Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  Mekong Delta Blues

  Phil Swann

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  Published by Cygnus Road

  Mekong Delta Blues

  Copyright © 2018 by Phil Swann

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my father, Lewis Swann

  Contents

  Mekong Delta Blues by Phil Swann

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Mekong Delta Blues by Phil Swann

  A ruthless Chinese crime syndicate has infiltrated Las Vegas. Heroin is on the rise in Sin City. So is murder. Sounds like a job for a trumpet player.

  Las Vegas, 1965. Hot off the heels of his last adventure in Cold War Copa, Trip Callaway, the young, wise-cracking musician with dreams as big as the Hoover Dam, has reluctantly agreed to go undercover and do some light spying for the government—light spying, as in report on who’s hobnobbing with whom in the casinos along The Strip. But when Trip is asked to pose as a trumpet teacher to the thirteen-year-old step-son of a notorious crime boss, he quickly realizes he’s agreed to more than he bargained for.

  Killers, prostitutes, heroin addicts and, of course, a beautiful woman, lead Trip into a deadly game of cat and mouse where he’s not sure if he’s the cat or the mouse. And, if that’s not bad enough, the U.S. government has another surprise for him.

  From a ghost town in the Nevada desert, to the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., to the jungles of Vietnam, Trip Callaway must stay alive, sort it all out, and keep that famous Callaway cool in the process.

  Chapter 1

  Vegas, 1965

  To be clear, I didn’t know she was married. I knew her name was Darlene, I knew she was from Mississippi, and I knew she had a pair of legs as long as that river, but I swear, I didn’t know she was married. A point I attempted to make more than once to Darlene’s psychopath of a husband.

  It all began when a lovely, and perhaps slightly intoxicated, young brunette, with eyes like limpid pools and a drawl so liquid that vowels all but dripped from her mouth, approached me in the parking lot of the Sands. That’s where I appear nightly as a trumpet player with the orchestra in the Copa Room. She told me her name, said she’d noticed me on stage, and thought I was “swell.” Well, I thought I was swell too, which in my mind made us a match made in heaven. We talked, we laughed, she was properly coquettish, and I was my usual silver-tongued self. I regaled her with a few well-rehearsed show business anecdotes as well as a brief and equally well-rehearsed biography of my extraordinary life, leading her to ask if I’d escort her back to the Riviera—uttering Riv-i-air-uh as if she’d dipped it in a bucket of Tupelo honey before letting it roll off her tongue. Always the gentleman, I was happy to oblige.

  Cut to moi and the exquisite Darlene cuddled up in a booth at the Riviera enjoying a civilized nightcap. The lights were low, spirits were high, a piano softly tinkled in the background. Charles Boyer couldn’t have asked for a better scene. All in all, the night was looking quite splendid for yours truly. That was until I saw three bona fide Jethros heading our way. Each looked slightly smaller than a tractor and lumbered through the lounge with about as much finesse. I asked Darlene if she knew the gentlemen, and that was when I heard these delightful words, “Oh, that’s just my husband Billy Bob and his two friends.” And that was when I came to the sad realization the evening wasn’t going to turn out the way I’d planned.

  I can’t say I’m particularly proud of my hasty retreat—I might have turned over a table or two—but I did deem it necessary. Not that I can’t handle myself when the situation calls for it. I can and have. For even though I’m not what anyone would describe as the most strapping of twenty-five-year-olds, Trip Callaway is no marshmallow, either. Furthermore, while I deplore violence on every level, believing it to be the last refuge of a weak mind, you don’t do what I do in some of the seedy places I’ve done it and not pick up a few tips on the art of hand-to-hand combat along the way. In short, this bugler can be quite the scrappy little cuss when he has to be. However, Pop used to say, before you get in a fight, ask yourself two things: one, is it worth it? Two, can you win? Now, while Darlene was certainly a fair maiden worthy of an act of chivalry, I was pretty certain that rule didn’t apply to this situation. Meaning, she wasn’t my Guinevere to joust over. And as far as if I could’ve won the fight or not…well, beyond the considerable difference in weight class, there were also three of them and one of me—important math to take under consideration. That’s when I decided exiting stage left as swiftly as possible would be the prudent thing to do. Unfortunately, Billy Bob and his bumpkin buddies didn’t agree, and the race was on.

  As usual, the hour was of no consequence, and Sin City was bustling in all its Sodom and Gomorrah-esque glory. It was fascinating, actually. If a man in a black tuxedo was running like a lunatic down any other street in America, I’m sure it would attract at least a little bit of attention from his fellow citizens. Not a single person, and I mean no one, offered so much as a passing glance as I careened past them. It was as if the barrage of neon eye candy and promise of easily gotten gain had blinded everyone to everything beyond their primal desire to roll a timely seven. It made me a bit sad for the state of humankind, really.

