The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  Smiling wasn’t one of my skills. Usually, it meant I was being cynical, embracing mankind’s follies and the absurdity of my countrymen. Like when I harassed the cretin Phan, rather than acknowledge the silly “Chinese” jokes my Vietnamese comrades loved to crack in my presence. One that actually made me laugh: “Chinese woman wearing G-string is high on crack.” Or: “Chink who stands on toilet is high on pot.” Nguyen didn’t cause me to grin, only squeeze my sphincter, making me a real slopehead chat che, tight ass, in the slang of the pure breeds that commanded and surrounded me. I smiled anyway, acting like a long-gone brother coming home from battling the imperialists.

  “Nay e,” I said, stepping closer. Hi, friend. This casual greeting was a little presumptuous of me, since Nguyen would probably enjoy watching me spontaneously combust more than shaking my hand.

  “Ben trong,” Nguyen barked. Inside. “And”—nodding toward Phan—”leave your butt-boy outside.”

  It had taken Nguyen this long to start with the ngưoi dong tính name calling. Gay. At least he had shown some restraint. Now, standing only inches in front of me, I had to stop this line of slander before it became the main focus. I had to do it with some restraint, not “the last butt I shagged was your mother’s, you spawn of a monkey” that was roaring in my head.

  “Are you having PMS?” I asked. “Or is another dead body spoiling your martini date?”

  “How do you know there’s another corpse?”

  “Surely I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t. You’d have the expertise you need at your command. All those geniuses from the homicide squad who couldn’t solve a murder if they did it themselves.”

  “Since you’ve got it all figured, who is it?”

  “That’s simple. It’s soldier number four. Or should I say ‘politburo member’?”

  “Name?”

  “You tell me. I haven’t had time to do any further investigation.”

  “Ma Jing’s?”

  “Last time I saw you at the Quickly Bang, it didn’t seem like I was needed right away. I told you what I thought.” I stepped closer so no one else would hear. “A little relaxation makes me think better.” I smiled and bowed, making sure to act like a whipped dog, ready to lick my master’s hand. Nguyen’s reference to Ma Jing’s was a veiled threat, letting me know he could have me hooked to a cattle prod whenever he wanted.

  “Come inside, slant eye,” Nguyen said. “Now that you’re relaxed, maybe you can help for once.” He grabbed my arm and glared sternly into my eyes. “And this time, shut your rat-eating mouth unless I ask you a question.” He squeezed hard before he let me go, and I got the message of how serious he was taking this investigation.

  “Because your brain is tiny, does that mean your dick is too?” I asked. Or in Vietnamese. “Boi vì bo nao cua ban la nho co nghia la dưong vat cua ban la qua?”

  Either way, Nguyen wasn’t happy and reached for something in his pocket. I expected a pair of handcuffs at the least. More likely a handgun. Instead, it was the picture of the murdered men smiling over the dead girls. He pointed to the soldier on the far right.

  “It’s him,” Nguyen said. “I don’t need you to identify the body. Come inside and get a feel for what happened. Tell me if there’s anything new to this one. And stop with the buffalo shit.” He stepped aside and nudged me toward the door.

  “Name?” I asked, as we went into the mahogany-floored entry.

  “Le Hong Sang,” he said. “He is, was, the Minister of Public Security.”

  I knew Sang. Ultimately, he was my boss. Every policeman or intelligence agent in the country worked for Sang and news of his death would be celebrated with many a toast to his demise with clinking Tiger beers. I couldn’t help grinning.

  “One joy scatters a hundred griefs,” I muttered. The old Chinese proverb seemed appropriate for the killing of someone as evil as Sang, known more for inventing new torture methods and chasing schoolgirls than catching criminals.

  Nguyen chose not to hear and strode down the wide hallway, the passage surrounded by polished teak tables holding multicolored orchids. He strode rapidly toward the back of the house, where floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a garden crammed with jungle flora, including massive bonsai plants shaped like dinosaurs and birds, peach bushes, Da Lat roses, miniature palms, lotus flowers, and more, all focused on a gigantic fountain where a gweilo winged nymph pissed into a marble pool.

