by John L. Hart
Somethin’.
The trek through the jungle was hell. Behind him, the stick people. Above him, a black sky belching out rain. Ahead was more jungle and more gross leeches. He couldn’t put down his bag to brush them off. To the side was some fuckin’ mule trail where they were supposed to steal a shipment of high-grade heroin from the convoy smuggling it in. And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.
Mouse had heard of Rolling Thunder. He had heard grunts speak with awe and wonder about it. It was supposed to have ended with Johnson, but covert shit pounding the Ho Chi Minh supply trails continued—like them right now—and so did Rolling Thunder.
Not even in Mouse’s deepest, darkest nightmares had he imagined what it would be like to have giant bombs, each weighing up to 750 pounds, dropped like heaven’s wrath from 30,000 feet by gargantuan B-52 bombers. Bombs that literally shook the earth and him with it.
Entire trees flew over him along with mountains of mud and dirt. Luckily, they were not that close to the drop, but even from where they took cover he was hit so hard by concussions from the blasts that he was sure any gooks on the open trail had to be turned to mist just by the sound waves. As bomb after bomb detonated, concussed, his fingernails tore at raw earth while he frantically tried to mole his way underground. He felt one of his teeth crack from clenching his jaw. He forced his mouth open and out came his screams, tearing through his throat with such force he wondered if his ears were bleeding. Not that it mattered since this had to be the end of the world, or at least the end of him. He was gonna die, right here on the Ho Chi Minh trail, and whatever was left of him would probably get scarfed up by some big-ass buzzard before he was ever found.
Just as he was sure he was cashing in his chips for that big slot machine in the sky, everything stopped. The thunder was gone, the ground stopped shaking, everything was quiet. Except for his continued screams.
Those stopped as soon as Big Snake lifted him completely off the ground, shook him like dice, and shoved him forward to catch up with everyone else, the whole gang of them traipsing on with the mission like nothing had happened.
Mouse numbly kept going until the scout Big Snake had sent ahead came running back. Moments later Mouse was making like the rest of the snakeheads and crouching in the grass with cold sweat trickling down his back, leeches all over him, feeling like he might puke. The bombs had taken every little bit of guts and glory he’d had left to draw on, and his body was vibrating like a hotrod jammed into park, with the accelerator gunned to the floor.
The ambush was like stealing candy from a baby, just without any babies left around to cry. The snakeheads killed the smugglers and not the mules. No one wanted to be carrying all this shit to wherever they were supposed to meet back up with the gunship or jeeps, or however they were supposed to get back to who knew where.
Something told Mouse it wasn’t back to good old quiet Nha Trang, and he wasn’t particularly concerned about not being at the Quonset on schedule to meet Vo, who must’ve had a hand in all this.
At least what hand Vo had left.
As they made camp for the night, Mouse searched inside himself and he searched deep. If only he had a couple of grenades he could frag these snakeheads to holy hell and by some miracle maybe still make it to Missy and the land of kangaroos, get as far away from this war and the rest of this shit as he could. And if he could get that far, maybe he wouldn’t even call Uncle Louie. Him and Missy, they could just settle in, set up house, and have enough to retire on.
Maybe he’d even take up acting while Missy raised their kids.
The image of the stick people woke him near daybreak, gasping, in a sweat.
Mouse gripped his Zippo. For once he wished KRZY would flip on and Janis would finally drive him over the edge so he could tear into some snakeheads before they took his off with a machete too.
24
The chopper landed. Someone who did not smell good guided Mouse out, which was better than when he’d gotten thrown in, blindfolded, minus his confiscated pack. He could hear the chopper lifting off again while his arms were gripped on either side and he was duck walked downhill, until whatever path they were on evened out. Then more walking. It felt like he was on his way to an execution. Mouse was trying hard to keep his dignity. If they were gonna kill him, groveling and pleading wouldn’t change nothin’. He always hated it when the guys he was brought in to work over totally embarrassed themselves like that. The best he could hope for was to keep a stiff upper lip and earn himself enough respect for them to make it quick.
