“You hear from any of the other team members, Willy?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I saw Preacher. I saw him at the VA Hospital in Santa Monica, last time I was in detox. The Preacher was sure in a bad way. The doc said he had an advanced case of AIDS, probably got it from a dirty needle. Old Preacher was always into drugs, but I hear he really got into the heavy stuff after Charley overran our camp that night. He was just never the same after that. None of us were, I guess, although you look like you been doing okay.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, but think back. When was the last time you saw Preacher, Willy?”
“Must have been about three weeks ago, but like I said, he sure looked bad, and he’d lost a lot of weight. He was all skin and bones, his eyes looked like two piss-holes in the snow, all of his hair was gone, and he didn’t recognize me. The fact is, he was kind of hallucinating. Kept saying ‘Claymore, look out for the Claymore,’ or something like that. He kept falling in, then out of his trance. Oh yeah, he also kept muttering ‘Bangkok,’ over and over. Must have been thinking of one of his famous rest-and-recuperation holidays that he always used to tell us about.”
“Yeah, the Preacher was definitely good at telling us about his R&Rs. Remember when he went to Bangkok on a three-day pass and didn’t come back for two weeks?”
“Yeah, he told us some cockamamie story about losing all his money and ID, then posing as an undercover CIA agent and uncovering a prostitution ring.”
“Yeah, and to make it even more believable, he came back to camp wearing the brightest Hawaiian silk shirt you ever saw.”
“And more gold chains around his neck than Mr. T! He must have flown back to camp via Hollywood, where he stopped in and had Edith Head put together his costume.”
“Daiwe went for it hook, line, and sinker, which just didn’t figure to me. You’d have thought he would ask Preacher for his CIA contact so he could call and verify his story.”
“He did tell Daiwe to call, and the number he gave him was a telephone booth in Pleiku, where yours truly was stationed waiting for the phone to ring. The conversation went something like this—Yes, Captain. No, I can’t tell you if I’m attached to the CIA. I can’t tell you whether I know a soldier by the nickname of Preacher, but someone resembling the description you gave me has done undercover work for us in the past. In fact, he is our resident expert on prostitution and we’re thinking of asking for him full-time.”
“You got to be shitting me, Willy—and Daiwe bought that story?”
“Like I said before, hook, line, and sinker, Jerry.”
“Yeah, those were the days, all right.” After they had a good laugh, Jerry asked Willy, “Look, you think Preacher is still in the Santa Monica VA Hospital? I might want to talk with him.”
“From the way he looked the last time I saw him, he’s either in that hospital or in the ground. He was really bad off, Jerry.”
“Thanks, Willy, it was nice seeing you again, but I’ve got to run. Here’s my card. Call me if you get the chance and we can get together and flush down some old toilets of Memory Lane.” Jerry reached in his wallet and wrapped one of his LAPD cards in a twenty-dollar bill and passed it to Willy, wondering if he’d ever see him again.
“Thanks, Jerry,” he said, taking the bill and the card and slipping them into his inner coat pocket. “We definitely will see each other again.” He got off his barstool and headed for the exit.
FOUR
Jerry didn’t sleep much that night, even though he was half in the bag by the time he got to his one-room efficiency. Usually, with enough booze, he could guarantee a dreamless sleep, but that night was an exception. The faces of his teammates kept popping into his head, and he kept trying to put names to faces better left forgotten. It took a while, but he finally remembered what Preacher looked like. After that, it was pretty easy to remember him, especially when he pictured him standing alongside Willy. The preacher was short, about five-eight, with a balding head that shined like a billiard ball in the bright Vietnamese sunlight. He had a belly that reminded Jerry of “Doc” in that Disney flick, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. When he stood next to Willy, the two of them looked like Mutt and Jeff. A grin creased Jerry’s semi-comatose face as he thought about them.
