The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  As usual, headquarters was crowded and frenzied. That made it a little safer to climb the stairs without too many verbal assaults. I wouldn’t have to wait for Phan. He’d show his face after he’d made his report on my activities to Nguyen or whoever else was my unknown minder. The reason for the visit was to try to search the computerized files on the old Sony desktop, the outside of which should have been scrapped years ago. The inside held a few surprises. I had stolen the password that allowed me to get into the “bi gioi han,” restricted archives that might give me a lead on how to identify the Night Snake, Frank Morgan.

  Turning the corner from the stairs toward my workplace, another officer, this time with gold epaulets on his shoulders, passed, accompanied by his squad of slaves.

  “Cho yade,” he said in Mandarin greeting. Simply put, he’d just called me a “stinking Chinese slut.” I guessed he was confused about my sex, but I wasn’t about to correct him.

  Inside the relative safety of my baking office, I turned the Sony on, sat in the plastic chair, and took out a bottle of Sanawa water. This Van Phat Company’s alleged crystal clear water had yet to be confiscated like most of the other brands in Sai Gon because they contained Pseudomonas aerugionosa bacteria, which can cause infections and sepsis in humans. I drank the warm liquid and tried to relax, reciting my mantra and rubbing my belly while the computer whirred and crackled, sounds I’d programmed the machine to make.

  There was no way Nguyen or any of his lackeys would cooperate with me. While I was expected to tell them absolutely everything I found or guessed, they wouldn’t share intelligence with a half-caste Chinese dog muncher. For one thing, I might solve the murders before them and that would be intolerable. Thankfully, I could access the daily reports and, more importantly, the still-secret and inflammatory records from the American war.

  With a pop and a few Windows notes, the Sony signaled me it was ready. I put my hopefully-germ-free water down and decided there was not time to read the daily reports. I headed back in history to the “Top Secret” intel from the late 1960s and searched for “Frank Morgan.” There was plenty to read.

  In the days before dong made its reappearance, piaster was the name given to South Vietnamese currency. During the late 1960s and early 70s, Frank Morgan, aka the Night Snake, had a bounty on his head of one million piasters or ten thousand American dollars, a fortune even today for the average Viet. It was known then that Morgan was a CIA-trained and CIA-controlled assassin, probably the deadliest hired gun of all time, and was run out of the Rand computer base. Rumors like this were the breakfast of US Military and spy intelligence. The Phoenix Program was his boss. They were mandated to murder anyone who met certain profiles or smiled at the wrong person at the wrong time or breathed the same humid air as Westmoreland. It didn’t take much since “one dead gook was as good as another.”

  Morgan was suspected of killing well over one hundred Vietnamese, including women and children. His usual method was a silenced bullet to the back of the head from his .22 caliber Hush Puppy in the middle of the night. The pistol was named that because it was often used to quiet barking dogs who might sound an alert. The legend was he could sneak up on anyone anywhere in the dark, thus the nickname “the Night Snake.” He was rumored to have an unidentified Montagnard sidekick for a native guide. There was a shadowed picture supposedly of him walking into the Phoenix Program sector of a base outside Chu Lai, but there wasn’t much of value in the photo. Another unverified story said he’d been involved in the murder of his commander and had fled the country after helping a number of AWOL soldiers escape to Sweden via Cambodia.

  After Morgan left Vietnam, the An Ninh lost track of him, but his myth continued. Mamasans across the country scared their babysans into better behavior with the threat the “Night Snake visited bad children in the dark.” Supposedly, Morgan had gone to work full-time for the CIA, traveling the world as a paid killer. Nothing more was known about his Montagnard buddy, whom I recognized as Luong.

