BLIND SPOT (Murder on the Mekong, A Novella)

by Rivers, Hart;

  The eye in the tiger mask seemed to wink as it ripped JD’s knife from his lax grip. In one swift motion the tiger masked man crouched, hurled the knife between his legs like he was hiking an American football, and in the blade went through the last tracker standing. Straight through the right eyeball and into his brain before the short, bullnecked, battering ram could pull the trigger.

  A Russian/Chinese issue AK-47—or was it an American M-16? Hard to tell when the world was fading and all JD could hear in his mind were the Rolling Stones singing “Paint It Black.”

  When JD opened his eyes, Zhang was staring straight at him.

  “Tch tch, little brother,” he said in a soft, amused voice. “You were slow and distracted. But at least it’s your trackers providing dinner for a tiger family and not you, eh? Here, drink this.”

  As he drank deeply from the coconut Zhang held out, JD realized he had been carried to the edge of forest that butted up to the rubber plantation he owned but rarely visited. This had been his childhood home—before Maman died, and his father remarried and almost immediately dispatched him to the monastery that raised him. But at least his stepmother had always been kind—far kinder than his sorry excuse for a father had ever been—and best of all, he had gotten his stepbrother Zhang out of the bargain.

  Zhang cocked his head, no longer hidden by a tiger mask. In the three years since JD had seen him, Zhang had not aged a day. He seemed eternally young yet possessed the wisdom of the ages. He was a poet, a warrior, a ruler, an outrageously wealthy and successful mogul who controlled the region’s major cash crop: the opium fields.

  And he was supposedly dead. A great deal of care and strategy had been necessary to create that particular myth, one that allowed Zhang to operate with the same chameleon-like invisibility as the octopus while wielding his power with the cunning lethality of a shark.

  “I have missed you, my brother,” Zhang told him. “But I must ask: why are you here?”

  “Bangmang,” JD confessed. “I need your help.”

  Bad Mouse

  Downtown Nha Trang, RVN

  The Beatles were wailing “Help!” from the jukebox close to where Mouse sat in the crummy enlisted club pushing a beer around and around on a wobbly table. For the millionth time he asked himself why? Why was he here in the sweatiest dirtiest war on the planet in fucking South Vietnam? He knew why. Because he was dumb. Right now he was remembering very clearly how he had been so very dumb.

  Maybe he wasn’t really dumb dumb. After all, the shrinks said he had above normal IQ. He just always did stupid stuff. Almost always he did stupid stuff when he got mad. Because when he got mad—which was often, okay—it was usually when people were making fun of him and, when he thought someone was making fun of him then, okay, he kind of lost control. The shrinks had all kinds of names for it. Stuff like “poor impulse control” or “rages” or “homicidal impulses” and then there was that other one…what was it? Oh yeah, “violent acting out,” that was it.

  Well, that’s what got him in trouble in Jersey and landed him here. If he had just been doing a job for his Uncle Louie that would’ve been fine; exemplary even. But he hadn’t been doing a job. He had been at his favorite local bar in Jersey and listening to the jukebox, just like now. That was all, just listening to the jukebox, to Bobby Darin singing “Mack the Knife,” his favorite song. Actually singing along to it and imagining the shark, imagining what it was like to be a shark and, sure, probably he was chewing his lip which always made him look like a mouse.

  He’d been wishing that his nickname was Sharkey instead of Mouse. Sharkey would sound cool. He was thinking about how maybe he could get everybody to call him Sharkey. He was imagining how even Uncle Louie and the “made guys” would give him the nod—you know that nod—and say “Hey Sharkey!” instead of “Hey Mouse” while gnawing their lips at him to poke some fun. Anyway, it was right about then, when he was almost “Sharkey,” at least in his own mind, that some guy…aw, fuck. How was he to know the guy was the nephew of some shitty judge? He didn’t have no way of knowing that; he just knew the guy put in some quarters and started playing some Janis Joplin shit, and the bitch was singing “take another little piece of my heart” when everybody knew, THEY KNEW, Mouse was playing Bobby and Bobby was what they were all gonna listen to as long as The Mouse was there.

