Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  He hated this fucking prick, not only because of what he stood for but, in retrospect, because he was jealous. Jealous that he hadn’t scored after the war. Jealous that he couldn’t wear two-hundred-dollar Italian shoes and five-hundred-dollar suits. Jealous that he had a drinking habit that consumed not only 20 percent of his brain but about 15 percent of his income each month. Jealous because Colonel Vinh Ho could afford a hundred-dollar pair of Vaurnet sunglasses that, if circumstances were different, he’d like to rip off his face—eyes, nose, and all. Jerry guessed what he was really jealous about was how he would look in those shoes and suit and sunglasses. The thought that kept coming back to him time and again, the only image his brain could conjure up, was that of a pig in a tuxedo. What was worse, on closer examination, was the pig had his face and the tuxedo fit him like a size-ten condom on a size-one cock.

  Putting their differences aside for the moment, Jerry threw out a morsel of information for Vinh to digest. “I’m the lead investigator on what the newspapers have dubbed the Little Saigon murders.”

  “Then you and I have some common ground after all, Detective. I have instructed my people to put their ears on the track, so to speak, and get whatever information they can on these grisly killings. It had been my intention to handle this on behalf of my people, who seem to be the sole victims of the killer’s interest. Now that we have reached an understanding of sorts, I will gladly share any information I have with you.”

  “I appreciate that Colonel, but be advised, if you take the law into your own hands, I am prepared to deal quite harshly with you and your organization.”

  Vinh Ho stood and offered his hand, which Jerry took as a sign that the meeting was over and they had an agreement. He held onto Jerry’s hand tightly, his dark glasses glaring at him like goggles on an alien life form. “You may also be advised, Detective, I will work with you in solving these murders, but stay out of my personal business.”

  Jerry understood what Vinh had said was a threat, which he didn’t appreciate, but for now, he would honor Vinh’s wishes if it would help him solve the murders. “Say hello for me to Mr. McConnell the next time you talk to him,” he said as he looked for some reaction.

  Vinh Ho’s cheeks raised into a grin, then disappeared behind his shades, confirming Jerry’s suspicion.

  NINETEEN

  He loved the jungle. The humid heat made his body sweat profusely, soaking his cotton clothing with his male odor, and turning him into the consummate alpha male. It was his maleness, his machismo, that turned him into a killing machine when he got in the jungle. On the city sidewalks, he was a bit clumsy at times, but here, in the jungle, he walked with the stealth and cunning of a panther. He glided through the broad-leafed vegetation like a sailboat cutting through the water on a glassy lake. He melded into the foliage like a chameleon, but could snap a man’s spine in two in the twinkling of an eye. The jungle was where he became a real man, and the jungle was his preferred terrain.

  The pilot would stay overnight with the plane while Gunner met with Nam Phat. He would arrange to have the shipment of opium poppies weighed and ready for transport to the camp of Phu Ho. Nam Phat and Phu Ho did not particularly like each other, but they respected their business arrangement and the power of Phu Ho’s Uncle Vinh.

  Nam Phat sent a guide, as he always did, to meet the plane and escort Gunner to the campsite. It was necessary, even for a man as jungle-wise as Gunner, because Nam Phat constantly moved his camp to avoid detection. Gunner appreciated Nam Phat’s military prowess, thinking, That is why the old general has managed to stay out of the hands of his enemies for so long. There must have been a hundred young Thais out there that would give their right nut to be sitting on the old man’s throne, but year after year, Nam Phat reigned supreme over his jungle empire. His methods of retaining the loyalty of his troops was simple: they admired his military prowess, they were well armed and their families well fed, and they were paid handsomely for their loyalty. Most of all, though, it was fear that kept them in line.

  They had walked for three hours before Gunner’s astute sense of smell picked up the aroma of smoke from the camp’s cooking fires. It wouldn’t be long now before they reached the encampment. Perhaps one hour at the most. The usual sounds of the jungle—the macaws screeching and the monkeys chattering—faded quickly, telling him that they were getting real close. He reflected on the way soundlessness could indicate to razor-fine senses that people are afoot. He remembered that he’d used that technique many times in Nam to identify enemy movement through his area of operation. His senses were the key to his survival, and he always listened to them. His senses were screaming out to him now. It was time to feed the bulldog. He was hungry and nothing would stop him from getting fed when he was ravenous like he was now. Better to feed the bulldog now than face him later, he thought.