  Something was niggling at my brain. Even though I was barely more tolerated in the Chinese community than Vietnamese, I did have contacts there and was even occasionally invited for a mooncake, boiled carp eyes, fried eel tails with spicy prawns, and gallons of bia. Not long ago, at one of these feasts, someone had told me a story of an American who had come to Sai Gon with a beautiful woman, staying in Cholon under the protection of one of the District One Mandarins. During their short visit, the son of a former South Vietnamese president was killed well after midnight at his villa near the botanical gardens along with a few bodyguards and dogs. Nothing was proven, but it was whispered throughout Cholon that the Night Snake was back and had gotten his revenge. Most of the details were sketchy or hidden by the ruling authorities, not wanting to upset the population. At the time, the case wasn’t assigned to me, being as politically charged as it could have been. I was too unreliable to be involved and listened to the saga without making connections. Now, I wondered how I could have been so clueless.

  None of this would help me find Morgan. With the snake hunt that had to be going on across the city, he wouldn’t be able to stay undercover for long. No paleface American could. For one thing, even walking on the streets of Sai Gon, he towered above the locals, let alone the blinding way the sun would reflect off his white skin. My only real hope was to get to Luong before Nguyen.

  Motivation. Mine. Not the killer’s. Keeping secrets from Nguyen wouldn’t enhance my career path and, more likely, would shorten my life expectancy to that of a moth around a bonfire. If it was a question of my career, it didn’t matter much. It was impossible I’d ever rise beyond captain. I could always work in a noodle shop or learn to be a hairdresser, if they let me live. I’d been sacrificing my ethnic identity to the great god of advancement and safety for too long. Even Buddha was disgusted. Sometimes I even wondered if the pipe would ignite for such a useless creature. This could be a chance for redemption. At least in my mind, if not the universe.

  Still, it wasn’t just about me. Luong had told me the story, and now, I’d seen the picture. The smiling perpetrators of that atrocity needed to die. It was justice, and I would do anything I could to shield both Luong and Morgan from capture so vengeance could be carried out. I moved the cursor to where a click shut the computer down and stepped to the door, knowing Phan would be lurking somewhere nearby.

  The hallway was crowded with civilians and police, all sweating in the heat of a nearly airless and stifling third floor. As expected, Phan leaned against the wall, legs crossed and nose almost a part of the cell phone he held within an inch of his face. I’d seen him in this posture enough times to realize he was still aware of my presence no matter how absorbed he appeared to be. He wouldn’t acknowledge me until I spoke to him or walked away. Then, he’d follow. I nodded and we moved toward the stairs, trying to jockey through the throng.

  “Filthy Vink,” someone spat. I’d always liked that one, an English language hybrid slur of chink and Vietnamese. Showed more creativity than du ma. I kept moving, not slowing so that someone might catch and trip me, a common occurrence around headquarters. Phan, thirty years younger, had no trouble staying close and protecting my backside. We made it out the door and into the blinding sunlight without further incident or insult.

  At least Phan had wheedled a vehicle with air conditioning out of his superiors. If it were up to them, I’d be riding an old one-speed bicycle. We got in and Phan began to back up, while I mouthed his next words.

  “Where to, boss?” he asked.

  “Bhinh Thanh,” I said. “Chop, chop.”

  We had an hour to make it to the rendezvous with Hacmon and, in the motorized bedlam of Sai Gon, we’d be lucky to drive the few kilometers in that amount of time. I sat in the backseat and tried to dredge up more memories of my years with Luong, time spent learning to become a part of the new socialist society. If I could get to him first, there might be something to help both of us when we finally met again.

  The meanderings
wouldn’t take me away from the specter of the dead Montagnard woman I was convinced Nguyen had shot. Something about her was familiar, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why Nguyen had done the killing unless he had more information about Luong than he told me. If, in fact, he did know there were Montagnards exterminating politburo members, mountain people in his sights would be open targets, especially if it appeared they might be threatening someone engaged in the investigation. There must be a connection between the woman and Luong, or she wouldn’t have been watching the house where the third body was found. It cost the woman her life.

  “Yada, yada,” as they said in Vietnamese. My mind was spinning like a fox on a tether. But Luong’s words from decades ago echoed in my skull.

  “A woman who survived the massacre at Dac Sun,” he had said, “was the one-toothed hag. She had been mostly responsible for the girls. She had a giant mole on her chin with hairs as long as my fingers, but she made everyone laugh when she twisted them in her fingers, crooning, ‘Em be cua tii.’” My babies.