Preacher had gotten his name on his first field operation, his “cherry” patrol. They were northwest of Kontum, deep in the Ia Drang Valley. Two days out of camp, they crossed a trail on the valley floor that looked like it had had a lot of heavy, recent foot activity, and decided to set up a hasty ambush. Jerry and Paul Abrams sat on either side of that trail for the better part of two days with their Montagnard (indigenous mountain tribesman) strike force, waiting for “Charley” to show his ugly face. It was late in the afternoon on their fourth day out of camp that the lookout came back to their ambush position with the news. About a dozen of North Vietnam’s finest were on the trail heading in their direction. They would be entering the field of fire in about ten minutes. Ten minutes seems like ten hours when you’re sitting on an ambush site waiting for the enemy to come into your field of fire. Abrams just sat coolly, fingering his triggering device for the Claymore mines he had set. He waited calmly, while the rest of them sweated, waiting for that moment when the NVA were all in the trap.
Since he had gotten to Nam, Jerry had been on too many ambushes to remember, but more than he could count on his fingers and toes. No two ever went the same. Most never came off as planned. The game plan here was to let the guy with the Claymores set off the ambush. When Abrams set off the mines, the rest of the troop would open up with everything they had.
Jerry was the first one to see the NVA point man come into the clearing and signaled to Paul with his hand to be alert. Paul was nonchalant putting his camouflaged hand up to his mouth as if he were yawning. Jerry kept thinking, Fire, you idiot, as he glared in Paul’s direction. Paul just smiled and kept on yawning. The next NVA came into the killing field about twenty yards behind the point, followed closely by another ten men. Abrams still waited, as the point man walked past their location, and out of the kill zone, never noticing them. It left Jerry wondering if the “Cherry” was playing with a full deck.
It was then that a smile came to Jerry’s lips. Paul “Cherry” Abrams had not fallen for the biggest trick in the book. Charley often escaped by separating the point man from the main body of troops. People tended to get nervous under these conditions and sometimes fired at the first guy they saw, leaving the others to retaliate or “get their hats” and leave.
The loud report of exploding C-4 plastic explosive woke Jerry up from his premature victory celebration as the Claymores fired into the mass of humanity. A second boom sounded farther down the trail in an area not covered by the strike force. It was then Jerry noticed that no small arms fire was coming from the enemy. There were none of the cries from the wounded and dying that always seemed to accompany these contacts. Just silence and the lingering smoke of a half dozen expended Claymore mines.
Abrams matter-of-factly stood up from his position and began moving forward. He looked up, smiling, and Jerry noticed for the first time that he had hung the Claymores in the trees that lined the trail.
“Shit,” Jerry said half under his breath, “the son of a bitch blew their brains into the dirt instead of just taking their legs off.”
Abrams was unconventional, all right. He moved off down the trail, leaving the others to view his carnage. When he returned, Jerry realized what the second explosion had been. Abrams had placed another mine down the trail to get the point man, only this time, he had placed it by the book. He was dragging a badly wounded soldier back to the ambush site by the shirt collar. “Hey, Sarge, I figured you might’ve wanted to interrogate one of these little guys before we ‘di-di mau’ out of here, so I just blew his pins out from under him.”
Preacher walked over to the trail and looking down at the pools of blood, bone, brains, and body parts. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jerry. I guess I used too many Claymores.” Then
he unbuttoned his fatigue pants and began casually pissing all over the bodies as he recited the Lord’s Prayer, concluding with, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” He laughed and put his pud back into his pants. That’s when Jerry had laid the nickname “Preacher” on him.
Today, Jerry hoped that Preacher was still at the Veterans’ Hospital. As he wound his way down the Santa Monica Freeway, he couldn’t help but wonder at how convoluted the serial killings had become. There. He had finally used the “S” word, serial, to think about this murder investigation, and that’s exactly what it was becoming: a search for some deranged psychotic. What bothered him most, as he made the turn into the parking lot of the Santa Monica VA Hospital, was the direction it was taking. Somehow all his leads and clues were leading him back to a time and place he wished he could forget.
Jerry inquired at the information desk and found out that they did have a Paul Abrams on Ward 5A. He was also informed that Ward 5A was where the VA managed their HIV/AIDS patients. He took the elevator to the fifth floor, trying hard to remember the vibrant, youthful face that had accompanied him on many patrols through hostile territory. Always smiling, always upbeat. That was the Paul “Preacher” Abrams that he remembered.