  The smell of the smoke wafted stronger in the moist, thick air as they wound their way down a path that had been walked recently by other humans. Gunner looked down and saw the vegetative mat that had been crushed—ever so slightly, but crushed, he knew—by human footfalls. He knew the difference between a game trail and a GAME TRAIL. He noted with pleasure a broad leaf stem that had been sliced through with a machete, its sap running down the stem in a transparent thin line onto the soft ground. He ran his fingers over the cut, felt the cool liquid, then placed his fingers to his lips and sucked the bittersweet nectar into his mouth. Yes, they were close, he and his guide, but not yet close enough to be detected by the outpost guards he knew would be watching for their arrival.

  He felt his other self rise from within him as he crept slowly forward until his guide was just a pace in front of him. Get the hell away from me, you chickenshit son of a bitch, he thought, as the voices of his stronger self took control. The maniacal rigor-like grin that always accompanied his inner voice contorted his face as he stared hard at the back of his guide’s neck. He reached deftly under his shirt collar and removed the thin piano-wire garrote that he liked to use in place of his trusty knife in certain situations. He regretted that he would not be able to see the fear in his guide’s eyes, as he would have to take him quietly from behind, but some things had to be given up when the ultimate pleasure was involved.

  As quickly as a bamboo viper strikes, he looped the wire, reached forward, slipped it over the guide’s head, and slipped it down his neck. Instantaneously, he jerked the wire taut, rolled the handles over his own head, and pulled his victim onto his back. He marveled at how little his victim weighed as he died on his back. Gunner walked off the trail into a bamboo thicket, the gurgling sounds of the dying guide resonating in his ears. The guide’s straining legs abruptly stopped jerking. Gunner dropped the body to the jungle floor. He retrieved his wire, cleaned it, and replaced it under his collar.

  He looked closely at the Thai guerrilla fighter that lay in front of him in the thick jungle. He felt the same thrill and exhilaration he felt in Nam after a firefight. It was not the battle so much that thrilled him—sure, the physical combat always made him feel good, but what really made him feel euphoric was looking at the bodies. It didn’t matter to him whether the bodies were VC or American. Bodies were bodies, just more cordwood for a shallow grave or a fancy stateside military cemetery. He always noticed that the bodies had two different looks on their faces, fear or peace. What he got off on was the Christian ethic of rapture. He had known many self-proclaimed Christians that had gone to their end with the look of fear on their faces. He often laughed, sometimes out loud and sometimes to himself, about that dichotomy of human nature.

  The guide had the look of fear, with a little surprise mixed in, on his face. The wire had left a perfectly cut path, slicing through the guide’s carotids and windpipe. Gunner reached down and tore open the man’s shirt. He laughed to himself as he plucked a gold crucifix from his chest and put it into his pocket for a souvenir. I wonder if he enjoyed the rapture, he thought.

  He had done it again, guided by the voices, and once agai
n was able to see the entire act from above. It was nice being able to control out-of-body behavior and choose the libido that you preferred. Many people couldn’t. He was thankful he’d died once and lived to think about it.

  Gunner found his way back to the main trail and, after walking for twenty more minutes, reached the outpost. The guards looked surprised that he was alone, but led him down the rest of the trail to the jungle compound of Nam Phat. The old gentleman was seated on the porch of a thatched hut and stood briefly as they approached. He waved at Gunner, who acknowledged the greeting by waving back. “Where is the guide I sent you, my old friend?”

  “I was surprised that no guide was at the airstrip to meet us, so I just waited. After an hour, I decided to come look for you myself. I found your trail, and after a four-hour walk, I was spotted by your most observant outpost guards.”

  “You are like a jungle cat, my friend. I have no idea where the guide is that I sent for you, but when I find him, he will be severely punished.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Nam Phat. What is important is that I am here, and we have business to conduct.”

