Frank put down his field glasses and fired up his car engine. He drove quickly to the spot where the carpet roll had been dumped. He got out of his car and looked over the side of the bridge. The water was shallow, with a slow current that hugged the watergrass. The moon lit up the surface like a black mirror reflecting a beam of light, and allowed Frank good night vision, even without his binoculars. The carpet had landed on its edge and had begun to unroll. As it fell flat, unwound, and began to drift slowly along the bank, he saw the body.
Frank Liu was panic-stricken. He ran to the end of the bridge in an attempt to race the current. He tumbled down the embankment, coming to rest at the water’s edge, just as the carpet began to sink from view. He saw a hand just above the water’s surface. He plunged into the tepid water and found an arm which he tugged on until he had her on shore. He knew before he saw her that it was Rosy. Somewhere they’d made a mistake and it cost her life. He blamed himself, but he knew the risks involved in a cop-informant relationship and so had she. Rosy was well paid to take those risks and had assumed them gratefully. Nevertheless, it saddened Frank to find her like this. It also bolstered his hatred for Gunner McConnell. Frank knew it was McConnell who killed her. He also knew that Gunner probably enjoyed it. He wanted to kill the bastard now, but that would have to wait. Frank took one last look at Miss Rosy, then pulled her back out into the mainstream, and watched as her body slowly slipped under the dark water.
TWENTY-FIVE
Willy wanted a drink really bad. The shakes were coming out on a daily basis, playing with his head, but he was able to shoo them away and continue his observation of the political activities in Little Saigon. He was a man on a mission. He was a man who was able to put his personal demons aside when more important issues arose. The political aspirations of Colonel Vinh Ho were just such an objective. As each day went by, Willy’s system dried out a little more. Sure, the demons got worse. They were with him constantly, always before his eyes and tearing at his belly. His skin crawled with the unseen but always present vermin. None of this deterred him. Willy Beal was on a mission, and he fought best when his back was against a wall. The booze and the drugs supplied by the man across the street had put him back in this concrete jungle. His back was against a wall and, as his survival instinct kicked in, he was sure he’d have to fight his way out.
His plan was simple. Dry out for a few days, maybe a week. Get reasonably healthy. Continue to observe the Colonel’s patterns. Find a way into his campaign headquarters, the Club Saigon. Kill the motherfucker.
A simple plan for a simple mind. Anyone that knew what Willy Beal had learned back in Nam would never have said he had a simple mind. But twenty-odd years of drinking can reduce your gray matter to the consistency and absorbency of a sponge. In Nam, Willy had become known for his calculating mind. He would turn ordinary, mundane operations into campaigns of colossal complexity. Simple hasty ambushes became works of killing art that would have made Vincent van Gogh proud.
It was Van Gogh that cut off his own ear and sent it to his girlfriend as a symbol of his love. It was that act that inspired Willy Beal to comment to the team one night about the more than symbolic gesture. It was not long after that, Willy remembered, that Gunner McConnell came up with his version of the Van Gogh incident. The team ear jar. The ear jar contained an ear from the commanding officer of each engagement the team fought. Kind of like the jar you see on the back bar at most taverns. The ones with the pig’s feet in the pickling solution. The only difference was, the team jar contained ears.
At first, everyone went along with it. Then one afternoon, Major Kowalski from MACV headquarters was on an inspection tour. He stopped by the “A” Team, and after meeting with their First Sergeant, he sat down in the team house to have a couple of beers before his chopper was scheduled to go back to Pleiku. Well, one beer turned into two. Two into four. And, before he knew what hit him, Kowalski was three sheets to the wind. To be more correct, he was three sheets to the wind and hungry.
Willy was smiling now as he remembered the details. Gunner was tending bar for everyone at the time and he reached back for the pig’s feet but got the wrong jar. Kowalski reached into the jar without looking, expecting to get a cloven hoof, but instead, he popped a wrinkled appendage into his mouth. Kowalski was not known for his sensitive palate, so he chewed and chewed. Willy remembered the whole team was in the room, all trying hard to stifle a laugh. Kowalski chewed and chewed, turning the ear into gristle, but unable to masticate it enough to swallow the tough morsel. “Toughest fucking pig’s foot I ever ate,” he choked out as the team continued to hold their guffaws.
