The old man had gotten over the shock of being awakened early, but the shock of reading that his beloved driver and part-time concubine had been brutally killed by the “Slasher” was too much for him. Tears poured out from beneath his dark glasses. Jimmy moved to his side, offering him his handkerchief. Vinh did not take the offered cloth. He asked for a drink of water instead. “Please, Jimmy. Some water and my medication. It is on the nightstand.”
Jimmy walked gingerly to the nightstand and began pouring a glass of water. He found a bottle marked “nitroglycerin tablets” and brought them over to Vinh.
“Please open the bottle for me, Jimmy. I don’t know what’s wrong. My left arm feels numb this morning.” Jimmy looked down at his boss. Vinh Ho was sweating profusely and had difficulty breathing. Jimmy opened the pill bottle and removed one of the tablets, handing it in the direction of his boss. Vinh took the pill in his feeble, shaking, right hand. He tried to put it into his mouth, but as he did, he experienced a seizure and the tablet dropped unceremoniously to the floor and under the bed. He clutched at his chest and began to turn a grayish pallor.
“Jesus Christ,” yelled Jimmy. “Nguyen. Call 911. The boss is having a heart attack.” Nguyen ran for the phone while Jimmy fumbled with the bottle of tablets, finally getting one out and stuffing it under the old man’s tongue like he’d seen done in an old Ben Casey rerun. “Hurry with that ambulance, Nguyen, I think we’re losing him.”
“They’re on the way. Should be here in a couple of minutes. Is the boss going to make it?”
“If they get here quick, he might have a chance, but he sure looks bad to me. You better call Mr. McConnell at the club and tell him what happened. The boss told me they were supposed to spend the day together.”
The ambulance backed up to the door and the attendants rushed into the suite. They began CPR and attached an oxygen mask to Vinh Ho’s face. They quickly took some information from Jimmy and put the Colonel onto a gurney. “Where are you taking him?” shouted Jimmy.
“Santa Monica General Hospital is the closest. We’ll take him there first.”
“May I ride along with him? I’m sure he’d want it that way,” he said, not waiting for an answer before jumping into the back of the ambulance.
Nguyen Van Dong finished talking with Gunner McConnell, telling him that Vinh Ho had been transported to Santa Monica General Hospital after suffering a heart attack. Gunner told Nguyen that he had been aware of something happening in the alley, but had not ventured outside or responded to knocking at the back entrance to the club. “It’s a sad day when a nice piece of pussy like Lin gets herself greased,” he said to Nguyen. “Get your ass in gear and pick me up at the front entrance in fifteen minutes. Make sure you’re in the clear and no cops see you. Honk twice and have the passenger door open for me. We need to get to the hospital pronto and make sure Uncle Vinh is safe. You understand my directions?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. McConnell. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Look for the white Cadillac convertible.”
Gunner threw on the rest of his clothes and went downstairs. He walked into the kitchen and peered out into the alley. The police had thrown up yellow crime scene tape barricades and were still photographing the alley. What a waste of good pussy, he thought as he walked back up front to wait for his ride. The old man’s chances of being elected to Congress had probably gone down the crapper like yesterday’s toilet paper. His younger opponent would no doubt harp on Vinh Ho’s longevity, the stress involved in public office, and other health-related topics. Most important for Gunner was making sure the organization stayed healthier than its ailing chairman and then finding the dickhead that was sending the postcards. He looked at his watch. Five minutes had passed since he talked with Nguyen.
THIRTY-SIX
It had been another rough night in the closet for Willy Beal. His head pounded harder than raw cow meat being pulverized into a burger, making it impossible for him to get to sleep. More than once, he had dared to sneak out into the commercial kitchen and make himself a sandwich, using the leftover French bread and some cold cuts that he knew were stored in the huge walk-in refrigerator/freezer. He noticed each time he went out how quiet the restaurant was. Apparently, No Uncle Vinh Ho, no business. Oh well, he thought, I can wait as long as I have to, to get to the old man.
