Blood & Tacos #2

by Ray Banks

  Hai frowned. "Sir…?"

  Thuy fetched a weary sigh. "Tell Le he will get boo-koo reward. The weapons have all been cleaned and inspected?"

  "Yes, sir!" Hai said, "I inspected them myself."

  "Well, I suppose we’ll have to hope for the best anyway."

  Hai smiled, but My scowled at Thuy. "Thuy! Hai has done nothing but serve you loyally. Must you be so … so unpleasant?"

  Thuy grunted. "Good work, Hai. Go below and tell the men to prepare. We should expect Sergeant Tinh in the next 36 hours. 48 at most."

  Hai saluted and hurried down through the trap door.

  My smiled after him. "You see—"

  Thuy gripped her by the arm and whirled her around. "You will not chide me in front of my troops, woman! Understand?"

  "Thuy, you’re hurting me—"

  "Do you understand? Answer me!"

  My’s eyes flashed, but then she lowered her head. "Yes."

  "What?"

  My’s lower lip trembled. "Yes, sir."

  Thuy released her arm.

  The milk began to burn, and the smell of rancid almonds floated on the air. In their pen, the mongrels awoke and began crying.

  The Nightclub was a few blocks away, but Tinh insisted they go up to the marketplace, procure themselves some cigarettes and some bac si de. Mathes glared at him. "Hardly the time for a drink, Sarge."

  "Always time for a drink, Joe."

  "Man, goddammit—my name is Mathes. Corporal Mathes!"

  "What’s your first name, Mathes?"

  Mathes’ face got redder. "All right, it is Joseph, as a matter of fact. But you didn’t fuckin’ know that!"

  "Mm," Tinh said, the corner of his mouth tugging up a fraction. "You don’t like this mission, do you, Mathes?"

  "Following some crazy Arvin Christ-knows-where to save a handful of half-gook bastards? The fuck do you think? That sound like a good mission to you, Sarge?"

  "No, it don’t," Tinh said. "But it does sound like you need a drink."

  Even in the rain, the marketplace was packed, water dripping from the colorful overhangs at each stall. Mathes had never ventured down here, preferring to take his chances on whatever C-rations they had back at MACV. And with good reason, he now saw. Everybody in the marketplace chattered loudly, bickering back and forth. Mathes saw bottles of wine with scorpions in them, fertilized duck eggs eaten with a spoon, and in one lone stall was something called thit cho. Mathes asked Tinh what that was.

  "Mm. Dog meat."

  Mathes almost puked right there. "Jesus Christ, man!"

  "Mm. Big in Hanoi," said Tinh.

  Mathes followed in Tinh’s steps. No one seemed to give the big Yankee a second glance, but Mathes couldn’t shake the feeling they were all staring. They arrived at a stall, and Mathes stationed himself in the corner where no one could sneak up on him.

  The stall’s owner greeted Tinh with a hearty smile, and Mathes was surprised to see Tinh smile back. They took the next minute to scream at each other in Vietnamese and French.

  "Hey, Tinh," Mathes said, "calm down. What’s the problem?"

  "We’re haggling. How much money you got, Mathes?"

  Mathes shrugged. "I dunno. Fifty bucks."

  "Mm. Lemme borrow it, huh?"

  "What?"

  "You want this mission over with ASAP, right?"

  "Well, yeah—"

  "Then borrow me fifty bucks."

  Mathes reached for his wallet. His eyes popped. "My fuckin’ wallet’s gone! Goddammit, I—"

  Tinh held up his wallet. "Gotta watch that, Mathes. Lotsa pickpockets."

  Mathes snatched at it, but Tinh removed the cash first before handing it back. Tinh looked at the owner, held up the money.

  The owner turned and hollered at the back of the stall. A moment later, a small boy appeared carrying a case of Lucky Strikes. Tinh handed it to Mathes. "Makes a fine tobacco."

  Mathes grunted.

  Tinh and the owner spoke some more, their raucous Vietnamese giving Mathes a headache. The owner reached under the table and produced an unlabeled bottle. Tinh took it and they yelled at each other some more until the owner handed him another bottle. Tinh handed over Mathes’ cash.

  "Let’s go," he said.

  In the jeep, Tinh pulled the cork from one of the bottles and took a pull, then another. He handed it to Mathes.

  "I’m driving here, man."

  "Mm. I know." Tinh pushed the bottle at him.

