Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  The girl ran off to the main office.

  I just have one of those faces. Be it some drunk at the bar in The Jam Jar, or an overly-chatty twelve-year-old girl, people have always tended to tell me things. Trust me, it’s both a blessing and a curse. But in this case, it was definitely a blessing. I knew what I wanted to do next with the information I’d acquired, but it would have to wait until later. I had a trumpet lesson to give, and if traffic cooperated, I was going to be right on time.

  The moment I pulled up in front of Wu’s house, I knew something was up. There were more cars in the driveway than should have been—six, to be precise—and I was positive none of them belonged to Uncle Charlie. But this time I didn’t need Detective Barnard to run the plates to tell me who they did belonged to. They were all black limousines and based on the sticker attached to their rear bumpers, I knew they were registered to one of the high-end limo services in Vegas that offered V.I.P service to and from the airport. I’d seen the same cars dozens of times at the Sands. Which told me one thing for sure. Whoever Wu’s guest were, they weren’t local.

  I got out of my car, grabbed my horn, and not seeing an escort, started for the front door. I was met before I got halfway there.

  “Mr. Callaway,” Johnny said, rushing out to greet me.

  “Hi, Johnny. Looks like you folks are having a party.”

  “Mr. Callaway, I must regretfully inform you that your lesson with Jean-Claude today will need to be rescheduled.”

  “Rescheduled? Okay. That’s unfortunate. I was looking forward to it.”

  “Yes, most unfortunate. But Father told me to tell you that you will nevertheless be paid for your services today, as you were not notified in advance of the cancellation.”

  “That’s very good of him, but not necessary. Is everything okay? Jean-Claude’s not sick, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Well, do you know when—”

  “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Callaway. Have good day.” And he bolted back into the house.

  I waited a couple of minutes before getting into my Falcon, hoping to catch a glimpse of somebody coming in or out of the house. When it became obvious that wasn’t going to happen, I had no choice but to leave.

  It wasn’t my intention to return to The Jam Jar until after my gig that night, but that all changed when I suddenly found myself with a couple of hours on my hands and nowhere to go. Betsy was at the bar as I walked in.

  “Hi, Bets.”

  “What are you doing back? Thought you were gone the rest of the day.”

  “Thought I was too. I need to use the phone.”

  “Give me a dime.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a dime. This isn’t your office, and I’m sure not your secretary. Give me a dime, and you can use the phone.”

  I reached in my pocket a put a dime on the bar.

  Betsy let out a gigantic laughed. “Gotcha! Lordy, you are so gullible. I’m just playin’ with you, Trip. Keep your stupid dime.”

  “You’re a regular George Burns, Betsy.”

  “Who’s that?” she said, placing the phone in front of me.

  “Seriously? You don’t know who George Burns is?”

  “Lordy!” she shouted, over another cackle. “Gullible, gullible, gullible.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go on, call one your girlfriends, see if I care.”

  I waited until Betsy was back in the kitchen before I dialed the number I had committed to memory. It was answered before the first ring had ended.

  “You in trouble Callaway?” came the raspy voice on the other end.

  “How do you guys always know it’s me calling?”

  “What do you need, Callaway?”

  “Is this Square Head or Tonto?”

  “It’s Stevens,” he replied.

  “Right, Tonto. Tell Clegg my lesson with the boy was eighty-sixed today. Also, tell him Wu had a motorcade at his house that looked like the U.N. had just let out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  “Got it.” And the line disconnected.

  “And you have a nice evening too, Agent Stevens.”

  I hung up the receiver, immediately picked it up again, and then dialed. I was actually surprised when this call was answered.

  “O’Malley here.”

  “Stanley, it’s Trip.”

  “Hello, my young friend,” he bellowed, “How are you on this beautiful day?”

  “Couldn’t be better. You in your office tonight?”

  “Indeed, I am. What time shall I expect you?”

  “Between shows. Let’s say about ten-thirty.”

  “I look forward to it. And what shall be the topic this evening?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. Thanks, Stan. See you later tonight.”

  Betsy stuck her head in. “Safe for me to come back?”

  “I wasn’t calling a girl.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” She went back behind the bar, grabbed a stack of mail, and then tossed it in front of me. “This is yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She replied with a disapproving shake of her head.

  “Hey, Bets, does your dad still keep his old copies of Down Beat back in the storage room?”

  “Every cotton-pickin’ issue since the thirties. Won’t let me throw a single one out. I don’t know where he thinks I’m supposed to put important things for the club if he’s piling up every nook and cranny with his old magazines.”

  “Think he’d mind if I thumbed through a few?”

  “Nah, help yourself. In fact, take one, or two, or a hundred with you.”

  “Thanks.” I jumped up and trotted toward the kitchen.

  “What are you looking for anyway?”

  “A memory,” I answered.

  From nearly the second I met Jean-Claude, I sensed something familiar about him. I initially wrote it off as being some kind of kinship I felt for a kid who reminded me so much of myself, but it was more. It was like I knew the little guy even though I’d never met him before in my life. Then, when Luther issued his order that I was to respect the boy’s God-given talent, my brain really got to percolating. My eureka moment hit me while driving back to The Jam Jar from Wu’s house.