He thought his headaches might be caused by the constant darkness in the closet. He stuffed the space under the door with rags and used his night light, but that didn’t help either. Booze! That was the problem. His body needed booze and the headache was the physical manifestation of his withdrawal. Willy clicked off the light and pulled himself into the back of the closet. If he could just get some sleep, he knew everything would be all right when he woke up. How many times had the headaches come on with the blinding pain of a searing knife, and how many times had he woken up the next day, not even able to remember what had happened? His mind had been lost in time and time had been lost, unremembered by his mind.
He couldn’t remember exactly when the unremembering phase of his life started, and it scared him a little to not be in total control . . . to not know where he had been and what he had done. A counselor once told him it was the booze, but the part of his brain that was not yet pickled remembered that the memory loss had started much earlier. Perhaps even as early as when he was in Nam.
Stop thinking about this abstract shit, he told himself, it’ll just make the headaches worse. His nose picked up a familiar scent. It wasn’t the scent of Oriental cooking, with its overabundance of monosodium glutamate or that stinky fish oil they use that touched his nasal hairs and was redirected toward the olfactory sensory devices in his brain. What he smelled was human . . . human and familiar. Willy may have forgotten a face from time to time, but his years in the jungle taught him never to forget an aroma.
The guys on the team used to taunt him about his uncanny olfactory ability. One night Preacher had set up the ultimate test. He had five team members fart into separate paper bags and marked each one of them with the names of the perpetrators. Willy was blindfolded for the test. Preacher opened each bag under Willy’s nose and his twitching appendage correctly identified the first four. When he was sniffing the fifth bag he commented, “This fart smells so bad that it must have come from a real piece of shit.” Then he identified it as the bag with Gunner McConnell’s name on it. With the exception of Gunner, everyone had laughed and marveled at Willy’s ability to differentiate scents.
Willy looked down at his watch, noting that it was nine forty-five a.m. He knew that it was Sunday and the restaurant would be closed until two p.m. He bent forward and looked through the door’s keyhole. He saw the man looking out the back door from behind, and wished he’d turn around. The hair on the back of Willy’s neck picked up. He felt like a mongrel getting ready to fight. I know who you are, he thought to himself. Turn around, you shitbag, so I can see how the last twenty-two years have treated you. Sweat poured from his pores and dripped down the front of Willy’s already sweat-stained shirt. His eyes became laser beacons, anxiously waiting for their turn to identify the man whose scent was so familiar to Willy’s brain.
“Turn around, you son of a bitch. Let me look at you one more time,” he mumbled under his breath. The man just stood there, in the reduced light of the empty kitchen, looking out the window, his back toward Willy. Willy’s nose picked up and twitched violently at the odor that drifted under the closet door. Willy smiled to himself. He didn’t need to see the face. He knew without a doubt that the man facing the window was Gunner McConnell. The man had let an air biscuit fly while standing there, and Willy never forgot a smell, especially a smell as repugnant as one of Gunner’s farts.
Willy thought this might be a good time to take Gunner out. After all, his back was turned toward him. He was reasonably sure that the twenty feet of open kitchen could be crossed silently. Willy felt in his coat pocket for his knife. The handle caressed his moist palm, giving him a feeling of security and invincibility.
But
Willy knew that Gunner was no fool. He had the same jungle-born sensory pathways that they all had. Why, at this very moment, even with his back turned, Gunner probably could feel Willy’s eyes boring into him like a pencil-thin laser in the dark night that was this room. Willy knew that Gunner could feel the danger, feel another presence in the room, and was probably daring that presence to attack. Gunner was that kind of guy. That’s how he managed to live so long in his chosen profession. “Life after Nam,” that’s what Blaster had called it in one of his team house seminars.
Willy decided that the time wasn’t quite right and he settled back down. He made himself invisible again in the back of his closet. It was the best of all worlds for him. Gunner was staying in the upstairs apartment of the Club Saigon. He was sure of that, and he would verify his assumption later, after he was sure Gunner had gone out. Soon he would take out Vinh Ho and Gunner McConnell. Soon he would avenge the death of his friend, Preacher.
