Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  Allen said, “As Winter would put it, ‘Life’s hell in the combat zone.’ ”

  A car hummed through the parking lot, coming toward the front door in order to turn out onto the street. The horn blew as it drew abreast and Barline, eyes bright, leaned past the driver to wave at them. The driver looked quickly and returned to his job.

  “He looks a little less furious.” Taylor started back to the table.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it. He’ll try like hell to get at you.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Maybe you can get him up on the roof to discuss it.” Taylor turned sharply to see Allen’s eyes belying the seriousness of his voice.

  “I never mix business with pleasure.”

  Allen feigned a shudder. “My God. You’ve managed to pervert the entire work ethic with one short sentence.”

  Chapter 27

  In the darkness of Ly’s room, Taylor sat in a chair buttoning his shirt. The smell of her body clung to him and he inhaled, luxuriating. She stirred and he let the breath trickle free, sensuousness even in the simple relaxation of his rib cage. He stood, turning for one last look at the mounded sheet.

  “I have found an apartment.”

  Her voice hit like a bright light and he stumbled, moving to the bedside.

  “You’ve done what?”

  “I have found an apartment.” The sheet rustled as she sat up, bringing the material with her to form a truncated pyramid in the dark. “I am not some prostitute to entertain customers in dark corners. I do not want you sneaking the streets in the night. I am going to live in my own apartment. You may come there when you choose.”

  He sat beside her and she stroked the line of his jaw with a single finger.

  “Your parents will never allow it.”

  “They will be unhappy. They cannot stop me.”

  Her hand lingered before sliding gently along his cheekbone. He twisted to kiss the palm.

  “There has to be a better way, Ly.”

  She sighed. “There is no other way. I want you to be able to come to me. I have arranged it.”

  Wind bells stirred outside and a tendril of his consciousness grasped the distraction, weaving the melancholy night-chiming into a vague symbolism of movement without freedom.

  “I don’t know what to say, Ly. I want you too much to let you go and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “There is no need to say anything. You may come to me or not, that is the only choice now. If we continue this way, there will be greater shame for my parents. They will find out I have dishonored their house. I must leave here.”

  “Then leave as my wife.”

  “I would like that.”

  He bent to kiss her and she warded him off. “No! And do not speak to me of love!” She turned warily to face him again and he straightened. “I know you need me as I need you,” she continued. “My path is to look for love with you, I see that. You cannot know how hard I tried to deny it. You would marry me now for the pleasure I give you. It would be easy because you feel sorry for me, and I for you. Sympathy and need are not love.”

  “You won’t believe me if I tell you I love you?”

  “I would die to hear you say it if I believed you. That is why you must not say it. I must believe it before you say it.”

  He reached up to cover her hand. “What do I have to do to convince you? Are you going to set some task, like a princess in a fairy tale?”

  She laughed softly, the sound melding with the wind bells in his ear, and pulled at his hair. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m being serious! No, there are no tasks. I pray only that you will be careful.” She turned her hand to hold his and squeezed. “I am very selfish. If I ever lose you—”

  “Lose me? Try to get rid of me!”

  She made a noise, non-verbal, exasperated. “Don’t treat me like a fool! You know what I mean! You are changing, you worry. All of you. Something is happening to you.”

  He disengaged her hand. “Have you said anything about this to anyone else?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Good. Don’t. You’re imagining again.”

  She tossed her head, black hair cascading across her shoulder, an intensified shadow spilling down the covering sheet. “Not as much as you, believing you can lie to me. We will discuss it no more. I only ask that you be careful.”

  “Sure. How do I find out where this apartment is?”

  “I will contact you at your office.” She pushed his shoulder. “Now go, before it is too late.” The paleness of her face came to him for a last kiss and broke away. “Quickly!”

  He did as he knew he must, trailing his hand the length of her leg as he moved away.

  “Good night, my Ly.”

  “And good night to you, my Charles.” Urgency replaced tenderness. “And be quiet! The guard is gone from the gate, but if Hong has returned, she has ears that hear every sound.”

  He moved silently down the stairs and out to the gate, where he turned and searched the grounds. There was no movement, no noise save the working of insects. Easing through the gate and onto the deserted street, he stepped off on the long walk back to MACV. At the corner he moved into the bright daub beneath the lamp post and a streetwalker going home from a wasted evening across the street from BEQ One automatically arched her back and swiveled her hips at him in one last try. A look at his unswerving course told her he hadn’t even noticed her and when she saw his thunderous scowl, she was glad, and hurried past him.

  Chi Hong had no way of knowing any of the action on the street, as she remained in the shadow of the old tree next to the house, her black clothes making her one with the night. When she was sure the Thieu Ta was not returning, she hurried to the house, grumbling to herself.

  “The huge fool! They will be home in minutes! Longer than two hours! My bones are broken from standing still so long. But I would bet that he is wearier!”

  Abruptly, she giggled, stifling the sound with her hand, then composed herself and padded on bare feet through the house to listen at Ly’s door.

  Moaning sobs stabbed through the paneling and struck at her. She retreated to the living room as silently as she’d come, where she stole a cigarette from the lacquer box on the table and lit it.

