UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2)

by Rivers, Hart;

  I could hear Teacher coming with the tap, tap, tap of his stick. Then I could not hear anything. Teacher went silent, walking on cat feet, and then, suddenly, he was sitting in front of me.

  “Have you practiced, small one?” he asked.

  “Yes, Teacher, I have practiced walking everywhere I can with my eyes closed and followed my nose.”

  “You have fallen.”

  How could Teacher know, I wondered. Teacher was blind. He lived in darkness and had for most of his long life. His eyes had been taken by an enemy as a lasting punishment. Teacher had learned to live and then to kill in the dark. The revenge and punishment he visited on his tormentor was said to have been far worse than blindness.

  “Yes, Teacher, I have fallen many times. But I have found my way to many places throughout the cave with no light.”

  “You must learn to see the darkness as a kind of shining, keep your mind open, manage the fear. There will be tests. I will be coming every day for your lessons.”

  I could hear his robe as he stood but he walked away on cat feet and I could not tell where or when he left.

  I was hungry. I was thirsty. I could smell the soup, already taste the ginger and carrots in it, and I was parched for the tea whose minty fragrance lured me…It was all just an arm’s length away, coming from behind a locked door. I had been given a small bamboo tool, like a pick, to manipulate the mechanism of the lock in the darkness, but the day before I had been impatient, so hungry for the soup, and the tea so enticing, that my stomach ruled my mind and my hands and—I snapped the stem of the pick. I’d cried in frustration for I knew there was no second chance that day. Teacher had not given me another pick on this visit, but I managed to find part of the stem. I worked the lock. Click. I had it! I nearly sobbed in relief and joy and hurriedly pushed open the door and—

  No. NO. NO! Yet again my mind had been a slave to my stomach and in my haste to pounce, I lost another day’s meal. The soup and tea had been placed exactly in a spot so if I became impatient the containers would tip over. Hadn’t Teacher taught me just yesterday that one never knows exactly what is behind a door? And didn’t I know the ten golden rules of Go better than my own name? How could I forget: Make thick shape, avoid hasty moves.

  Even as I railed against my stupid, stupid stomach that had won out over the discipline of my mind, I fell to the ground and lapped up what I could. There was precious little remaining, and I just wanted to lie there and think of all the things I would eat when I left the cave. I thought of giving up, of telling Teacher I could not go on. But what if they sent me back to my father? I could never return there, and especially not in shame. And then I thought of The Jungle Book. I wondered, what if I was Kaa or Bagheera or Baloo? I would hunt. There were rats, bats and insects in the cave. And there was water. I could hear it. Smell it. I could see it with my ears and nose.

  I satisfied my hunger, my thirst.

  The days quickly became times of waking and times of sleeping, guided by the bells to indicate if the sun was rising or setting. While I was not afraid of the dark, fears of losing my way in the cave or of being forgotten were the phantoms that came out to tease me.

  Teacher taught me great things in the cave. There was a kind of high-pitched whistle that seemed to bounce off the walls of the cave, and my ears learned to see how far away the wall was. Teacher said bats had taught him how to see this way. Teacher taught me to use a stick in ways that made it seem like a magic wand that could see ahead and to the side, and soon I was able to walk faster and faster. And since I was a boy who loved to run, I began running through the dark cave, whistling with my stick and following the paths I had mapped out in my mind. At some point the darkness changed from an empty void to a world filled with sounds and smells, and my skin would tingle from the sense of security and excitement I had found in this cave, my womb.

  And then one day—it was my ninety-ninth day there to be exact, and I knew this from keeping to the schedule of the monastery and from the number of scratches I had made on a rock to keep track of the days—Teacher had an unexpected new lesson. He announced:

  “I have brought a man who is a thief and another man who is innocent. When the thief stole a woman’s necklace, she scratched his face. Now both men will tell you their stories…”

  Both men proclaimed their innocence, but I knew better. I told Teacher: “It is the man to your left.”

  “That is correct.” Teacher sounded pleased. “And how did you know?”

  “I could hear his breath change and the tremor ever so slight in his voice; and his heart beat; and I could smell his sweat and the way his odor changed.”

  “Something else?” asked Teacher.

  I sat in the shining darkness remembering all that I saw with my mind when the men had each told their story.

  “Yes! He touched his cheek in the dark where he is scratched and there is the slight scent of blood.”

  “Good,” said Teacher. “Tomorrow I bring a convicted murderer. He will be left to wander the caves until he dies as his punishment, or in mercy you can use your knife.”

  I had practiced on wounded animals to relieve them of their pain, and there were competitions with my peers where I could have killed them, or vice versa, but we always stopped at knife point. I realized this, too, was a test. Although the choice was mine, Teacher would approve of courage and action, but not complacency or fear. I desperately wanted his approval. And I needed to know for myself if I was capable of taking another human life. Anyone incapable of crossing that line would fall short of the Shadow Monastery’s reputation for producing fierce, intelligent warriors, unrivaled even by Shaolin Temple standards. This gave me the fortitude to isolate that one seething, cold part inside myself where I had gone when I very calmly stole my mother’s belongings before Father could have them all destroyed, and in my heart I had known that if it meant I could have Maman back, I would not hesitate to kill my father as he slept.

