Back Bay Blues

by Peter Colt

  “Why did Hieu get this special treatment?”

  “He wrote about the Committee. He didn’t agree with their politics or actions. He didn’t like that they coerced people into giving them money. He felt that they were frauds, that each year the generals got fat, the colonels got a little less fat and so on. Hieu hated watching it. He hated the way they distorted the truth, and he especially hated that they would denounce people here in America. He felt that they were doing everything that we had come to America to get away from. He wrote about it and them. They hated it.”

  “He sounds like an incredible man.”

  “He was. We met at university. Even then Hieu was . . . intense. He was the type of person you had to pay attention to. When he spoke, people stopped talking to listen to him. I was not very pretty, and I was sure no one even noticed me.” She took a drag on her cigarette and I took a drag on my own. “Everyone else would talk about who should be in power: Catholics, Buddhists.... Everyone talked about the war. Hieu, he wanted to talk about the English language, Thomas Jefferson and the Declaration of Independence. He loved reading the Constitution and the Gettysburg Address. He said that English was the language of democracy . . . of freedom.”

  She stopped to cry, and I gave her a few minutes. I leaned against the post that helped prop up the porch above and watched cars drive by on her street. Most of the cars were nothing special, five- or ten-year-old metal monsters with dust and dents. They were mostly American with a couple of Hondas mixed in. Then there was a cream-colored Ford that circled the block twice, then settled in somewhere.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after the squall of tears had passed.

  “You just lost your husband. I would be shocked if you weren’t upset.”

  “He loved journalism. He felt that journalism was the highest form of democracy. His calling was telling stories that illustrated democracy. He was always amazed that the government in this country revered journalists. He said Watergate would never have happened in Vietnam, then or now.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Tell me about him and the Committee?” That is me, ace detective with the probing questions.

  “When we left Vietnam, we were separated. I had the children. My father was an important man in the government. Not the army but a bureaucrat. When he realized the communists were getting close to Saigon, he got us out. Hieu, he stayed. He said he had to stay, to write about what was happening.” She looked off in the distance, then lit another cigarette. “I was always angry that he did that. In fact, I never forgave him for staying behind when he could have gone with us. Then he was captured and put in a reeducation camp.”

  “That must have been hard, for both of you.”

  “Mr. Roark, he survived on a handful of cold rice a day. Sometimes a bowl of soup made from fish heads. Some days there was no food. For the first month they would beat the soles of his feet with bamboo sticks. The next month, they beat his arms and legs every night and day, for days at a time. When they found out he was a writer, they broke his fingers. Every finger. Can you imagine? Here, in the winter his feet would ache and sometimes they would swell.

  “After a time, they would beat him every other day, then it was weekly, then once a month. After a year, they let Hieu go. Now he has no money, no family. He wandered Saigon, he made friends and was eventually able to escape. He found us here.” She paused and spread her hands and arms wide for a second, then clutched them around her chest, like she was hugging herself.

  “I was so happy. The children were happy. We were a family, and I had my Hieu back. He still loved me. I was so . . . so afraid he would be mad at me for leaving . . . for not going through . . .” She was starting to choke up a little.

  “For not being reeducated? No. If you described Hieu accurately, he was glad that you were safe. He would have endured anything knowing you and the children were safe.”

  She looked at me, my face.

  “Thank you. That was a very nice thing to say. “

  “What was it that made him mad at the Committee?”

  “When he came here and started to get better, to work, he liked what they had to say. As time went on, it began to change for him. He saw them as arrogant. He didn’t like the way they demanded money from Vietnamese people. He said they talked of a counterrevolution but that nothing ever happened with them. In the end, he said they were the same corrupt military that lost the war; now they were in America, the same ones who lost the war. He started to write about them and would show the world who they were and what they were about.”

  “I went to the newspaper, and a young man and woman there said that Hieu had disappeared for a few days before his death. Do you know where he was or what he was doing?”

  “Yes. He went to Virginia.”