Jerry was told by the day nursing supervisor that he would have to wait and get permission to see Paul from his attending physician, a doctor by the name of Eugene Poole. He stood around for what seemed like an hour, waiting for Dr. Poole to arrive, all the time thinking that Preacher must be in a pretty bad way if Jerry needed to see his doctor before being allowed a visit. Finally, a slight-looking man in a long white coat and dark horn-rimmed glasses stopped at the nurses’ station and talked candidly with the charge nurse. It was either Dr. Poole or the winner of the Mr. Peepers look-a-like contest.
The slight man in the white coat walked directly over to Jerry with his hand extended. “Detective Andrews, I’m Dr. Eugene Poole, Mr. Abrams’ physician.”
Jerry almost lost it but managed to contain himself. Not only did the guy look like Wally Cox, but he had the name Dr. Eugene Poole. His close friends, no doubt, called him Gene Pool for short. What a laugher. Jerry could hardly wait to tell Mondo and the guys at the 44 Magnum about this development. But his amusement was brief, because Poole’s manner was one more sign that Preacher was in bad shape.
“I’m here on official business, Doctor. I believe you are treating a Mr. Paul Abrams? I need to interview him regarding a police investigation, at once, if that’s possible.”
“Mr. Abrams is in the final stages of advanced AIDS, Detective Andrews. He is in a special isolation room, and if you can get him to speak at all, I’ll be surprised. He hasn’t got much longer to live, I’m afraid.”
“I understand, Doctor. I’ll be as brief as possible and respect his condition. Now if you would just show me the way to his room.”
As they walked the short distance, Dr. Poole briefed Jerry on the isolation procedures and gave him a mask, gloves, and a gown to put on before going in.
As Jerry walked through the airlock between the corridor and Preacher’s room, he had a clear view of the single bed and its occupant. Whatever he’d remembered about Preacher was flushed down the toilet of time when he saw what Preacher now looked like. The man Willy Beal had described had already looked near death’s door, and that had been three weeks ago. Jerry knew that AIDS patients at this stage of their disease deteriorated rapidly.
“Preacher, is that you, good buddy?”
There was no response from the living corpse on the hospital bed in front of him, just the steady drip-drip-drip of the IV in a bedside bottle, and the hiss of the oxygen shallowly inhaled through a nasal catheter. “Preacher, it’s Jerry. Jerry Andrews, A-255, remember?”
Jerry moved closer and as he did, he saw Preacher’s index finger twitch in exhausted recognition. Preacher opened his eyes to half-mast and blinked several times as if he was trying to focus. Jerry took his hand, and Preacher held on tightly for a few seconds before silently directing him closer to the head of the bed.
“Water, please give me some water. My throat’s so parched I feel like I’ve been on a forced march across Death Valley.”
A brief smile crossed Preacher’s lips and wrinkled the skin around his eyes. The old Preacher was in there, all right. Still, Jerry suppressed the impulse to cry, not wanting Preacher to see his sorrow about his rapidly deteriorating condition. He gave him the water bottle from the bedside tray, and Preacher ravenously drank as Jerry tried to get him to tell what he knew about the murders. “Willy Beal said he saw you here a couple of weeks ago, so I thought I’d come over and see my old teammate. I work for the LAPD, Preacher, have since I got out of Nam.”
The water bottle fell from Preacher’s hands, squirting warm water all over Jerry’s pants. Jerry disregarded it. “Willy B. says you may know something about the Little Saigon killings? Is that so, Preacher?”
“Is that really you, Jerry?” he said weakly. “Shit, it’s been a long time. None of us look at all like we did back then. I hardly recognized Willy Beal except for that god-awful scar on his nose and cheek. Old Gunner really laid a heavy blade on Willy B., didn’t he, Jerry?”
“Yeah, and Willy never forgave him for it.”
Preacher coughed real loud and began to drool phlegm from the side of his mouth like a Saint Bernard in heat.
