by Ron Lealos
“Is this the dinner cruise?” I asked anyone behind me who could hear over the roaring engine and the deafness caused by rounds fired in close proximity to ears.
“Get us out of here,” Morgan yelled, holding his hand tightly against a wound on his thigh, “and I’ll buy you all the filet mignon you can eat at La Villa.” La Villa was rated the number one restaurant in Sai Gon. It seemed Morgan knew all the hot spots and loved to tantalize me with profferings of gourmet meals.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m not into French cuisine. Too much subtlety. How about Baba’s Kitchen. The lamb curry is magnificent.”
“Anywhere,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “Just don’t run us into a sampan.”
Everyone knew I’d only driven a boat once, and that voyage ended in disaster. I came into the dock too fast and slammed into the wooden pilings, punching a hole in the small craft and spilling two of my fellow policemen into the dank water. Most of what I knew about captaining was learned from Morgan back at Mr. Liu’s and was verbal only. I thought, how hard could it be just as we thumped hard over something that could have been a human body, an Irrawaddy river dolphin, or a bloated cow carcass. Whichever, it caused the wheel to spin out of my hands and we began to head straight at the tree-lined bank and a dinghy moored to a tree. The channel was only about thirty yards wide, and we would be sinking within seconds. I grabbed the controls and pulled hard left, almost capsizing. Groans came from the back, and I didn’t bother to listen to them gripe about slant drivers.
“You should be careful to keep your mouths closed,” I said, shouting over the engine noise. “The water here is quite contaminated. Haven’t you been reading about the mystery skin disease that has killed almost two hundred recently? Even the WHO is stumped. Most of the victims lived around our polluted waterways. It causes ulcerous sores on the hands and feet and then spreads internally, finally ending in death from an inflamed esophagus. You suffocate. In other words, talking could be harmful to your health, comrades.” I smiled, only wishing the part about the “polluted waterways” was true. The rest was and maybe it all could be spot on. The report caused silence, and when I glanced behind, all of my passengers had their forearms over their mouths, trying to keep the rancid spray out.
A few minutes later and we were in the Sai Gon River, headed toward Binh Thanh. Here, the channel was much wider and I could move between junks and sampans at a slower rate. We had yet to hear the thwop thwop of an expected helicopter. If one did emerge, it would be easier to hide among the traffic in the short distance we had to travel.
After passing under the Cau Thu Thiem Bridge, I guided the boat to a dock close to where I’d first met Morgan and reunited with Luong. Two men were waiting, bulges under their shirts barely concealing the pistols at their waists. They had the serious deadpan look of all Montagnards, manifesting the centuries of persecution that rarely allowed laughter. In this gang, I felt like a pirate, not a policeman, and it was a role that didn’t sadden me in the least. The question was if I was going to join this lawless crew, continue breathing, or have a return visit to Ma Jing’s without being executed. We helped Luong and Morgan out of the boat and were escorted into the maze of Binh Thanh where a van was waiting on Cau Phu My Boulevard to take us to Mr. Liu’s safe house in Cholon. Nothing much was said on the ride, and I tried to settle Luong as best as I could. He was bleeding badly from several bullet holes in his shoulder and arm. At least the body-armor vests had kept him from a sucking chest wound.
At Mr. Liu’s, the debriefing began immediately while the flat screen on the wall silently played news about the murder of the country’s respected and loved Prime Minister. Liu had made sure there was a doctor with supplies on site if needed. It was and Luong was attended to first, his condition being much more serious. Morgan came next, Hatati hovering over him every second. Mr. Liu questioned me before the rest, knowing my part was minor. I sipped a cup of his excellent jasmine tea and told him what little I knew. Then, he turned to Nguyen.
“You were to be sentry outside the back door,” Liu said to Nguyen. “What happened?”
