by Don McQuinn
“Does the Major have a few minutes?”
“What’s the problem?” Taylor put down his pen, hoping Ordway would make his point quickly, then almost smiled, thinking how Ordway’s drawl made any oral message a long-term project.
“No problem, sir. I just wanted to talk to another Marine for a bit.”
Taylor winced. “Congress called the wrong one of us the gentleman. Have a seat. Coffee?”
“No, sir, thank you kindly.” Ordway settled into the chair beside Taylor’s desk. “I got used to chicory in mine and this GI stuff all tastes like hog piss.”
“I’ve tasted your chicory coffee. Liked it. But I thought that was New Orleans and you’re from up north.” Ordway’s careful expression shifted, and he was a very young blond man in a uniform, remembering.
“Gantry,” he said. “Gantry, Louisiana. We like the chicory, no matter. You’d like it there, Major. Good people. Peaceful, if you don’t fuck over ‘em, you know?”
Taylor grinned. “You could say as much about Saigon.”
They laughed at that and Ordway talked of home, of the family tensions when his sister married a staunch Catholic boy, and the great making-up when the first grandson was born. Then they got onto football, followed by hunting stories, memories of winter walks and warm fires. At that point Ordway sobered.
“Would the Major be upset if I asked a personal question?”
“I doubt it. Ask—we’ll see.”
“That shotgun the Major carries around—the sawed-off? Where’d the Major get that thing, and what the fuck does apeneck come from?”
Taylor laughed again. “That’s two questions. The shotgun’s from the Army MI unit. I don’t know how I’ll turn it in with the barrel cut off, but I’ll worry about that come summer. I call it Apeneck after Apeneck Sweeney, a man in a poem.”
“A poem? Like real poetry? Apeneck Sweeney?”
Professing scorn, Taylor said, “Certainly, like poetry. Don’t they teach anything but football and ‘possum skinning in redneck country?”
“I don’t believe so,” Ordway said. “People only learn what counts.” He winked a dark brown eye. “You know, the Viet troopers really dig that thing, Apeneck. I believe they’re all hoping Charlie’ll jump you one day, so they can brag it up later.”
“Thanks a lot, for Christ’s sake. What if I lose?”
“They ain’t hearing that shit. Neither am I.”
“That’s dumb, man. I can’t see out the back of my head and I can’t tell a VC from anyone else out there. Listen, I carry that thing ‘cause it gives me a better first-round chance, that’s all.”
Moving his gaze to the right of Taylor’s ear, Ordway said, “At least the Major’s seen enough action to know about that kind of thing.”
The look on the young face was too familiar to Taylor. Men wore it the day before their first battle. It had no sense of horror. Taylor looked at the eyes, as he had done so many times before, knowing the one thing he would never find there was understanding. That came later.
“Are you telling me you want a transfer to I Corps?”
The brown eyes blinked, still not meeting Taylor’s. “It’s not personal, Major. I mean, I like working with you all here, sir, and the doggies ain’t all that bad, but I come in this outfit for three things, and I don’t figure to get but two of them here.”
“Three?”
“I want my ass back in Gantry in one piece. I want to see some action. And I want a Good Conduct Medal.”
“A what?”
“I’m going to walk into my high school principal’s office and jam it up his ass.”
“That ought to impress him. I’ll tell you what—I’ll talk to Winter. But remember, you’ve only got a few months to do. You’d have to extend. And what if you get greased?”
“Not your problem, Major.”
“Shit.” He cut the air with the edge of his hand. “Let me get back to work. I’ll see what I can do. But don’t bug me.”
Ordway thanked him and barely got his face beyond the door jamb before the grin split it.
Sergeant Miller watched from the end of the hall, disapproval honing his sharp black features to a series of angles. When Ordway was close enough, he spoke softly.
“You gung-ho asshole. You get your transfer?”