The sound of water flowing and the funny, tinkling sound of wind chimes was joined by the smell of incense. The walking stopped. Off came the blindfold. Mouse blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the filtered light. He was standing in the shadow of what looked like an old temple that could have come out of Life Magazine or something, and he was facing a big, round, fancy carved wooden door with a yin-yang symbol.
He glanced at the two men who had escorted him. They weren’t gook guards and they didn’t have snakes on their faces, but were very clean and looked hard as rocks.
It seemed like he stood there for a long time, waiting for instructions. The waiting was its own kind of agony, so he tried to calm himself with sideways glances and saw water flowing in a small stream under a curved bridge, and then down a little water fall and into a clear pond. There were brightly colored flowers everywhere, with big pots of them on either side of the Life Magazine, yin-yang door.
A gong sounded from somewhere. One guard nodded to the other.
They took off their boots, then pointed at his.
“Okay, I got it,” Mouse muttered, and braced himself to get whacked over the head as soon as he stooped down.
Instead, the big round door opened. The guards walked him in, but hadn’t gone far inside when they bowed to no one that Mouse could see and backed away. He stood there, alone, with another big-ass door in front of him, and glistening stone floors shooting down several hallways that were filled with lots of Chink statues and old scrolls with paintings of more Chink stuff that reminded him of the day he skipped school to sneak off to New York to see some museums.
His legs were shaking. Worst of all, he felt close to peeing his pants and he didn’t even have a boot to catch it.
The door opened. A voice he recognized commanded, “Enter.”
The shaking stopped. Him and Vo, they had a score to settle. Wouldn’t be today. Probably not tomorrow neither. But that slanty-eyed piece of shit hadn’t played by any of the rules they went by in Jersey. The RVN transport colonel had a lot to learn: there actually was a code of honor amongst thieves. Yeah, sure, he’d been ready to make a run for it but only because Vo brought Missy into the picture to strong arm him into answering to some cat who hired snake-face goons to do way worse than steal a shipment of grade-A heroin.
Mouse squared his shoulders and for once was glad the army had taught him how to march—
Only to stop as his eyes adjusted yet again to what he could not believe he was seeing.
There was Vo, standing on a dais like the priest at Mass. Seated next to him, on some kind of carved throne, was a man who looked like something out of a vampire horror movie, white as a ghost, with sunglasses on.
And on the other side of Casper, stood Missy.
Her eyes met his and she blinked, like she was sending him a signal. He had a flash of her mouthing, “Please. Help. Me,” at the Drunken Dragon the first time they met and she was in trouble. Only now he was the one in trouble and Missy was trying to help him.
After being given a wave from the throne, she walked down in a long white robe with a gold belt around her tiny waist, feet bare and soundless until she reached out her hand.
It was then that Mouse realized his knees were on the floor again, just like they had buckled when he thought she was one of the stick people from the village.
Missy whispered as she helped him up, “Pretend I not here.”
Impossible as that was, Mouse realized if he had ever wanted to be an honest-to-god actor, this was the time to do it. He let go of the hand he wanted to hold, to feel touch his cheek, and watched her return to her station, where she stood still as the Statue of Liberty, staring off into the distance.
“Mr. Mouse, how kind of you to come. And well done,” said The Man who was clearly in charge. His voice was soft and raspy, like sandpaper rubbing on silk. God, this guy was creepy. Mouse had expected somebody big time, but this guy . . . Shit, it was like finding out you were visiting Dracula. “I am very pleased with all your recent work. But I must say that you rather displeased me with your reluctance to immediately accept Colonel Vo’s generous invitation for advancement within the hierarchy of our organization. Have you contacted your ‘Uncle Louie’ for clearance? Or am I correct in the assumption that, as of yet, you have not?”