  Anyway, with the three amigos hot on my trail, I decided to get clever and slip in the side entrance of the Morocco. I calmly but briskly weaved my way through the rows of slot machines until I reached the front of the casino, wherein I darted out of the main door and back onto the street again. I was sure this would befuddle the toothless trio, but a quick glance over my shoulder revealed otherwise. In fact, they were gaining on me.

  All I needed to do was get back to the Sands. That’s where I’d left my pride and joy parked—a brand new ’65 Ford Falcon convertible in Phoenician yellow. A potent aphrodisiac for sure, but at the time, I believed a romantic stroll under a canopy of lights would be an effective intro for the beautiful music Darlene and I would later be making together. An unfortunate miscalculation on my part. I was cursing my hopeless romanticism when I spotted a Greyhound bus trudging along in traffic. Figuring this could be the cover I needed, I dashed across two lanes of traffic, dodging cars as well as an onslaught of insults until I got to the other side of the street. I tucked in behind the bus and kept my gait steady with its speed, thereby concealing myself from view to those on the other side of the street. My plan was working flawlessly until I realized I was walking past the Sands—on the wrong side of the street. I dropped back and peeked out from behind my moveable blind and, sure enough, saw the knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers directly across from me. I quickly scurried back behind the bus. I was trap
ped.

  At that point, I had two choices. Plan A: forget my car and hide out like a little girl in some casino until I could find a friend to drive me home. Or Plan B: trust my fleet of foot was superior to that of my pursuers and make a run for it. Ultimately, the answer was made for me when the Greyhound took a sudden turn at the Flamingo, leaving me exposed to God and everyone against a white wall of plywood. I looked like a man facing a firing squad.

  The posse spotted me immediately. One of Billy Bob’s friends pointed, and for some reason, I pointed back. It just seemed like the thing to do.

  “I didn’t know she was married, you idiots,” I yelled, immediately wishing I hadn’t added the you idiots part.

  As they started across the street, I began looking for a Plan C.

  I noticed an opening in the wall of wood behind me and concluded it to be my only option. Certainly wouldn’t be the most elegant of escapes, but I couldn’t think of anything better. I removed my jacket, inhaled to make myself smaller, and went for it. It took some doing, but eventually I was able to slip through to the other side.

  It was dark, but just enough light filtered in for me to make out stacks of cement bags, steel girders, and endless piles of wood all around me. I also spotted dozens of Roman columns and marble statues scattered about. That’s when I realized I was in the construction site for a new hotel scheduled to open sometime the following year—they planned on calling it Caesar’s Palace. Scuttlebutt abounded about the place, and most of it wasn’t very flattering. Supposedly it was going to be absurdly large and grotesquely decadent, and in Vegas that was saying something. Given my situation, I hoped they were right about the large part because my plan rested upon losing my Mississippi mob amid the architectural mayhem, circling back around, and then sneaking out the way I came in. A sophisticated strategy it wasn’t, but one I prayed would keep me from ending up like ol’ Julius himself.

  I heard voices on the other side of the wall and knew that was my cue. I put my jacket back on and bolted off into the abyss. After a few minutes of running, I stopped to catch my breath and listened. I heard nothing. My natural optimism said they’d given up. After all, I reasoned, if little ol’ me had trouble getting through the tiny opening in the wall, it had to be doubly hard for my three orangutans. That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of wood being split, ripped, and otherwise destroyed. Off I went again.

  Exposed pipe crisscrossed my path as I traversed deeper into the unknown. I was high-stepping it toward what appeared from the distance to be the skeleton of the main structure when splat! I tumbled headfirst into some kind of pit. I got up, dusted myself off, and then realized I’d taken a header into what looked like the beginnings of a very large, but unusually shallow, swimming pool. I remember thinking, who puts a swimming pool in the middle of a parking lot? I also recalled coming to the conclusion if the aggrieved husband and his buddies didn’t break my legs, sprinting through a construction site at night just might. A few minutes later, and after nearly planting my face into a backhoe, I decided that was it. I was done. It was time to either fake them out or square off and take my chances with the lopsided odds. But one way or another, it was time for the silliness to end.

  I looked back from whence I came and didn’t see anybody. I noticed I was standing beside a bulldozer and decided to climb up in it to gain a better vantage point. I actually considered trying to start the mammoth machine, but didn’t. For though I’m an Indiana farm boy who’s piloted his fair share of John Deeres in his time, this particular beast was way out of my league. That was a shame too, because it would have brought me immeasurable joy to see the look on the three bubbas’ faces as I came at them in that thing.

  I was relishing the image when suddenly, roughly fifty feet away, I spotted three figures coming toward me. They weren’t running, but they were definitely walking with purpose. Though only shadows, all three somehow seemed bigger than they did back at the Riviera. I looked around and realized getting off the bulldozer without being heard was next to impossible. They were just too close, so I decided to stay put, stay quiet, and pray they’d just pass me by. Once they had, I’d exit my perch and make a run for it back to the street.