Sergeant Wilton Miller, escapee from the Pittsburgh ghetto, lounged against the wall, one foot on the floor, the other cocked against the paneling. It was an out-of-place posture in the quiet hall, better suited to concrete while a man surveyed a crowded city street. It suited a pimp or a thief or a lookout, all of which Willy Miller had been before his twelfth birthday. Now, at twenty-six, a professional soldier, he still emanated the same sense of unresting awareness even in repose.
In answer to his question, Ordway said, “He’s going to work on it. He ain’t the Commandant, you know. He can’t just ship people around.”
“What you want to go there for anyhow?” Miller moved from the wall, suddenly a full head taller than Ordway. “What’s so fuckin’ wonderful about livin’ in a fuckin’ hole and eating cold chow and walking on mines and all that shit?”
“We talked about it plenty of times. I have to find out what I’m made of, man—that’s all.”
“And I told you, Charlie’s gonna drop an artillery shell in that hole with you and everybody’s gonna know what you used to be made of.” Miller walked out into the sunlight and Ordway followed.
“Willy, I got in the Corps to fight, not mess with drug pushers and black market and all that. It’s the communists—”
“Fuck the communists!” Miller’s arm flailed in a furious arc. “That’s all politics and people like you and me are going to get it in the ass from politicians no matter who’s in charge. But we’re allowed to kill them fuckin’ dope pushers, man, and that’s the only good thing about the whole motherfuckin’ war.”
“Shoot!” It was Ordway’s turn to be scornful. “You ever heard of a pusher getting killed? They bust some PFC for holding once in a while. The big dealers are the old lifers and officers and Viets and blacks—don’t look funny at me, you said it yourself—and you know nobody’s fucking with them.”
Miller looked away. “Well, don’t it make more sense then to try to get one? Just one, Tony—Jesus, one of them’ll screw up more people—! Don’t it make more sense to try and get one of them?”
“Forget it. If you even got a good case, he’d buy his way out. They got the clout.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Miller sagged momentarily, then started walking again. “But I won’t quit. And you shouldn’t neither. Not to run off and die in the jungle.”
Ordway was apologetic. “I’m tired of this stuff. All you and me do is hang around in town and keep the Old Man posted on what we can find out about people pushing shit. What good’s that do? Nobody does nothing.”
Miller gave him a sly smile. “How’d you like it if I told you there’s something going down that might change that?”
“If I believed it.”
Miller’s eyes went around the compound in an automatic scan. “Listen, Loc’s turning loose Lieutenant Colonel Tho and Sergeant Chi on some dude down on Plantation Road. Remember the Major they think’s sending home so much money? You know the joint called the Princess Bar? Well, they think the Major owns it.”
Ordway’s interest showed in his quickened words. “That’s the place a couple of buys went down. You think the Major’s in on it?”
“Got to be.” Miller laughed sharply. “The money market’s a hassle, now they got so many controls. But the woods is full of heroin, man. The sonofabitch has to be dealing.” Despite their distance from anything, he slid closer to Ordway. “I talked to Chi. He owes me a couple favors. We can go with them, but Tho says it’s off the record. If Winter hears—” He drew a finger across his throat.
“I’m in.” Ordway punched Miller’s arm. “You may turn out to be more’n pain in the ass yet, Willy.”
“Just wear some dark civvies tonight
. We’ll leave here about 1930. Chi said to be in that alley-like that runs behind all those bars at 2145, exactly.”
“What do we do between 1930 and 2145?”
“Check inside and memorize faces, every round-eye in the place. I’m going to make something out of this.”
“I hope so.” Ordway left, Miller’s grim stare worrying his mind. He wished his friend could take a more reasonable view of drugs. A man who was always angry wasn’t the most dependable soul in the world.
Chapter 9
The two Vietnamese and their Chinese partner huddled at a table in the far corner of the Friendly Bar in their PX sport shirts and slacks, sipping beer, trying to ignore the loud prattle of the Americans and the bar girls. A particularly ringing laugh grated on An’s nerves and he broke his silence.
“How can one army produce so many fools? Every night is the same. They spend money on these worthless whores as though they were princesses.”
