She may have been an unwilling spy. Possibly a woefully misguided patriot. But when she entered the Blue Daisy, you felt the star presence. First, the buzz over the loud conversation and screeching Vietnamese jukebox. The cigarette smoke parted and there she was—Barbonella. Her reddish blond hair glowed. Her angular angelic face was art, her body luscious and full. And was she pissed.
Juanton rose to his feet, holding his arms to the star barreling toward him.
“Ah, my sweet Buttee. You are lovely in your … you are wearing black panties? Ay caramba. Where did you get these panties?”
“Panties? Panties? What in the hell did you expect me to put on? All you had was a drawer full of these damn black panties and Cuban uniforms. I’m tired of wearing communist uniforms. What I want to know is what happened to my clothes and where the hell you disappeared to this afternoon? It better be a good story you Latin son-of—Mr. Ho-OH, how are you, Venerable Leader?”
Hoche had come up behind Butty and goosed her. Gearheardt watched all this while snorting into his fist, barely able to contain his mirth.
Hoche calmed Butty and coached her into a seat near him.
“You rooking ve’y ruvry tonight, Butty.” His English was suffering from his first six-pack.
“Buttee, did you not find hot bath pleasurable? I was returning with your clothing, but duty was calling. I am so very sorry,” Juanton smiled.
Gearheardt found his opening. “Butty, there are three tank repairmen up in Dihn Nyge province that haven’t slept with you. How much longer will you be in town?”
Butty’s smile, as she looked up, missed Gearheardt at first and froze a cockroach on the wall behind us.
“Oh, Captain Gearheardt. How nice to see you.”
“Capitán Gearheardt, as distasteful as it may be, I would perhaps speak to you outside. You also, Capitán Armstrong.” Juanton stood and pushed through the crowd.
Gearheardt smiled big teeth at Butty, who smiled big teeth back.
“Let’s go, Jack me boy. Duty calls.”
We caught up with Juanton outside the front of the bar. He stood with one foot propped on the bumper of Hoche’s Corvette, lighting a small cheroot.
“I would prefer to kill you, capitanes. But I have business, and that is what business is about, no?”
“Brilliant,” Gearheardt said. I elbowed him.
“Let us move ahead. Do you speak Spanish? It would be easier if you were fluent.”
“El gato bebe leche,” Gearheardt said.
“Quit playing the fool, Capitán. Here is the offer. The war will last three more years. My clients will have the hauling contract and the beer contract, which, I might add, may not be American beer.”
“And would that beer be British beer, taco face?”
“It is none of your concern. The Hoche and I are prepared to deal now, tonight, or there is no deal to be done.” He threw his cheroot down, ground it with his boot, and went back into the bar.
“British beer, Gearheardt? Could this damn thing get any more confusing? I say we kill them and try to make it out of the country.”
“That would be the reasonable thing to do, Jack.” He looked at the ground and rubbed his chin. A thoughtful Gearheardt. “I think the commies are in with the Brits on this deal.”
“No way, Gearheardt. You have a lot of crazy ideas but—”
“Jack, they have a damn special commuter train to run Brit spies over to Moscow when they defect. I’m not talking about regular Brit spies.”
He slapped me on the shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go back in.”
Hilarity had broken out. Hoche was on the table, shirtless, doing a dance that was a cross between the twist and a Highland fling. He had a bra tied around his head—a big one. Giap sat muttering to himself, slumped over a beer. Juanton was smiling and clapping, egging Hoche to higher kicks and faster twirls. And topless, above borrowed black panties and totally swanked at the end of the table, sat Barbonella. Grinning, singing, and squirming on the lap of Gon Norea, he with teeth a mile wide. He had appeared at the bar in good spirits and only at half-mast. I admired his stoic acceptance of a rather debilitating run-in with the Koreans.
22 • N. VN Minh-e Fini
Gon Norea was in seventh heaven. At least he was in the Blue Daisy in Hanoi with a topless American movie star squirming on his lap. His only difficulty seemed to be an uncertainty about where to place his hands. He was a gentleman, no less.
