Nam-A-Rama

by Phillip Jennings

  Giap downshifted suddenly, throwing me into the dashboard. He squealed around a corner, sending bicycles and pedestrians flying to the walls of the adjacent buildings. At ninety he shoved the screaming engine into third and accelerated through a market area. I ventured a look behind us and saw the Corvette gaining.

  “Imperialist enemy America unnerstan history no. Neba beat Vietnam. Our country die, never mind and America go home.” He laid on the horn as an old woman, a pole across her shoulders with baskets of vegetables suspended from each end, ventured into our path. The windshield on my side dipped one end of the pole and spun the old lady like a top.

  “Russia like keep gun airplane, send old. Forget Lenin. I know him. Not forget. French army drink drink never mind.” Ahead I saw what appeared to be a dead end. We were not slowing down that I could tell. Ho Chi Minh and his Corvette drew up to our side. Giap and Ho began yelling at one another in Vietnamese, occasionally smiling, then looking back at the road. Just before the dead end, Giap braked and downshifted, allowing the Corvette to shoot ahead and turn into our path, its turn signal blinking. The force of the turn threw Gearheardt onto Ho. When Gearheardt straightened back up, he was laughing. A beer can flew out of the Corvette and bounced on the Mustang’s hood, setting Giap off on an orgasm of Vietnamese shouting. He laid on his horn again.

  “Drink drive no good evil. South Vietnam no South all Vietnam. Revolution same all country no want foreign people tell—” The Corvette slammed on its brakes in front of us, causing Giap to run up on the sidewalk to avoid hitting it. I looked back again and saw the Corvette disappear around a corner. “—government. Stupid Ho Chi Minh shortcut no good bomb road. Ha!” We accelerated again, and I was pushed back in the seat by the power of the Mustang engine. It was almost dark and hard to see people in the road until they jumped out of the way.

  “Have you got lights?” I yelled over the engine roar.

  Giap turned toward me as if I had insulted his ancestors.

  “No light! Have new seat. No smoke now.” He patted the white Naugahyde seat.

  “No! I mean lights! Lights! You know see dark.” I pointed toward the dash on his side where I thought the light switch would be. “LIGHTS!”

  We were approaching a narrow bridge. An ancient army truck was entering it from the opposite direction. Giap hit his horn again, then flicked his lights on, flashing from bright to dim rapidly.

  The truck stopped in the center of the bridge and the driver and his passenger bolted out its sides and ran back the way that they had come.

  Giap slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt. The engine died. Giap jumped out of the car, drawing his huge pistol and firing at the two men disappearing in the dark. He got back in and started the car. I braced myself for a gut-wrenching peelout, but Giap slowly turned around and drove alongside the river at a modest speed.

  “No need hurry. Ho win first time. Corvette shit never mind.”

  When we rounded a corner minutes later, I saw the Corvette parked at the curb and Ho Chi Minh and Gearheardt leaning against it. We parked and got out. Ho rubbed his thumb rapidly against his fingers until Giap threw a wad of bills at him.

  We followed Ho Chi and Giap into the Blue Daisy. They were greeted with shouts and raised glasses. Perhaps fifty soldiers, plus the bar girls that were attached to them, filled the small room. Ahead of us was a dark stage, to the right a bar that ran the length of the room. Tables and chairs filled the remaining space except for a very tiny dance floor in front of the stage. An American jukebox blared Vietnamese music, tinny and shrill. I hated these places.

  Ho Chi beckoned Gearheardt and me to tables hastily shoved together by a team of obsequious waiters.

  “You sit. Drink on me yes. Mustang number ten.” Ho Chi laughed at Giap who sat down in his normally grumpy mood. Ho yelled at the bartender. “Hey you, beer my friend.”

  Gearheardt was in his element. “Yes, beer my friend too, Ho Chi. Need lots of friends, right?”

  “No call Ho Chi. Name Hoche. More friend, no? My friend they drink me, call Hoche.”

  Gearheardt grabbed a beer from the tray being brought to the table. He took a swig and spewed it out on the floor. “Whoa! The horse who pissed this is seriously ill.”

