Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  It wasn’t the first time that question had presented itself.

  The last man had gone by him. What would happen, he mused, if he just started walking the other way? Maybe it was time he just checked out of this whole fucking mess. Nobody told him there was going to be a war when he joined the goddamned army. It wasn’t fair. Somebody had changed the rules on him.

  He stepped back onto the trail and found himself walking next to Crazy George. George was an old man of nineteen. His eyes looked at least a hundred years old, though he hadn’t yet been able to raise a moustache. The soft line of down across his upper lip just made him look as if he’d been drinking chocolate milk. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said, “where we going anyway?”

  “Beats the hell out of me, George,” he said lightly.

  “Shit. Well, I hope we get there soon.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause I like to know where the hell I’m at.”

  Crazy George made him nervous, ever since the night they’d caught him trying to rig a grenade to the door of the officers’ latrine. Mac nodded and smiled, moving a little faster until he caught up with Washington, his sergeant. Washington was a good man, and he even seemed almost sane.

  The smell hit them first.

  The acrid, too-familiar odor of gunfire and smoke floated across the heavy humid air, making their noses itch. Everybody tensed. Mac rubbed his burning eyes with the back of one hand, trying to ignore the creepy, crawly sensation beginning to flicker across his groin.

  There was a small rise edging the city of Tan Pret, and they moved over it cautiously, staring down into what had to be a corner of hell. “Jee-sus,” someone said aloud.

  Even from where they stood, the bodies were clearly visible—women, children, old men, the fallen figures making little patches of color against the smoldering brown earth.

  The only signs of life in the devastated village came from the American troops walking through the remains. As Mac and his men moved down the rise toward them, one of the soldiers looked up. His face was red; his eyes glittered. “Spies,” he said loudly enough for them to hear. “All of them were spies. Had to root them out . . . had to . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Mac could only stare.

  It came to him suddenly. Mona Lisa. That was the name of the goddamned song.

  He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do, so he decided not to do anything at all, at least for the moment. Leaving Wash to deploy some men around the perimeter of the village, Mac just walked away from it all. He walked as far as a large boulder that rested on the eastern edge of Tan Pret. Resting his automatic on the ground, he perched on the rock and closed his eyes.

  . . . Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you . . .

  Now he couldn’t get the damned song out of his mind. Made him think about the apple pie they used to serve at the old Hi-Time. With homemade vanilla ice cream plunked on top. Crust real crisp, with cinnamon sprinkled on.

  But that was before he joined the army and how was he to know that fifteen years later he’d be sitting in the middle of a frigging jungle gagging from the stink of death. The recruiter promised him he could become an auto mechanic.

  . . . or is this the way you hide a broken heart . . .

  This was a helluva fucked-up mess. How come it all had to fall into his lap anyway? And what the devil should he do now?

  “What a helluva fucked-up mess.” He said the words aloud that time. It was then that he opened his eyes and realized that he wasn’t alone. He turned wearily, not ready yet to give an order, to take charge.

  The unwelcome intruder was a stranger. Tall and slender, he had shaggy blond hair that stuck out from beneath his helmet and blue eyes that were as dead as Tan Pret itself. “Yeah?” Mac grunted, thinking that the kid looked like a choirboy in search of a congregation. Except for the empty eyes. “What?”

  There was no answer. The man kept staring at him.

  “What’s your name, Sergeant?” When there was still no reply, Mac reached out and took hold of the guy’s dogtags. The stranger flinched away, as if he expected to be struck. “Take it easy, buddy. I only want to find out who you are. Griffith, John Paul.” He released the tags.

  Griffith suddenly opened his hands, letting the M-16 fall to the ground. He stared at the weapon for a long time, as if he’d never seen it before, as if it had nothing at all to do with him.