It was then that Gunner stood aside, revealing the two jars which stood side by side. “Anyone here want a pig’s foot?” he said, holding the foot jar aloft. Willy remembered it like it was yesterday.
Willy had piped up first. “Yeah, Gunner, I’ll have a pig’s foot since the Major here is having so much trouble digesting the ears.” Willy reached into the foot jar and started sucking on a pig’s foot. Kowalski doubled over and puked on his own boots. The jar disappeared shortly after Captain Jackson got a terse memo from MACV Command regarding body parts. Willy thought about it as he mused over the incident, and what had later happened to the team ear jar.
It was eleven a.m. and another smog-choked day in the inner city of Los Angeles. Willy always prided himself on knowing exactly what time it was. His latest cheap timepiece, which would have to do until the NiCad battery went dead, was found in a dumpster one night along with a half-full pint of bourbon whiskey. The plastic band chafed his wrist, but it was a small price to pay for knowing what time it was. For sure, he’d have given his right nut to have some of that whiskey now, but he knew he had to stay straight for this operation.
Willy sat behind his cardboard box fortress, staring straight ahead at the front entrance to the Club Saigon as he peered intently out the holes he’d cut. He demonstrated amazing agility as he scratched the back of his neck, his lower back, and behind his shoulder, in an effort to ward off the alcohol-induced creatures that were now attacking his malodorous body with unsympathetic abandon. He’d have to take a bath, he thought, if he could find a leaky fire hydrant. But Willy Beal was on a mission and nothing, no matter how small, could distract him from his reconnaissance of the restaurant.
The long black Cadillac limo pulled curbside, and the lithe Oriental chauffeur got out and opened the back door. She was dressed in a tight, short, black leather skirt, a black halter top and black cap. Her muscular calves were accentuated by the spike-heeled shoes she wore. The old man probably walked with a limp for an hour after riding behind her in the car, he thought. Willy smiled to himself as he wrote a message in his small ring-bound notebook, and noted precisely the arrival time. CHECK TO SEE IF VINH HO LIMPS WHEN HE GETS OUT OF LIMO. “Ah, the candidate arrives at his headquarters,” mumbled Willy. He continued to watch, then checked his watch, noting the arrival time in his notebook. Colonel Ho entered the restaurant after being met by two of his musclebound henchmen. Willy put a check mark next to a similar entry made the day before.
The girl got back into the car and quickly closed the door. Willy couldn’t see what she was doing. The limo had black-tinted windows all the way around, and it was impossible to see inside once the car doors were closed. The car continued to sit in front of the restaurant just like it had the day before and the day before that. Willy put another check mark in his rapidly filling notebook.
It was noon. Willy had just looked at his plastic watch then down at his notebook. It was time for the VC to visit Colonel Vinh Ho. Just like clockwork, Chou Lai appeared from around the corner and walked up to the limo. He knocked on the window. The driver looked out at him, rolled down the window, and gave him some money. The VC then passed a plastic envelope partially filled with white powder, through the open car window. The window closed and Chou went into the restaurant. Willy wrote in his notebook, 12:00 PM. VC SOLD DRUGS (COCAINE I THINK) TO CHINK DRIVER. ENTERED CLUB
AT 12:10.
Mac was staring hard at “Jack.” They continued to talk about the possibility of a small arms sale as Mac tried to probe his cover. “You sure look familiar to me, Jack. I just can’t place it, but it’ll come to me eventually. I might have an outlet for several cases of M-16s, a few cases of LAWs, and a couple of M-79 grenade launchers. Can you supply me with those?”
“I sure can, Mac, and at a good price.” Jerry knew that it was only a matter of time until he was made—hopefully not made as Jerry Andrews, LAPD, but as Jerry Andrews of A-255.