  Turning right, we entered what appeared to be a living room, not much different from the ones on American TV. Leather couches, hardwood floor, rugs, end tables, lamps, bookcase, large-screen television, massive sound system, and all the rest. The exception was the glass bamboo arrangements, jungle and temple tapestries, and statues of the Buddha. And the corpse.

  Nguyen must have shooed everyone away, waiting for my impressions without others standing around. We were the only bodies still breathing in the room. Sang wasn’t singing; he was lying motionless in a neat pool of blood beside his earless head. This time, the card was jammed into his mouth, the toy cobra next to it, both still easy to see.

  I stood above the dead man, studying what was quick becoming stiff even in the sweltering house where someone must have turned off the air conditioning.

  “First,” I said, “it seems they’re getting angry.”

  “Why do you say that,” Nguyen asked.

  “The others looked as if the killers were relatively fast and just did the deed and left.”

  “And how is this one different?”

  “Notice the toy and the playing card have been shoved into Sang’s mouth, not just lain on his chest.”

  “Yes. That’s obvious. What else?”

  “See that small mark just above his shirt? I’d guess when he’s autopsied, you’ll find other bruises. I think he’s been tortured.”

  “Anything more?”

  “The position of the body. The first three appeared to be sleeping. This one must have had a real nightmare, the way one leg is pinned under the other and his right arm hidden behind his back. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are fractured bones too. Whoever did this wasn’t being gentle. I’m only guessing until he’s examined by that quack Dr. Ngo at the morgue. I’d suggest you be there before Ngo cuts him into pieces and makes his house special stew. Look for things like scratches or skin under his fingernails. Signs that might show he struggled with the killers. Maybe broken fingers or ripped clothing. I could go on, but you’re the detective and you know all of this.”

  “So you think he fought?”

  “You ask for my thoughts. Yes, it feels to me like there was more violence here than just a bullet to the back of the head and severed ears. I believe Sang was beaten first.”

  “Well, at least that’s the end of it. Four in the photo and four murdered.”

  “No. There will be one more. That’s why Sang was tortured.”

  “Are you still high on the poppy, Captain? Four in the picture. Four dead.”

  “And who held the camera? A Montagnard peasant who wouldn’t know the difference between a camera and a space ship? Another soldier under the command of these butchers? Maybe one of the girl’s sisters who was allowed to live and not raped and murdered? For once, try to have that coconut on your shoulders do something more than make Jell-O dessert.”

  Nguyen stiffened as if he’d gotten a vicious cramp in his lower back. Surely, it was my words and the realization there would be at least one more killing on his watch. It didn’t make him joyful and accepting.

  “If I didn’t think you could be of some value in this investigation,” Nguyen said, “I’d have you and your mother hanging by your toes in the cellar of Nunh Do Street.”

  “Yes, and you’d still have your finger up your ass. That’s about as close as you’d ever get to finding who did this.” I nodded down toward Sang.

  The sound of muffled chuckling came from the hallway behind us. While this kind of sparring and insults took the place of iPads and all the modern conveniences of the West,
Nguyen couldn’t tolerate the rumors that would soon spread like napalm through the Sai Gon police. He pushed me toward an open sliding glass door and into the garden, shutting it behind him.

  Outside, the humidity was even worse, only lessened by a slight breeze that made the banana trees sway gently. There was a delicate spray from the fountain that did little to cool either Nguyen or the temperature. He pushed me under a palm, gripping my forearm like I was about to bolt.

  “You are getting to be worse than a leech in my groin,” Nguyen said. “I can no longer tolerate your insolence. It has become a distraction and sidetracks me and my men from solving these crimes. I order you to stop. From now on, all communication between you and me will be about the case. Nothing more.” He shook me to make his point clear.

  Now, it was time to become a true detective captain. A pillar of the Vietnamese police. A hero of the revolution. Push my ego to the back and show this struggling man the true path before I was sunk in a tiger cage in the Sai Gon River.