  Hoche took a bottle to his lips, turned it up and drained it without stopping to take a breath. “Drink too slow, Marine.”

  Gearheardt tilted his head and chugged the beer. He let out a long breath. “You know, pal, you’re right.” He grabbed another and saluted Hoche. “What do you say we call number one hero Geepster?”

  Hoche looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled at General Giap. “Helloooo, Geepster.”

  Geepster nursed a beer and kept looking from Gearheardt to me to Hoche.

  Ho Chi Minh was a different personality in a bar. His eyes twinkled and he grinned as he rested his forearms on the table and surveyed the room. Spotting a woman standing near the end of the bar, he raised his beer bottle and waved her to the table.

  “This mama-san Blue Daisy. Number one mama-san.” He pulled her giggling onto his lap and began to whisper in her ear.

  Giap, now Geepster, took an offered cigarette from Gearheardt and lit it with a Zippo engraved with the outline of an aircraft carrier. He turned his chair slightly away from the table, excusing himself from the group.

  “Gearheardt, I need to have a chat with you,” I said.

  “Okaaay. Now we’re talking,” Gearheardt said, ignoring me.

  The mama-san was heading back to our table leading two young women. She was grinning. The women weren’t.

  Both women sat down beside Hoche on chairs drawn from the adjacent table, displacing two soldier patrons, who grumbled and moved to the bar.

  “Hey, what kind of socialist are you, Hoche?” Gearheardt laughed. “Where’s the sharing attitude?”

  Ho Chi Minh was nuzzling the neck of one of the women. “Women no like America. Bomb too much.”

  “Well, what kind of hospitality—”

  Giap broke in, “American unnerstan nothing! Socialis share shit. French all time want Vietnam women. Beat French. Now we beat—”

  Gearheardt took another beer and downed half of it, then looked at me.

  “Can you keep that little twerp quiet, Jack? He’s beginning to piss me off.”

  “Heaven forbid you should get mad at the enemy, Gearheardt.”

  “Jack, you’re bound and determined not to have any fun, aren’t you?”

  I sat staring at my friend. I decided that I would feel better if I really believed that Gearheardt had knowledge of a plan of action that for reasons unknown he was keeping from me. I suspected, however, that he had come to Hanoi with no real conviction and, through sheer arrogance and an ultimate belief in himself, was certain that things would just “work out.”

  I sipped my beer and watched Hoche snake his hand up the dress of the woman on his lap. Looking over at Giap, I saw that he was watching the same thing. He caught my eye and I saw disgust. He hissed and turned away.

  A commotion at the door caught my attention. A man had entered, and the Vietnamese soldiers were moving out of his path as he strode into the room. He was Hispanic, tall and slim, dressed in what appeared to be a tailored military uniform of indeterminate origin. His face was twisted in a scowl directed at the soldiers who averted their eyes. He was handsome and evil-looking. I knew it was Juanton.

  He spotted our table, breaking into a smile as he started to make his way to us.

  A screaming three-foot queen in a pink dress flew into his path and smashed his testicles with a small black purse.

  “Ay yi yi!” Juanton doubled over and clutched his groinic region, his face twisted in pain and anger. When he was able to straighten up, he judo-chopped the midget queen across the neck sending her head over tiny high heels under a table. A miniature Uncle Sam burst through the crowd and I stood to watch the attack, but he was jerked short of Juanton’s crotch by a choker and the four-foot chain held by a one-eyed Vietnamese bea
uty.

  “Juantono, you miserable rotten bastard,” the girl said, slacking the chain to allow the Chinese midget to rub the red mark across his throat.

  “By golly, she speaks American, Jack.” Gearheardt grabbed my elbow as I started to the couple, now slowly circling each other. “She looks like she can take care of herself.”

  “You think I was in countryside giving important show. I get ride to Hanoi and at prison they tell me you finish torture early and having beer with American woman who jumped from Yankee airplane.”

  Juanton looked around at the mostly silent crowd.

  “I theenk this is for later, my little Cyclopa. Yes, I was having beer with American woman, but not what you theenk. Is business.”

