Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  I nodded. “Can you give me a day to…”

  “Mull is over?” he interjected.

  “Yeah. To mull it over.”

  Barnard rubbed his hand down his face. He looked around the room, and then lowered his voice. “Here’s the deal, and only because I might understand the position you’re in. I’ll give you until this afternoon. That’s it. After that, you’re telling me everything. Got it?”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “Tell Clegg he owes me one.”

  I nodded.

  “Can you at least give me a clue where I might find the wife?”

  I saw no reason why I couldn’t give up at least that bit of information. “There’s a motel about ten miles south of town toward Boulder City. Check out room number thirteen.”

  Barnard pulled out a pad. “This motel got a name?”

  “Yeah, motel.”

  “Okay, we’ll check it out. You can go. We’ll talk this afternoon.”

  I turned and headed for the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I got that name for you.”

  “Name?” I replied, truly not knowing what he was talking about.

  “From the license plate you asked me to run.”

  “Oh, right, the license plate.”

  “You didn’t tell me it was an out of state plate.”

  “From what state?”

  “New York. I never would have found it except, lucky for you, it had an unpaid parking ticket in our system.” Barnard looked down at his notepad. “The car is registered to a Jack Kingston, 161 West 10th Street, New York, New York. No criminal record.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “I mean it, Trip. This afternoon.”

  I saluted and headed for the door once again.

  “Why don’t you go out that way,” Barnard said, pointing to the glass door leading out into the garden. “It might be…less conspicuous.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”

  The sun hadn’t yet come up, but it wouldn’t be long before it did. Thankfully, I had the next three nights off, so I didn’t have to worry about being in any kind of shape to play the trumpet. What I was worried about was getting in touch with Clegg. His little surveillance project had just come to a bloody end, and I needed him to sign off on me telling Detective Barnard everything I knew—which granted, wasn’t much. Better still, I wanted him to talk to Barnard himself, so I could get back to being the carefree bugler-about-town we’ve all come to know and love. But then there was Jean-Claude. I didn’t care for his mother, but if she was indeed the person who knocked-off Uncle Charlie, it wasn’t going to be easy for the kid. I truly felt bad about that.

  I pulled up in front of The Jam Jar and was out of my car before it came to a complete stop. I unlocked the front door, turned on the lights in the club, and then headed straight for the phone behind the bar.

  As I dialed, my hand shook because I couldn’t stop thinking about Jean-Claude. He was probably with his mother, and if she did what it appeared she’d done, the boy would be confused and scared to death. It infuriated me just thinking about it. How could any parent put their child through something like that? It was then I decided Michelle Wu had won first prize in the Trip Callaway worst-mother-ever award.

  “Callaway?” the raspy voice answered.

  “I need to talk to Clegg.”

  “He’s not here. What do you need?”

  “Tell him Wu’s been murdered and he needs to talk to Sam Barnard.”

  There was a slight pause. “Would you repeat that?”

  “Wu’s dead!” I yelled. “Caput, adios, the big sleep, very not breathing.”

  “Has there been an arrest?”

  “No. But they’re looking for the wife.”

  “Okay, got it. Anything else?”

  “I mean it. Tell Clegg to talk to Barnard, or I will. Understand?”

  “Roger that. We’ll be in touch.”

  And the phone went dead.

  I hung up and rubbed my eyes. I thought about pouring myself a stiff one but decided against it. I went to lock the front door, and then remembered my car was parked out front. Betsy hated it when I left my car parked in front of the club during the day because she thought having only one car parked in front of any establishment made said establishment look sad. It was classic Betsy-logic, but I didn’t feel the need to argue the point.

  I turned off the lights, locked the front door, and pulled the Falcon around the back to its proper nest. I trudged up to my apartment, thinking maybe I could sneak in a couple hours of sleep. Silly me.

  He was curled up on the landing at the top of the stairs, his head resting on his trumpet case. It was Jean-Claude.

  Chapter 8

  “Jean-Claude,” I said, gently nudging the boy’s arm.

  He opened his eyes and raised up. He was wearing his little-man private school uniform sans tie, but in that moment, the thirteen-year-old boy looked more like a three-year-old toddler.

  “Trip?” he responded, looking around to see where he was.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I need help.”

  “Help with what? How did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  “You walked?”

  He nodded.

  “All the way from your house?”

  He nodded again.

  “How did you—” I remembered I told him I lived above The Jam Jar. “And nobody stopped and asked why you were walking the streets in the middle of the night?”

  He shook his head. “I made sure nobody saw me.”

  I was sure that wasn’t true, he had to have been seen. But then again, this is Vegas. There are times I think Bess Truman could dance the rhumba naked down Las Vegas Boulevard and nobody would notice.

  “Why do you need help, Jean-Claude?”

  “They took my mother.”

  I tried to be cool, but I’m sure the look on my face said otherwise. “Come on, let’s go inside,” was all I could I think to say.