  “Virginia?”

  “Yes, he went to look at boats in the James River.”

  “Boats in the James River, that was it?”

  “No. There was a man from Vietnam that he knew and wanted to see.”

  “Who was the man?” I am known for my complex questions.

  “He didn’t say who he was, just that he knew him from Saigon. He had been a friend of Hieu’s growing up in Saigon. His friend had gone into the navy. His family had been wealthy, and he was some sort of officer. He did not fight, though. He had a job in Saigon.”

  “Did Hieu say what this was about?”

  “Hieu called it a ‘river of lies’ and said that he was going to untangle it. That he would expose the Committee for the frauds they are. He was excited for the first time in months.”

  “Where in Virginia was this man?” I was never going to be famous for the questions I ask.

  “A place called Fairfax . . . wait, I have a card.” She disappeared upstairs and came back down after a few minutes. She handed me a card for Global Sea Transport. The name on the card was that of the dead Vietnamese man in Chinatown, Pham Duc Dong. I thanked her and left for the cold comfort inside the Karmann Ghia. As I was turning off her street, headed back toward town, I noticed a cream-colored Ford Thunderbird bobbing up and weaving through traffic behind me.

  Chapter 8

  The Ghia’s heater eked warmth into the car with all the efficiency of a leaky seal on a refrigerator door. I fought the clutch and traffic back into the city. I stopped at a gas station to use a pay phone. Ma Bell connected me to Thuy, and we agreed to meet near her office in Cambridge in a couple of hours. I know Ma Bell didn’t exist anymore, but I liked to think she was still at the switchboard. I was comforted by continuity. I got back in the Ghia and began to nudge and bump my way up the artery.

  A long time ago, the army had spent considerable time and money teaching me things like how to follow people on foot and in cars. One of the first rules of following someone in a car is to pick one that doesn’t stand out. They taught us that a three-year-old car locally made—Opel in Germany, Ford in America—that was blue or black was the ticket. Ideally, you use three or four cars connected by radio.

  A cream-colored Ford Thunderbird with a blue leather hardtop was not subtle. The driver wasn’t trying to be. I let the flow of traffic buoy me along like a fish in a stream. Every now and then I would make a turn or do something to make sure that I wasn’t being paranoid. The guy in the Ford was sticking to me and the Ghia. He stuck to me in traffic, through the city and all the way to Back Bay. He followed me down by Mass General Hospital and the city jail.

  He took a left with me onto Charles Street and slid past me when I stopped and maneuvered the Ghia into a parking spot outside of a copy shop that I sometimes use. I locked the Ghia and went in. I greeted the owner and told him what I wanted. I was just going into the back of the store when I saw the Ford park across the street.

  I made my way into the employee area. The owner led me by word processors, a computer, printing presses, and his office. He opened the door and let me out into the little alley behind his place. The alley led to a courtyard, and across that, another alley and then back to Charles Street, b
ut three blocks down. The Ford was still idling where it was parked, and I made my way to the elevated platform of the Red Line.

  I put tokens in the turnstile and waited for the train where I could see the stairs up to the platform. No one came, and I was blending in with the mix of students, professors, and whoever else was going to Cambridge that day. The train came and still no sign of anyone looking for me.

  The ride into Cambridge is nice. You start up on the elevated portion, and you cross the Charles River, which at sunset on a nice night gets lit up fiery orange. The Red Line hurtles underground, a fast ride, until the train brakes hard to make its turn before it pulls into the gleaming, science fiction station of Harvard Square. I stepped out onto the platform. I went past the glass and concrete of the modern-looking station, up the stairs, and emerged by the kiosk selling newspapers next to the tiny shop that sold publications from around the world, just in case one needed Der Spiegel to go with my copy of the Globe.