  Only the guy didn’t seem to know who he was dealing with ’cause he got mouthy and then they started pushing and shoving. And Mouse saw red and finally kicked him hard in the balls. Shit. If he’d just left it there, it all would’ve been cool. He’d probably still be in Jersey and entertaining the guys with some of his song and dance numbers while working over some douchebag who had it coming.

  But no. Nooo. He couldn’t just leave the guy groaning on the floor. He had to go do something stupid. Stoooopid. He had to jump the guy and bang his head on the floor like a basketball. And then, okay, he had to go and bite the guy’s face a few times…well, all right, more than a few times, and he’d half chewed off an ear before five guys pulled him off and all he could think was, Shit. Mouse, Mouse, Mouse, you done it again. You ain’t never gonna be Sharkey.

  So he had to go see Uncle Louie and he nearly peed his pants he was so scared while he begged for forgiveness, even if he wasn’t that sorry, just really sorry he mutilated the wrong guy in public. But then Uncle Louie laughed, said he’d talked to the judge and, lucky for Mouse, it wasn’t a favorite nephew so he wasn’t going to jail. Instead, he was gonna get drafted and go in the fucking Army and…wait for it…go to Vietnam. Viet. Fucking. Nam.

  And now here he was, sitting at this crummy table in this crummy Drunken Dragon club and drinking crummy beer and trying to look on the bright side of things. Uncle Louie needed his help here and was giving him a big opportunity with the heroin operation—sending world class horse back to the states—and if he didn’t screw anything up, he could make a mint and get a nice leg up in the organization.

  Now, he did have to do his share of whacking over here when guys got out of line or stole product, and he guessed that was okay. Killing was killing no matter where you did it. Trouble was, doing this job in Nam, he could get killed just going to work. Blown up, shot, rocketed, bombed. This crazy place made Jersey seem like one great big year round Sunday mass with a line down the turnpike for confession!

  Mouse signed the cross and tried to think of more upsides. Like getting laid by pretty girls…even if he did have to pay for it, since they were all gook whores. But. He had picked up some nice souvenirs along the way that reminded him of home, right? Right. Like the cool stuff he inherited from a job just a few days ago.

  He stroked his chin, nibbled his lip. That had been a pretty weird job. He didn’t know who, and it wasn’t his business to ask, but somebody at the top wanted some cat in Saigon taught a lesson. No reason given—and again, it wasn’t his business to ask—but turned out there were five of ’em being sent in at once to make sure the target got almost iced, like in lots of pieces but not totally whacked. And it wasn’t like a regular gang thing neither, with the other guys being, well, more professional or something while he was a street smarts kind of guy that nobody paid much attention to. He may as well be invisible. So he followed orders and hung around some fancy restaurant to keep an eye out for a turquoise ’57 Bel Air Chevy with a white ragtop.

  Mouse backhanded a trickle of drool, just remembering how bad he wanted that car when he saw it. But he wasn’t a thief unless a job entailed it and, besides, where would he run off to in a hot rod that rubbernecked every head it passed, back to Jersey?

  He got the signal he’d been told to watch for from a hotel window across the street. This was their guy heading for the restaurant, all decked out in a flowery shirt, some cool sunglasses, and a New York Yankees baseball cap.

  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. For those of you who read Unbreakable, a big welcome back. For all our new readers, we’re glad you’ve joined us and the rest of the crew—JD, Gregg, Izzy, and Kate—for a dark and twisted game of cat and mouse on the Mekong River.

  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

  Thank you for purchasing Blind Spot by Hart Rivers. We hope you enjoyed the story and will leave a review at the eRetailer where you purchased the book.

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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 other 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.

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  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.