  “Cydopa” spit on the floor and stepped in front of Juanton.

  Juanton cold-cocked her with a blow that could be heard in the street. The midgets dragged her to a table, their beady eyes flashing at Juanton as he rubbed his knuckles. He turned to our group.

  “Venerable Leader,” he said, “how wonderful it ees to see you this evening. ¿Cómo está? my friend?” He held out his hand and waited, smiling, while Hoche untangled his hand from the bar-girl’s clothing.

  “Juanton, you have washed blood from hand?”

  The Hispanic laughed and threw back his head.

  “Meester Ho, you are so very comical. Another of your leadership good traits. It is why the people love you so, no?”

  Hoche looked down the table and caught my eye. He winked.

  “Juanton, you have known Gennerer Giap, Vietnam number one hero. Also my friend Almost Captain Armstrong, United State Marine, you maybe not know.”

  The Hispanic’s face kept the smile, but his eyes hardened as he looked at me. He walked to my side and stuck out his hand again.

  “Juanton NaMeara, Capitán. It is a pleasure, no?”

  “Creo que no, shithead.”

  It was Gearheardt, who now stood beside Juanton.

  Juanton took a small step back. He wasn’t smiling now.

  “So you do not think so? And why would that be? We are all soldiers, are we not?”

  “I’m not a soldier, I’m a Marine. And you’re not a soldier. You’re a slimy sick bastard here to torture American pilots.”

  “Who told you this terrible thing, Capitán?”

  “Why do you Mexicans always talk in questions?” Gearheardt asked.

  Juanton bristled. He glanced back at Hoche.

  “I am Cuban. I am here because my country is a friend of those who fight against American imperialists.”

  “American imperialist fight no—” Giap began, getting to his feet.

  Gearheardt whirled on him. “When I want your opinion I’ll knock it out of you, you litde—”

  Guns were drawn again, and I expected someone to call someone else a yellow-bellied varmint any minute. Giap looked ridiculous with his large revolver, Gearheardt foolish with a beer bottle in one hand and his .357 in the other, the Cuban uncertain with a large Russian .45. A number of the North Vietnamese soldiers dove behind the bar. I stepped between Gearheardt and Juanton.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not be childish, we have a war to discuss.” I didn’t know where that had come from, fear or stupidity. I was pretty sure a shootout in the Blue Daisy was not our mission. The three gunslingers holstered their weapons and sat down.

  Juanton raised his hand and a beer appeared in front of him. It was a San Miguel. Juanton squinted across at Gearheardt.

  “You are pilots, no?” He caught himself. “You are pilots.”

  “Was it the flight suits or the wings on the jackets that gave it away, Einstein?”

  “I know many American pilots. Today I have … interviewed a number of them.” The bastard smiled, and I got ready for the .357 to appear again. But Gearheardt returned the smile.

  Juanton smiled at me now, his eyes quickly darting toward the midgets who were tending Cyclopa. She was sitting up, holding a bloody rag to her nose.

  “These women, you live with them and have baby and they theenk they own you, no? But there are two sides to all stories, no? And Cyclopa only see one side, yes?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. Looked at me and winked and then laughed again. Gearheardt put his hand over mine as I grabbed the handle of my PPK. But the reality was that my ardor for Cyclopa was cooling as quickly as it had started.

  “They say that torture is a substitute for sex. Is that right, Juanton?” Gearheardt asked pleasantly.

  Giap choked on his beer and spewed the table.

  “You okay there, Geepster?” Gearheardt asked. Giap ignored him.

  “Sex is war, Captain.” This from Hoche, who had to raise his face from a female bosom to make the statement.

  Gearheardt rested his arms on the table, glaring at Giap when he realized how much beer the General had spewed. “Shit,” he said, then, “I mean, my Cuban burrito-burner, that guys that get their rocks off sticking sharp instruments into other men usually don’t have an interest in sticking other instruments into womenfolk. Kemo Sabe?”

  “I don’t think ‘Kemo Sabe’ means what you think it means, Gearheardt,” I put in. “Try ‘comprende.’”