Gearheardt and I had rejoined the group. The music had changed from the grating Vietnamese to screaming British and American rock. Hoche, his thin chest heaving, was holding his baggy shorts up with one hand while adjusting the 36C bra on his head with the other so that the cups fit more or less over his ears. I looked at Gearheardt and shook my head.
Giap saw my look and leaned toward me, shouting in my ear above the sounds of the Animals.
“Ho Chi let steam off.”
The bar was crowded beyond capacity now. Most of the soldiers and their companions were ignoring Hoche and staring at Barbonella’s admittedly luscious breasts as she clapped and sang along with the music.
When a new record started, Hoche jumped down from the table, with amazing nimbleness, and indicated that it was Barbonella’s turn. Barbonella was a darn fine go-go dancer, it turned out. Certainly more attractive than Hoche. Of course, he hadn’t been wearing black panties.
Back in his chair, Hoche stepped up his rhythm of lift and drink. When he finished a beer, he threw the empty bottle over his shoulder, a signal for another to be placed in front of him. Giap had moved to a chair at his side and talked unceasingly into his ear. Hoche moved to leave, but Giap kept him at the table. When Giap rose and walked by, I grabbed his arm.
“Does Hoche want to leave?” I asked, wanting to find out if we were going to get back into the cars. I had decided that I needed to do what I thought I had come to Hanoi to do.
“Ho Chi always wanting halass pilots.”
“Halass the pilots? Our pilots?”
Giap grimaced at my hand on his arm and I let go.
“Throw rocks at prison. Talk loud and sing on bullhorn. Halass.” He pulled away and went toward the bathroom.
Watching him walk away, I saw mama-san catch Gearheardt’s eye and motion him over.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise cooking for our pal.”
A minute later I saw Gearheardt approaching the table, leading an enormous woman. An enormous nude woman. He was talking into her ear and pulling her along with him, smiling broadly.
“Oh my God,” I said out loud when he finally broke through the soldiers and drew up a chair for his companion.
Gearheardt grinned at me, shoving a beer in front of the Vietnamese Amazon, who sucked the liquid from the bottle and then belched.
“Is that a woman?” I asked, shouting over the Doors whining about sage. The woman was the most powerful-looking creature I had ever seen.
“Kind of,” Gearheardt shouted back. He gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up, rolling his eyes toward Juanton, who was mesmerized by the swinging and swaying of untethered 36Cs. He was much less handsome with his eyes bugged out.
Gearheardt leaned close to my ear. “Legend has it she was captured by some Chinese bandits a few years ago. When her villagers caught up with them, three of the bandits were tied up in a pile, scared shitless and whimpering. The Gorilla Girl was squatting next to a fire, gnawing on a thigh bone and turning a spit, roasting another one of the bandits.” He chuckled.
I froze as a huge hand reached up and roughly pinched my cheek.
“She likes you, Jack.” Gearheardt chuckled again. “Mama-san used to use her as a bouncer, but she won’t wear clothes, and she scared the crap out of the customers.”
I rubbed my cheek and tried to look inedible. “I can’t imagine why,” I said as I gingerly pulled the hand away from my face.
Gearheardt positioned himself one chair away from Juanton with the Gorilla Girl between them
. Juanton seemed to be trying to ignore them both, although he would occasionally look with disbelief at the girl and then quickly back to Butty.
Our circle was complete when Whiffenpoof arrived. He looked unsteady and glassy-eyed. I had seen the look in people drifting out of opium rooms in Saigon. Whiff peeled one of the Vietnamese girls off of Hoche and took a chair at his side. The girl hurried away, and Hoche gave Whiffenpoof a sour look, then busied himself with the remaining girl.
The music began to slow down, as if the Mamas and the Papas were drowning in molasses. Then the jukebox emitted an electronic belch and a bright flash of light and went dead. Barbonella jumped from the table and sat back down. A T-shirt was offered her, but she declined with a shake of her head, and breasts, that looked more arrogance than exhibitionism. She was a stunning creature.