“I used the silenced .22 to take out the guard, then hid in the shadows, waiting,” Nguyen said. “Nothing until I heard shooting inside and Morgan saying ‘Code Red’ in my earpiece. I went through the door, past the kitchen, and out into the main part of the house. I only encountered one man and he was facing away. I shot him and joined Morgan and Luong at the bottom of the stairs. Hatati came from out of the smoke in seconds, and Morgan and Luong signaled us to stay while they went upstairs after Dung. There was lots of gunfire and a grenade from above. No one else came toward us. It all took a few minutes and had mostly quieted down when the first of the sirens sounded.” He looked away, rubbing a bruise on his hand.
“And what happened next?” Liu asked. He was seated in his high-backed silk-cushioned chair, playing the part of the mandarin he was.
“We knew he had blocked the gate,” Nguyen said, nodding at me. “But that wouldn’t keep them out for long. It didn’t and we could see men approaching outside the windows. They were helmeted and all carried rifles. More were coming every second, and the siren’s noise kept increasing. Hatati and I started firing, each from a different window. At one point, we both threw grenades before reloading. It was too loud to hear Morgan or Luong. Eventually, and just before we would have been surrounded, they ran down the stairs and Luong covered us while we sprinted out the back door, dropping a couple phosphorous grenades in farewell. We leapfrogged across the lawn toward the channel. Luong was hit, and I grabbed him before he fell, holding him up as best as I could and taking him to the boat. Hatati went first in case anyone had circled around. Morgan covered the rear. We all made it, not completely unharmed. As far as I know, Dung is in the place he belongs.”
Hatati and Morgan had been listening to the tale and mostly moving their heads up and down with approval.
“That’s about it,” Hatati said. “I did the same except from the front of the house. I’m sure Dung is dead, but Morgan or Luong will have to tell you that part.” In her black pants and blouse, she was as stunning as ever. Her green eyes flashed against the dirt smudged on her cheeks and I realized a woman like this was worth more than the entire Nguyen Dynasty carved gold treasures that were exhibited around the world.
Luong was still in no shape to join the questioning, the doctor finishing with his stitching and bandaging, having removed the bullet fragments that remained and administered a syringe of morphine. Hatati had cleaned Morgan’s injury and applied antibiotic and a fresh dressing. He was next to speak.
“Upstairs,” Morgan said, “the guards were alerted and ready. We had to fight door to door, Luong mostly providing cover fire, risking his life by staying more in the open. I reached what we had been told was Dung’s bedroom after we’d neutralized all of his protection.”
A smile on Morgan’s face. It was a picture of masculinity. Even if he was too old for the cover of Esquire, he was the poster boy for the rugged individualist on the senior circuit. He and Hatati would make the flashbulbs crackle even on the red carpet at Cannes. I was jealous, but that was nothing new.
“When we went in,” Morgan said, “after flipping a little gift of a stun grenade, old Poo Ping was rubbing his eyes, trying to look mean with his AK. Usually, I would have made sure the last thing he heard was his own voice pleading for forgiveness as he spilled out his excuses. There was no time and I stepped aside, letting Luong stitch him a new zipper in his belly. We ran down the stairs and joined Nguyen and Hatati. You know the rest. The only real surprise was the girl and the parrot. The girl was left unharmed. Unfortunately, the bird won’t fly again.”
The sat phone buzzed. Liu and Morgan looked back and forth at each other, Morgan finally picking up the receiver from the end table.
“Evenin’ to ya, bloke,” Morgan said, trying his best to sound like a Brit.
He listened, grinning. We could all hear the yelling in the background. Morgan seemed to
be enjoying Nutley’s anger.
“Hold on a minute there, laddy,” Morgan said. “All you need to know is mission accomplished and tell me where the Gulfstream is waiting to fly is back to the Kingdom.”
The smirk got even wider as he paid attention to the shouts coming over the ether.
“Not my problem, mate,” Morgan said. “It’s your brief to handle the ‘international incident’ rumors. We did our part, and Bob’s your uncle if I’m gonna apologize for thirty dead commies who wanted to kill us.”
Nothing much more except a few nods. He switched off and smiled at Hatati.
“I think we might have stirred the nest,” Morgan said. “That’s a bag of shite for MI6 to clean up. Not us.”
Morgan turned back to Mr. Liu.