  “Griffith?” Belatedly, Mac realized that the man was suffering from some kind of shock. Shit, it was no wonder. He slid from the boulder and stood in front of the blank gaze. “Hey, man, can you hear me?” There wasn’t even a flicker of response. Mac sighed. Great. A real whacko. Just what they needed at a time like this. Maybe he should go find Crazy George; the two of them could probably have a great conversation.

  He turned away, looking back across the village. There must be something to be done here, although only God knew what it was. He felt a light but urgent tugging at his sleeve and glanced around. Griffith was holding on to him. “It’s all right,” Mac said absently. “I’m not going anywhere.” There was no change in Griffith’s expression, but his hand slipped away from Mac’s arm.

  Washington appeared. “Some bitchin’ thing, massa.”

  “Yeah. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.”

  “Better you than me.” Washington gestured. “Who’s the zombie?”

  Mac shrugged. “One of them, I guess. A real spaceman.” He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Well, we better get something going here, right? See if you can find the bastard in charge.”

  Washington gave a mock salute and walked away.

  Mac sat on the rock again. “You a Nat King Cole fan, by any chance?” he asked. “No, guess not. Probably too young, right? Hell, when I joined this man’s army you were—” He did a little mental calculation from the birthdate on the dogtags. “—twelve. Christ, this is a frigging children’s crusade.” Griffith wasn’t a child, of course. He was twenty-seven. Mac shrugged. “I could listen to that man sing for hours.” He leaned forward a little. “Hey, John? Anything getting through to you? Are you in there?”

  Nothing.

  “Hell. Sit down, dummy.” Surprisingly, Griffith sank down onto the rock. Mac figured that was a step in the right direction. “Hi. Welcome to my rock. You may not talk much, but you take orders real fine, don’t you? That’s an outstanding quality in a soldier.” Mac had the fleeting thought that it didn’t say much for his own mental state that he would sit and talk to a zombie, but what the hell. “How do you feel about apple pie, John?”

  The lieutenant in charge, a hard-faced man named Delgado, managed to be both belligerent and non-communicative when he finally appeared. They talked about what had happened, or what Delgado claimed had happened, or maybe what he’d dreamed had happened, but it all added up to nothing. Finally, in disgust, he sent Delgado off to organize his men to dig some trenches into which the late citizens of Tan Pret could be dumped. Mustn’t litter up the country, Mac thought.

  He turned back to Griffith, who sat very still, both hands folded neatly in his lap, his young face guileless. “I have to go talk to Wash,” Mac said slowly and distinctly, as if he were speaking to a backward child. “You just sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.” Griffith didn’t acknowledge his words, but neither did he try to keep him from going.

  Washington was supervising the digging of a shallow trench. “Tote that barge, lift that bale,” he murmured as Mac joined him.

  “How long is this gonna take?”

  “Couple hours, I guess.” They watched the digging for several moments. “What happens after that?”

  “I don’t know.” Mac rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Shit.” He kicked at a lump of brown earth, sending it flying through the air.

  A moment later, almost as if in perverse response to his action, the world began to explode around them. From somewhere beyond the trees an artillery barrage descended upon the already dead village. The grave digger
s scattered, some heading for the trees and the rest leaping into the unfinished trench in a desperate search for cover.

  Mac turned quickly and peered through the smoke and mass confusion. Griffith was sitting where he’d left him, his hands still folded, his apparently unseeing eyes fixed on Mac. He seemed unaware of the flaming apocalypse around him. “Jesus H. Christ,” Mac whispered, beginning a broken field run across the space between them.

  The shelling ended as suddenly as it had begun.

  He reached the boulder, aware that dark figures were entering the village. The Americans were still scattering in all directions. He knew that he should have done something, given an order, taken charge, but all he wanted to do was run. He grabbed his rifle with one hand and Griffith’s arm with the other. “Move it, dummy!” he shouted.

  Mac didn’t know or care what was happening behind them. He only knew that they had to get away. It wasn’t only the enemy he was scared of; it was the village of Tan Pret and all its horrifying implications.

  So they ran.

