Don't Mean Nuthin'

by Ron Lealos

  After a shower in my room, I went to the bar for a nightcap. The perfect mix to relax me was a couple Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and one of Ky’s cigarettes just before I turned the lights out, if I could lift my hand to the switch. Food was a problem. Too many C-rats and base chow made my system rebel at the thought of chateaubriand. Behind the bar was a tropical garden, ending in a boardwalk that ran along the Song Sai Gon. Candles flickered in the breeze created by the fans and the louvered open doors. There were lots of drinks with umbrellas sitting on the tables. But the hardcore newsrats drank their whiskey straight. Real campaigners. Willing to stick a pen in the face of a wounded grunt and ask him, “Does it feel lucky to be alive when your buddy is lying beside you with his intestines in his helmet?” America needed the answer. And these guys were tough enough to tell the story. The reptilian part of my brain identified with these snakes. The human side wanted all these pussy vampires to spend a few weeks in a napalm hell. I sat at the bar and listened to the newsies swap stories, sipping my first Jack, staring at the gilded mirror and the reflection of a man whose hair was graying at twenty-three. Not a bad guy. Needed to visit the barber. Didn’t smile much. That scar made him look a touch dangerous and sinister. Eyes of an undertaker.

  The pseudo Hemingways played the game, drinking their whiskeys neat and telling macho stories, recording the horror from another colonial outpost for dispatch back to The World. But the real danger was vicarious, lived through the sunken eyes of grunts forever mutilated by Vietnam.

  The most boisterous reporter wore a tan catalog ammo jacket, the pockets bulging with film canisters, notebooks, water bottles, a tape recorder, and toilet paper. A dusty bush hat sat on the bar next to his whiskey. He hadn’t shaved in a week and constantly massaged the stubble. A Camel was never far from his lips. The other wannabes were mesmerized by his every word, like the bullshit was coming from the mouth of the Dalai Lama. I couldn’t help thinking about leeches. They crawled into your fatigues and lived on your blood, hitching a full-bellied ride until they were burned or cut off. I wanted to do the same with these bloodsucking hollow men. Put them in my helmet, add a chunk of C-4, torch it with my Zippo, and watch their bodies shrivel in the flames, crackling like frying bacon.

  “Watched an evac Huey take off from a hot zone outside Ben Tre,” the guru said. His bush fatigues were still stained with mud. One persona these assholes liked to fake was the grizzled grunt. “When the chopper tilted to avoid the trees, blood ran out like a dam burst on the Red Sea. All of a sudden, two arms and a leg slid into the palms from the open door. The leg still had a boot on and twirled like it was in slow motion all the way until it bounced on the ground.”

  Nods of understanding all around. Yes, they could picture the scene and wished they could have gotten it on tape. But that’s all it was for them. A photo op. One of thousands that went clickless every day. At night, choppers ferried them back to their beds in the Majestic, while the grunts living in the firestorm couldn’t go home.

  Another whiskey for me and the rage might drown. I ordered one more on the rocks.

  “Two days ago, a few klicks from Tan On, I saw some ARVN baptize a Cong,” the professor said. “It was a joint op with some Airborne troops. The vil was deserted except for women, children, and old men. When they used flamethrowers on the hootches, a Charlie, wearing only a loincloth, ran from the fire. The way they look at it, if he’s of fighting age, he’s either VC or knows where they’re hiding. Guilty. They started to interrogate him. Nothing. There was a big clay pot in the center of the village for storing water. The ARVN officer had two men grab Charlie by the hair and hold him under the water. Every time they pulled him up, the officer would scream in his ear. Nothing. Down again, increasing the amount of time he was under water. I could see the officer getting more pissed. Finally, he took his Colt from his holster and shot Charlie in the ear, leaving his body in the pot. The Airborne guys just watched. Don’t think Charlie found Jesus.”

  The asshole turned to me. I was the only one not worshipping at his altar, and he needed the validation. A faded movie star making a comeback in a lousy flick, reading Variety and begging for a good review.

  “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said. “What’s your jacket?”