  I walked to the entrance of the Harvard Cooperative Society, known affectionately by all who owe it money as “the Coop,” as though it housed chickens instead of books and necessities. The Coop was expansive. The second floor straddled an otherwise inoffensive street, which was where I popped out after looking at books for a bit. From there I went to the Asa Wursthaus. I had a quick apple schnapps at the bar to ensure that the chill was being fought off and no one was following. From there, I took a rambling, illogical route to Bow and Arrow Streets. Not far from the Harvard Lampoon, I stepped into an anonymous doorway and down into the Café Pamplona. The café was dark and packed tightly with small wooden tables. It could have been Spain instead of Cambridge.

  I was able to find a small table and ordered a café con leche. For some reason, a cappuccino just tastes better when called by its Spanish name. Thuy came in a few minutes later and sat down at the table across from me. Across was an overstatement. The Pamplona was small and crowded and we were so close as to almost be touching. She shed her bulky coat and ordered a coffee. I started to tell her about the last couple of days. She brushed errant strands of her hair behind one ear. It felt intimate even if the subject wasn’t.

  “You were right. There is a connection between Hieu and the man in Chinatown.” I was eager to tell her and reassure her that we weren’t on some sort of wild goose chase.

  “What was it?” She was leaning in, and I caught the hint of some sort of perfume. Not overdone or overpowering, something expensive.

  “Have you heard of the Committee?” Her eyes were brown, and her skin was flawless.

  “The Committee?” Sitting close to her in the café, I was reminded a little of Leslie. It wasn’t in an obvious way. Thuy was Vietnamese and the only thing Asian about Leslie was her love of Dim Sum. It sort of snuck up on me that she was pretty, and she was smart. She was the type of woman my old friend Danny Sullivan’s wife, Maryanne, would have approved of for me. Leslie had been the only other one who fit that bill.

  “It is a group of crazy ex-generals and colonels running around collecting money to start an armed counterrevolution in the People’s Republic of Vietnam.”

  “They sound . . . they sound nuts.” She shook her head. Then she bit her fleshy lower lip. I wanted to bite it, too.

  “I guess they are. They only operate in Vietnamese communities. Hieu was their darling as long as he was writing things that they wanted to read. Then he broke with them. He started advocating for a more political approach to dealing with the People’s Republic of Vietnam. They blacklisted him.”

  “Blacklisted?” She was wearing lip gloss. It was subtle but shiny and mildly distracting. Her sweater was a V neck, and there were hints of lace, and I wondered what her breasts would look like. Instead, I focused on her eyes and the diamonds glinting on each earlobe. I kept on telling her what I had found out.

  “They spread it around that he was a communist. The Vietnamese community turned their back on him, and his family. Can you imagine that? He suffered through reeducation camps in Vietnam. He was tortured, and then they did that to him here.” I found that I was annoyed with them for doing that to Hieu.

  “I can’t imagine. Poor man.”

  “Anyway, Hieu found a man that he had known growing up in Saigon named Pham Duc Dong. Pham had been from a wealthy family. He had gone into the Vietnamese Navy but wasn’t in combat. Hieu found him or got word or something that the man was from Fairfax, Virginia. Hieu went to look at boats on the James River and to talk to the man. It is the same man who was murdered in Chinatown. He was connected to a company in Virginia. Did he ever talk about his work?”

  “No, we weren’t that close. He was here and my family was in California.... Maybe that is why this is so important to me? What else have you found out about him?” She had looked down and then back up at my face.

  “Not much more than I told you. I have to go to Virginia to follow up on this.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. I will give you money to pay for the expenses.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Andy?” She was biting her lower lip again, and I was feeling like a boy again.

  “Yes?”

  “You were a soldier, right? You fought in Vietnam?” She was searching my face. I was being judged, and I was sure that I would fail. My hands are not clean.

  “I was, and I did.” I didn’t like the slight tightness in my chest.

  “What did you do?”

  “It doesn’t matter. My country asked me to fight for it, so I did. I am lucky to be alive, and that is all that matters.”

  “What did you do? Lots of people were there, there were different jobs.”

  “I was in Special Forces, a Green Beret. The Vietnamese would consider me a war criminal if they had their way.”