Giap had returned and began nghing, nying, and presumably spitting in Hoche’s ear, the one that wasn’t being used by Whiffenpoof. Gon Norea was sulking behind his beer bottle, staring hungrily at Barbonella. Juanton was turned in his chair now, half-facing Gorilla Girl, who was picking something from the plastic tablecloth and nibbling it. Gearheardt was into a hard sell to Juanton over God knew what. As I watched, Juanton pushed his chair back from the table and led Gorilla Girl away, over loud—and, I presumed, fake—protests from Gearheardt, who grinned at me and gave me an “okay” signal with his thumb and forefinger. He motioned for me to lean across the table.
In my ear he said, “Listen closely and you can hear the sound of a man getting his nuts caught in a grinder.” He laughed.
“How did you—”
“Mama-san’s a spy. Works for us,” he whispered. “Been promised a major whorehouse in Saigon and stock options.”
“Of course.” For once I didn’t doubt him.
He started to lean back away from me into his chair. I grabbed his flight suit at the collar.
“Gearheardt, I’m doing it.” More than anything, I wanted out of the madhouse bar.
“I’m with you, Jack.”
“We’ll never get out of here.”
“War is hell, Jack. Can’t live forever. Gotta break some eggs—”
“What about her?” Barbonella was holding her beer glass toward the stage spotlight and pointing out a spot on her beer glass to the intimidated waitress.
“She really can be a bitch, can’t she?” Gearheardt said wistfully. He turned back to me. “An A-4 was shot down today.”
“You think she—”
“Couldn’t find her ass with both hands. But she was willing to try.” He looked back at Butty. “Puts her over the line in my book. Good tits, though.”
He paused, then said, “Here’s what we do. When Geepster goes—What the hell is going on down there now?”
A commotion at the end of the table brought Giap to his feet. He was obviously trying to talk Hoche out of something. Hoche had the fixed grin of a drunk man. He looked directly at Gearheardt and me, his eyes unfocused and twinkling at the same time.
“Have fun now. You listen.” The bar had quieted except for Butty loudly berating the mama-san who had been called over to mediate the dirty-beer-glass dispute.
A long wire was brought to the table with much jabbering and gesturing by animated soldiers, each anxious to do well for their leader. A wooden box was placed on the table and the wire attached to a connection protruding from its end. Whiff rose from his chair next to Hoche, shook his head with his mouth fixed in disgust, and headed for the bar.
A speaker device was attached to the other end of the box. Hoche arranged the speaker with the concentration of an inebriated man, then flipped a switch. A dial tone was heard for a moment and then a ring. The phone device rang ten more times until the smile left Hoche’s face. Just as he angrily reached for the box a voice was heard.
“—lo.”
Hoche stifled his laughter with a hand over his mouth and motioned for everyone else to do the same. The voice came on again.
“Hello-o?” It was clearer.
Hoche leaned over until his lips almost touched the bulbous microphone.
“Here Prince Albert.” He sat back giggling.
“What? What in the hell? Who’s this here I’m talking to?”
Hoche leaned in again. “Prince Albert here.”
Groans and mechanical squeaks. A throat cleared.
“Aw for chrissakes. Ho, you little turd, the joke is supposed to be that you say ‘Do you have Prince Albert in a can?’ You’re not supposed to be Prince Albert. I might goddam point out that you’re not supposed to use the hot line to make joke calls either.”
Hoche’s smile turned watery. I thought about Gearheardt telling me of his first meeting with the President in the White House, when he, Gearheardt, was a CIA pizza man and the President supposedly didn’t even know where the hell Vietnam was.
“Mr. President, your bombing is only making things worse. In my opinion—”
“Who in the hell is that?” The President sounded alert now.
It was Butty, who, upon hearing the President, had rushed to the end of the table. She leaned toward the microphone.
“You know damn well who I am, Mr. President.”
The President’s voice came through weaker, as if he were holding the phone away from his mouth.
“Dammit, this is presidentin’ business. Quit listenin’ in.”
Whiffenpoof now came hurriedly back to the table.
“Mr. President, your men claim no knowledge of the agreement that you promised. I must demand that—”
“Jumpin’ Jehoshophat! Now who in the hell is this? What happened to Ho Chi?”