  These limp-dick fuckers loved to use gruntese. Made them feel there was a slight possibility they could be men. I watched the ice melt in my drink. In contrast to this chickenshit’s filthy fatigues, I was showered, shaved, and dressed in slacks and a white shirt.

  “Just got in,” I said. “Gee, I’m pleased to listen to fellas who know what the real story is.”

  This fuckface couldn’t tell sarcasm from an M16. He smiled.

  “You’re American?” he asked. “Not one of those tourist Aussies or Brits?”

  “Red, white, and blue. That’s me.”

  “Bravo,” he said and clapped me on the back. “Me, I’m a reporter for the New York Times. Name is Runson.” He offered his hand.

  “Morgan,” I said. “Frank Morgan.” I squeezed until I felt the bones scrape in his knuckles, a smile of pure innocence on my face.

  Runson tried to pull away, but I held him tight. He struggled to smile, a hint of fear sparkling in his eyes.

  “That’s a strong grip,” he joked, pulling harder and beginning to panic. I let him go.

  “Must be all that nonpasteurized milk back in Kansas,” I said. “Hey, you heard any good rumors?”

  Runson rubbed his hand, then dropped his fingers to his side and shook them to get the blood flowing. He studied me like I was the map coordinates for his next artillery barrage. After a few seconds, he put his elbows on the counter.

  “Buy me a whiskey, and I’ll tell you about what I’ve been working,” he said.

  The bartender was a young Vietnamese, probably only here and not climbing from a tunnel because he was a spook. And no white face would know who he reported to. I ordered a round for Runson and another for me, ignoring his fan club.

  “Got a lead on a local big shot running drugs out of Laos,” he said. “Nothing new for this part of the world, but he’s got connections with the CIA.” He took a swallow of his fresh whiskey. “Hey, Frank, this is a long tale. You got any plans?”

  I moved my head from side to side.

  “No,” I said. “That sounds incredible. I’d love to hear about it.” I pointed to an empty table in the corner. “Let’s move over there so I can hear over all this racket. I’ll buy you something to eat.”

  I was using my best humble-college-sophomore-talking-to-his-esteemed-teacher voice. Visits to places like this and observation of gonadless fuckwads like Runson gave me the intel that reporters were always looking for a free meal. Between a chance to have an innocent offer of adoration and free dim sum, there was no way this jerk could refuse.

  “Be glad to,” he said. We picked up our drinks and walked to the table.

  Behind us, the open windows showed sampans on the river over a deck and mahogany railings. The smell of lavender blew off the water, scented with the ever-present hint of raw sewage. Tips of palm fronds nearly tickled our faces. Candles lit all the tables, and only a few were occupied, genteel subdued murmurs the opposite of a mad minute. Waiters in white shirts and bow ties carried platters of fried rice, spring rolls, and steaks to some of the other patrons, white linen napkins over their forearms. I set my drink on the table.

  “Please tell me more,” I said.

  Runson sat straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. The lecture was about to commence.

  “Well, it began a month or so ago with a chat I had with a man at the bar. He was so blitzed, I had to lean into him to keep him from falling off his stool. Claimed he worked for Air America running heroin out of Laos. I did a some background checking and interviews. Even talked to a few Hmongs working as scouts through an interpreter.” He took another swallow of whiskey. “A little history. The Hmongs originated in China and fled from the genocide and enslavement of a series of dynasties, esp
ecially the Ming. When they reached Laos, Cambodia, Burma, and Vietnam, the good lowland farming regions were already populated, forcing the refugees to find homes in the mountains where subsistence was nearly impossible, leading to people known for their hardiness. And lack of fear. These guys are tough. I was afraid I might get my throat slit if I asked the wrong question. Not smiley people.” Another swallow and he waved at the bartender, holding up two fingers. “Anyway, existing on what little they could grow in the rocky soil and hunting, they were continually in the middle of whatever war was happening around them. The French had trained the Hmongs and used them against the tribe’s primary modern enemies and torturers, the Vietnamese.”

  Much of this I already knew from my university studies, but didn’t want to push him for the information I really wanted. If he knew something about Ky, I would buy him all the drinks and chow mein in Saigon. I stared into his eyes, a student starving for his expertise.