  I scrounged around my small apartment for something to offer Jean-Claude, but pickings were slim. Bastille de Trip was not accustomed to hosting guests, and although I did have a small fridge, all that was in it was three bottles of grape Nehi. I offered him one, and he graciously accepted.

  “Better?” I asked, sitting down across from him on the couch.

  “Yes, thank you,” he answered, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.

  “So, what’s this about somebody taking your mother?”

  “They took her?”

  “Who took her?”

  “Men.”

  “What men?”

  “I don’t know. They just came into the house and took her.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night…or early this morning, I don’t remember. But they took her.”

  “Had you ever seen these men before?”

  “No.”

  “Were they Chinese men?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “How many men were there?”

  “Two or three, I think.”

  “Jean-Claude, what happened to your—I don’t know what you call him—your step-father, I guess. What happened to your step-father last night?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, quickly.

  “Are you aware he was attacked?”

  He shook his head.

  “Really? You didn’t know he was attacked?”

  “Is he okay?”

  “No, Jean-Claude, he’s not okay.” I took a breath and delivered the news as gently but as straightforward as I could. “Jean-Claude, he’s dead.”

  The boy’s eyes instantly filled with water and he started breathing heavy. “You have to find my mother, Trip. They’re going to hurt her, or worse. I know they will. Please, help me.”

  “Okay, okay, relax,” I said, putting my hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll help you. Let’s go downstairs to the club.”

  “Why?”

&n
bsp; “Because that’s where the phone is. I need to call the police.”

  “No!” he shouted. “You can’t call the police. Please, don’t call the police.”

  “Jean-Claude, if your mother’s been kidnapped, they need to know.”

  “No. I don’t trust the police.”

  “Why don’t you trust the police?”

  “Because my step-father has people—” He stopped himself. “You just can’t call the police. Please, Trip.”

  I sat back in my chair and studied the boy. “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “What your step-father does…did.”

  “That he’s a criminal? Yes, I know. They all are. And they own the police here, just like they did in San Francisco. That’s why you can’t call them. If you do then the men who took my mother will know I’m looking for her and they’ll hurt her. Please, Trip, don’t call the police.”

  I didn’t know if what Jean-Claude was saying about Wu owning the LVPD was true or not. I doubted it, given the housecleaning the department underwent after the whole Russian spy fiasco. But given he believed it, and I wasn’t ready to talk to Barnard anyway, I concluded calling them could wait. “Okay, I won’t call the police, but there is someone I do need to call.”

  “Not the police?” he asked, tears still in his eyes.

  I smiled. “Not even close.”

  It took less than twenty minutes from the time I woke Luther out of a dead sleep, to the time he and Betsy were walking through the door of the club.

  While Betsy occupied Jean-Claude with a tour of The Jam Jar, Luther and I sat at the bar. He listened as I brought him up to speed.

  “You’re sure we shouldn’t be calling Detective Barnard?” Luther asked.

  “Not until I talk to Clegg—which better be soon.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Before I found Jean-Claude camped out at the top of the stairs, it was all pretty cut and dried. Michelle was having an affair. Uncle Charlie found out and confronted her. She bonked him on the head and killed him. Now…” I threw up my hands.

  “You think the boy is telling you the truth?”

  I nodded. “I do. Now, if he’s telling me everything is another matter, but yeah, I think someone came into the house and took his mother away.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “The sons are the most obvious suspects, but it appears they have alibis. Besides, why would they nab the boy’s mother? And why would they kill their own father? No, there’s something else going on. I just don’t know what.”

  “You think Clegg does?”

  I shrugged. “What I know is I can’t sit around here waiting on him. You think you and Bets could look after the kid while I run out?”

  “Sure, where are you going?”

  “I guess you could say, to see a man about a horse.”

  Gene Armstrong was one of the best drummers in Vegas. Creative, tasteful, musical, and when he laid down a tempo, it was so rock solid the military could set their clocks by it. Unfortunately was is the optimum word. He was one of the best drummers in Vegas, before the heroin.

  After countless missed gigs or being strung out when he did show up, Gene began to get a reputation—and not the good kind. Those of us who were his friends did what we could, but eventually, we had to let him go to protect our own reputations. After that, it was a quick spiral downward for Gene. Before long, he had vanished from the scene, entirely. Some thought he might have died. Given the trajectory he was on, it wouldn’t have been a huge surprise if he had. But then, a few weeks ago, Silas, Eighty-Eight Eddie’s drummer, told me that his wife had seen Gene working the morning shift at the Dunes—as a janitor. I remember being relieved to hear he was okay. I also remember thinking it was perhaps one of the saddest things I’d ever heard.