It was time for him to come clean, he thought as he stared intensely at his ex-teammate. He leaned across the table as the music blared from the bandstand. “It’s me, Gunner. You never forget a face. Look closely. A-255, Central Highlands, South Vietnam.”
Gunner’s face lit up like a Roman candle as both hands came across the table and grabbed Jerry’s ears. He pulled Jerry’s head forward, making Jerry’s feet leave the floor, and kissed the top of Jerry’s head. “Jerry, Jerry Andrews. How the hell you been, boy?”
Jerry pulled back from his grasp. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me, Gunner. The macho assholes that you let in this place will think you’ve gone queer.”
“They know better than that, Jerry. What’s this Jack Dorn shit?”
“I’ve gone underground for personal reasons, and had to take on an alias. I’m sure you’ve had to do that from time to time.”
“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to butt into your business. How long you been selling arms, Jerry?”
“Not long. I just got back from south of Central America. I was in charge of security for an outfit that logged and burned out the rainforest. It was a front for a government operation. The feds were in bed with the South Americans. They were up to their eyeballs in it but couldn’t let the American public know. It was a real sensitive issue with the environmentalists and an election was coming up . . . and we both know the lengths politicians will go to stay in office. Well, I got onto it and the feds found out. They weren’t sure if I’d sell the information and the photos I’d taken to the highest bidder. They put me on their top ten hit list, so I split before some trigger-happy South American commandos came after the reward money.”
“The old mercenary life’s just not as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be, is it, Jerry?”
“You can say that again.”
“I’ve got a really good thing going here,” Gunner said cautiously. “If it wasn’t for being on the team, I’d have never found this niche. Of course, I’d have to check with my partner, but what say we talk about you coming into my operation?”
“Who’s your partner?” Jerry said, feigning ignorance.
“You know the guy. He was an officer with ARVN. He had his fingers in the NCO Club pie and had a string of his own places. He’s very diversified now. The CIA got him out of Nam in ‘75, just before the fall of the Saigon embassy.”
It was easy to tell he was talking about Colonel Vinh Ho. Jerry was becoming increasingly aware that in order to survive, he would have to pretend to have a farm-boy mentality. As they talked, Jerry noticed that Gunner’s survival instincts never let up. He was constantly reading Jerry’s facial expressions, looking for the slightest chink in his armor. His eyes had a vacant gaze, as if watching Jerry’s lips move from a distant planet.
“He wasn’t that ARVN officer that invited the team to Pleiku that time for a party? You remember, that was the night you offed that ARVN out back of the Club Saigon and we stashed his body in a fifty-five-gallon drum.”
“Yeah, those were the days all right,” he said without acknowledging the Colonel or the event. “We kicked some ass and took some names in those days, didn’t we, Jerry?”
The fifth round of drinks arrived at their table. By that time both vets were beginning to slur their speech. Jerry looked over at his table across the room and noticed that Yin and Yang had found a couple of mercenaries that were interested in them.
He turned back to Gunner, who had just finished his drink. Gunner looked deep in thought. I know where he is without asking, Jerry thought. I go there sometimes myself. It never takes much to send me there. It’s a place that lies in the past. It’s a mindset in the jungle of time. Jerry looked into his face, saw the thousand-mile stare, and knew he was there. He didn’t want to disturb him. Jerry knew that when he himself was there, he always wanted to be alone. And when he came back, he would be alone, usually in sweat-drenched clothes, wondering where he’d just been.
The first time Jerry had noticed it was when he got his walking papers from the Army. It was in Oakland, California. Vietnam vets didn’t come home to any parades. Far from it: returning vets usually had to run a gantlet of sign-carrying long haired hippies that weren’t fit to shine their shoes. Shit. Jerry knew a lot of guys just like Gunner that never came home at all, although in Gunner’s mind, Bangkok was as close to a real home as he’d ever had. He never talked much about his stateside home. All Jerry ever knew about that was the way, as Gunner told it, he constantly fought with his father.
