by Hart Rivers
Showtime.
Mouse flicked his good luck charm, a Zippo inherited from his papa, and stepped up to the plate.
“Hey, I know you!” he excitedly said, seeming to come from out of nowhere the way he always did and stopping the guy before he could go inside. Alone; that was good. “Remember? You bought me a beer a few years back? Yankee Stadium, after Mickey hit his 500th home run, bottom of the seventh? We were all going crazy—Mantle was king! Yankees win over the Orioles, 6 to 5. Man, what a game!” When the guy started to cough, Mouse quickly went on, “So what the hell you doin’ here? Don’t look like you got drafted same as me but… hey, don’t matter. It’s just great to see a homeboy. Lemme buy you a beer before dinner.”
“I… I have terrible flu. I must go.”
“But I can’t let you do that. Beer’s good for the flu. C’mon, there’s a bar just down the street. You’ll be doin’ me a big favor to have just one and reminisce over the game. I won’t keep ya, promise.” Mouse thought about seeing his family all on fire after his papa had the head-on with a garbage truck, all because of him being a little dick in the backseat, and out the tears rolled. Just a few and real ones, but it’d be too pussy to bawl like a baby, and he didn’t want to raise suspicion by overplaying it. “Really. Please. Just one beer and you’ll make my year. Help me forget what I gotta go back out to. Maybe never come back.”
The rest was cake. He slipped the guy a different kind of mickey after he got their beers. With backup posted here, there, everywhere, instead of walking him back to the restaurant they took a little detour down a dark alley.
The cat nearly cashed in his chips. Barely alive but enough still breathing to cart off to whoever was giving the orders. It hadn’t been a fair fight, five against one, and Mouse felt kinda bad about it. But he’d had a job to do, and higher-ups to please, especially Uncle Louie who was counting on The Mouse to make him look good in the big leagues.
As for the Chevy, as far as Mouse knew it was still parked where it had been left. One of the other guys working the sap over had thrown him the cap and sunglasses like they were Mardi Gras beads and said, “Keep them; you did most of the work.”
Hoping to perk himself up, Mouse slid on his cool cat shades to go with the New York Yankees baseball cap. He checked his watch.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Time for work. Pushing back his chair, he realized The Beatles were no longer calling for “Help!” from the jukebox. No, no, his day had just been made and he could pretend he was Sharkey as he left The Drunken Dragon doing a little tap dance and singing:
“I’m a shark, babe, see my teeth, dear
And I shows them, oh so white
Now I’m in (snap) fuckin’ Nam, babe
But the mon-ey, is outta sight!”
Dear Reader,
We hope you enjoyed this little behind-the-scenes prequel to our second Murder on the Mekong thriller, Unknowable.
While these novels have been written for entertainment, they are also an examination of a very turbulent era in American history, a pocket of time when the innocence of the 1950’s gave way to a decade of extreme social, racial, sexual, and political change. And, of course, at the center of it all was the Vietnam War. As a veteran of that war who served at the 98th Med (KO) psychiatric unit at the 8th Field Hospital in Nha Trang, I continue to try to understand that compelling and complicated time. We try to honor that era and bring a visceral sensibility to our storytelling so that our readers might better empathize with the war experience, and what the soldiers, civilians and NGO aid people saw and felt inside that war and all wars.
We love to hear from our readers and invite you to visit us at (www.MurderOnTheMekong.com). Our thanks to you all, and especially our troops and their families.
Warm aloha,
John
Reader Invitation
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Page ahead for an excerpt from the next book in the series, UNKNOWABLE.
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UNKNOWABLE
Murder on the Mekong, Book Two
JD waited as instructed after being dropped at the coordinates received. He checked his watch again and reassured himself that Kate had been safely escorted back to the mission hospital.
He had to get his mind off that boat with Kate. He was completely alone and surrounded by jungle, no sign of civilization beyond the landing zone where a black chopper descended.
JD greeted the man who emerged from the craft.
“J. D. Mikel, is it?” The voice had a sandpaper quality.
“Yes and a pleasure to meet you, sir.” JD bowed slightly.
The Pale Man’s self-ordained title was apt. He was pale as a porcelain plate and wore all white: a linen shirt and matching trousers, with a straw hat to shield his face, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He smiled. His yellowed teeth were like the old ivory of an aged tiger.