  A siren began its klaxon honk, and I wondered if the officers inside the car were after me. They weren’t, and they roared by as fast as the traffic jam allowed, almost knocking down several bicyclists who tried to nudge in. One of the policemen even nodded and smiled, as if he wanted to send a message that he’d be seeing me soon.

  Maybe it was too many nights at Ma Jing’s. Or, lately, the lack of the snake soup that definitely made my mind sharper. It was now past a day before I grasped that the woman Nguyen had killed was the one Luong spoke about from Dac Sun. It seemed there were more villagers included in the politburo killings than Luong. I didn’t understand how Luong contacted Morgan, but I did get why. The Night Snake had returned. It was payback.

  The city passed slowly in the early-evening rush hour, making the gridlock only slightly worse, and the usual serenade of jammed cars and motorbikes sang the endless song of Sai Gon. Neon lights were flickering on and rats ran across the sky, getting ready for their nocturnal feeding and balanced on the robin’s nest of electrical wires that dangled and sparked overhead. As we got closer to Bhinh Thanh, I became more convinced that I needed to save myself. Not from the Vietnamese masters or my job. It might be my last chance to do something really good, justified, and important. By the time Phan pulled the Toyota to the side of the sprawl, I was ready to be Lei Kun, the Chinese God of Thunder, a spirit that punished criminals whose offenses had gone undetected.

  Hacmon sat cross-legged in the same spot where I’d seen her last. This time, there was no baby at her breast. She was in the shadow of a palm tree, the river visible through the rundown hovels behind her. It was quiet. Too quiet for this time of the evening when there should have been children playing and mamasans rushing to cook whatever food they had gathered to add to the night’s rice meal. The only smell wasn’t of frying fish, boiling oil, and spices. It was of raw sewage, much of it floating by on the Sai Gon. Tonight, the whole community seemed to be on hold. I understood that it was all about me. I told Phan to wait and he nodded, taking out his phone.

  For some reason, I started to sweat. I was wearing my plainclothes detective uniform of black slacks and short-sleeved white shirt. Now, the armpits were getting dark, not in the least usual for me. I rarely even sweated. I believed my glands had ruptured with the torrent that flowed during my years of eating grubs and lice at the camps. I stepped around a pile of moldering garbage, not wanting to get the non-uniform slippers I always wore covered in the goo that oozed from the pile. Hacmon watched with a neutral expression on her craggy face, and I could feel the sentry’s unseen eyes on me from the shadows.

  Beside the old woman, I crouched.

  “Xin chào, mamasan,” I said. Good evening. I bowed.

  “Chao cau,” she said. Hello, young man.

  “Have you had your evening meal?” I asked.

  “No. And you?”

  “I would be happy for a bowl of chicken fried rice and bia.”

  “No chicken today. Maybe dog. All taste same-same.”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  This could go on for awhile. It was the normal polite talk that was required before business. I was about to ask her about her family and ancestors when she cut me off.

  “Many eyes are on you, chau trai,” she said. Nephew. “You only walk upright because Luong has made it so. You must tell me what you want, or you will be floating in the river like any other dead fish.”

  This was unusual. A straightforward conversation with a Vietnamese without the normal ritual avoidance and approval ballet. I bowed, respecting her wishes and nervous about my answers. If they weren’t exactly what she wanted to hear, I figured it would only take a slight hand sign and I’d be flayed alive until I told them who I worked for and what I really wanted. Or what they expected. As the Great Buddha said, “There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth … not going all the way, and not starting.” I started.

  “Luong is my brother. We spent many nights whispering our stories to each other in the camps. I know about Dac Sun. I know about the girls. I know these things only because Luong told me. I even know about you, Hacmon.” I bowed respectfully again.

  “Tiep tuc,” she said. Go on.