  Chapter 2

  For years after, Mac would dream about the days following Tan Pret. He would never be able to forget wandering through that damned jungle, sweating, stinking, tired to the point of tears, his every step through that purgatory dogged by a mute shadow.

  He didn’t know where they were, didn’t know which way they should go; he didn’t know a goddamned thing, except that he was going to lose whatever little bit of his sanity remained unless something happened soon. He was heartily sick of the sound of his own voice and sick of playing nursemaid to Griffith.

  As night approached on the third day of their odyssey, they both collapsed beneath the vines and branches of a fallen tree. “Looks like home for the night, John. Okay with you?”

  Griffith smiled. It was the same smile he used when Mac grunted a morning greeting, or when they shared a melted chocolate bar from Mac’s pack. He smiled and he smiled, but he never said a word.

  Mac dug into his pack and found the last can of fruit cocktail. He opened it and wiped the spoon on the edge of his shirt. “Better enjoy, buddy-boy,” he said. “Might be the last food we see for a while. Maybe you’d like to feed yourself this time?”

  But Griffith just sat there. Mac sighed and lifted some fruit onto the spoon. “Open your mouth,” he said flatly. “Or I’ll stick the fucking garbage in your ear.”

  The blond’s mouth opened obediently, and the spoon slipped in. They alternated bites until nothing was left in the can except the sweet syrup, which he irritably fed to Griffith. After only three days, his already slender face was etched into sharp lines. Beneath the foggy blue eyes, his cheekbones were painfully prominent.

  Mac reached into the pack again and took out the bottle of cheap scotch. It was almost empty. He dumped the rest of the pale amber liquid into his canteen and pressed it into Griffith’s hand. “Drink some,” he ordered absently. Griffith drank and, without prompting, handed the cup back. Mac rewarded that unexpected burst of initiative with the weary imitation of a smile. “Good boy. Maybe I can teach you some more tricks. You could probably roll over and play dead real good.”

  Mac downed the rest of the scotch in one gulp. “So who do you like in the World Series, kid?” he said.

  Griffith smiled.

  It was like being trapped with a recalcitrant child, and Mac often felt like a parent driven to the end of his patience, wanting to slap the cheerfully blank face into some kind of realization. But he fought for self-control. “We better get some sleep,” he said.

  Mac spent some time trying to figure out how many new insect bites his body had acquired, but then realized that he didn’t give a damn anymore. He finally fell asleep listening to the soft sound of Griffith’s breathing.

  It was very dark when he woke up. The pale moonlight seemed much too fragile to penetrate the blackness in which they were enveloped. Griffith slept like a child, curled on one side, his hand stretched toward Mac, almost touching him.

  Mac needed to piss. He got up slowly and moved out of their hiding place, trying to stretch his cramped muscles. His flesh stank of sweat and Tan Pret. Of death.

  He peed, then lit a cigarette and walked a few more feet away, not ready yet to try sleeping again. The situation they had here was going to get critical before much longer. At least, by the time he got back he’d have some money waiting. This time, he wasn’t going to blow it all in one of Wash’s damned poker games. Hell, no, he’d go into Saigon and treat himself to a steak, some booze, a good screw. Yeah.

  “Mac!”

  A cry of naked, nearly animalistic terror rang through the heavy humid night, and Mac jumped, burning his cupped hand against the glowing cigarette. “Shit,” he swore in startled reaction to both the cry and the burn.

  “Mac!”

  It was Griffith, of course, but the sudden sound of another human voice was as frightening as the previous silence had been. Mac dropped the rest of the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, then stumbled back through the tall grass to the place where Griffith had been sleeping peacefully a few minutes earlier.