  Teacher brought the convicted man to the cave. His eyes were not accustomed to the dark; he stumbled and swore and screamed out his innocence, hurting my ears with his lies and his noise. I took out my knife. I had sharpened it in preparation for this test and the hilt felt sturdy in my palm. Oddly, as I grasped the knife, my hand was steady and did not tremble as I had expected. No sweat popped from my pores. My breathing was even and steady. In my mind I envisioned from where I stood now to when the act was complete, like a rainbow with a foregone conclusion, and all that was missing was a decisive act that could be achieved in mere seconds if performed correctly and with conviction. Indecision would be messy and painful for us both; if I was taking his life, it had to be absolute and quick.

  He never saw or heard me coming. Even knowing I had granted the man a swift rather than lingering death, once it was done my hands began to shake. I had trouble catching my breath. But I cleaned things up as well as I could and prepared him for presentation to Teacher. I’m not sure if it was nerves from a potential critique, relief that it was done, or that the actuality of my actions caught up with me, but I vomited violently afterwards. Even after receiving Teacher’s “well done, small one” approval, I could not eat the soup that was brought to me, but the next day I could. I had exactly eight days left of The Thousand Days.

  On the last day Teacher said I had done as well as my brother Zhang. And as a result I would soon venture out on behalf of the monastery. It was a special assignment that required a boy about my age, and a successful mission would be well rewarded. It would help feed and educate and sustain us all. I would have to go to Singapore—and upon hearing this I did not want to go. The monastery had been my home since arriving at the age of seven. I was now twelve.

  Chapter 14

  The first time Mouse discovered his unique ability to scare the shit out of a bully twice his size he had been twelve years old. He knew that because It happened the day before his birthday.

  Two older boys had been having a good time at his expense, and while good times at hi
s expense were at least weekly if not daily, this went way beyond the usual. They were in a deserted alley. He should have known better than to take a short cut home. One bigger boy had Mouse’s hands above his head and was sitting on them, while the other jerked his pants down and was laughing like a fuckin’ hyena, intent on shoving a big firecracker up his ass.

  Something snapped. He split off, just like he had the first time when he got thrown from the car and watched it explode with his whole family in it. Only this time when he stepped outside his body he realized it was him who was about to explode if he didn’t do something fast. That’s when he felt a super-human shot of something kick in and he heard the instructions clear as could be in his head.

  The one thing he had free—his mouth and the teeth that were constantly a source of taunting—opened wide as he lurched forward and chomped through fabric and into flesh until Mouse tasted blood. Just like that the tables turned, and the boy who had been sitting on his hands was now captive to him. The unlit firecracker was forgotten amidst yelps and curses while both the older boys tried to unclamp his teeth.

  It had a voice and the voice told Mouse that if he let go for a second the firecracker would only be starters for payback. It also told him the advantage of the unexpected had given him the upper hand, and that upper hand was something he must never let go of again.

  Both boys lost part of a cheek after school in the alley that day. One went home with blood dripping down his pants. The other had a chunk of his face, just under his cheekbone and above his lip, bit off and spit out. Scarred—and scared—for life.

  The feeling of power was indescribable. So was the sensation of It going in reverse while he danced all the way home.

  No one never, ever, tried messing with “The Mouse” as he became known after that. “The Mouse” was a form of respect now. Any other name calling stopped. No pushes or spit ons or bloody noses. And definitely no firecrackers.

  Mouse’s twelfth birthday was the best ever. So was the thirteenth and fourteenth and so on, until he hit seventeen and Uncle Louie called him in.

  The rest, as they say, is history.

  Which brought Mouse here, where he never expected to be, not even in his wildest: in a beautiful beach resort called Nha Trang that made the Jersey shore look like a toilet. Now Tony was gone. He was in charge and had rented a cute little bungalow where Missy was setting up house while helping him with business. Fuckin’ A, what a week! Fine by him if he never went back to Jersey. Tony and Uncle Louie and the rest of the guys could have it. With all his local muscle saying “how high?” when he said “jump!”—especially after that nice little demo on the Fish—it hadn’t taken them two seconds to get the business end of the old base moved closer for his convenience. Missy had helped find a new office: an out of the way Quonset at Camp McDermott, way over by the Mental Health Clinic where nobody wanted to go. Beyond convenience for the nooners he was planning on soon, it was good logistics. Nha Trang was getting to be a really big, in-country distribution site. He could air transport product out of the Cam Ranh Bay airbase just a little south, and other times out of Tan Son Nhut airbase near Saigon, further south still. It was already working out great, having the two sites, and with all the extra product about to come down, parceling it out not only made them less visible, they had room to expand. Was he a genius or what?

  Actually, he couldn’t take all the credit; no way and he knew it. Finding Missy at just the right time was like striking gold and hitting oil all in one lucky roll of the dice. On top of everything else, Missy had local connections, ears to the ground. Uncle Louie was impressed, just like the RVN transport colonel would be when he arrived any minute. Their first meeting had gone smooth as buttah; this one would go even bettah, the way everything was clicking faster than Sammy Davis Jr. could tap, tap, tap.