  Mathes took it and glanced down at the milky stuff inside. Looked harmless. How much bite could there be in whiskey made of rice? He put the bottle to his lips and knocked back a quick slug.

  Fire immediately spread over his tongue. Mathes jerked the wheel to the left, almost plowing into a scooter. As Mathes corrected the jeep, a cottony feel dripped down his throat, coated his guts. It felt like a thin layer of Fluffernutter in his esophagus.

  "Mm," Tinh said. "Good?"

  Mathes smiled and nodded.

  "Mm. Good."

  They found Mama Tu on the porch of the VAA Nightclub, bundled up in her chair, watching the drizzle and smoking a cigarette. She didn’t look any worse for the wear to Mathes, except he’d never seen her scowl quite like that. Could just be that he’d never seen her in the light of day.

  Tinh bowed deeply to her and nudged Mathes to do the same. Tinh elbowed Mathes again, and Mathes handed her one of the whiskey bottles.

  She leaned forward to take it. "Thankee, Joe."

  "Yes, ma’am."

  Tinh handed her the other bottle. She said in Vietnamese, "They stuck you with this round-eye?"

  "He’s here in an advisory capacity."

  Mama Tu laughed. "And who’s going to advise him?" she said, smiling warmly at Mathes. Mathes smiled back. The rain came down harder, but she did not invite them onto the porch.

  "Mama Tu," Tinh said, "please tell me what happened."

  She pulled on her cigarette. "I was watching the babies. The boys were sleeping, but Yen began crying. She had a nightmare."

  "What time?"

  "About three. Then this big asshole came stomping in and shoved a gun in my face, said they were taking the babies."

  "They?"

  "Him and two others. Wearing masks."

  "What did they look like? Apart from the masks?"

  Mama Tu got up from her chair and went into the house. Mathes looked at Tinh. Tinh watched the door patiently. Mama Tu returned with three glasses and handed them to Tinh. He poured as she lowered herself back into the chair.

  Mama Tu said, "Mot hai ba, yo," and they all clinked glasses. Mathes took a sip but saw that they were draining theirs. He held his breath and guzzled his. When he brought the glass down, the rain blurred his eyes. He wiped at them, but they were still blurry.

  Mama Tu said, "The leader was big. A scar down his right forearm. The other man was bigger, moved like he didn’t know how his body worked. An idiot. They both had country accents. Farm boys."

  "And the third?"

  Mama Tu looked at her glass. "A woman. Small, skinny. Very young."

  Tinh’s glass shattered in his hand.

  Mathes said, "Jesus! What is it?"

  Tinh said to Mama Tu, "You knew who they were."

  She looked at him. "I know who I wish they weren’t."

  Mathes had no idea what to make of Tinh’s expression. Confusion? Fear? Any emotion looked out of place on Tinh, and Mathes wasn’t sure it wasn’t the booze talking. Jesus, these gooks could brew some whiskey.

  After a second, Tinh’s normal blank look returned. "Mm. Thank you, Mama Tu."

  Mama Tu gestured with her glass. "Thank you, Son Tinh."

  Tinh bowed again. Mathes did the same. He followed Tinh to the jeep, pulled his poncho out from under the driver’s seat, and put it on. "Where to?" he said.

  "Hell," Sergeant Tinh said. "But we gotta make a stop first."

  The rain poured down, but the compound was largely dry. Deep in the jungle thicket, the four huts sat under p
rotection of the green canopy. The creek that ran alongside swelled, but was far from reaching the high banks. My knew this would not last if the rain kept up like this.

  She carefully walked across the rickety bridge, her yellow ao dai plastered to her lithe form. She stopped and looked up at the gray sky. She thought she heard a plane, her toes involuntarily curling in her slippers. But it was just her imagination.

  At the far end of the bridge, Thuy unpacked the case of MON-50 claymores and handed them to My. He was in unusually high spirits, humming as he worked.

  "Darling," she said, "this bridge would collapse under the weight of a large sneeze. Is all this ordinance really necessary?"

  Thuy clucked his tongue. "My dear girl, once this war gets properly underway, it’s only the drama anyone will remember. We have to give the fucking Americans a show or we’ll never get rid of them. That’s all they give a shit about: fireworks."

  "The Americans? I thought Son Tinh—I thought he was expected?" My frowned up at the sky, as though the gods were listening.

  "Same fucking thing, as far as I’m concerned."