  I entered the Dunes and started asking the croupiers and waitresses where I could fine Gene. Not only couldn’t they tell me, none of them seemed to know who I was even talking about. That’s when I remembered the hierarchical class system of the hotel business. Here’s how it works: maids, maintenance men, and janitors are one class. Bartenders, waitresses, bellmen, and dealers are another. Then come the folks at the front desk, the concierges, and the back-office people. At the top of the food chain is management. Entertainers occupy their own special universe and, depending upon their fame, can fall into any of the aforementioned categories. Everybody knows, or claims to know, the people in the class above them, but few know, or claim to know, the people they perceive to be in the class below them. It’s all quite Victorian. Some will argue my assertion here, but I’ve seen it first hand and will swear by its existence. For the record, I have always shunned such snobbery, and have solemnly vowed that even after I become a world-famous mega-star, will still go out of my way to be a friend to all, and stranger to none. I must remember to put that in my diary.

  Anyway, realizing my mistake, I began seeking out someone from the janitorial staff. I spotted a girl emptying ashtrays and asked if she knew Gene. Of course, she did and directed me to the back of the casino where I found my old pal polishing the brass around the roulette tables. I hardly recognized him.

  “I think you missed a spot,” I said, coming up behind him.

  He turned around, and by the look on his face guessed I was the last person he ever expected to see. “Trip?”

  “Hi, Gene.”

  “Holy crow, Trip Callaway?” He tucked his rag in his pocket, wiped his hand on his shirt, and then offered it to me. “Trip, it’s great to see you, man.”

  “Great to see you too, Gene. You look good.”

  “No, I don’t, but hey, I’m alive.”

  In truth, he was right. He didn’t look good. His skin was so pale it was nearly translucent. He must have been thirty pounds lighter, and his once bushy mop of hair was now an oily and thin mat stuck to his head.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that, Gene.”

  “Thank you, man. It was touch and go there for a while.”

  “And now?”

  “Been clean for nearly six months.”

  “That’s fantastic. A lot of old friends are going to be thrilled to hear that bit of news.”

  He smiled, but not a happy smile. “I’m not so sure about that, Trip. I burned quite a few bridges.”

  “None that can’t be rebuilt.”

  “That’s darn nice of you to say, man. Thanks.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re good guy, Trip. I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”

  “Right back atcha, Gene.”

  “No, I mean it. You were there for me, man. You didn’t have to be, and let’s face it, no one would have blamed you if you’d shown me the door, but you never did. I want you to know I appreciate all you tried to do for me.”

  “Gene, I didn’t do anything. In fact, I—”

  “Yes, you did. I know you don’t think you did, but you did.”

  “You’ll be back, buddy. Stay clean, and you’ll be back. You’re too good.”

  “Thanks, but I’m a janitor now. And that’s okay by me. This is a good job, and I’m darn lucky to have it. The music life nearly killed me, man. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for it. I sure do miss it sometimes but…well, it’s better this way.”

  “Do you ever see Frankie or any of the other cats you used to play with?”

  He shook his head. “The hours I work? No, I don’t see many musicians anymore. I can’t believe I’m seeing you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Well, to be honest, I heard you were working here and needed a favor.”

  “A favor? From me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine what kind of favor I could do for you, but whatever it is, you got it. Ask away.”

  Suddenly, my purpose for being there felt wrong, or at the very least, selfish. “You know what? Never mind. It was nothing.”

  “What? No, Trip, ask me.”

  “No, Gene, it’s ok
ay. I can—”

  “Trip, nobody asks me for anything anymore, certainly not help. I can’t tell you what it would mean to me if I could do something for you—something for anybody. Please, what kind of information do you need?”

  I took a beat. “I need information about heroin, Gene.”

  Gene’s entire face changed and he took a step back. “Trip, tell me you’re not—”

  “No, no, I’m not using. It’s nothing like that.”

  “You swear?”

  “I swear.”

  “Show me your arms.”

  “What?”

  “Show me your arms,” he demanded.

  I rolled up my sleeves and stuck out both of my arms.

  He looked at them and let out a sign. “Sorry, it’s just, I wouldn’t want…”

  “It’s okay, Gene, I understand. Thanks for your concern.”

  “Why are you interested in knowing anything about that rotten stuff?”

  There it was. I had wrestled with how I was going to answer that question and had decided even if I couldn’t tell him the truth—I wasn’t going to lie to him, either. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. All I can say is it’s not because I’m trying to make a score. I just need some information.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. “What kind of information?”

  “Stuff like, who’s dealing it? Where’s it coming from?”

  Gene made a pained face and ran his hand over his head. “Trip, I know I told you I wanted to help you, but man, I’m not a rat, and I sure don’t narc.”

  “I know, and I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like—”

  “Besides, I got my stuff from other junkies, like me. I’m guessing you want to know about the big-time pushers, right?”

  I nodded.

  Gene began nervously rubbing his hands together, and then added, “Even if I knew anything. It’s all different now.”

  “Different? How so?”

  “Horse used to be hard to get in Vegas. Mary Jane, hash, uppers, downers, no problem. Smack was something else.”