  “They will shout with anger when they think they have caught me,” she muttered to herself, needing the sound of conversation to steel her for the inevitable scene. “That will give her warning to stop her tears.”

  She savored another forbidden puff.

  “Perhaps they will be late enough for me to have another one. Even two.”

  The anticipation in her eyes guttered and a frown pained her face.

  “My precious blossom!” She rocked back and forth. “What can I do?”

  The gate groaned shut with its customary thump. Chi Hong dried a tear, cursing herself for wasting time like a foolish old woman, and dragged furiously on the cigarette.

  Chapter 28

  Taylor squatted in the street, drawing numbers in the dirt with a fingertip. The old woman in front of him huffed scornfully, erased the number and tripled it. He sighed.

  “Ba, I want to buy five limes. Only five. You ask more than the tree is worth.”

  The two women watching giggled. Behind them the market clamored a babble of commerce.

  The woman ignored the two watchers. “They are good limes. That is my best price.”

  “Truly—the best price anyone ever got for five limes. Because I am an American does not mean I am a fool.”

  The old woman speared him with a look. “Oh?”

  Laughter from the other two applauded her point.

  “Certainly I am not such a fool as to pay that much. I can buy durians for that price.”

  She shrugged, again wrinkling the furrowed face in clear disdain. “You do not look old enough to need durians. However—”

  Taylor had to grin, knowing he’d been stuck again. Durians were an evil-smelling but delicious fruit, supposed to restore sexual
vigor to old men. The listeners leaned on each other and howled while his antagonist affected bored triumph. He tried to regroup.

  “All I want is a fair price. I know you will charge me more than you would charge a Vietnamese, but please do not try to charge me as much as an American.”

  She sniffed. “If you did not speak so well I would ask double.” She drew a line under her number.

  “If I talk twice as much, will you charge half as much?”

  Her tongue clucked aggravation. “You already talk enough, Thieu Ta! While we argue I have no other customers. You cost me money!”

  He pointed at the numbers. “At this price, you need no other customers.”

  “Oh, all right! So I can have some peace, I will cut the price in half! You steal both my fruit and my time!”

  “You are very kind. I will try to equal your thoughtfulness.” He erased her figure with the edge of his hand and wrote another number. “Sell me the limes for that price and I will be gone. I will be happy and you can brag all your life about how you cheated the big American.”

  She rocked back and grabbed the leg of one of the other women, hand over mouth, laughing until her eyes squeezed shut. Finally, still laughing, she nodded. He counted the money onto the hard callouses and ingrained dirt of a palm that had never known any greater luxury than a new tool. He drew out his cigarettes, shaking free a half-dozen. He extended them to the woman, indicating her friends at the same time.

  “Take these. They are payment for the lesson.” The woman frowned uncertainly. He gestured with them. “Now I know why the women do the marketing in Vietnam. No man can resist you.”

  She took the cigarettes quickly, laughing again, waving as he left.

  The market was his fascination. The sensory impact of so much variety drove away disciplined appreciation and he simply absorbed. The warning-sharp scent of ot, the crimson hot peppers, mingled with the seaside smell of tom kho and ca thu, dried shrimp and fish. Next to them stood a wicker basket of chom choms—orange-red hulls like golfball-sized cockleburs, hiding a succulent fruit that rivaled the best table grapes.

  “Thieu Ta!” He turned at the call, puzzled, and discovered a boy, perhaps ten years old, arched backward in order to look up into his face. His hair was rough-cut, shaggy over eyes far too wise. Surprisingly, his frayed khaki shirt and shorts were spotless.

  “A friend wants to talk to you,” the boy said. “Do you really speak our language?”

  “A few words. Who is this friend?”

  The boy tugged his shorts with one hand and picked his nose with the other. “I do not know. He gave me ten piasters to tell you I would take you to meet him. He said when I bring you there, he will give me another ten.”

  Taylor fumbled in his pocket. “I will pay you. Tell me where I am to go.”

  The boy stepped back. “I cannot tell you. I must bring you or he will not pay me.”

  “If I pay you, it is the same thing.”

  “No. He said he would have other things for me to do if I do this right.”

  Possibilities whirled through Taylor’s mind. It could be a set-up. It could be an informant with something urgent. The wry prospect that neither of those excluded the other twisted a corner of his mouth in an unconscious smile. The boy noticed it and responded quickly.

  “You will come?”

  Taylor nodded and the boy immediately darted past him, knifing through the crowd. Taylor struggled to keep pace, handicapped by his bulk. The boy glanced back and slowed, audacious with tolerant amusement. They walked two blocks away from the market and he stopped, pointing.

  “Bamboo Palace Bar. Your friend waits inside.” He trotted ahead, up a narrow staircase. Taylor followed slowly, increasingly glad of the belt-holstered .38 under the utility jacket. It lacked the authority of Apeneck, but it had been a wise choice over the piddling .25 automatic.