It wasn’t difficult for Willy to find the room where Gunner was staying. He just looked for the one with the bent paper match in the door frame. He would remember to put it back when he left. He jimmied the door open with his knife and went directly to the phone table. A pad of paper and a sharpened pencil sat next to the phone. The pad was blank but Willy noticed the depressions in the paper. He rubbed the pencil lead across the paper, ever so lightly, until the impression jumped out at him. Santa Monica General Hospital. cardiac care unit, Room 410. Willy tore off the top sheet of paper and left the room, replacing the match on his way down the stairs.
Jerry’s radio snapped to life, waking him up. “Unit 521, this is base.”
He fumbled for his handset, the fog of the long night of surveillance momentarily clouding his manual dexterity. “This is 521, over.”
“Change to TAC-2, Channel 21,” came the voice on the other end of his radio.
He had to think hard for a second. What the hell is TAC-2, Channel 21, you dummy? His brain was talking to him again. It was functional and he was happy. He switched to Channel 21 on his radio handset just in time to hear a familiar voice. It was Captain Davis chewing on his ass. “Where the hell are you, Jerry? I’ve been looking for you half the night. Don’t you ever read the newspaper?”
“I’ve been right here on stakeout all night, Cap. What’re you talking about?”
“Where is HERE, Jerry? You never left word at the stationhouse where you’d be. We tried your house. Even tried to talk to that greaser bartender friend of yours, but that was like talking to a shithouse wall. Can you tell me where you are or would that be a breach of your security?”
“It’s no secret, Captain,” Jerry lied, “I’m in the alley across the street from the Club Saigon. I’ve been here all night.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re across the street from the Club Saigon. Have you encountered any unusual activity?”
Captain Davis sounded like he was setting him up, but Jerry had to ask. “What kind of activity, Cap?”
“How about another murder? I found out about it after I read it in the newspaper. It was another special edition. Our favorite writer Sol Friedberg scooped us again. I only wish I could find the leak at our station. If I ever find out who his anonymous source is, I’ll string him up by his nuts.”
Jesus Christ, Jerry thought. Another murder, and right across the street from me. It must have happened after I dozed off last night. “Honest, Cap, the last thing I remember was a black Cadillac limousine that moved past this location about two a.m. It went past here twice, then I never saw it again. I must have dozed off after that.”
“I take it that your stakeout position isn’t near Baker’s Alley?”
“No, Cap. From where I’m located, I can see the front entrance to the Club Saigon and little else. Baker’s Alley is on the other side of the building, out of my line of sight.”
“Then that explains why you haven’t seen any other police activity. I had to assign Sgt. Fitzsimmons to investigate. I couldn’t find you and the brass were chewing on my ass like a dog chewing on a leather bone. Fitz is still in the alley. You better get over there and see what you can do to help him out.”
With a snap of Jerry’s fingers, he turned his radio back to the police band. Pretty embarrassing. Another slasher murder right across the street from where he was on a stakeout. The guys back at the precinct would never let him live this one down. Maybe it is time to retire, he thought. He turned the ignition key and his car engine roared to life. It was a good idea to stake out the alley where Chou Lai had been killed, but like so many of his ideas these days, it just hadn’t panned out.
The white Cadillac convertible pulled up in front of the Club Saigon. It was only there for a couple of seconds, just long enough for a tall man in a Hawaiian-print shirt to run out of the door and quickly jump into the passenger seat. Then the caddy sped off with a squeal of its whitewall tires.
Just a couple of seconds, but long enough for Jerry to recognize the passenger: Gunner McConnell. The murder investigation would have to wait. He knew that Fitz would collect all the evidence, and from what he’d just seen, his mind switched gears again from Willy to Gunner. What if the last murder, the one that had taken place while Gunner was in Thailand, had been a copycat killing? Jerry had to follow his hunch and he didn’t give a shit what Captain Davis, the chief of Police, or the mayor had to say about it.
