Dead and Kicking

by McGeachin, Geoffrey

  She stood up and walked slowly around the bed towards me.

  ‘This may seem strange, but I very much like the way you call me Miss Hoang, Mr Murdoch.’

  It did seem a bit strange, but then she stood up on her tippy-toes and kissed me. And I have to say I very much liked that.

  ‘Miss Hoang, in the alleyway —’ I started to say, but she put a finger up to my lips.

  ‘The report of the robbery was quite detailed, Mr Murdoch. I am aware of the circumstances and I assure you I will be gentle with you.’

  And she was.

  Later, when she was sleeping, her long dark hair tossed over the pillow of my once-again rumpled bed, I sat back against the headboard, finished off the whisky and looked at her. Nhu’s skin was soft and golden, her buttocks tight and round, and she had the most exquisitely beautiful, delicate feet I’d ever seen. Having a woman like Nhu in bed next to you made a man glad to be alive.

  I was glad to be alive, and bloody lucky, too. When those coppers had pulled me from the crumpled cyclo it had been too dark for them to notice the bullet marks freshly scored into the alley’s crumbling brickwork. The only reason I’d seen the flashes that had flared from inside the jeep was because the muzzle of someone’s silenced pistol had been pointing almost directly at me when they’d fired.

  ‘Silenced’ is the wrong word because silencers don’t actually silence weapons. What they really are is suppressors. In this instance, the noise of the vehicle accelerating away had worked with the suppressor to almost completely muffle the sound of the shots, but luckily for me the movement had also spoiled the shooter’s aim.

  Right now I knew for certain that someone wanted more than just what was in my camera bag. Someone also wanted me dead. And if those two cops had shown up just thirty seconds later, I probably would have been.

  TWELVE

  I woke up early the next morning, all by my lonesome, and decided to head down to Saigon’s old Ben Thanh Market. The city was wide awake and well into its day by the time I arrived. The Lunar New Year, called Tet in Vietnam, was approaching, so the fantastic bustle and variety of a great Asian market was even more frenetic than usual. Being a photographer, it made sense that I was constantly looking around, searching for the next great shot. Of course, what I was also doing was keeping a careful eye out for anyone who might want to take a shot at me.

  Ben Thanh is a visual feast for the photographer, and an actual feast for anyone with an interest in food and an empty belly. I was in serious need of a good breakfast; dicing with death followed by some good lovin’ will do that to you. I wandered the crowded aisles for a while, grabbing shots with the Leica and marvelling at the displays of spices, exotic fruit, garden-crisp vegetables and masses of clucking, croaking, splashing and slithering creatures that would be someone’s lunch or dinner before the day was over. I’m with the Vietnamese: fresh really is best.

  There were branches of yellow and pink blossoms to decorate the home for Tet, and specially prepared food for the celebration. Stalls offered banh tet, square packages of sticky rice, mung-bean purée and seasoned pork wrapped in banana leaves; a range of salty, slow-cooked meat dishes called kho; and gio bo, beef and dill sausages. There were pâtés, pickled shallots and leeks to serve on the side, and nuts and watermelon seeds for snacking, plus masses of garishly coloured candied coconut, melon rind and lotus seeds.

  My photo-taking efforts were abandoned when I reached a stall serving breakfast and pulled up a plastic stool at a table. The range of food on offer was unbelievable, but I went for my favourite, pho gai – poached chicken and soft rice noodles swimming in a steaming bowl of spicy broth dressed with bean sprouts, chilli, basil leaves and the usual squeeze of lime. Pho gai beats a bowl of cereal for breakfast hands down, and this one was unbelievably aromatic and tasty. I was contemplating a second helping when my past came up and bit me on the butt.

  ‘Alby fucking Murdoch, as I bloody live and breathe.’

  Jezebel Quick was six foot six of dynamism, gorgeous good looks, dangerous curves and pulsating sexual energy packed into a five-foot-nothing frame. A shock of shoulder-length curly blonde hair framed her face, her blue eyes sparkled and those red lips were as inviting as ever. Her diaphanous blouse and light cotton trousers made sense in the tropics, but if they’d been any flimsier they’d have blown away in a mild breeze. Jez was an underwear-optional kind of woman, and for a moment I didn’t quite know where to look so I looked everywhere.