  “If you opened your eyes to more than the girly-boy dancers at the 61 Club,” I said, “maybe you could keep from getting your duong vat (dick) in a fish ball grinder.”

  Suicide. Vietnam didn’t report its numbers. That wouldn’t compliment this worker’s Shangri-La, the total most likely ranking the Republic somewhere in the top ten. Being a homicide detective, I knew the reality. My task was to decide if a murder was worse than a suicide. Which of the two would be more damaging to the profile of this perfect society. In other words, we led the world in the rate of “accidental deaths,” the preferable alternative. Now, I was close to becoming a statistic caused by the pistol that bulged from under Nguyen’s armpit.

  Instead of pulling his gun, he shook his head from side to side, making a tsk, tsk sound like I was the babysan who’d just shit on the teak floor. It was a constant source of amazement how many insults the average Vietnamese could tolerate. It was as if they had grown another layer of scales in their skin that deflected anything painful, embarrassing, or to the point. Maybe it was Buddha’s stricture that “better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.” Or it could be that Nguyen wasn’t going anywhere in his search without me and he knew it.

  He finished the nodding with a sigh and released my arm.

  “I would like to call a truce,” Nguyen said, bowing slightly. “We can work together, or I can have you assigned to monitoring the garbage scows on the river. What is your decision?”

  It was getting warmer in the garden, the afternoon sun now overhead even if I couldn’t see it through the typical cement gray sky of Southeast Asia. I scratched the few remaining hairs on my head and thought over the alternatives.

  “I can imagine the pressure you’re under,” I said. “Those beetle dungs in the politburo have to be scurrying for safety, while they piss their pajamas in fear they may be next. You’ve already killed an unarmed woman, so there doesn’t seem to be an atrocity you’re not ready to commit.”

  It was my turn to sigh. I did, and the weight of this battle fled my body like stomach gas from a corpse. Nguyen didn’t even bother to deny any of my accusations.

  “I’ll cooperate,” I said. “But I can’t promise I’ll stop getting testy when you irritate me. As Chairman Minh said, ‘I do not suffer fools well.’ Or maybe that was W. C. Fields.”

  This got a smile from Nguyen. It wasn’t that funny, and I took it as a peace offering. I grinned back, admiring the sparkling whiteness of his teeth compared to the yellow-brown opium color of mine.

  “All right, uncle,” Nguyen said, trying even harder to be endearing. “Can we review what we know?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Dazzle me.”

  Nguyen stiffened and cleared his throat like he was about to give a speech at the police academy.

  “I’ll start with the most recent events,” he said. “Because of the photo, we had Sang under surveillance. He was found dead this morning. That means someone clever and skilled enough to avoid detection killed him during the night. We have an arrest warrant out for this Luong person you told me about, but we don’t have any pictures of him. Because of your theory that he is being aided by the Yankee Night Snake, all Americans are being watched. We are trying now to get more information on him. You were right and we believe his name is Frank Morgan. No one with that name has entered the country in some time. That doesn’t prove anything. False passports can be bought in this city for less than a buffalo steak. To make it short, we need to find out who took the picture of Sang and the others.”

  “That might be difficult, since they’re all dead,” I said.

  “We have also been attempting to learn which military unit the victims were attached to during the American incursion. When we find out, we’ll begin questioning anyone identified.”

  A clattering sound came from the house. We looked toward the windows and saw Ngo struggling to his feet, shards from a newly broken lamp surrounding his feet.

  “We’d better get inside before he does more damage,” I said.

  Opening the door, I stared at Ngo, again wondering how anyone so ugly was allowed to continue breathing. He was sight pollution at its worst and made all the more ghastly because he had such a nasty personality.

  “Chao ong, Jell-O face,” I said. Hello. “Did you find anything useful before you destroyed the crime scene?”

  The rolls of putty on Ngo’s face sagged even more, hiding his bad eye. With his good one, he studied me like I was on his dissection table.