  The storage room to The Jam Jar was little more than a walk-in closet located below the inside staircase leading up to my apartment. Among the cleaning supplies and other odds and ends, I found boxes stacked in the corner. I was certain I knew the year I was looking for, so I pulled out the box labeled the fifties, opened it, and thumbed through the old magazines until I came to the ones from 1959. I removed the two dozen or so issues from that year and started scanning their pages.

  It took me going through the magazines twice before striking gold on the third time. It wasn’t much, little more than a mention tucked away in the back of the June ‘59 issue, but after reading it, so many things became clear.

  Chapter 7

  Stanley O’Malley was a large, red-faced Irishman with a big voice and even bigger personality. His trademark fashion was a double extra-large white linen suit and straw Panama hat. Stan was not only impossible to miss but impossible to ignore. Known as Vegas’s foremost political operative, Stan’s true talent was in the acquisition and exchange of information. In short, nothing went on in Vegas without Stanley O’Malley knowing about it. This made him the ideal political wingman. It also made him both adored and feared by nearly everyone in town. Feared because you never knew if Stan had something on you; adored because you never knew when you’d need what Stan had on somebody else. If knowledge was currency, then Stanley O’Malley was the wealthiest person in Vegas. But I’m only guessing because no one other than the I.R.S. knew exactly how much money Stan really had—I take that back, I’m certain they didn’t know either.

  Stan’s office was the keno lounges around town where he ate and drank gratis. Every night, seven da
ys a week, you could find the big guy at a table playing his spots, eating and drinking, and eating and drinking, followed by some more eating and drinking. Tonight’s office was in the Flamingo.

  “Stanley,” I announced, approaching his table.

  Stan looked up from a keno card. “Trip, my young friend, how lovely to see you. How are Steve and Eydie tonight?”

  “In perfect voice, as always. Although Steve did forget the last verse to ‘I Hear a Rhapsody.’ But I don’t think anybody noticed.”

  He laughed and then proceeded to empty his tumbler of Irish whiskey.

  “So, how’s your book coming along, Stan?” I asked.

  He cocked his head. “You know, you’re the only person who ever iquires about my book. Thank you for that. It inspires me to keep writing.”

  “I’m an ardent supporter of a man’s creative endeavors.”

  “Yes, you are, and it’s most appreciated. To be honest, I’m having trouble with one of my characters. A beautiful, young, Hungarian acrobat who has fallen in love with an Ottoman prince. I just can’t seem to find her voice.”

  “I thought your story was set in Ireland?”

  “Oh, it is. So, what can I do for you on this fine evening?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of a guy named Henry Wilson?”

  Stan sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Wilson, Wilson. No, I can’t say I have. Is he a local chap?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he’s a wannabe high-roller, and I think he probably plays a lot at the Desert Inn.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He’s the kind of guy who likes giving away five dollar chips to impress little girls. In my experience, it’s the wannabes who do such things.”

  “You would be correct. I presume the chip was from the Desert Inn.”

  I nodded.

  “Let me think.” Stan squinted and massaged one of his enormous chins. “I wonder if you could be talking about a fellow they call Hunter Hank?”

  “Hunter Hank?” I responded.

  “An abominable sort who comes into town from time to time. The man has the class and sophistication of a hyena, which is not surprising given his disgusting occupation.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Big game hunter.”

  “Now there’s a job you don’t hear very often.”

  “Too often for my taste. He shows up looking for other savages who’ll pay to accompany him on his reprehensible safaris.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of hunting, Stan?”

  “Never saw the sport in it. Shooting defenseless creatures who are doing nothing but going about their lives and minding their own business, and not for food, but for the trophy. It’s barbaric. No, sir. I don’t like it, and I don’t care for the type of person who engages in such activities.”

  “And what type of person would that be?”

  “Loud, pompous, self-centered, Neanderthals, who pride themselves on being rough, tough, rugged, men’s men. It’s a bunch of hooey. I say give the animals a gun and let them shoot back, and then let’s see how manly these men’s men are.”

  “And this Hunter Hank guy falls into that category?”

  “From his ridiculous Jungle Jim costume, to his beady little eyes, and hairless skull.”

  “He’s bald?”

  “As a cue ball.”

  I went silent. I was sure Hunter Hank was Henry Wilson. It would explain the jewelry little Tina from the motel was wearing.

  Stan said, “Please tell me this man is in some sort of trouble.”

  “Well, if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he could be in more danger than the animals he hunts.”

  Stanley smiled. “Then let’s pray that it is so. Is there anything else?”

  “Just one other name, Cavendish. I don’t have a first name. Late fifties, well-groomed. Looks like he could be a lawyer, or accountant, or something.”

  Stan thought for a moment but then shook his head. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name. Wish I did, he sounds like someone I could find useful.”

  I chuckled and got up from the table. “I’m sure you could. Thanks, Stan. You’re the best.”

  “Must you go so soon? We haven’t eaten.”

  “Sorry, got a second show. But is there anything I can do for you? Would you like to see Steve and Eydie next week?”