An was the smaller of the three. His movements, as when he lifted his glass or dragged on his cigarette, were marionette gestures, exaggerated and imprecise. His right hand, holding the cigarette, constantly darted at the overflowing ash tray. He glanced down each time to verify he’d gone past it or was off to one side, corrected, then rapid taps dislodged a few flakes to flit erratically down toward the container. Whatever missed was swept away with infinite patience by the taller of the two Vietnamese.
While he cleaned up An’s latest miss, Nguyen Van Trung turned to look over his shoulder toward the rest of the bar. “The Americans need love,” he said, “or the illusion of it. The women who make the most money are the ones who convince them they are not buying sex, but helping a poor girl support a family. You may be right to call them fools. But they have money. As long as they spend it to our advantage, I do not care if they drool.”
An’s head snapped back and forth in staccato nods. “On that we can agree.” He turned to the second Vietnamese. “If we can keep our angry friend under control, we should make a fortune.”
The subject of his criticism scorned it as a sulking bass will ignore a badly placed cast. After a moment, he rolled his eyes toward An.
“It would please me to poison them all.” He resumed the study of the triangle of marred tabletop framed by his forearms.
“That would be a mistake,” Trung chided. “We get better information from the ones who return frequently and our responsibility is to acquire information.”
Do Chi Tu raised his head to look Trung full in the eyes. Where Trung’s face was sleekly mobile and An’s sharp and distinctly featured, Tu’s was compressed, as though the parts were unified in a struggle to resist seething internal stresses. His lower jaw tapered to a sharp point at the chin, thrusting ahead of him like a belligerent prow, and the flesh of his nose gullied in above his nostrils. The effect was not unlike a dog on the verge of a snarl.
“I know my responsibility as well as you, Trung,” he said. “You are happy here, playing at war and counting your money. I do not like play, and money only interests me because it helps our cause.”
Trung blinked. Tu was testing his response. If it was incorrect, he would be forced into more tedious self-criticism at the next meeting.
“I must disagree with you,” he said. “It pains me as much as you to cater to these buffaloes. We all have our assigned tasks and we must perform them unquestioningly. When we question assignments, we question our leaders.”
Tu straightened in his chair. “I question no one. I only wish to strike harder blows, blows that give a man some pride.”
“A proper spirit.” Trung nodded sagely. “Still, there are those who would be disturbed to think you are not proud of your work, although we know that is a wrong interpretation of what you have said.”
Trung sipped his beer, pleased to force Tu into a position where he would worry about explaining his own thoughts to their mutual superiors instead of making trouble for others. “Furthermore,” he continued, “if our plan for using the man Taylor is effective, you will be in position to ask for other assignments.”
Tu grunted a reply, returning to his slumped-over examination of the table. Trung found the rejoinder intellectually unsatisfying but acceptable. Tu never outwardly agreed with anything, saving his breath to argue when he disagreed.
An understood, too. Realizing their conversation was ended, he asked Trung, “Are you certain we can blackmail this American? Tuyet says she has the hook in his mouth but sometimes he makes me think he is not as foolish as we would like. He makes me nervous.”
“Everything makes you nervous,” Trung said, almost concealing his contempt. “The smell of money seems to reinforce your courage, however, so think about that. You will be paid well to supply the transport when the time comes. We will take care of everything else.”
“It is not all profit for me,” An complained. “I pay a fortune in bribes. My expenses are terrible.”
“The perils of commerce,” Trung observed mildly.
An forgot his retort when he saw Taylor enter the bar.
“He’s here!” he whispered.
“Why so secretive?” Trung laughed. “You could scream in his ear. He cannot understand.” He waved at the American.
Taylor acknowledged the greeting while he searched for Tuyet, wanting to speak to her first. From her he’d gauge the attitude of the three men.