  The press had relegated the Little Saigon murders to page four of the metro section. That left Jerry with some breathing room, unless another body was discovered. In light of his suspicions, he hoped that the murderer had gone underground for a while so he would have time to develop some solid information that would lead him to the killer. It was also nice to not have Captain Davis on his ass every time he walked into the detective squad room. It had been a couple of days since he had contacted Interpol requesting information on Gunner McConnell. He’d also asked for information into the activities of Colonel Vinh Ho from 1970 through the present. He wasn’t sure how this all tied together, but wasn’t going to leave any avenues untrod.

  The 44 Magnum was usually a welcome respite from the tedious daytime activities of a murder investigation. Tonight, it was all decorated with crepe paper and condoms arranged like balloons on the ceiling. The back bar mirror had a sign that read “LANA LOVES BOB.”

  “Yo, Mondo,” Jerry said over the noisy din. “What’s going on here tonight? Looks like a wedding.”

  “You got it, Jerry. Lana Love-Lips is marrying the salesman. You remember, his name’s Bob.”

  “Doesn’t Bob know that Lana has the same equipment as he does?”

  “Sure he does, but he says Lana gives the best head in town and if you roll him over he’s also the best piece of ass. How can you argue with that kind of logic?”

  “Who’s presiding over the nuptials, Mondo, Reverend Queen of the New Faith Church of Homosexual Freedom?”

  “How’d you guess, my man? And instead of the wedding march, you know, ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ well, they decided on an old rock-and-roll favorite.”

  “What might that be?”

  “‘Rock around the Cock,’” Mondo said, almost falling over with laughter.

  “Can I buy a drink in this place, or has the happy couple rented it for the night?”

  “Drinks are on Bob, amigo! What can I get you, scotch on the rocks?” Mondo broke out laughing again, hardly able to control himself.

  “Scotch sounds good to me, Mondo. Hey, have you seen my buddy Willy Beal tonight?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him for a couple of nights now, not since the last time you two were here. I don’t know if you know it, but he was real stoned. I think he was using smack, shooting up in the bathroom, you know.”

  “You got a problem with that, Mondo, or was that blurb just informational?”

  “Hey, no offense, Jerry, just letting you know the skinny on your friend. But it ain’t good for our reputation if people know there are heavy drug users in here.”

  “You ever smelled your crapper on a heavy night, Mondo? There were times when I thought about shooting up before I went to the can. You know, float in, float out. Drugs slow down your rate of breathing. A guy might be able to run in, find a vacant stool, take a shit, and wipe himself without taking a breath. No offense, amigo.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to piss you off, Jerry. Here, have another drink. This one’s on me.” He pushed another scotch in Jerry’s direction. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Jerry, you know that.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance, Mondo.” Just then the happy couple emerged from the street and came into the bar. Bob was beaming from ear to ear, sporting a new hairpiece that covered his frontal chrome-dome. Lana looked lovely in a platinum-blonde wig and Betty Boop eye makeup. Jerry found this the sickest thing he’d seen since he last went to Tijuana and saw a bar girl take on a donkey. He had needed a diversion, but this wasn’t what he had in mind.

  “Hey, Jerry, can I get you another drink?”

  Jerry looked at Mondo, then down at his empty glass. Shit, he was sucking up the booze like a vacuum cleaner demonstration at a distillery. He thought about Willy and Preacher for a second, and what drink had done to those boys. “Aw, what the hell, Mondo, get me another.” So much for conscience.

  “Hey, Jerry, you really missed a good party last night. Bob had his bachelor’s party over at the Horney Goose Tavern. What a gas, and you should have seen the male stripper.”

  “You mean Bob had a male stripper at his bachelor’s party? If Lana ever hears about it, he’ll be pissed.”

  “I don’t think so, amigo. It was quite a scene. Bob was so drunk he went down on the guy. He tore his fucking G-string off and devoured him. Lana’s a lucky guy to have such a good husband.”

  “This scene is getting too sick for me, Mondo. Say goodnight to the happy couple for me. Wish them all my best, and Mondo, if this is turning into a gay bar, I won’t be in again.”