  Juanton swung his still smiling face around the table, stopping at Hoche for a moment, then back to Gearheardt.

  “You are wanting to pick a fight, no?” He launched into a tirade barely audible, in a language that was mostly Spanish. Then, “But I have no need to fight you now. You are a guest of Ho Chi Minh, the finest leader in Asia, and General Giap, the—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Number fucking one Vietnamese hero. But I still say that you couldn’t get it up with one of the cuties here, Juantono. Already had your jollies today, right?”

  Juanton’s jaw tightened. He picked up his San Miguel and drained it. He turned his chair toward Hoche and began talking to him, ignoring the fact that Hoche was fully engaged and only grunting vague replies.

  A waiter appeared at the table balancing a tray of bottles. “From the Russians. Beer free.”

  Sure enough, near the back of the dark room sat a table of four Caucasians, ill-suited with loud, wide ties and short haircuts. They grinned at us and raised their glasses. Gearheardt and I raised our bottles in return. The Russian nearest to us (we could only see his back) raised his middle finger over his shoulder. The other three laughed and went back to their drinking.

  “Goddam Russians,” Gearheardt said loudly. “Anybody that would take help from those sonsabitches deserves to lose their pissant country.” He saw Juanton looking at him and made a face of surprise. “Oh, shit, sorry, Juanton. I forgot you bastards are on the Russian teat.”

  The Cuban’s jaw quivered. He and Giap both looked down the table to Ho Chi.

  Gearheardt stood up. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he announced. He nodded his head at me. “You’ve got to take a leak too.”

  The bathroom was a small cell to the rear of the bar. Ancient tile with two holes in the floor. Four million gallons of pine-scented disinfectant would not have helped.

  Gearheardt lit a cigarette, oblivious to the chance that the air could ignite.

  “What do you think?” he asked me.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Mama-san told me that this Juanton character comes here all the time bragging about the pilots he’s broken. Gives vivid details to impress the girls.” He dragged heavily on his cigarette, then flipped it expertly into one of the holes. I moved back.

  “I’m not making any deal with that asshole,” he said.

  “Why would we make a deal with the Cuban? Who the hell is he, other than what we know he is?”

  Gearheardt rubbed the bridge of his nose. In the dim light from the ten-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling he looked tired. He took out his .357 and opened it, checking to see that it was fully loaded.

  “He’s the representative that we were supposed to meet. You know, on behalf of the ‘businessmen’ I told you about.”

  A Vietnam
ese soldier stumbled in the door, already fumbling at his fly. He saw Gearheardt and the pistol and hurried back out. My eyes were burning from the smell.

  “Gearheardt, this is as good as time as any. What are we supposed to do?”

  “NaMeara has represented to the Teamsters that he can deliver a contract on the trail haul. They want a piece of that action. They have someone’s nuts in a vise, someone high up in the government—”

  “Ours?” I asked, my mind skipping over the revelation that somehow a truckers’ union was involved in negotiations having to do with the conduct of the Vietnam War. Before Gearheardt answered, I went on.

  “Okay, of course it’s ours. The Teamsters want to unionize the peasants carrying supplies down the trail?”

  We heard a loud raucous roar from the bar. Gearheardt turned his head toward it and hesitated. I grabbed his arm.

  “Gearheardt, is there anybody on the planet that thinks about this war in black and white, good and evil, right or wrong? Am I the one who’s nuts?”

  “Jack, you’re the one who is hopelessly naive. That’s why I like you.”

  “And what are you, Gearheardt? Nuts, naive, or just … just …” I waved my hands. I couldn’t describe what the others, seemingly everybody, were. There was no plan. There was no fix. There was no deal. In fact, there was no war. There was a disagreement over a beer franchise. There was a union power grab. There was a political one-upmanship. There was a furniture battle in Paris. Maybe this was all about furniture.

  “Jack,” Gearheardt said, “when the time comes, we’ll do the right thing. Okay?”

  He walked out and I followed him, bumping through a dozen or so soldiers glaring at us, hands pressing their beer-bloated bladders.