we must know where you stand.”
“A few more questions, please.”
“Go ahead. But I may not answer.”
“Background. Where have you been and what have you been doing since I last saw you boarding the truck to leave camp wearing that ripped T-shirt and not much else? And does that have something to do with the ‘mutual friend’?”
An attempt at a smile. Unfortunately, Luong’s effort was even scarier than I recalled. It looked as if he were gut shot and had succeeded holding his intestines in with his fingers.
“After my escape, I’ve had a number of jobs. Some here and some outside the country. I’m not at liberty to discuss my career except to tell you Mr. Liu has been involved. Even Morgan sometimes. Any queries about ‘mutual friends’ will need to be addressed by Mr. Liu.”
“So, that just told me nearly nothing.”
“You’ll have to make up your mind with the information I’ve given you. Otherwise, ask Mr. Liu.”
“You do speak good King’s English. Almost as if you went to Oxford.”
“I will say I’ve been there, old chap.” The rigor mortis smile again, the words and accent from Downton Abbey.
“And you drive a car? Last time I saw you, you thought they were ‘steel oxen farting blue flames.’”
“Yes. I’ve even leaned how to pull the chain on an indoor toilet and use paper to wipe instead of dried banana leaves.” He stopped the grimace and looked at a space a thousand yards over my head. “But joking is not why we’re here. You must make up your mind so we can decide what to do with you. Nhanh.” Quickly.
Silence. The kind that comes just before the judge reads the jury’s findings. Morgan and Hatati sat beside each other, not touching or moving. I could sense that either of them would strangle me with a garrote if Mr. Liu dipped his head. Luong wouldn’t be nearly as subtle.
From somewhere, Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2, performed by Yundi Li, my favorite pianist, was softly playing in the background. The roar in my head had masked the sound before. Now, it crashed like thunder while I tried to decide how to continue smelling the orchids that adorned some of the polished antique tables. The room had white-washed walls, decorated with a few ancient tapestries. Their cost could have paid several decades of my salary. And Phan’s. More lacquered end tables from the Qing Dynasty held lamps and a few books. Liu must have enjoyed the smell of lavender, because the incense burning in the corner gave just the slightest flower smell that mixed well with the flowers’ scent. I cleared my throat, trying to stall. Or maybe just to let them know I was really going to speak sometime soon.
Saved by the ringtone. An old black cordless phone was beside the chair where Liu sat. The handset was like one of the first bulky mobiles that had hit the market close to twenty-five years ago. The sound was more of a buzz than a Nha Imperial Court melody, the most popular sound on Vietnamese cells. It must have been a direct satellite phone, not hooked into the Vinaphone network. Liu reached over and picked up the receiver, putting it to his ear, his face a Shamanic mask showing nothing.
“Ni hao,” Liu said. Hello.
For the next few minutes, Liu listened, only occasionally making a short response that did give me some indication of what he was talking about only because of the lack of the words “yes” and “no” in Mandarin. Chinese speaking that dialect tended to respond to a question with repetition. For instance, if I asked you, “Ni tou nee ma?” the question being, “Do you fuck your mother?” you might answer, “Xihuan ni tou nee ma.” “I do like to fuck my mother.” So, when Liu said things like, “I know that four have been eliminated,” I could deduce he was talking about the four who had been murdered.
After awhile, Liu handed Morgan the phone.
“Having a late-night spot of brandy, Nutley?” Morgan asked by way of greeting.
This “mutual friend” must have been a Brit and everyone seemed to know him but me. “Nutley” was apparently in the game too. Maybe at a decision-making level. Minimally, he was most likely a minder for some spy agency. For the English, that would be MI6.
Morgan was much more outgoing than Liu and peppered his conversation with insults like, “Brits will fight till the last American” and, after a long series of growls and sputters, “Are you going to attend your parents’ wedding, old boy?” These two must have been extremely close by the way they abused each other. There was one I wanted to remember to use o
n Phan if I ever saw him again. “Are you really that stupid or is this a play?” A little highbrow for a SpongeBob addict. More likely, I’d get to say it in front of a firing squad.
When Morgan finished, he handed the phone back to Liu and looked at Hatati.
“The old guy sends his ‘cheerios’ and said he’s saving one of his best Cuban’s for you,” Morgan said. “I hope he meant cigars.”
Hatati smiled, but there was something in the green of her eyes that made me aware that Big-Eyed Whip Snake also had emerald eyes. And his bite was poison. She slowly brought her head around so she was staring at me and I knew the waltz was over.
This was getting bizarre and frightening. All the openness wasn’t a part of my country or heritage. Usually, I had to try to wade through layers of innuendo, lies, obfuscation, and feints. These people didn’t seem to be hiding anything. That could mean only one thing. I was on their team. Or dead. As Confucius said, “It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them.” Luong was my oldest ally, and I would rather take the side of right than continue to kiss the arse of the illegitimate bosses who would never let me into their club. Decision made.
Taking the safest path, I bowed, facing Liu.
“I would be honored to be part of your planning,” I said. “I do not know what you want of me, but I will do my best.”
No one gasped in relief or even smiled. They looked at one another and nodded. Liu was the first to speak.
“We are pleased to have you with us,” Liu said. “I will make this as brief as possible because there is work to be done. Quickly. We need you to keep the investigation away from us while we find where the last of the killers is located. If you can give us any help in finding him, it would be quite useful.”