  "But the tunnels will be manned, there will be ground patrols inside the perimeter. Anyone with even half a brain would never use this old thing in a frontal assault." She batted at the bridge to emphasize her point. It groaned in agreement.

  "If this goes like I think it will, no one will cross this bridge until it’s all over. If it’s me, I’ll blow the damn thing myself. If it’s our adversary," he said, pulling the tripwire tight across the mouth of the bridge, "then he’ll do the honors for me."

  And then Thuy actually smiled.

  "Who the fuck’re these guys again?" Mathes said. He had a terrible itch on his nose, but he didn’t dare scratch.

  "Old friends," Tinh said. His hands, like Mathes’, were held high in the air.

  The docks on this part of the Saigon River were rotting. Any boats moored were peeling apart at the seams, clinging to buoyancy. As they had approached, they’d seen no signs of life, except for some stray dogs Mathes later realized were rats. The little shipyard looked abandoned apart from the chain link gate, which looked brand new. Mathes had been admiring the action on it, how easily it rolled, when he looked up and there was a pistol in his face.

  If the five men holding guns on them were bothered by the rain, they didn’t show it. They stood silent, the rain hammering the hulking wrecks of pontoons and various other boats in the yard. The five gooks were dressed in ratty uniforms pieced together from other armies: a French shirt, a Russian jacket, Chinese hats. The United Nations of Fuck You, Yankee.

  "Now what?" Mathes said to Tinh from the corner of his mouth.

  A raucous laugh rose from behind the shack in the center of the yard. "What are these vermin we’ve caught?" A voice in Vietnamese. "Too skinny for wharf rats!"

  "It’s Son Tinh, you toothless fuck. Call off your dogs."

  A tiny man came around the shack, his rusty M-16 as big as he. When he laughed again, Mathes saw his mouth, as black as the ace of clubs. "Gimme one good reason I should help you, Son Tinh!"

  "Because if you don’t, Gummy Ba, I’ll rape that toothless hole in your head right here in front of your men."

  None of Gummy Ba’s men blinked, but they all racked the slides on their pistols.

  "Jesus Christ!" Mathes said. "The fuck you say to them?"

  "Ha ha!" Gummy Ba said. "Your ladyfriend is jealous, Son Tinh! Better send her back to Hollywood!"

  "You like?" Son Tinh said. "I was going to trade you something else for help, but …"

  "What’re you talking about?"

  "We need your help to fight Thuy. Now’s your chance to get back at him for making you look like a faggot back in ’55."

  Ba pointed the M-16 at Tinh’s face. "Help you? Gimme one goddamn reason!"

  "The case of American cigarettes we got in the jeep."

  "Yeah, that’s a good one." Gummy Ba lowered his weapon. His men lowered theirs. "Hey, Joe," Ba said to Mathes in English, "you got smokee? Why the fuck you no say?"

  An hour before, these gooks held guns on him. Now they were getting him absolutely polluted on rice whiskey and Mu’o'i Bu, the shittiest beer Mathes had ever eagerly guzzled in his life. As the sun went down, they cooked chickens on a spit over an oil drum, a leaky tarp keeping most of the rain off them. The wind whipped rain in at them occasionally, but it wasn’t long before they were too drunk to care.

  "The fuck’re these guys again?" Mathes said.

  "Các Binh Si Cu," Tinh replied, lighting Mathes’ cigarette.

  "The Old Soldiers, Joe!" Gummy Ba shouted in his face. Even past the booze and meat, Gummy Ba’s breath smelled like twice-cooked shit.

  "Uh-huh," Mathes said. "Like ARVN?"

  "Fuck ARVN!" Gummy Ba said. "Fuck ARVN, fuck the Minh, and fuck fuckin’ Uncle Ho! You like that, Joe?"

  "Sure thing." Mathes smiled. Gummy Ba laughed some more and wandered off for another beer. Mathes turned to Tinh. "How do you know these nutjobs, Sarge?"

  Tinh took a long pull from his bottle. "Long time ago, there was the Binh Xuyen. Like ARVN, but not as shitty. We were an independent army inside the VNA. Part of it, but we run our own business."

  "Used to be you boys’ outfit, huh?"

  "Yes, a good outfit. We fight the French, fuck them up good. But they drive us south anyways. Binh Xuyen good soldiers, but better gangsters."

  "Gangsters?"

  "We fucking owned Saigon, Joe!" Gummy Ba said, loping up to them with a fresh beer in each hand. "We smuggle, run protection, kidnap rich fucks. We owned this town!"