  “It’s you, du ma,” he said. Motherfucker. “And I thought you’d be out drinking kitten blood and playing with your tiny noodle dick. Or executed for your foul mouth.” He was on his feet now, bent over, the hump on his back higher than his head. He was a perfect Quasimodo, but even more hideous.

  “No,” I said. “I’m still alive and would look better than you even if I was the carcass of a dead shrew.”

  Seeing Ngo stagger just a bit, I stepped closer and let him slump against me. I could smell the bia hoa on his breath and remembered Ngo liked to start drinking beer before he ate breakfast. He tried to push me away, but I stayed near. For some reason, I liked this man who’d almost given his life for his country and would have been luckier if he had, rather than end up looking like a handful of stale dough balls. He was panting from the exertion of standing, and I let him settle down.

  “Give us your first impressions, Dr. Ngo,” I said. “First, how long do you think he’s been dead?”

  Ngo poked at the body with the toe of his slippers.

  “Well, he’s in full rigor mortis and hasn’t started softening,” Ngo said. “So that would make it sometime in the middle of last night. Probably not long after midnight.”

  “And what do you think killed him?” Nguyen asked.

  Ngo looked up. If he could somehow contort the globules into a frown, he would have. His voice was enough to show his contempt.

  “Maybe he drowned,” Ngo said. “Or choked on a peace of dim sum. Or on his ears. That bullet hole in the back of his head could be just for decoration. A kind of permanent piercing. You see a lot of that in the street punks nowadays.”

  “What about the bruises on his neck and the way his legs and arms are twisted?” I asked.

  “Car accident?” Ngo said. “Plane crash? Some kind of sicko sex game using a collar and a cricket bat?”

  “Have you noticed anything else?” Nguyen asked.

  “I was about to roll him onto his side when somebody knocked over that lamp. Now, I think I’ll wait until we have him at the morgue.”

  “Compared to the other three,” I said, “is there anything unusual?”

  “Like the fact that he seems to have tried to eat the picture and the cobra, his legs and arms are clearly broken, and I’d guess he’s been beaten by the marks around his neck. I’ll also go out on a limb and speculate there will be a lot more bruises when I get his clothes off. Maybe even some cigarette burns and fractured fingers. Basic torture when you don’
t have time and tools like Nguyen and his comrades store in the basement of Hung Dao Street.”

  “Do you have any idea why this one might be unlike the others, esteemed doctor?” Nguyen said. “I’m just asking for opinions, not facts. We don’t have hours or days to wait for more data.”

  Now Ngo was in his element. Playing Sherlock Holmes. Or Dr. Moriarty. Getting the deference no one would give him after they’d seen his gnarled face and camel back if they hadn’t already bolted in horror.

  “So this repulsive gimp can be of some use, eh?” Ngo said. He chuckled and the noise sounded like a pig with indigestion. “I think the killers are running out of time. They must know there’s a massive manhunt going on. Whatever they’re after, they have to find it soon.” He looked down on Sang’s body. “That’s why this one was tortured. Also, they’re telling us things are about to get ugly and personal with the picture and toy jammed in his mouth.” Ngo turned to me. “What do you think, son of a chink whore?”

  “I agree with you, uncle,” I said, not taking the bait. “This is the second murder in twenty-four hours. And the most violent. But why do you say ‘they’?”

  “First, I’m not the ‘uncle’ of a yellow bastard like you. Still, I appreciate that you have a brain unlike the other apes in your race.” Ngo pointed a crooked finger toward Sang’s face. “There are no marks there. Nothing to show he was gagged or taped. No signs of restraint that I can see. That means he was held by one person while the other administered the pain. It’s impossible to torture someone without the victim being tied down. Or held. Probably carried out by soldiers or spies. It was professionally done. And with hatred.”

  Ngo was confirming everything I believed. Two men. Both with experience in killing and torture. Ex-military or intelligence. Relentless and seeking revenge. I glanced at Nguyen, wondering if he had gained anything new.

  “Thank you, uncle,” Nguyen said. “Please have Sang’s body taken to the morgue and give it a thorough autopsy. I will await your report. In the meantime, we will continue to look for the killers.”