He pulled slowly out of the alley and turned left, letting two cars separate him from the white caddy. The caddy got onto the freeway and took the Santa Monica Freeway Exit. He moved his unmarked police cruiser back and forth in traffic while maintaining his visual surveillance. He had no idea where they were going. He turned off his police band radio to avoid any more flak from Captain Davis and switched on AM 1070. The news broadcast was on, and he just caught the final local story. “And, finally, today in the early morning hours, a local businessman and Congressional candidate, Mr. Vinh Ho, formerly a colonel and high-ranking South Vietnamese government official, was taken to Santa Monica General Hospital, with what our source said was a heart attack. The attack comes just days before the general election and will no doubt hurt his chances of winning what the pollsters say is a very close race for the Little Saigon District seat in the US House of Representatives.”
Jerry’s eyes followed the caddy but his ears followed the news broadcast. The little intuitive light in his brain activated. “Of course,” he shouted. “They’re on their way to Santa Monica General.” He felt comfortable that he at least knew where they were going. He also felt comfortable about establishing a provable link between Gunner McConnell and Colonel Ho. Some things never change, he thought to himself. Scumbags always seem to end up in the same dung heap together.
The caddy pulled off onto the exit ramp marked for the hospital with him right on their tail lights. He backed off a bit as they reached the parking lot, not wanting to arouse any suspicion. He watched the caddy pull up to the emergency entrance and let Gunner out. Gunner went into the hospital alone. Jerry watched the way Gunner’s body moved and was sure of his ID. The caddy drove quickly into the lot and parked. A large Vietnamese man got out of the car and walked into the hospital. Jerry switched off his AM radio and fired up the police band. He gave a description of the car, driver, and the license number to the dispatcher, requesting “wants and warrants.”
The call came back in a few seconds. “No wants or warrants.”
Jerry looked at himself in the rearview mirror. There were dark circles under his drooping eyelids and his eyeballs looked like a couple of ruby lasers. He needed a shave really bad and his mouth felt like he’d swallowed used kitty litter. His white shirt front was stained with some pizza sauce he had spilled on it the night before, when the day-old pizza he was eating had separated from the crust. He looked down and noted that the front of his pants had a grease stain from the pizza box sitting on his lap during the surveillance. They resembled day-old cum stains. He thought about his appearance for a second, then jumped out of the car
. He was perfectly disguised for his trip to the hospital. Santa Monica General was where the VA sent old vets in need of detox, and he looked like he fit the part perfectly. Captain Davis probably would say, “Jesus, Jerry, you look like shit.” But from Jerry’s point of view, it was nothing more than a damn good disguise.
He staggered into the waiting room of the hospital emergency room. The room was full of people in need of help. A Mexican lady was screaming at the top of her lungs that her baby was dying. No doctors rushed to her aid, only a portly lady dressed in white rayon, asking if she had any insurance. A street drunk was lying on the floor, throwing up some red fluid that resembled a vintage 1991 port, except in this case there were chunks of solids that looked like old popcorn. Hospital staff ignored him, walking over him several times in the course of their travels.
Jerry pushed his way past a guy that was screaming and holding his arm. The arm was broken. He could see one of the bones poking out of the guy’s shirt.
“Excuse me. Out of the way. Police emergency,” Jerry said as he moved to the front of the line.
“What do you mean, my insurance is no good?!” shouted the guy with the broken arm.
“Your insurance was canceled last year, sir. This ID card’s no good. You’ll have to go to another hospital. May I suggest County General . . . they’ll take you without insurance.”
“I’d hit you in your fat face, lady, if my fucking arm wasn’t broken.”
Nonplussed by the raging expletive, she called out, “Next, please.”
Jerry rushed up to the desk. “Police business,” he said, flashing his badge.
Rita was the name she had on her badge. Rotund Rita looked him over once, then referred him to County General. “It’s a disguise, lady. I need some information.”
“Information is on two west. This is Emergency,” she said without making eye contact with him.
Club Saigon Page 33