Mouse could hardly get his brain to think beyond being so grateful and scared so shitless that Missy was in the same room. But the one part of his mind that could switch into business mode, get a job done with the highest of work ethics and creative pizazz—he knew that’s what kept ’em coming, why The Man wanted him to begin with—that part kicked in along with his instincts, telling him he needed to lighten up this heavy shit somehow without seeming disrespectful.
Mouse struck a pose. “Oh great One,” he ad-libbed with a touch to his forehead, and then a wrist-swivel and a bow. “You got me. I did not call my Uncle Louie.” Now he darted a sharp glance at Vo. “But only because my phone lines got cut and my plans got changed before I could do the right thing.”
Vo winced and gripped his stubby hand like he was trying to protect what was left.
“Well, it is never too late, now is it?” Dracula smiled, and ugh, his teeth.
Careful not to let his eyes stray to Missy, Mouse grinned back. “You got a phone? I’ll call him now.”
Spindly fingers tapped a chin that Mouse wanted to implant with some Willie Pete.
“Well said. I do have a phone you may use later. Of course, with an audience to appreciate your delivery. I’m sure you’ll perform magnificently but, as you know, one can never have too much insurance when encouraging others to ‘do the right thing.’ Might I ask if you remember the families now resting comfortably as stick figures?”
Mouse went cold. “Yes. Sir.”
The Man descended from his throne. He handed Mouse a really high-class-looking folder with some fancy lettering on the front.
“Go ahead and open it,” he invited. “You will enjoy seeing what is inside.”
Mouse opened the folder. A slight shake he couldn’t control in his hands got worse and worse as he examined page after page of high quality photographs that had been taken of Aunt Rosa, of Maria and Anna; even one of Tony being embraced by the whole family at JFK Airport, still in his jungle fatigues.
“They are looking well, are they not?”
Mouse nodded. He couldn’t get his vocals to work.
“And we would not want to see them on sticks, would we?”
Mouse told himself this crazy cocksucker could not reach all the way across to Jersey; that even if he could, Uncle Louie would call out all the muscle necessary to protect his family. But someone had taken those photos and that meant The Man had some paid muscle of his own working the beat, and if they were anything like these snakeheads . . .
“They are quite safe, Mr. Mouse. I am watching over them. If you’d like you may keep the pictures. I do have others. Have you any questions?”
Mouse looked from the photo he was holding of Aunt Rosa and into sunshades that reflected his stricken expression. While he tried to force a poker face, The Man removed his glasses.
Pinkish eyes glittered. He was one fuckin’ happy rabbit for sure.
“What do you want from me?”
“Let us just say that as long as you are looking out for me, doing what I wish to have done, and continue to amuse me, we will get along splendidly and your family will remain in good health. You are young, Mr. Mouse, so perhaps it has not occurred to you that we all at times serve someone. Why, even your dear Uncle Louie might have a boss giving orders to him.” Before Mouse could absorb that knockout punch, Dracula laid a hand over the heart he didn’t have. “Oh! Forgive me, but I nearly forgot. I could not help but notice you had quite a tidy sum of money and a passport in your pack, Mr. Mouse. Just to be clear, you were not considering some travel in the near future, were you?”
Mouse emphatically shook his head, then stopped, realizing he had overplayed it.
“That is wise,” The Man said, so polite he could have been ordering crumpets and tea. “You must be tired, uncomfortable after your journey—” He sniffed, like a rabbit, wrinkling his nose. His pinkish eyes looked Mouse up and down. “Please, have a bath or shower in your room and then join me for a drink in the garden. In an hour? Ah well, I am feeling generous, so let us make that two.” He gestured toward Missy. “The young lady will take you to your quarters and see to any of your other needs.”
Unless he counted his breathing, that sounded like his cousin Maria fighting an asthma attack, Mouse stayed quiet as he followed Missy down one of the gook museum hallways, then out through an open veranda, and down a path where there was a miniature house.