“Can you get Luong, Hatati, and me to the airport?” Morgan asked. “The sooner the better. I think you have plans for Nguyen and the captain.”
“There’s a car waiting,” Liu said. “Cheers. And thank you.”
No hugs. They gently helped Luong to his feet and, holding him under each arm, moved to the door.
“Good-bye,” Hatati said. “Thanks for everything. Take good care of him,” she said, pointing an exquisite finger toward me and winking in my direction. I nearly fainted.
They were gone, and I was alone with Nguyen and Mr. Liu, my fate still as undetermined as a cobra’s in front of a mongoose.
Epilogue
Ten days later, I was sitting in front of my customized computer, the office quiet except for the hum of the fan and the chirps bleeping from Phan’s cell phone. He was absorbed in version 2.0.3 of SpongeBob he’d just downloaded. Phan had been ordered not to let me out of his sight. I was browsing through the hysterical online articles on Dung’s assassination, trying to find if there was any hint about who had carried out the slaughter. There was massive speculation, no proof. Lots of theories, the most popular being a revenge killing involving competing warlords, an acceptable hypothesis now that Poo Ping was dead. The final body count, including the late Prime Minister, was thirty-two with a dozen more wounded. I marveled at the deadly accuracy of my teammates and wondered if I had been responsible for even one. Back at headquarters and able to resume my job, I was only still breathing because of Nguyen. Of course, Mr. Liu had helped. His tentacles reached into even the darkest places.
After Morgan, Hatati, and Luong had left Liu’s apartment, he’d explained a few things to me. Not the whole story. No mandarin would ever give all the details, making sure everything was left vague and forever unknowable by the peasants. It seemed I had been watched for many years, my Chinese blood being the most enticing factor and the bigotry that hybrid would surely spawn. There was no way I would have risen to the lofty position of “Detective Captain” without the influence of Mr. Liu and Nguyen. And here I believed it was my incredible ability to close cases, forgetting that I could have been a newly-risen god and still be hated by purebred Vietnamese who wanted me collecting rats for the rodent tariff rather than investigating crime.
The questioning had been intense, especially since a half-breed couldn’t be trusted as far as a gecko could spit. Nguyen had prompted me and he was part of the interrogation, making sure no one got too close. Besides, he was my prime alibi, explaining how he had rescued me from the ambush in Bin Thanh, then taken me to a safe house where he had grilled me further about my past comradeship with Luong and delved deeper into Morgan’s legend. He convinced the other officers that I was cooperating completely, and he hid me away, fearing even an attack on headquarters was possible. The next few days were spent attempting to trace Luong through sources Nguyen had supposedly placed inside the Montagnard community. Since Nguyen had divulged much of this to his superiors after our tea in the Quickly Bang, he had established both of our credibilities. Mr. Liu and Luong had provided witnesses who would also verify Nguyen’s story.
While the murders caused a media frenzy in our censored society, the police and intelligence services were putting on a show. Dung’s sleazy behavior was always a threat to the reputation of the party. While the opium trade had lined the pockets of many Vietnamese politicians and ranking military officers, the addition of young children and the Taliban was lower even than the politburo’s morality. The first five victims were part of the old guard and not well loved by the younger ambitious generation trying to gain power. Over time, the explanation of a war between the historically dominant Binh Xuyen gang and a rejuvenated Nam Cam crew, led by the founder’s son, Truong Van Cam, became the accepted script. Cam had notoriously left a severed finger with Dung’s famous ring still attached below the knuckle on the steps of police headquarters. This was a few days after the assassinations and was delivered with a note claiming Bay Vien, the Binh Xuyen leader, was next. No one could prove the legitimacy of the finger or the letter, but the police made sure it was well-publicized.