“America all die! You send many more men. Kill all. Never mind. Imperialist learn lesson nothing. Beat French, beat—”
“Fuck America!” This from the Russians, who had joined the crowd around the speaker.
“ROOSKIES! I’d know you sonsabitches from anywhere. If this isn’t the party line from hell. Let me tell you a thing or two, you commie—”
“PresiLarry Bob!”
“Gear—Narsworthy! Don’t tell me you’re on this damn line too!” The President’s voice became faint. “I SAID get your ass out if you can’t let me do a little work here.” Then stronger again. “Now, Narsworthy, what in the old Blue Billy heck is goin’ on over there? Speak to me, son.”
“Everything’s under control, Mr. Larry Bob.”
An ear-splitting scream from above us temporarily quieted the room.
Giap recovered first. “America all finish. We kill all soldier,” he sputtered.
“Mr. President, the peace-loving people of—” Butty yelled.
“I have to tell you, sir, in all honesty, that the Guinness people have contacted me.” Whiffenpoof was whining.
“Babe Ruth eat shit!”
“Will somebody please shoot that goddam Rooskie?” the President demanded.
“Mr. President, sir, I have to run upstairs for just a moment,” Gearheardt said.
“Have you people gone plumb loco over there? Put that damn Ho Chi back on. I’ll bomb his ass from here to Sunday before I’ll take this kind of crap. Hold on a minute. Woman, I’m tellin you one last time. This ain’t her. I ain’t seen her since Denver, and if you hit me in the back one more time, the Secret Service will be in here so fast it’ll make your head swim. Okay, boys, where were we?”
“You big nose bully man!” Giap yelled toward the microphone. It sounded like “U be no burry man,” but I was beginning to understand his pidgin English.
Gearheardt came back in the middle of another tirade from Giap. The President was humming loudly into the phone.
“I can’t hear you. Hmmdehmmmdededum. Can’t hear a word you’re sayin.”
Gearheardt nudged Giap aside. “I wish to report that we are going Plan B immediately. Deep code, you understand, Mr. President.”
“If that’s the one where we shoot the shit out of everone in sight I do.”
Gearheardt and I looked at one another and around the t
able.
“Roger that, Larry Bob.” Gearheardt spoke low, his mouth close to the speaker.
Whiffenpoof turned from his animated argument with one of the Russians over vodka prices.
“It was never proved,” Whiffenpoof moaned to no one in particular.
“What in the hell are you talking about, Whiffenpoof?” Gearheardt asked, never one to let a world crisis interfere with an opportunity to rub salt into the wound of an enemy.
“You know very well, Gearheardt. The Denver beer family isn’t going to let a franchise go to someone who—who has deviated from the sexual norms.”
“Now who was it that brought up Denver? I’m gettin mighty pissed here. Little woman comes outta the john and hears me talking Denver and my ass is grass. Next call I make is the United States Navy orderin up some serious bombin, I hear any more of that talk.”
“There is a family that sells something that makes men want to try to piss across a road and drive into trees, and they won’t let homosexuals sell it? Is that what I heard?” Butty stood with her hands on her hips, disgusted at the hypocrisy.
“I’ll thank you to keep your questions to yourself, Miss Show Your Breasts All Over Town.” Whiffenpoof was almost crying.
“Is Nixon with you? Is that Nixon talking? Goddammit, this better not be the Republicans pullin’ my chain on the Hanoi hotline.”
“No, Mr. President. This is Almost Captain Armstrong. Gearheardt and I want to say that it’s been an honor serving you and our country. Sometimes it has seemed—”
“Could you make it snappy, Captain? I got about five sonsabitches on the line I need to kill.”
Gon Norea grabbed the microphone to complain about the British taking ten percent off the top of his spying pay. He was C-shaped by now. Giap began a shouting match with Barbonella over her lack of respect for the Vietnamese women, something about tits.
A gunshot one-upped the cacophony of screaming, demanding, whining, and political discussions. I ducked behind the Russians. Juanton was at the bottom of the stairway, clutching his crotch in one hand and a large pistol in the other. He continued to fire wildly, the pain evidently blinding.
Nam-A-Rama Page 28