  Jezebel opened her first restaurant at the age of twenty-one to long lines and rave reviews. We’d worked together a lot of years back when I’d shot the pictures for one of her early cookbooks, Jezebel’s Quicksnacks. I’d eventually wound up being one of those snacks and I still hadn’t recovered from the experience. It was a brief intense and very tempestuous affair and I’ll admit I was a bit relieved when she moved on to fresh fields.

  The success of her restaurant ventures and cookbooks had eventually led to Jezebel getting her own TV food series. The show had an avid fan base of women looking for fast, foolproof recipes they could throw together to please their husbands, and husbands who watched every episode desperately hoping Ms Quick would prepare something featuring whipped cream. Jezebel made Nigella look like a homely peasant girl and her whisking technique really had to be seen to be believed. There’d even been one famous spatula-licking sequence that had to be edited out, given her programme’s early-evening timeslot. The producers decided it was definitely too hot for the tots.

  ‘Hello Jez,’ I said. ‘Still got that convent girl’s vocabulary, I see.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and shove your head up a dead bear’s bum, Alby, you prick,’ Jezebel said, and then she gave me a big wet kiss. ‘Mmmm,’ she said, licking her lips, ‘you can really taste the star-anise in that stock.’

  Off-camera, Jezebel swore like a Queensland bullocky with an extremely colourful turn of phrase. In one famous incident on the set of a TV show, she’d been asked by Gordon Ramsay’s personal assistant if she could tone it down a bit as he was starting to get embarrassed. There was definitely the potential for a high-rating reality TV show about Jezebel’s life but you’d probably have to call it Expletive De-fucking-leted.

  ‘What brings you to Saigon, Jez? And didn’t I take out a court order that said you couldn’t come within 500 metres of me?’

  ‘In your bloody dreams, lover,’ she laughed. ‘We’re here shooting sequences for my new series and I’ve tied it in with some personal appearances and one of my Experience bloody Gourmet Asia tours.’

  I figured Asia with Jezebel would be one hell of an experience, and way too much for me to cope with.

  ‘I’ve just taken this bunch of filthy-rich foodie wankers to Tokyo, Singapore and KL, and after this it’s Hanoi and then Hong Kong. To tell you the truth, Alby, I’m bloody sick to death of the bastards.’

  Knowing how Jezebel operated, this meant there were no males in the group young enough, fit enough or good-looking enough to keep her entertained.

  There was a sudden ruckus behind us and Jezebel glanced over her shoulder. ‘It’s that motherfucker Bourdain and his crew trying to screw up my interview with the cock and balls soup lady. Prick. My boys will sort him out.’

  The world’s most exotic markets and locals-only food stalls were now being besieged by film crews from food and lifestyle TV shows, all competing to find something unique for their viewers. The hunt was becoming brutal, and production companies were actively seeking out ex-military types or people with martial arts training to work as producers and cameramen.

  The whole food as entertainment thing was getting way out of hand. I’d recently come round a bend on a jungle track while on assignment deep in the heart of unexplored Sarawak and stumbled across a tiny shack, whose owner was squatting in the mud grilling slices of monkey over a charcoal fire. A laminated card pinned to one of the poles holding up the sagging thatched roof read ‘As featured on Asia’s Yummiest Street Snacks – Gourmet TV Network’.
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  I noticed a group of police heading in our general direction and assumed they were on their way to handle the TV crew’s demarcation dispute, but they stopped at my table. Usually I’m not all that pleased to see the local wallopers, but this morning I wasn’t too fussed. Not when the cop in charge was so good-looking.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Good Morning, Miss Hoang. How very nice to see you again.’

  Nhu didn’t return my smile. ‘Mr Murdoch, we need to talk,’ she said. ‘Most urgently.’

  ‘Who’s your friend with the nice tits, Alby?’ Jezebel asked.

  Nhu was wearing a neat uniform of trousers and a crisply pressed shirt with red shoulder boards bearing a thin gold band and three silver stars indicating her rank. It was an outfit that really did show off her curves.