  “The high elevation villages of the Hmong meant it was fertile ground for the growing of superior grade opium,” he said. “Without money to pay taxes, the Hmong began to substitute the plant for francs or piasters. The French saw profit and encouraged the Hmong to increase crops, using the money to support their ongoing fight to keep Southeast Asia a colony. When the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu, the Americans were already there and had learned a valuable lesson. Drugs meant money. Since we were not at war with either France, Laos, Cambodia, Burma, or Vietnam, most of the Americans illegally on the ground were advisors or intelligence agents and needed to be funded ‘off the books.’”

  The waiter was at the table, standing patiently while this pompous asshole spouted his narrative.

  “Do you mind if I order for us?” Runson asked. “I think you’ll like it.”

  I grinned wider.

  “Sure,” I said. What I really wanted to do was stop the charade and stab him in his pretentious mouth with one of my chopsticks. Patience, Morgan.

  He looked at the waiter.

  “We’ll take the cha ca,” he said. He turned to me. “It’s grilled minced river fish. The bones are taken out and the meat is put into saffron water. The fish is marinated in salt before it’s cooked. They add mint, dill, shallots, and more. Delicious.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  Turning back to the waiter, he said. “Bring us a big bowl of pho ga too.” Back to me. “That’s chicken noodle soup. But none like you’ve ever tasted.”

  The waiter bowed and walked toward the kitchen.

  “Where was I?” he said. “Oh yes, in the fifties, the CIA supported an unsuccessful and little-known war backing Chiang Kai-Sheck’s Kuomintang in an attempt to retake mainland China. The KMT hid in nearby Burma, where they persuaded local Hmongs to grow poppies for drug production rather than food. Using incoming Civil Air Transport planes, run by Sea Supply, later Air America, the CIA transported food to Burma and weapons to the KMT. On their return, planes were filled with opium for sale and distribution in Taiwan and Thailand. This was all coordinated and subsidized by the CIA, the foundation for the growing career of the CIA as the world’s biggest drug cartel.”

  Since I’d been in ’Nam, I heard the stories from Phoenix agents, transferred out of the mountains because their faces were too well-known or their junkie habits were becoming a problem. Dark tales of cannibalism, torture, murder, orgies, and devil worship. The CIA supported a Laotian mountain chief, General Yang Pao, from their secret base at Lang Tieng. Pao was Hmong and his men became trained killers while the women stayed home and harvested poppy bulbs. The Hmongs mostly fought for the Americans from a Laos. Their country was being saturated with two million tons of bombs by the B-52s that also dropped whispering death on Cambodia and North Vietnam.

  When I was with Dang a few days earlier, I asked why he fought for the Americans. He told me, in his halting English, about “the promise.” It was a CIA bit of false propaganda promising the United States would aid in the battle against Communism if the Hmong helped in the conflict. I knew the promise wouldn’t be fulfilled, but any lifeline for the Hmongs was better than the present.

  I brought my attention back to the professor.

  “Things are starting to backfire. I’ve heard nearly 30 percent of the ground troops in ’Nam are addicted to heroin. Pilots for Air America are refusing to cooperate or hooked themselves, like the man who started my investigation. CIA agents are getting greedy, setting up their own operations. Small wars have broken out between rival chiefs over who will control the money. Dover Air Force Base in Delaware is now America’s biggest entry point for heroin, the drugs smuggled in caskets and body bags or sown into the chests of dead GIs. The DEA enforce a policy of noninterference with Air America and the drug supply chain run by the CIA. None of the CIA officials will answer questions, so I have to get the information at the source. Here.”

  Dinner arrived, along with another round of drinks. Runson was getting close, and I was famished. But it still couldn’t stop me from wondering what the fuck I was doing in this country. We were all killing ourselves, and it looked like my ride home wouldn’t be in a leather seat either. First, Ky.

  We ate. Between chopstick-loaded mouthfuls of noodles, I asked, “You said something about a local big shot. What’s the story there?”

  Runson was a hog at a pile of dead bodies. Soup dripped from a chin already stained brown by nuuc luan sauce. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, the turd color still on his beard.