  “What did you do? Specifically?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. It is over. That life for me is over. Now I just try to help people.”

  I paid for the coffees, and we each went our separate ways. I vaguely wondered if her way led to a bright apartment in Cambridge and a boyfriend. My way was leading me to a still empty apartment, excepting, of course, Sir Leominster, the cat.

  No one followed me to the T-station in Harvard Square. No one got off of the Red Line with me at Charles Street, and no one followed me past the darkened alleyways as I made my way up Charles Street. I took my time but no one was following me period.

  When I got to the print shop, the Ghia was listing to the left on two flat tires. The antenna was broken and someone had keyed the car. I stepped closer to look at the damage. I was so intent on the car that I forgot my surroundings. I heard a shoe scrape, leather on pavement, and someone punched me in the kidneys. My legs went to jelly but didn’t buckle until the second and third shots to the kidney.

  When I hit the ground, I rolled toward the Ghia and the kicks to my back and the stomps to my arms were the worst of it. The pavement was cold, and they weren’t trying to kill me, because they left my head alone. My gun was under me, but it would not have been any use. From my vantage point on the cold pavement, I noticed that both the tires on the Ghia were slashed and that I didn’t like being kicked in the back. I didn’t like being kicked in the arms either, but it was better than being kicked in the back.

  “Listen, fucker.” A command. “Stop poking your gook-loving nose in where it doesn’t belong. Next time, I will fucking kill your ass dead. Forget about Pham. Forget about Hieu. Forget about the paper and especially forget about the Committee.” He punctuated each command with a blow to my kidneys, not enough to do real damage, just enough to hurt like hell. His voice was calm, like ordering a coffee calm. He wasn’t winded; he was management. I could hear the other two, the ones who had tried to play soccer with my kidneys and ribs. They were breathing heavy. They gulped for air when they complimented each other in Vietnamese on the job they were doing.

  After their footsteps receded into the night, I heard a large engine start. Like on a Ford. I retched a little, then gingerly got into a sitti
ng position, leaning against my equally battered Karmann Ghia. We had been to the wars the Ghia and I. I found a cigarette that wasn’t crushed too badly and lit it. The smoke wound its way into my lungs and calmed me down. I would have offered one to the Ghia but that would have been silly.

  There was no point in taking the car. I would call the auto club in the morning. I heard a car engine revving as a car came up Charles Street. It was a big one, and I had had enough for one night. It wasn’t that I minded the beating . . . but the Ghia, the princess among paupers, she was an innocent. I gingerly eased the Colt Commander out of the holster. It took me a minute, a century, a lifetime to flick the safety off.

  The car pulled up and stopped. I was slowly trying to raise the pistol, which seemed to weigh ninety pounds.

  “Andy, put the gun away. Oh God. Andy . . .” Thuy walked over to me. I put the gun on safe and in its holster. She wrapped an arm around me and helped me to her car. Her hair smelled nice, and her body was warm next to mine. I wanted to tell her I loved her. It was an irrational response to the beating I had just received. That tends to make me want to tell pretty women who rescue me that I love them. I usually grow out of it.

  I told her my apartment wasn’t far, and she drove us there. She parked and helped me, on my jelly legs, up all four flights of stairs. The apartment was the same. The cat, Sir Leominster, meowed incessantly at me. She kicked at him faintly. He backed off only after more accusatory meows.

  We got my coat off. I was able to get my pistol off and put it away in the bedroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep. She insisted that I go with her to the bathroom. She peeled bloodied and dirty clothes off of me with the efficiency of a combat medic. She ran her hands over me in the least sexy way a woman has ever touched me. She didn’t say anything about the state I was in.

  She ran a bath in the old clawfoot tub and guided me into it. If I had anything left in me, I would have screamed when the hot water touched me. Instead, I slid in and gritted my teeth. She left and came back without her coat. I momentarily forgot about my bruised body as I watched her walk. Thuy was carrying a large glass of neat whiskey.