  I made the introductions. ‘Miss Jezebel Quick, this is Senior Lieutenant Nhu Hoang of the local police. Miss Hoang is the national police pistol champion.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Jezebel responded. ‘Is that why she’s showing us her gun?’

  It was a good question, since I was wondering about that myself. This time I was definitely able to see that she was armed, as the muzzle of a Russian 9mm police-issue Yarygin Pya semi-automatic pistol was pointing in the general direction of my bellybutton.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ Nhu said, ‘I need to ask you some questions regarding your activities last night.’

  Something in her dark eyes made me stifle the comment about my activities the preceding evening and her part in them.

  ‘We require your assistance with our inquiries.’ She turned to Jezebel and smiled. ‘Ms Quick, since this affair does not concern you I suggest you go about your business.’

  Jezebel looked at me. ‘Alby?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s under control, Jez.’

  Jezebel leaned down and gave me a kiss. ‘We’ll catch up later, okay?’

  ‘Ms Quick,’ Nhu said, ‘I very much enjoyed your recent book on romantic dinners for two.’

  ‘Then you wanna keep your eye out for the next one, Naughty Late-Night Nibbles. Alby here has got his own chapter.’

  Jezebel smiled, turned and walked towards her waiting film crew. I think I might have blushed.

  ‘Now, Mr Murdoch, if you would please put out your hands.’

  One of the officers snapped a nice shiny set of handcuffs around my wrists. I was glad Jezebel had left since I knew exactly what kind of comment she’d make.

  Nhu holstered her pistol. She joined me at the table and ordered a bowl of pho while her officers fanned out in a loose circle around the table, looking outwards to scan the crowd. Last night Miss Hoang had been very, very hot and this morning she was just way too cool.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, please excuse the use of my gun and the handcuffs but it is necessary to show anyone observing us that you are in my custody.’

  ‘Necessary why?’

  ‘Following our investigations, we now feel confident that the incident in the alley last night was more than just thieves wishing to steal your camera. We have become aware that there is a plan to kill you. I believe you would say there is a price on your head.’

  I kept my mouth shut, since the rule with cops is to never volunteer any information. Even with a cop as hot as Miss Hoang.

  ‘Any society,’ she continued, ‘even one such as ours, has its undesirable elements, and certain of these elements have been offered large amounts of money to eliminate you as quickly as possible. Would you perhaps know why?’

  I shook my head. From the look on Nhu’s face, I sensed there was something else coming.

  ‘What can you tell me about a man named Brett Tozer, who was also working on the film with you?’

  What did Brett have to do with this? I wondered. ‘Mr Tozer is an associate producer,’ I said, ‘and people with that title don’t usually do any actual work. He was flying out to New York yesterday afternoon, as far as I know.’

  ‘Mr Tozer does not appear to have boarded his flight and this morning the body of a man answering his description was discovered floating in the Saigon River.’

  This was a bit heavy. ‘Did he drown?’ I asked. ‘Was it an accident?’

  Nhu said something in Vietnamese and one of her officers produced a photograph from a satchel. It was Brett Tozer all right, no question of that. The photograph had been taken using harsh direct flash, which isn’t too flattering at the best of times, but poor old Brett was way beyond caring. He was on his back on a mortuary slab, and he hadn’t drowned, that was for sure. He probably had enough lead in him to make swimming difficult, though. The photograph clearly showed five big bullet holes smack in the middle of his chest. Brett hadn’t needed to fly all the way from New York to the Gold Coast for the shooting to start again – the shooting had come to him.

  ‘It appears it is most dangerous for you to be in Vietnam,’ Nhu continued. ‘It is imperative that you leave the country immediately. I assume you have your passport with you.’

  I nodded. ‘Zippered pocket inside my jacket.’

  She spoke to one of the officers, who found the passport and handed it to her. She passed it to one of her waiting entourage with brief instructions. He saluted and left.