Come to think of it, Jerry thought, Gunner may have been one of the lucky ones. Looking at him now, deep in thought in another place and time, Jerry wasn’t sure. It looked like he had the same problems everyone had had after Nam. Flashbacks and not being able to sleep at night . . . recurring night sweats . . . a short fuse . . . no regard for authority figures . . . the possibility of cancer from Agent Orange . . . and the list went on and on.
Jerry, he realized, was in the minority. At least he had worked his way through most of it. He had gotten a good job which turned into a career. But what about the guy sitting across from him? From Gunner’s perspective, he was on top of the world. Girls, all the booze he could drink, manager of a Bangkok nightclub, and, Jerry suspected, up to his asshole in the arms and drug trade. He wasn’t far removed from the person he’d been when they’d been on the team together. That was the thought that bothered Jerry. If Gunner is the same guy that I knew on the team, then I could be in deep kimchee. He fooled me once and I can’t let him fool me again. The next time Gunner fills a body bag, I have to make sure it’s really him in there.
The look slowly faded from Gunner’s face and he came back to the present. “Sorry, Jerry,” he said blinking the glazed-over look from his eyes. “I guess I left the present for a few minutes. Must be the booze.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Gunner. I’ve been there before. Sometimes there’s a hell of a lot more reality in the jungle.”
“You know what they say, Jerry? It’s a jungle out there. That’s reality to me.”
“Look, good buddy, I’d like to shoot the shit with you all night, but I see that a couple of local mercenaries are picking up on my girls.” Jerry pointed toward the booth with Yin and Yang, who kept going down on the guys while Gunner and Jerry watched. First one would disappear beneath the table, then come up for air as the other would disappear. It looked like they were bobbing for apples at a Halloween party.
“Try not to start anything with the boys, Jerry. They’re just having a bit of fun. I’ll send George over if you want. He’s really good at defusing problems like this. Why don’t you meet your friends by the door?”
“As you like, Gunner. When can we get together again to do some business and tell some more war stories?”
“I’ll be out of town for a few days, Jerry. Pop into the club this coming Saturday night, and we’ll tell a few war stories and do the town.”
About an hour after he entered the club, the VC exited, walking fast, as if he was being dispatched on an important assignment. He was met at the corner by the same black Cadillac that Willy first saw in front of the Delta Hotel. Willy noted the time of departure in his notebook and jotted down the word on the caddy’s personalized license plate. SAIGON-2. He also noted that the plate on the limo Vinh Ho used was SAIGON-1.
Willy settled back into the cool confines of his cardboard kingdom and waited for the sun to go down. He gnawed on a cheese sandwic
h he had stolen from the momma san and poppa san store. He vowed never to steal food from them again until they got some decent vittles that didn’t taste like cardboard he was living in
Willy laid down after his lunch of dumpster pudding and took a nap. He knew from his observations that the VC would not return to the Club Saigon until later at night. He also knew that the old man would stay inside the Club Saigon, tending to his business enterprises, until midnight. The chick in the leather skirt would stay in the limo until Vinh Ho came back. She usually left around 6 p.m. to get something to eat, but returned at about eight to wait for the old man.
These were the absolutes that Willy had found out during his reconnaissance. To Willy, these were three categorical activities, three dogmatic inarguable truths, and he built his activities away from the cardboard castle around them. These three activities, and only these activities, told Willy Beal when he could sleep, eat, shit, and scratch his ass. He knew if he’d still been on the sauce, he’d even be able to drink during this lapse in time. What he mostly did, though, was think.
He thought about Nam. He thought about the ARVN. He thought about the team: Jerry, Preacher, and especially Gunner. He thought about JFK, LBJ, and the rest of the fucking politicians that helped make him the way he was. But mostly he thought about Vinh Ho. Vinh Ho the officer. Vinh Ho the NCO Club organizer. Vinh Ho the pimp. Vinh Ho the drug pusher. And now he was spending more and more time thinking about Vinh Ho the US Representative. His inner voice kept saying over and over again, “Mr. Speaker, I am pleased to present the first Vietnamese member of this prestigious body, the honorable Mr. Vinh Ho.” The applause in Willy’s mind went on for what seemed like hours.
Club Saigon Page 22