The Friendly Bar was easily inspected, once his eyes adjusted to the dark after the glaring lights of the streets. A rectangular room, approximately twenty by thirty feet, it featured a bar that ran the length of the right wall and ten randomly scattered tables. A patch of bare wood six feet square gleamed at the base of the stereo components shelved on the left front wall. It was a concession to the undeniable urge of the young Americans to stand up and work off some energy. Dancing was illegal, but one couple leaped about, tempting fate. The sole attempt at atmosphere consisted of a few dim yellow lights on the walls and a half-dozen artificial palm trees propped up in wooden tubs. The trees sagged as if decayed, burlap bark streaming in ragged hanks toward the floor, plastic leaves palled with dust.
The girls, both at the bar and the tables, were aware of the new entrant the moment the door opened and the unclaimed ones flashed mechanical smiles. They returned to their chatter when they recognized him. There were some bars where all the girls were pleasant. The Friendly Bar was geared for a selective approach. Taylor had noticed that men who talked a lot seemed to get better treatment. There was an obese Air Force Sergeant who was practically a member of the family. Taylor had watched him spend several evenings downing an endless succession of beers, finally leaving with one of the girls on each arm. He’d never seemed to pay anyone and Taylor had made a mental note to check out his popularity at some future date.
Tuyet’s head craned from behind one of the phony palm trees. She winked and nodded toward the bar. Picking his way between the tables, Taylor seated himself and ordered a Ba Muoi Ba, the Vietnamese-made “33” beer. He took a long, thirsty swallow before turning to watch Tuyet shear the lamb of the evening.
He was Special Forces, one of the green berets propagandized as invincibles. Taylor felt sorry for them. Superbly trained and led, many of them came to Vietnam and found themselves holed up in static fortified villages on mountaintops where the war was nothing more than anticipation of the supply chopper and the daily certainty that this was the night Charlie was coming.
This one, red-headed and freckled, was obviously on an R&R turn. His boots were scraped and marred under their shine. His fatigues had the listless drape that came with rough washing and exposure to sunlight. Sometimes a rear-echelon type managed to keep a set long enough for them to acquire a similar color, even to the whitened knees and elbows. They never had the small frays where a sleeve had hooked a thorn or the brush-rubbed circle at the trouser’s blouse just above the boots.
The soldier lifted his drink and drained it. Tuyet finished her tea.
“Give me money,” she commanded. "I get
more drinks.”
The soldier waggled a finger at her. “I only got a little bit left. I’m saving it for you. I drank—drunk—” He scowled, only to break into loud giggles. The sound embarrassed him and he stared around the room owlishly until he was satisfied no one had heard.
“I drunk enough,” he said.
Tuyet leaned on him, rubbing her breasts back and forth across his upper arm. At every stroke, the low-cut red satin of her evening gown pulled downward. The soldier’s head wobbled in time with her motion. His eyes bulged with the strain of trying to see inside the top, despite the bad fighting and bad whiskey.
“Buy one more time,” she coaxed. “I not ready go yet. This time I get real drink, not tea. Whiskey make me horny.”
Licking his lips, he reached into a baggy pocket for his wallet. Tuyet pressed against him harder.
“I like feel your hand there.” She slid her chair closer. “Leave hand in pocket little bit.” She gyrated her hips. The trooper squirmed to turn his hand toward the movement and furtively checked the room. Taylor ducked before he was caught watching. When he looked again, the soldier was staring at Tuyet with the crystalline deliberation of a pigeon stalking popcorn. The hand in the pocket writhed like a small animal trapped under a blanket. Every time it made contact with Tuyet’s thigh the bunched cloth formed a ravening mouth that opened and closed frantically.
Through it all, Tuyet’s eyes remained closed in artistically simulated ecstasy. She made crooning noises when the hand closed on her leg, gleaming pink tongue sliding across her lips while she wrinkled her forehead in an impassioned frown.
Taylor was impressed. He knew those kneading fingers had to feel like tongs.
She placed both hands on the man’s waist and pushed herself a few inches away.
“How much money you have?” she asked, staring into unfocused eyes.
The hand in the pocket swiveled on the wrist and came out holding a wallet. The trooper tore his gaze from Tuyet and started to open the wallet under the protective overhang of the table.