  “Yes,” he said. “Seems the vice president’s son, Jimmy Ky, is behind the drug supply line. Makes beaucoup bucks, and the CIA does more than protect him. They fly the dope in.”

  There it is. Ky. All trails led to his door. Just another guilty count condemning him to death. I was starting to think some higher power was prodding me in Ky’s direction. But I didn’t believe in higher powers, except those that could be found looking at the bottom of an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  Once, walking through camp, I passed a sandbagged hootch with a peace sign painted on plywood nailed to a two-by-four. Two shirtless grunts, hair well below their ears, were passing a water pipe. “Wanna hit?” one lazily asked, holding the smoking pipe toward me. When the grunt extended his arm, I could see the tracks. Looking at the other soldier, his arm was identical, a map of the Son Sai Gon River leading from the inside of his elbow in both directions and needle holes that might have marked targets on the day’s action map dotting his flesh. I took a long, smooth hit. “Wanna listen to some tunes?” the first grunt asked. I nodded, holding the smoke in my lungs. Following them inside, I could have been in Haight-Ashbury. Tapestries hung from the plywood walls. Burning candles covered most of the surfaces, wax dripping into the dirt. Psychedelic posters were pinned wherever the tapestries didn’t cover. Santana, in his curly, long hair, stared at me. Sticks of incense smoked from bronze holders carved with dragons. Another shirtless man sat on a couch made of sandbags, asleep. The same tracks scarred his arms. In the corner, two gigantic Marantz speakers flanked a turntable and a reel-to-reel tape deck. The clue I wasn’t in California was the stack of M16s and grenades by the door.

  The first man walked across the room and pulled an album out of its sleeve. He blew on the vinyl, then put it on the record player. He pushed a switch, and the needle made its trip up and down. Immediately, Steppenwolf screamed “Born to be Wild.” The grunt turned to me and smiled, pointing to an empty seat on another couch. No chance to rap. The speakers were awesome. The grunt went to a corner and moved a sandbag, taking out a small, lacquered box. He sat across from me, seemingly forgetting I was still there. His entire focus was on what was inside the box. Reverently, he took out a bent spoon, a Zippo, a syringe, a length of plastic tubing, and a clear bag of brown powder, setting each peace gently on his thighs. I watched him cook his fix, fill the syringe, squirt a drop out the end, wrap the tube around his upper arm, cinching it with his teeth, and shoot the heroin into his arm. He leaned back, eyes closed, while Steppenwolf took him on a mag
ic carpet ride. At the end of the album, I left. No one noticed. A few days later, I stopped by the hootch again. None of the grunts I met before were there, and all the hippie paraphernalia was AWOL. I asked the trooper nearest the door where they were.

  “Fuckin’ junkies,” he said. “The LT caught ’em shootin’ up. Sent ’em out on night patrol with Watson over there.” He nodded at a bare-chested skinhead sitting below an American flag, cleaning his M16. A beer was beside him, and his biceps were bigger than the local cantaloupes, covered by homemade swastika tattoos. “Never came back. Watson said they just disappeared into the bush like ghosts. Didn’t find their bodies.” Watson smiled. That was my first week in ’Nam.

  Runson was finished with the noodles and about to take the last few bites of his cha ca. The waiter brought more whiskey, and Runson was having a hard time guiding the chopsticks to his mouth.

  “Don’t understan’ the stupid sodjers here,” he slurred. “Killin’ themselves with heroin. Can’t figger it out.”

  Ten more whiskies wouldn’t stop the anger. Enough of this prick who only lived off the deaths of boys much younger than him and whose biggest risk was getting a bad bottle of whiskey. I slammed my glass onto the table loud enough to make the arrogant slime jump and look at me. I could see he wasn’t used to being disturbed or challenged in his safe haven, especially by a clean-cut young white man who he only suffered for the price of a free dinner.

  “In journalism school back in The World,” I said, “I’ll bet some tweed-coated, pipe-smoking, shitbird professor told you, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ You sucked right off his tit. Came over to find out if he was right and wet your dick in the blood of America’s youth. Maybe win a Pulitzer and get your byline known to all the right people. Could be a book in it too.” The Gerber was in my hand before Runson could blink.