The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  Nothing more from Morgan. Hatati came on the line. I could hear her speaking to Morgan, saying, “Let me talk to him. You’re being a pig.”

  In the background, Morgan said, laughing, “Pig? Just remember, with sufficient thrust, pigs fly just great. And do other tricks too.” I could sense him nuzzling Hatati’s sculpted neck from thousands of miles.

  “Captain Fang,” Hatati said, “I apologize for Morgan’s behavior. He is American, you know, and that means he has no cultural compass outside a Happy Meal. How are you?”

  “I’m very good, thank you,” I said. “I’ve been allowed to return to police work, even though I have a permanent watcher who thinks heaven is getting to the next level of Bikini Bottom.”

  “Sorry?” Hatati said.

  “Oh, it’s a game he plays constantly on his smartphone,” I said. “SpongeBob SquarePants. His mother thought Agent Orange was a breakfast juice.”

  “Were you tortured?”

  “No. Nguyen and I had rehearsed too well. Between him and Mr. Liu, their influence has been too great. Besides, it seems no one who matters wants to dig too deep.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “How did you and Morgan get out of the country?”

  “We drank champagne and ate caviar on one of MI6’s Hawker 800 jets. They delivered us right to Nutley’s office. Then, we spent a few weeks getting sand in all the wrong places and working on our tans. Now, it seems Nutley and the queen need us again. If you slow down a little with the lotus pipe, we might be knocking on your door.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Don’t be silly, Captain. The dossier on you is a meter thick.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  “Yes. Size matters.” She giggled.

  “Is that a racial slur because I’m Chinese?”

  “No. Of course not.” But I could hear her trying to cover a snort.

  “It’s OK. I’ve had many years to grow a thick skin. By the way, do you know why Chinese men don’t use toothpicks? It reminds them too much of their penis. That was a new one I just heard.”

  Her beautiful nose must be dripping from the guffaws. Morgan was asking, “What? What?”

  “Enough. We wanted to thank you for all your help, something that’s not usually part of the pattern here. Maybe they need more feminine mystique in the corridors of MI6. Besides, every time we get on a boat around the islands, we’re reminded how important it is to have someone onboard who knows how to run the thing.”

  “We made it safely.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never come so close to getting seasickness. We have to go now. Nutley is blowing cigar smoke into our faces, his signal there’s something threatening the empire. Be well, Captain. Cheers.”

  “Chao ban,” I said. Good-bye, friend. “You enjoy whatever adventure Nutley assigns you, and I’ll go on insulting as many Vietnamese as I can. And a few others.”

  I handed the phone back to Mr. Liu, and we began a final wrap-up.

  “How is your finger?” Mr. Liu asked.

  I held it up, showing the beginnings of a nail at the bottom of the puckered red.

  “Jell-O is the answer,” I said. “I particularly like the strawberry-banana. The gelatin speeds up growth and makes naturally stronger nails.”

  “You sound like you should work at the Best Head beauty salon,” Luong said. “You and the rest of the girlie-boys would get along just fine.”

  “We should finish our business,” Mr. Liu said. “I have prepared a celebration.” He turned to me. “Is anyone other than Phan following you? Do you feel like you were believed?”

  “As much as any Vietnamese would ever trust a mongrel like me,” I said. “They do know I can solve most of the murders in Sai Gon while they’re trying to zip their pants at the Groping Hands massage parlor.”

  “No visit to Lat?” Liu asked.

  “No,” I said. “It seems there has been an outbreak of shoplifting at the Ben Thanh Market. Lots of arrests. Lat was busy torturing teenage girls with their nose rings and lip studs and filming it on their iPhones to put on YouTube. It’s gone viral, and he’s gotten several million hits.”

  “No more talk about Dung?” Luong asked.

  “Nothing. As Confucius said, ‘To be wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it.’ They have chosen to forget.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Liu said. “A man with a clear conscience has a bad memory. There are too many ways to make dong here to waste time on the past.”

  “Speaking of money,” I said. “How’s Luong’s dong? I mean, does he have the money to carry on?”

  “Yes,” Luong said. “And I’m honored you would think about the size of my dong. It is very manageable.” He smiled. That was a half-dozen times in a few months and I wondered if his cheek muscles would be exhausted.

  “Well,” I said. “At the moment, my dong is nearly empty. The paltry salary they pay a lowly mutt like me doesn’t allow much fun. Or even a good meal at the Hard Wok Café.”

  “Are you soliciting a bribe, officer?” Mr. Liu said, now serious.

  “Of course not,” I said. “I did sacrifice a fingernail for you and risk being shot while I lied to Lat and my superiors. And, going forward, I think I could be of great value.”

  “The size of the dong,” Liu said, “depends on what you can do for me.”

  “I assure you, I will be truly satisfying.”

  “I will consider the volume of my contribution to your health. I promise not to be premature in my decision.” He bowed.

  Luong and I exchanged glances, knowing Mr. Liu wasn’t finished with us. Attention and respect were required. I sipped on my now-cold tea, amazed that it still tasted smooth, fragrant, and delicious.

  “There once was a Chinese general named Trieu Da,” Liu said. “In the tenth century, he conquered the land to the north and south of the Mekong, naming it Nam Viet. He fought for many years with the Han mandarins over control of this new kingdom. He eventually lost and the Chinese ruled the country for centuries until General Ngo Quyen successfully drove out the invaders. This country has been under thumb of the Chinese the entire time, allowed to exist relatively independently. Now, the leftovers of the Qing Dynasty want to return to their glory. If they can’t do it in China, they want to rule here. And they have connections to terrorists who would do anything to cause chaos.” He stopped, placing his hands inside the silk of his sleeves.

  “This is a myth I have heard many times,” I said. “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean the Han Dynasty isn’t trying to be reborn. Even though I’m half Chinese, I do not want the entire country turned into spring roll takeouts. What is it you want?”

  “First,” Liu said, “we eat dinner.” He motioned toward the dining room that I could see was already set for three. A whole roasted duck sat on a silver tray, still steaming. We started with shark-fin soup and rice before digging into the duck. That was followed by fish balls and abalone, ending with pan-fried water chestnut cake and glasses of pinyin grape wine.

  During the meal, I struggled with the contradictions of my life, religion, training, and breeding. The clash between Confucius and Buddha might never be resolved in my heart, but I knew I would always be an outcast in the Socialist Republic. Even in Cholon, I was a bastard. Years in the police force had shown me I could do good while surrounded by evil. While I’d grown without role models, I didn’t need any organization to show me the light. My self-made morality was enough, even if it included hours of reflection at Ma Jing’s. Still, I’d made my home here and knew what it took to exist. If I ran away to England or America, there was only confusion and the unknown. I wiped my lips with a silk napkin and cleared my throat.

  “I would be honored to join you,” I said to Mr. Liu.

  That sentence began the chapters that would forever make me question if there was a god or true enlightenment. For now, the episode of the Sixth Man was closed, and I would go on being the bee that gathers honey during its lifetime but doesn’t
sweeten its sting.