  The number of GI addicts was growing day by day, and that was gravy on top of the dough from shipping the new, top-of-the-top-grade #4 back home. He’d already gotten his raise—personally delivered by Uncle Louie to Aunt Rosa, with orders to go buy her and Anna and Maria a whole new wardrobe—on top of a promised bonus that just might be earmarked for the new lady in his life, now that Mr. and Missy Mouse were playing house.

  Mouse wondered if he was in love. Maybe that was why he wasn’t pushing harder for some poon and had been content with those hot, sweet kisses that had him beating off when she wasn’t looking.

  Maybe that’s why he didn’t want Missy to see him doing some of his best work, which was exactly what he planned to do now that the chopper was descending with the RVN transport top dog, Colonel Vo. Missy told him it sounded like “Vah” not “Voh,” just like Pho was “Fah” not “Foe,” which was the local soup he could eat seven days a week, especially if she was cooking it.

  “Colonel Vo.” Mouse greeted him with a bow, legs together and head down, just like Missy had taught him. None of that bowing at the waist crap like a European pansy or Beverly Hillbillies square-dance shit.

  “Mr. Gallini. A pleasure to see you again.” The RVN colonel returned a short bow. His English was even better than Missy’s, and hers was good. Mouse was guessing Vo spoke French too, since that seemed standard for upper-class Vietnamese. As for his taste in music, who would have guessed by looking at the guy? Short, thin. Manicured nails. Fancy, tailored uniform almost sagging from all the medals he’d gotten from somewhere, and it sure hadn’t been from any action in the field. “And how thoughtful that you asked for a few favorites of mine for the production I am quite looking forward to. Your reputation does precede you. No pressure, of course, but I must report back to the man we all take our orders from. He is even more curious than I about what to expect. But again, no pressure. Shall we proceed?”

  Mouse willed all thoughts of Missy gone and blessed his ability to slip into business mode when the occasion warranted. That presently included humoring the colonel with a stack of 45s that Mouse would never have picked.

  Once they were in the old Quonset, with pretty much everything removed from the office and into his new one, the latest stupid dickhead skimming off the top and thinking he’d never get caught was now bound up just like the Fish, with the addition that his jaw was wired open. While setting up the phonograph, Mouse tried to ignore the pressure all that “no pressure, of course” had intentionally planted. He knew how this shit worked—this was a test. Vo wanted to see if he could keep his cool under pressure. He was fine, but his muscle guys were a little twitchy in a way they hadn’t been with Tony. The last thing he needed was a nervous audience; then again, he needed the colonel to appreciate the new boss’s special ability to keep his guys in line.

  As for this little demo? They were all about to have a religious experience. He fingered the Zippo in his pocket, brought it out, popped it twice, then clink and Poof.

  Mouse hit the phonograph release switch. Down dropped the colonel’s first request. As organ music filled the room, Mouse draped a sash around his neck in the semblance of a priestly ornamental stole and went about setting up his version of communion. While Procol Harum launched into the lyrics of “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” Mouse raised his hands and repeated the lyrics that announced themselves in his head:

  And so it is this morning

  As the thief has told his tale

  That his face, at first quite handsome

  Will turn a lighter shade of pale…

  Upon his utterance of “pale” the colonel burst into applause. Ignore him, whispered the voice, and so Mouse did. Just like he ignored his guys joining in with Vo like it was their cue. With extreme care he produced a chalice where a small, waxy, solid block with a faint garlic odor resided.

  Mouse went down the line, offering it with a reverence reserved for communion wine. One by one they stopped clapping and moved a respectful distance away, their own faces turning the color of ash. When he got to the colonel, the second record dropped down, right on time. Meeting the colonel eye to eye, Mouse sang directly to him:

  You know
that he has been untrue

  You know what happens to a liar

  So when I say to you

  Vo, we gonna need some pliers…

  The colonel stepped back, his slanty eyes suddenly as big and round as one of those ugly troll dolls with the frizzed-out hair. Even if he wasn’t a Door’s fan himself, Mouse had to admit “Light My Fire” was about as suitable as a song could be for the chemistry lesson at hand. Hard to believe a guy who almost dropped out of high school could learn to love chemistry so much, but when chemistry could create something as goddamned miraculous as Willie Pete, then God bless chemistry.

  Mouse made his way back to his make-shift altar. No dancing this time, not when he had a block of white phosphorous to dispense—and it wasn’t going into one of the tunnels the gooks had honeycombed across the whole damn country. Just throw in a couple of Willie Pete grenades and Boom and Wow: no more vermin. The instant heat, the instant eating up of any oxygen, and then a nice, white, super-dense smoke that could just eat your lungs—what a freak out. Especially with the bonus prize of those white-hot globules that smattered out and burned and kept burning and burning. You could even pour water right on it. Water meant nothing to this shit, not since those backroom boys at Dow tweaked the recipe so that it could melt your meat like butter and keep on going right down to the bone and through your nerves.