  “Saw them the last time they were here. But when Frank comes back…”

  “I’ll make sure you’re in the front row.”

  Stanley tipped his hat.

  “I’ll see you soon, Stan.”

  “Have a good night, my young friend,” he replied, as the waitress walked up and set another tall glass of Irish whiskey down in front of him.

  I must admit, I was pretty pleased with myself. Inside of twenty-four hours I had not only learned the name of the man Michelle Wu met at the motel but what he looked like, as well as his occupation. That was some first-rate detective work if you ask me. I was feeling so good, in fact, that after the second show, I scurried back to The Jam Jar and sat in with Eighty-Eight Eddie and the boys for their last set. The crowd adored me, of course, and the solo I laid down on “Satin Doll” was, in all modesty, transcendent.

  Later, I was standing in The Jam Jar parking lot chatting up a couple of my fans—yes, I do have fans, and they offend tend to be of the double X chromosome variety—when Betsy stuck her head out the door.

  “Hey, Casanova, you got a phone call.”

  “Take a message,” I replied, not wanting to interrupt the rhythm of my disarming repartee.

  “It’s Detective Barnard. He said it’s important.”

  I sighed, made apologizes to the lovely Trip-sters—that’s what I like to call my fans—and headed back into the club. A glance at my Timex informed me it was almost four in the morning. No big deal for me, but Barnard was strictly a dayshift kind of guy. I couldn’t imagine what the big galoot wanted.

  Frankie, The Jam Jar’s bartender, nodded to the receiver Betsy left lying on the bar. I tossed the phone in the air, caught it, and then nestled it between my jaw and shoulder. “It’s my turn, what are you doing up?” I asked.

  There was no humor in the cop’s voice. “I’m at the Wu estate. Get over here right now.”

  “What makes you—”

  “And don’t tell me you don’t know where it is because I know you do.”

  “Why do you want me to come over?”

  “There’s been a murder, and if you don’t want to end up a suspect, you’ll get over here pronto.”

  My stomach tightened, and a cold wave rushed through me. I’m sure my voice shook a little when I asked, “Who’s been killed?”

  “The master of the house, Uncle Charlie.”

  Two Las Vegas uniforms met me at the front door. They ushered me into the house where more cops were milling around the foyer. Detective Barnard walked out of the study where I had given Jean-Claude his trumpet lesson. He saw me and snapped his fingers. “Over here, Callaway.”

  I crossed the foyer and followed the detective back into the study.

  Everything looked normal until I looked over at the fireplace and saw Charlie Wu lying face down on the floor.

  I don’t like seeing dead bodies, not sure anybody does, but for me, it causes a physical reaction. I didn’t get sick or anything, but I did take a pronounced step backward.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Barnard ordered.

  “What happened to him?”

  “This,” the detective answered, holding up a large, clear plastic bag. The bag contained a white statue the size of a half a loaf of Wonder Bread. “We think it’s supposed to be sitting on one of those things out there. It was in here next to the body.”

  “How did they—”

  “Either somebody snuck up behind him, or he turned his back on the wrong person. Whichever way it went down, the result was the same. Pow! One good smack to the back of the old melon.”

&n
bsp; I tried to see if I could see the wound. I couldn’t.

  “Aren’t you going to ask the next question?” Barnard said.

  I looked back at Barnard. “Who?”

  “No idea. But I got Wu’s sons cooling their jets on the other side of that gymnasium out there, and they’re sure they know who the culprit is.”

  “His wife,” I said.

  Barnard smiled. “Smart boy. So, you have an opinion on the subject?”

  “No. Where were the sons when it happened?”

  “One of them, Johnny, said he was in a private poker game on The Strip. The other one said he was downtown at a late-night poetry reading, of all things. We’ll check out their stories.”

  “And where’s Mrs. Wu?”

  “Not here. We’ve searched this dump from end to end.”

  “How about the boy?”

  “What boy?”

  “She has a thirteen-year-old son named Jean-Claude.”

  “Hmm. Wu’s sons didn’t mention a boy. Come on, let’s go ask them why.”

  “Uh…I don’t think it’d be a good idea for them to see me with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  Barnard nodded. “Okay, Callaway, let’s have it.”

  “Let’s have what?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because you made me to come over.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “We questioned the maid. She’s the one who found the body a couple of hours ago. We asked her if there’d been any suspicious people hanging around the house lately. You know what she said? She said, yes, a man with a trumpet and a funny first name. Now I wonder who that could be?”

  I swallowed a bit harder than usual. This was now one of those dances I mentioned earlier. “Okay, I give trumpet lessons to the boy.”

  “I didn’t know you were a trumpet teacher.”

  “It’s a recent thing. To pick up some extra money. I like to keep it under wraps, though. You know…for my reputation, and all.”

  Barnard stared at me for a moment. “You sticking with that story?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Look, Trip. I got a murdered crime boss here, and two sons who aren’t thrilled the police were called in. These people tend to want to handle situations like this in their own way if you catch my drift. The point is, the brass are going to be all over me on this. Whatever secret mission Clegg has you on, it isn’t a secret any longer. I need to know everything.”