  ‘Now, Mr Murdoch,’ said Nhu, standing up. ‘We will leave this market with you in my custody in full view of everybody. Several streets from here at a convenient location we will remove the handcuffs and you will leave my vehicle. The officer who just left will meet you at the airport with a ticket and boarding pass for the next available flight out of the country. He will also escort you onboard the aircraft.’

  It looked like she had everything sorted.

  ‘This way you will bypass all normal immigration formalities,’ she continued, ‘but there will be an official departure stamp in your passport to avoid difficulties on arrival at your next destination. Please ignore the fact that your boarding pass may be in a name not your own, since you are officially in police custody.’

  Nhu seemed to have thought of everything.

  ‘My clothes —’ I started to say, but she interrupted me.

  ‘Are being collected from the hotel and will be waiting for you at the airport.’

  She really had thought of everything.

  ‘I suggest that after you leave my vehicle you go by cyclo to the airport,’ she advised. ‘Inefficient, yes, but less obvious than a taxi and more difficult to follow without being observed. I doubt anyone will think you would travel this way. One of my officers will travel behind you, discreetly, to ensure there are no … incidents on the journey.’

  This wasn’t the way I’d hoped to end my stay in Vietnam, especially after just meeting Nhu. You had to wonder about the whole karma business. Why was it that every time I met a nice girl, someone came out of the woodwork looking to kill me? Was I paying for mistakes I’d made in a past life? Or was it because of some nasty incident I’d been involved in during this one? God knows, there’d been enough of those.

  And what about Brett Tozer? Last time I’d seen him alive he was on his phone, which was just minutes after I’d shown him the picture of the bloke who might be Cartwright. Later that night, someone had tried to whack me. I wondered if it was the same shooter in that jeep who’d been a bit more successful with Brett than he’d been with me.

  Fifteen minutes later I was rubbing my wrists and choking on the fumes of Saigon’s morning rush hour while sitting in a cyclo with the hood pulled as far forward as it would go. The trip to Tan Son Nhut International Airport was uneventful but hey, I was just another bloke who was supposed to be dead riding a cyclo through downtown Saigon.

  FOURTEEN

  The next available seat out of Ho Chi Minh City that morning was on a Thai Airways flight heading for Bangkok. Getting deported at short notice severely limits your options for seat preference and I found myself on the aisle in economy, jammed in next to a Japanese bloke about the size of a two-door refrigerator. If it came down to a fistfight over who got the armrest, it was pretty obvious who was goi
ng to win.

  Bangkok isn’t a bad destination if you’re a fan of humidity, hot chillies, smog and a freeway system in desperate need of a high colonic. But this time around, Thailand suited me just fine. As a matter of fact, any place where I didn’t have a price on my head would have been okay.

  Travelling with just a carry-on backpack had me through customs and immigration at Suvarnabhumi Airport in double-quick time. I hit the terminal toilets twice – the first time because it’s always smart to use the facilities before getting stuck in Bangkok traffic for an indeterminate period of time, and the second to make 100 per cent sure I wasn’t being followed. Straight in and straight out really confuses a tail who has to do the same thing, and it makes them stick out like dog’s balls.

  When I was sure I wasn’t being followed, I took a taxi to Sukhumvit Road and grabbed the Skytrain to Mo Chit Station in the north of the city. From there, it was just a ten-minute taxi ride to Mo Chit bus terminal.

  An afternoon bus for Chiang Rai was just leaving, so I grabbed a ticket with a voucher for a meal at the halfway rest stop. In Asia I’m usually more of a fan of overnight buses, since you can sleep if you’re lucky or watch some noisy local sword and sarong epic on DVD. Another plus is that the oncoming traffic and suicidal local driving techniques are moderately less terrifying in the dark. However, I didn’t feel like hanging around in Bangkok for another five or six hours.

  On the cab ride from the airport I’d talked the driver into selling me his spare balisong, and I now had it safely stowed in my jacket pocket. I’m not crazy about folding butterfly knives, or knives in general, but this one had a nicely honed eight-inch doubled-edged blade tucked inside the handle. My seat at the back of the bus would let me keep an eye on the rest of the passengers for the next eleven hours, and in the event that I needed the balisong, and could get it open without cutting off my own fingers, I could probably do someone some serious damage.