  He was unmistakably awake now, crouching like a caged animal, both arms wrapped around his legs. Even in the washed-out moonlight the terror on his face was clearly visible. His head jerked around as Mac crashed into their refuge. “Mac,” he said again, this time the word a hoarse sob. He scrabbled across the distance between them, grabbing Mac’s legs. “I thought you were gone. You said if I couldn’t keep up, you’d leave me and I thought you did; I thought you left me.” The words came in a rush, as if he’d had them bottled up for a long time and somebody had just pulled out the cork. He stopped finally, taking deep gulps of air.

  Mac sank down, gripping the trembling man by both arms. “Hey, you’re talking. That’s good, kid, real good.”

  “I woke up and you weren’t here, Mac.”

  “I just went to taking a fucking leak, Johnny, that’s all. Hell, you think I’d just go?”

  Johnny seemed to be calming a little, but his hands still clutched convulsively at Mac, shaking fingers seeking a firm hold. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be bad. Please, don’t be mad.”

  Mac didn’t know what to do. He wrapped both arms around Griffith and just held on. “It’s okay, Johnny,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  “Something terrible happened, but I don’t remember what it was. I can’t remember, Mac. I just remember you and me running.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Go to sleep, kid.”

  “Okay.” Johnny twisted his fingers in Mac’s shirt. “But you won’t go away, will you?” The eyes were intense, unrelenting.

  “No, I’m not going anywhere,” Mac promised.

  They didn’t talk anymore. Mac just sat there, rocking back and forth, humming ‘Mona Lisa.’ After a long time, the tense body relaxed against him and the ragged breathing steadied. Mac shifted slightly, untangling the slender fingers from their death grip, and rested the sleeping man on the ground. Stretching out next to him, Mac spent the rest of the night staring through the branches at the sky.

  Chapter 3

  It was two days later when they stumbled across the Marine patrol. Mac was so worn out by then, so exhausted physically and mentally, that he just let someone else take over. Johnny, who’d spent the time since he’d started talking rambling on in great detail about his life, seemed to creep back into a shell of silence with others around.

  With no time lost, they were shuffled from the Marine camp onto a truck for Saigon. It was a long, hot, bumpy ride. Johnny spent most of the time huddled in one corner, staring with disconcerting intensity at Mac.

  “Hey,” he said at last.

  Mac lowered the beer he was drinking and looked at him.

  “What’s going to happen when we get to Saigon?” Johnny’s words echoed hollowly in the truck.

  “Nothing. What the hell do you think is going to happen?” Mac felt angry, without knowing why, and he saw Johnny flinch away at t
he sharp tone. He took a deep breath. “Don’t worry,” he said more quietly, not even sure what the hell he meant. “Just don’t worry about it, okay?”

  Empty as the words were, they seemed to be accepted at face value. Johnny closed his eyes and in a few minutes was asleep.

  Mac sighed and lit another cigarette.

  What happened when they got to Saigon was a fast shuffle. Everyone wanted to keep Tan Pret and what had happened there quiet. In the interest of national security. Mac swallowed the bad taste it was leaving in his mouth, and agreed to abide by the official line. Johnny took no interest at all in the proceedings, apparently content to just sit back and let Mac handle it.

  He managed to talk headquarters into a three-day pass for each of them, trying not to think of it as a payoff for his silence. At last, they escaped the major’s office and relaxed in the hall.

  Johnny wiped both palms on the front of his shirt. “Thanks,” he said, the first word he’d uttered in several hours.

  “What?”

  “For the pass.”

  “Oh, hell. I just figured we could both use a little time to get our heads on straight.” There was a moment of silence. Mac stared down the hall and out through the glass door, watching the people walking by in the sunshine. “Well,” he said finally, “guess I better see about finding someplace to crash. Until I can collect my pay, I’m flat. Why don’t we have a drink or something later, huh?”

  Johnny didn’t say anything.

  Mac grinned and held out his hand, taking care not to meet the other man’s eyes. “Quite a time we had, huh, kid?”

  They shook. Johnny’s hand felt cold to the touch, but he returned the pressure of Mac’s grip firmly. Mac broke the contact and turned, walking swiftly toward the door. Behind him there was silence.