  “Not to worry, amigo, as long as I still like girls, this place will be as straight as my prick at a Playmate convention.”

  The sun had set over L.A. as Jerry walked out of the 44 Mag and into the street. He needed to walk and think, and the noise that had filled his ears slowly slipped away as his feet robotically made tracks toward Little Saigon. He felt burned out. He had used to enjoy having a drink after work with a few friends. The noise and chatter had never annoyed him before, just like a person’s sexual preference had never annoyed him before. But tonight, he was annoyed. Mondo wasn’t funny, the 44 Mag was a drag, and the two fairies getting married made him want to puke.

  He needed a vacation. When was the last time he had had a real one? Five or six years ago, after he broke up with Mona. Simon Cohen had recommended that Jerry take a sabbatical and not think about the police department or his broken marriage. Cohen gave him some medication to help him forget and suggested that he go lie on a beach, somewhere far away. So Jerry went to a travel agent and booked a trip to a place that he thought would be poetic justice for his barren marriage to Mona: the Virgin Islands.

  Jerry had been to St. Thomas many years before, in 1966. He had been on maneuvers in close-by Puerto Rico. Their unit was sent in to test the defensive capabilities of the Eighty-Second Airborne. The Airborne had thrown up a defensive perimeter around the Loquillo Rainforest. Jerry’s assignment was to infiltrate and extricate a political detainee from the place where he was imprisoned and return him to an undisclosed location in San Juan. It sounded like a dangerous and difficult mission on the face of it, until you remembered Jerry and his comrades were going up against the Eighty-Deuce. Their motto was “The Deuces Never Loses.” From what Jerry and his comrades had observed, they should have changed that to “The Deuces Always Snoozes.”

  It was a piece of cake. Four-man team: Willy, Blackjack, Blaster, and Jerry. They leased a taxicab for the day and posed as civilians. They wore bright flowered shirts, drank a lot of beer, and had cameras around their necks. The cab reached the perimeter of the Rainforest and an Eighty-Deuce trooper with an M-1 Garand rifle took one look in their window and passed them through. They didn’t even get a chance to use their phony ID. Jerry thought at the time, America’s housewives can sleep soundly, just knowing the Eighty-Deuce is protecting t
heir shores. Yeah, sleep soundly, ladies: the 82nd is.

  They drove the cab through the checkpoint and found themselves right behind a deuce-and-a-half Army truck. It was Blaster who noticed the cases of C-Rations in the back of it. He reasoned, and rightly so, that the C’s were to feed the troops and others taking part in the exercise.

  Since they were given a general area where they would find their man, Blaster said, “Why not just follow the chow wagon around until he stops at our objective’s front door?”

  It was a good plan, saving everyone days of surveillance. They all agreed.

  Two hours later, the truck stopped in front of a ramshackle hovel and a bearded man in a white, polyester leisure suit stepped onto the porch. The driver got out of the truck and got a case of C’s from the back, dropped it on the porch, and without saying a word, drove off in the direction of the main road. Willy reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a Polaroid of our man, and compared it to Leisure Suit Lonnie. “That’s our boy,” he declared, and we jumped out of the car and picked him up.

  It was a little more difficult to get Lonnie out of the Rainforest perimeter. Just before they reached the checkpoint, they put Lonnie into the trunk and told him to sit tight and be quiet. Blaster, disguised as the cabbie, pulled up to the checkpoint and engaged in conversation the same trooper that had let them into the AO in the first place. Collectively, the team had a tough time keeping a straight face as Blaster extolled the exploits of the brave soldiers of the 82nd Airborne. “I thought you were going to ask the grunt for an autograph,” Willy said, as they drove off laughing so hard that their sides began to hurt.

  Their mission was so successful that Daiwe Jackson gave them a three-day R&R in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. Jerry reported back to Roosevelt Roads Naval Station in Puerto Rico three weeks later. He was drunk, out of uniform, and two and a half weeks AWOL, but he told such a good story to the CO that all the CO did was take one stripe away from him and put him on guard duty for a month. Yeah, he needed a vacation, but he didn’t want to visit the Virgin Islands again.