  At the head of the stairs the boy pushed open the door and waited. Passing him, Taylor entered slowly, scanning the room. Some Koreans at the bar inspected him casually. In the dim distance a man in a white shirt waved. The boy squatted on the top step and Taylor moved toward the table.

  “Welcome to the Bamboo Palace, Major.” Taylor recognized Trung just as he spoke. “I am honored that you would visit with me. I am already in your debt for so many things.” He waved at the chair across from him. “I have already ordered beer for you. A small portion of repayment for all of your hospitality.”

  “We have been asking about you. We hear you are being very correct, living up to your end of our bargain.”

  Trung’s eyes wandered as if he was having trouble controlling them. “Yes, our bargain. The world is full of bargains. Unfortunately, the one I am supposed to have made, the one for great wealth, seems to have escaped me. And there are people who still believe I earned the money at their expense.”

  “Life can be cruel.”

  “Especially when one must live a lie, with the truth but a breath from leaving his mouth.”

  The waiter came with the beer and both men ignored him, staring at each other. Trung broke the contact to sip from his glass.

  “You sent the boy after me because you want to talk about life?”

  Trung put his glass on the table and his eyes floated off on some independent search again. “The people I have offended are not vindictive men. They know I am trustworthy because there have been no arrests. My good friend Tu is another matter.”

  “He survives.”

  Trung’s face grew thoughtful and the eyes came back to rest on Taylor’s hands. “Yes, but at what price? We are very concerned about him.”

  “Please.” Taylor rocked his head back and forth. “We know each other too well to trade hints. You know the agreement. You cooperate by your silence and no one comes looking for you. You are not worried about Tu. If there is a thing in your belly that you must say, then say it.”

  The strained affability broke down, fractured by anger that froze Trung immobile in his chair. “I am not as helpless as you think! And you are not as safe as you think! Have you thought that we knew exactly where you were, to send the boy for you? He could have had a different purpose.”

  He stopped and tried to re-establish his calmness with a long drink. When he spoke again, the hatred was a mere undertone. “I have heard suggestions that your death would convince certain people of my loyalty.”

  “Then those people are mad. You have no loyalty. You are no real Viet Cong. Why speak of my death? You will do nothing about it.” Trung tensed and Taylor gestured him back, careful to keep the motion soft, not trusting the fury building in himself, not wanting the hand to turn to a fist. The harsh sound of his own voice warned him further of his dwindling control, paradoxically serving as an additional goad.

  “You will not even help a Special Section trap me, Trung. You have friends? I have friends. When they come for you, where will you go? To the north? You would be safe there. Would you like to live in the north? Or spend the rest of your life in the Rung Sat or hiding in alleys? No, you would not like that. And I do not want to worry all the time. Look at me. I will kill you if I have to, do you understand? For fifty U.S. dollars I can have you disappear forever. If I die, you can never find enough money to buy my people. While I live, you live. My life is not in your hands, yours is in mine. Save your threats for your whores.”

  His progress to the doorway drew another disinterested glance from the Koreans. At each step he considered which way to leap at the sound of a shot, the choices flipping past his eyes like line sketches. There was a chill in his spine, like being on point, praying the first shot misses, praying to make cover before the second one. The sound of the door closing behind him unleashed a shudder of relief.

  The boy was at the foot of the stairs. He looked up at Taylor’s approach.

  “You got Sa-lem, OK?”

  Almost reflexively, he shook out a cigarette for the boy, a part of his mind taking pride in the steadiness of his hand.

  “Not Sa-lem,” the
shrill voice complained.

  The picture burned into Taylor’s mind, the banality of the childish dissatisfaction contrasting with the threat of violent death moments earlier to shock his mind into suspension.

  “Why not Sa-lem?”

  The repetition got him moving again. Handing the boy some piasters without bothering to count, he headed back toward the market. It occurred to him he still had the five limes in his pocket. A tense smile brought glances from others on the sidewalk while he wondered what they’d say if they knew he was thinking of Winter’s face if five limes had shown up on his personal effects inventory. He continued toward the center of town, calming himself, objectively turning over the ramifications of the meeting.

  There was the chance he was already targeted. Trung could’ve started the wheels the day he got out. He mulled that, facing the prospect.

  Trung wouldn’t set him up and then call him in to hint at it. But would he call him in to let him know he was a future target in order to enjoy watching the fear build? It took another block to discard that possibility.

  Again, Trung would consider his own skin before anything else.

  By the time he entered the lobby of the Rex BOQ he’d convinced himself it was nothing more than a bluff. That, and a warning that the VC now knew for a fact that Tu was a prisoner. The elevator groaned like an ancient curse all the way to the roof garden, irritating, opening the way for rage at being threatened to surface again. Stepping out, he collected himself once more before moving into the restaurant.

  Harker greeted him from one of the tables by the railing. “You look like a man with a problem.”

  “Amen to that.” Taylor sat down, waving off the approaching waitress, and described his day. Through it all, the faint sound of traffic floated up to them as a prosaic backdrop.

  Harker waited until Taylor was through. “Stupid bastard,” he said. “Winter and Loc’ll have him wasted before he knows what hit him. Is he crazy?”