  I didn’t move a muscle. I barely breathed. After several moments of nothing happening, curiosity got the better of me, and I descended from the bulldozer onto the ground. I stayed still and listened. Nothing. I moved to the side and peeked around. I saw no one, and all I could hear was the traffic on The Strip off in the distance. I stepped out into the open and did a quick three-sixty. As far as I could tell, the coast was clear.

  It still baffles me how I never saw them, but my fist clenched the second I felt the hand on my shoulder. I spun around like a tornado and unleashed a haymaker that would have made John Wayne proud—except it missed its target by a country mile. Before I knew it, I was flipping upside down in midair and lying on my back seeing stars—figuratively and literally.

  “Relax, Callaway, it’s us,” I heard a familiar voice say.

  I was still trying to ascertain which end was up when a large hand extended out to me. I took the hand and was pulled to my feet.

  “That was a pretty nice punch, Callaway. A little advice, though. You’re telegraphing with your feet.”

  Agent Carson, a.k.a, Square Head, chuckled as he dusted me off. He wasn’t alone. Agent Stevens, a.k.a. Tonto, was standing beside him. Both men wore their regulation government-issued black suits and perpetual scowls.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I asked, rubbing my neck and making sure all my bones were still attached.

  Before they could answer, another man materialized behind them. “Hello, Trip. Having a pleasant evening, I trust?”

  He was still concealed by darkness, but I didn’t need a spotlight to know who it was. Even if the outline of his rigid posture and military buzz cut hadn’t given him away, his silky-smooth baritone voice did.

  “You know, just another ho-hum night in the neon wasteland,” I replied.

  Special Agent Peter Clegg walked into the light and smiled. “Glad to hear it. We were a little concerned about you there for a minute.”

  “Yeah, speaking of that, what happened to the guys chasing me?”

  Clegg shrugged. “They’ve been dealt with.”

  “You didn’t…I mean, you didn’t….”

  “They’re fine. In fact, they’re probably back at the Riviera even as we speak enjoying three medium-rare prime ribs courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Trip, have I ever lied to you?”

  “Frequently,” I answered.

  He chuckled. “Come on. We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Your country has a situation that requires your unique talents.”

  Chapter 2

  The best music, best food, and best people in all of Las Vegas—perhaps in the western hemisphere—were not at the Flamingo, nor the Desert Inn, nor even at the Sands, but at a little jazz bistro on the west side of town called The Jam Jar. Luther Beaurepaire owned and operated the place with his daughter Betsy. Luther was a gigantic man of color and a maestro of all things masticateable. Originally from New Orleans, Luther also possessed a keen ear for good music. That put him in charge of not only the edible but the listenable as well. Betsy, a sassy creole beauty about my age, looked after everything else. Luther gave me my first break when I arrived in Vegas and has been my friend and mentor ever since. Actually, he and Betsy have become quite a bit more to me. Since losing Pop, the Beaurepaires have become my family.

  Above The Jam Jar, in a tiny but well-appointed apartment, also happened to be where I resided. It was originally only supposed to be temporary digs but somehow turned into my permanent residence. For some reason—and I’m not complaining here—Luther liked having me around. True, I helped out around the club as well as sat in with Eighty-Eight Eddie and the boys from time to time when I wasn’t playing at the Sands, but I think there was anothe
r reason Luther kept me near. I just hadn’t figured out what that reason was yet.

  After picking up my car, Clegg and the dynamic duo followed me back to The Jam Jar. The parking lot still had a few cars in it, so I suggested we enter via the rear service door. Luther was standing over a pot of deliciousness as I entered the kitchen. “Hi, Luther. How was your night?” I asked.

  The big man looked over and smiled. “Oh, we had ourselves a large time tonight, Trip,” Luther replied with a booming voice that shivered the timbers. “Wish you’d been here. Eighty-Eight really had the—” Luther’s expression changed when he saw Clegg and his two slabs of meat walk in behind me. Square Head was toting what looked like a piece of luggage.

  “Good evening, Mr. Beaurepaire,” Clegg said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Agent Clegg,” Luther responded, adding a terse nod.

  The doors to the club swung open, and Betsy bounced in looking down at her notepad. “Daddy, we need to order some more candles for the tables. We’re down to our last dozen, and I can’t find—” Betsy stopped in her tracks when she looked up and saw the G-men. “Not you guys again.”

  “Miss Beaurepaire, you’re looking lovely this evening,” Clegg said.

  “Right,” Betsy replied.

  Both Luther and Betsy knew about my arrangement with Clegg, and neither liked it. But other than the occasional grumble under his breath, Luther never openly voiced his displeasure. Betsy, on the other hand, never missed an opportunity to express her feelings about the man, his occupation, or my decision to work for him on occasion, saying, “They’re a shady bunch, Trip, and I don’t trust any of ’em as far as I can throw ’em. Which I’d like to try someday.” I resisted telling her I completely concurred.