“You okay, Preacher? Can I do something for you?”
“No, I’m not okay,” he shouted, causing him to start coughing up big lungers, which he unceremoniously spat out into a towel he had handy. “Just look at me, Jerry. I’m a fucking loser, a druggie on his way out. Look at these arms. I got more tracks than the Illinois Central, and that isn’t the worst of it. In case you haven’t been told, or guessed it by now, I’m dying of AIDS. No, Jerry, I’m not okay. But at least I’ll die in a hospital instead of in a garbage can in some alley.”
It was odd to Jerry that he should mention dying in a garbage-infested alley. Baker’s Alley in Little Saigon was full of garbage, just as the alley behind the Club Saigon in Pleiku had been. It was a common thread Jerry thought worth exploring. “Preacher! Willy said you might be able to give me your thoughts on who’s been doing the Little Saigon murders. He said he heard something about Claymores and Bangkok when you were crying out in your sleep one time.”
“Who knows what I say in my sleep. This fucking pneumonia has me half delirious most of the time. Open up the drawer next to my bedside table, Jerry. Check it out. It seems to me that I’ve been getting some postcards from Thailand lately.”
“Postcards from who? One of our teammates?” Jerry said.
“Just open the drawer, and see for yourself.”
Sure enough, the drawer contained three postcards from Bangkok, Thailand. All the cards were printed and unsigned and all were addressed to the VA Hospital in Santa Monica. “You have any idea who sent these to you, Preacher?”
“Nope, I sure don’t. I figure it might be one of our ex-teammates, because the postcards keep calling me by my nickname—Preacher.”
“You should have been a detective, Preacher. I’ll ask the captain if we have an opening for you on the force.”
“Daiwe Jackson is your commanding officer again, Jerry?”
“No, my new C.O. is Captain Henry Davis. You don’t know him, but I think you’d like him if you ever met up with him.”
“I’m getting real tired, Jerry. I need to sleep now.”
“I understand, buddy. Mind if I take these postcards back to the station for a longer look?”
Jerry’s question went unanswered, as Preacher had fallen into a deep, raspy sleep. Jerry slipped the cards into his pocket, careful to hold them by the edges, and left the same way he had entered.
Seeing Preacher lying almost comatose in a hospital bed snapped Jerry into deep thought in the corridor. Willy had his alcohol abuse, and Preacher had AIDS, most likely as a direct result of the dirty needles he’d used to ingest mind-numbing drugs for yea
rs. These were all signs and symptoms of the uncommon collateral damage that happened to guys that came back from units like theirs after the Vietnam War. The sounds of the jungle and the incessant monsoon rains filled their ears on a daily and nightly basis. The memories of close contact combat left all of them with some level of anxiety and apprehension, causing us to jump whenever we heard a car backfire. The 4th of July celebrations would put them off the charts. Most were unable to celebrate the day of their nation’s freedom. “Retreat,” once a military term, was now a diagnosis of what was happening to them. Hiding in corners, crouching down at the ready, disassociation, spacing out, and the thousand-mile stare were the norm rather than the exception. No wonder so many chose to escape into mind-numbing habits, alcohol, and drugs. Jerry suddenly snapped out of it, realizing that he’d been spacing out again. After a few deep breaths, he walked out of the hospital. It would be the last day he would ever see his old teammate, Paul Abrams, AKA Preacher.
FIVE
Bangkok was nothing like Saigon, and that’s what Gunner liked about it. The people of Thailand were gentler sorts, with none of the crudeness and rough edges of the Vietnamese. Their sense of reality was on the cutting edge of Buddhism. The Thais were mentally stronger, tougher, and more honest than most Asians, and Bangkok was on the fringe of the golden triangle. That’s why Gunner chose to live there after the war.
Gunner had a nice business going for himself dealing in weapons and drugs. He was making money hand over fist, greasing the right palms, and keeping ahead of the local power curve. That’s how he managed to stay alive, in what most people would think was a hostile environment. Of course, when all else failed, he still had considerable skill with his knife, his weapon of choice.
Club Saigon Page 3