Missy opened the sliding door.
As soon as they were inside Mouse grabbed Missy to him, and for a moment she clung back. But only a moment. Before he could even say her name she whispered into his ear, “They watch. They listen. We not alone.”
She touched a finger first to her lips, then his, and as he nodded Missy made a show of pushing him away.
“You need bath,” she announced, and even if it was for show Mouse knew for a fact it was true.
God he hated Missy seeing him like this. Filthy, dirty, stinking, and he needed to shave. Even if the crazy queen decided, “off with their heads!” during command happy hour in his freakin’ rabbit garden, Mouse couldn’t bear for Missy to find him disgusting in what little time they might have left.
“Yeah, I need a bath or a shower or somethin’,” he agreed, borrowing some bluster like he was Ralph Kramden in The Honeymooners, and wishing he could send him and Missy both to the moon. “You got one of them around here? Maybe with some room service thrown in?”
“This way.”
She pointed to an adjoining room and he followed her past a big bed in these super fancy digs that were like a honeymoon suite he’d never be able to afford, now that he no longer had the stash he’d saved up, or a passport. They could kiss Australia goodbye.
Mouse knew he was being selfish, but part of him was glad that Missy hadn’t made it there without him. He didn’t want no one else to have her. And besides, he needed her to keep the sound muted on KRZY—though if ever there was a prime time for him to go psycho, once he got alone with Drac baby would be it.
The bathroom had a sunken bath and a huge, walk-in shower with stone walls and a glass partition. There were big fluffy towels and fancy soaps. He’d never been in a bathroom bigger than his family’s living room and more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. And he sure never imagined he’d have an even more beautiful woman turning on the shower, roughly stripping off his stinking clothes, and nearly pushing him in before she undid her gold belt, dropped her robe, and joined him.
That’s when he got it. Missy wanted them in the shower so no one could hear over the water spray, and any cameras around would get fogged up. Was the woman smart or what?
And brains weren’t the only thing she had going for her. Missy had the sweetest little breasts, perky and upturned, and all he could do was stare at them. When she went to work with the soap on his chest he thought he might die right there.
Until Missy started crying. Not big sobs, just quiet tears going down her cheeks with the
spray, and she pulled his head close so he tried to look at her eyes instead of her breasts. It wasn’t easy.
“Did anyone hurt you?” God, she had him in some kind of pain. “Anyone hurts you, they answer to me.”
“No, no. Vo, he told me if I come with him then they go easy on you. He say he won’t tell Pale Man I am your woman if I am good and stay quiet and follow orders. There is other woman here. I meet her once, very pretty, very American. Very lonely, I think. Vo gave me order to be her friend and tell him what she says. Her name is Kate. She shares room with man called Phillip. They both nice to me. I think I be okay if I do as told. But you?”
Missy cupped his cheek with her soap-free hand, the water streaming over them both. “Vo and Pale Man, very bad. Con quy, like demons. I worry for you.”
It touched him that Missy would worry for him, but she might not if she knew he could be something of a demon himself. Somehow he had to keep her from finding that out until he could spring them out of here.
And then, he wasn’t thinking at all.
The soap and Missy’s hand were between his legs and he nearly collapsed when she went for the boys. He almost blacked out, and maybe he did just for a second, because everything went dark and the next thing he knew he was pounding Missy like a jackhammer against the stone wall. He was too far gone to slow down, much less stop, and when Missy did some kind of rippling thing with her muscles, that just put him over the top.
He let her go and dropped to the floor, unable to even stand. It wasn’t a bad vantage point while he watched her clean up under the shower.
She slid the soap all over herself, moving her body in a kind of dance. He wouldn’t exactly call it singing, but she was making a rhythmic noise, almost like a chant. Her movements, the sound, had a weird effect on him; or maybe it was just from getting his mind blown by the best sex he’d ever had. But he felt like he was being hypnotized or going into a trance and he didn’t want it to stop, not never . . .