With a signal four Cambodian guards, armed with short, ugly German automatics, spilled from the chopper. Their faces were intricately tattooed with snakes.
His host had come highly insured. JD’s body tensed and a premonition moved through his psyche like something with dark wings as the strange Pale Man led the way.
Eventually they emerged from jungle cover and JD beheld an unexpected wonder: A small palace surrounded by carefully tended gardens. The guards hung back as JD ascended polished stairs with The Pale Man, who swung open carved doors to reveal a lush interior space filled with antiquities. An enormous gong and an exquisite Go board resided near a lotus pond.
As The Pale Man shut the doors behind them JD noticed several extraordinary carp swimming amongst the blossoms.
“They are remarkable,” he said.
Aged tiger teeth glistened. “Ah yes, I was told you have a fine appreciation of the Oriental.” A pause, then abruptly, “I would gift you one. Which would you have?”
This was a swift and ruthless player. The offered gift was worth extraordinary sums. To refuse would be terribly rude, yet to accept imposed a heavy debt.
“I would take the pale gold one,” JD carefully responded, “but given she is only a component of the entire piece, I would have to take them all or risk flawing the composition—still lovely, of course, but common, as Wu Tao-Tzu would have said.” Such a reference to Wu, JD knew, would place his adversary in an awkward position if he was a true student of the Asian arts.
“Well spoken.” The papery voice reminded JD of a snake’s warning hiss. This one was particularly cunning, hiding behind the veil of politeness. “Tea?”
The Pale Man nodded to a servant who disappeared as silently as he had appeared. Then The Pale Man removed his sunglasses. His eyes appeared like glassy, pink halos around the black marble of his pupils, zeroing in on the bracelet JD wore.
JD covered his wrist, feeling strangely violated.
The Pale Man nodded, indicating the action had been noted.
The tea arrived, the ceremony flawlessly performed. JD knew he could not say the same of his maneuver with the bracelet and sought to reestablish the balance of their lunge and parry.
“You honor me with this,” said JD. “Your tea is worthy of its cup.”
“It comes from one of my plantations.”
JD took another sip of the extraordinary tea. It was worth a staggering sum, as would be a rare, vintage wine. “I myself grow a Longjing.”
The tiger smile again. “Perhaps you will sell me your Longjing plantation . . . or trade it for something of value?”
“Perhaps.” JD smiled back.
“I am expanding my farming interests into othe
r lucrative crops.”
“The war provides many opportunities.”
“Agreed. And as I establish my operations from here to Europe to the USA, as always I like to ensure things and would appreciate your and The Ambassador’s cooperation.”
The Pale Man turned the full ferocity of his smile on JD and clapped his hands.
The servant with the tea service appeared again, this time with a domed silver tray. JD’s earlier premonition barreled full force into his psyche, the dark wings converging into an ominous black mass.
“Usually, I would offer one of her lovely ears or a finger to show my sincerity,” explained The Pale Man, “but in her case, as you said of the golden carp, it would ruin the overall beauty of the composition. And I certainly would not want to do that, especially if I have to keep her. Now, please allow me to offer some proof that she is already mine.”
The servant removed the domed lid.
JD’s breath stopped.
Centered on the tray was the severed head of the boat’s pilot. Between his teeth was the silver bracelet JD had given Kate.
UNKNOWABLE
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The Murder on the Mekong Series
UNBREAKABLE
UNKNOWABLE
UNSPEAKABLE
BLIND SPOT
About the Authors
Hart Rivers is the pen name for bestselling co-authors John L. Hart and Olivia Rupprecht. John, Creator of the Murder On The Mekong series, has been a practicing psychotherapist for over 40 years, starting in Vietnam where he was a psychology specialist. He received his doctorate from the University of Southern California, is an internationally respected lecturer, has been a consultant to the nation of Norway for their Fathering Project, and maintained a private practice in Los Angeles for twenty years. His time is divided between Hawaii—where he enjoys snorkeling, stand up paddle boarding, and is a featured artist at the Mauna Kea Hotel—and Vancouver Island, B.C., where he is an adjunct associate professor at the University of Victoria in British Columbia.
Olivia is an award-winning author whose novels have sold worldwide, and Series Developer of True Vows, the groundbreaking series of reality-based novels from HCI Books. She lives in a historic tavern on a lake in Wisconsin.
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