Now, I was back and still considered the snake in the bird’s nest. I sighed and picked up a file outlining the arrest of Tran Thuy Lieu, forty-one, accused of soaking her husband, Le Hoang Hung, with gasoline and setting him on fire. The fifty-one-year-old journalist was asleep in his bed on the second floor of their home. Hung was a reporter specializing in crime and corruption issues. There was some suspicion that Hung had really been murdered by the police for not fully supporting the criminal gang responsibility theory for Dung’s execution. No one was trying very hard to prove Mrs. Lieu’s innocence. I flipped through the pages, marveling at how a burned corpse could look so much like a blackened mummy with protruding eyeballs.
“Did you have your syphilis test yet, Phan?” I asked my watcher.
“That was those other two officers,” Phan said. “You told me I didn’t need it. The damage was already done.”
“Have you heard my new name around here?” I asked.
“No, sir,” Phan said.
“Li Kin Dong,” I said. “Yours is ‘Dum Gai.’”
And so it went.
Mr. Liu’s call came a month after. He spoke of the delicate tea he’d brewed and invited me for another tasting, making sure to arrange for a ride that meant I wouldn’t be followed. I ditched Phan while he thought I was in my apartment for the night and met the driver a few blocks away outside the Tan Dat beauty salon and casket store. We weaved our way through the evening rush, passing the fierce carved dragons that stand guard at Quan Am Pagoda and a Starducs Coffee Shop in Cholon, turning down the same alley I was becoming familiar with.
As usual, Mr. Liu was waiting at the top of the dimly lit stairs, motioning me up with a smile on his thin face. He was wearing a traditional red silk jacket and pants embroidered in gold. His hands were clasped behind his back. I climbed up and bowed. He guided me inside, where Luong was seated on one of the satin couches, a cup of tea in both their hands. He nodded and stepped close to him, lightly touching his shoulder that was still humped with bandages.
“Old friend,” I said. “You are well?”
“Sit,” Luong said, pointing to the chair beside him. “We have catching up to do and we’re waiting for a call.”
I sat, accepting the cup of tea Liu was holding out.
“I thought you were leaving the country,” I said. “There is still a manhunt for you.”
“Yes, we know,” Luong said. “And Nguyen is in charge of the search.” He tried to smile. “There is too much here to do for me to run away. The flatlanders continue their genocide of my people. And too many are still eating pho.”
The room smelled of jasmine and sandalwood incense burning in an antique flower-shaped gold vase studded with emeralds. It was the most expensive container I’d ever seen and went well with the ethereal tapestries showing gardens and birds that hung on the wall. Everything in the room, including the furniture, serving ware, lamps, and decorations were ancient Chinese artifacts. And priceless. I relaxed, knowing it would take more than a battalion of the Vietnam People’s Army to successfully invade this neighborhood.
“Morgan and Hatati?” I asked.
>
The encrypted satellite phone chimed.
“Perfect timing,” Mr. Liu said, pushing the green answer button.
“Mr. Nutley,” Liu said into the handset. “I have someone here who would like to speak to you.” Hesitation. Then, “I’ll let you tell him.” He handed me the receiver.
“Is that Captain Fang?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “And how are you?” I was smiling.
“Just smashing,” he said. “We’re back in the land of the Redcoats. Hatati sends her best wishes. How have you been?”
Before I could answer, he started in again.
“Because of your influence, I have been studying your great philosopher, Confucius. He once said, ‘The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions.’ In other words, ‘Foolish man gives girlfriend grand piano. Wise man give girlfriend upright organ.’ It is amazing, the wisdom of this man.”
“Yes,” I said, “I have heard all those bigoted sayings before. It’s like saying ‘The queen must love stupid people. She rules so many of them.’ I would rather hear how you’ve been. Rather, how Hatati is doing.”
“You’re the one who showed me how valuable the insult could be,” Morgan said, laughing. “Besides, I never fight with ugly people like you. They have nothing to lose.”
“Stop,” I said, for once disgusted with the never-ending boring slurs. I was beginning to sense that the good man doesn’t need to hide behind words, a complete reversal of the last thirty years where my only defense seemed to be offensive. It was time to take life more seriously and honor the beauty of my fellow man.
“I only wish I wasn’t born so intelligent,” I said. “Then I could enjoy you. All of this childish rudeness reminds me that your parents were siblings.”