  "It’s true," said Tinh. "We kept the Viet Minh and the Red Chinese cocksuckers out of Saigon. But then our leader, our general, Bay Vien, he fuck up."

  "He try to take out Diem, Joe! How you like that? The fucking president!"

  "He fuck up bad. Have to … what you say? Exile?"

  "Exile, yeah."

  Gummy Ba puckered his lips and batted his eyelashes. "He go to gay Paree! Become dancing girl! Make boom-boom with boo-koo French soldiers!" And then he laughed from deep in his chest.

  "Bay Vien exiled to Paris. Binh Xuyen all over with, far as we’re concerned. I joined ARVN. Ba stayed with his crew."

  "What’s left of it," Ba said.

  "And Thuy?" Mathes said. "He a part of all that?"

  "Mm. He went with Diem. For a time, anyway."

  "Fuck Diem," Gummy Ba said with a sneer and sulked off.

  "The regular VNA kicked the shit out of us. Ran us out of Saigon, pushed us back into the jungle. Rung Sat. And we kept fighting anyway. Had nothing else to do. One night, middle of a firefight, Thuy was about to slit Ba’s throat until I showed up. We fought, but it was a draw. It was always a draw, since we were kids."

  "Kids?"

  "Mm. He had a knife, gave me this." Tinh pointed at the scar on his brow. "I took it away from him, though, tried to put it through his heart, but only managed to slice his arm open. And then Ba cold-cocked him and we got the fuck out of there."

  "You guys knew each other when you were kids?" Mathes said.

  Sergeant Tinh sighed. "Mathes, it’s late. We got a day and a half hump to talk about all that."

  "Oh, okay," Mathes said and drained his bottle. Then he spit it all out. "Fuckin’ day and a half?"

  It was just over a day’s haul down the Saigon River to the Mekong. Gummy Ba and his crew had a gunboat that had seen its best days in the Big One. There was barely enough room for the eight of them, but they were too wired on booze and impending combat to give a shit.

  As they approached Vi Thanh, Ba killed the engines. They left the boat in a meander, the trees creating something like a cave. Mathes had never seen such pitch black before. He longed for the streetlights of the city, any city.

  "Let’s go," Sergeant Tinh said.

  They humped through the jungle, Mathes weighed down with a heavy pack full of rations. They didn’t plan on being in the jungle for long but, as Ba put it, "Nobody plans
to starve to death, Joe. It just happen!"

  Tinh, Ba, and his men each had M1 rifles. Ba was armed with his trusty, rusty M-16. And one man, Lang, had an AK.

  They had not walked long when Lang, on point, held up a hand. They all stopped. Ba and Tinh whispered in Vietnamese. Ba signaled to Lang. Lang melted into the jungle.

  "Now what?" Mathes said.

  "Lang’s going on recon," Tinh said. "Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em."

  "Where are we? Do we even know where we’re going?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, how? How do you know where this Thuy is holed up?"

  Tinh lit himself a cigarette, the light of the flame cupped in his hands. "Because we grew up here."

  Two hours later, Lang was back with the skinny: four huts formed a square in a small clearing two klicks away. Ten men patrolling the grounds. Lights on in one hut, but men in and out of two of the other three. A creek ran along the east of the clearing, spanned by a rickety wooden bridge. Half a klick north of the bridge was a tunnel entrance. There was no way to know how many men were down there, waiting for them.

  "Only one way to find out," Tinh said.

  As they approached the clearing, the rain tapered off and then stopped altogether.

  "Good deal," Mathes whispered.

  "Mm," Tinh said, "not so much. We could have used the cover."

  "You want cover, Son Tinh?" Gummy Ba said. "We can do that."

  And he hurled a grenade towards the clearing.

  The bullets whizzed above Mathes’ head as he followed Sergeant Tinh to the tunnel entrance, the yellow trails of the bullets in the air like fireflies. Thuy’s men sounded the charge, but Gummy Ba’s crew remained relatively quiet, their bursts of rifle-fire short and sharp. The answering fire was long and scattered, giving Ba and his men plenty of time to maneuver while the enemy fired wild into the bush.

  Mathes felt his throat dry up, nearly closing. He wished for the first time since he’d landed in this soggy nightmare that it’d fucking rain again. He held his service revolver in both hands, covering the Sarge’s back. As they neared the tunnel, one of Thuy’s men popped out like a jack-in-the-box.