  I glanced at Phan, hoping he was still consumed by a cartoon world. Silly me. Of course he was. When he was this absorbed, I could have been dragged away kicking without him noticing. I turned back to Hacmon, praying to Buddha he was right that “when words are both true and kind, they can change your world.” It seemed I was now fixated on the Buddha. It must have something to do with my own thoughts and fears about my imminent move to the next cycle of life. Or death. Whatever was more fitting. I tried to cleanse my thoughts and focus on the now and hoped my voice wasn’t quivering like a guitar string.

  “I believe Luong has returned to Sai Gon,” I said. “I also think he has something to do with the killings of several powerful men. There is an extensive pursuit going on, and it’s just a matter of time before they come here looking. Even though I work for the police, I want to speak to Luong. I will not betray him.”

  There it was. It would be up to her whether I ever ate another fried scorpion at Bo Tung Xeo restaurant on Li Tu Trong Street, one of my favorite places because of the way the cooked arachnids crunched like popcorn. She waited, studying me like she was deciding how many hard-earned noodles to put on my plate. Finally, she raised her right hand without taking her stare away from me.

  Within seconds, the Toyota was surrounded by ragged beggars, apparitions from a Hollywood zombie movie shot in the slums of Sai Gon. They didn’t threaten, just stood glaring at Phan like he was dinner. Blocking the doors, the wraiths put their hands on the windows and stopped him from getting out. Hopefully, he wouldn’t pull his pistol and start blasting away. He looked at me, and I dipped my head, trying to signal him I was OK and he wasn’t about to be transformed into a flesh eater.

  Hacmon struggled to her feet, pushing herself up with the help of the palm tree. She brushed off her long skirt, cinched her blouse, and adjusted her colorful headdress.

  “Di theo toi, Captain Fang,” she said. Follow me. Ouch. It seemed everyone knew me and I knew no one. More proof this woman was involved in whatever plot was being carried out.

  Within a few steps, we entered another world. This slum wasn’t at all like the ghost town behind the Kay Dim Market that sprung up in the old French cemetery. That was a sprawling mass of mud for poor Vietnamese and a breeding ground for some of the most ruthless and violent youth gangs in the city. It was a brutal area, rife with tuberculosis and other diseases, including the highest concentration of HIV/AIDS in the country. The path Hacmon led me down was well swept and dry, as if the inhabitants had put in a drainage system, until it ended in a kind of rickety boardwalk, a half-meter wide and hanging over the edge of the river. There was little garbage and all of the tin or cardboard hootches seemed tidy. As we wound our way down the narrow walkway, only a few old women were in s
ight. In the distance, someone was listening to My Tam sing “Bleeding Love,” one of her biggest hits. The sound was tinny and nearly overwhelmed by the noise coming from the river as we moved along, swaying with the current and waves. The Montagnards must have cared about how they lived, because this wasn’t the usual ghetto or river rat squalor.

  One more sharp turn and Hacmon stopped. She gestured me to stay where I was and disappeared into a hut that leaned toward the river as if it was about to topple. She’d gone through a thin blanket that covered the entrance without a word, and I tried to keep from trembling, knowing it wasn’t up to me whether I got out of here alive.

  A voice from behind the curtain. One I would never forget.

  “Di vao anh trai.” Come in, brother, Luong said.

  I shoved the blanket aside and stepped into the gloom, the space lit only by a small kerosene lamp. It was stifling, but the man across from me squatting like a mamasan doing the wash wasn’t sweating. I was about to drown in my own juices. It was easy to recognize my old friend, and I wondered if we might hug, an action becoming more common with the onslaught of Western TV, but I knew touching another man wouldn’t be in Luong’s repertoire unless it was with a garrote or a knife.

  Before I could offer a greeting, someone from behind pushed me to the rug-covered floor and pulled my hands back. Immediately, fingers began to search my clothes in a thorough frisk, while my head was rammed into the mat. It was surprisingly clean and smelled like cleaning fluid and toe jam. The Sig Sauer was lifted from my pocket, but the dong was left where it was. Luong only watched as the person finished and vanished. Obviously, I’d passed this test even if I’d showed up packing a gun.

  No apologies. Luong must have known we were both professionals and this kind of behavior was routine. I might have done the same to him no matter how many hours we’d spent murmuring our life stories.