Don't Mean Nuthin'

by Ron Lealos

  Luong trailed behind as we walked down the hall toward Ky, checking every room on the way. They were all empty.

  At Ky’s door, I signaled Luong to wait outside. I slowly turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. Closing the door, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and slowed my breathing. After a few minutes, I could see two forms through the mosquito net that covered a king-size, four-poster bed. I crept across the rug. Ky was on the left, and the long black hair of his date was splayed over the pillow on the right. A Colt pistol sat next to a flask of water on the bedside table, flanked by a fifth of scotch. Clothes were scattered around the room. I could see my reflection in the mirror of the vanity that held bottles of perfume, lotion, and pills. I didn’t have much experience with expensive perfume, but the room had the scent of money and sex. I pushed open the netting on Ky’s side and shoved the Hush Puppy in Ky’s ear, nudging him awake.

  “Tell the woman to get in the closet,” I said. “Now. And tell her not to say a word.” I pushed hard enough for Ky’s head to turn toward the woman. He slapped her on the shoulder and hissed something in Vietnamese I couldn’t understand. I knew a fair amount of the language, but it had to be slow. Or my choice. Ky’s tonal rhythm was more like rounds being fired from an M60 pig machine gun. The woman looked at Ky, the gun, and into my eyes. She jerked the sheet off, jumped out of the bed, naked, and hurried to a louvered door a few steps away. She had high, small breasts, and I could see the darkness at the top of her legs. The woman closed the door behind her and whimpered.

  Ky was watching me. I pressed the Hush Puppy harder against his head. When he turned away, I put my left hand over his mouth and shot him in the right knee, holding tight so he couldn’t scream. He bucked on the bed, and I moved the Hush Puppy to his eye, shoving it hard enough in to feel the silenced barrel move his socket deep into his head.

  “Quiet,” I said. “When I take my hand off your mouth, you’re going to answer my question. No shouting. There’s no one to rescue you anyway. Understood?”

  I put the Hush Puppy to Ky’s throat. He nodded, and I took my hand from his mouth. He stopped moving.

  “Good,” I said. “Only one question. Where are all the guns and ammo you’ve been buying up and hiding? Don’t start by denying it or I’ll shoot your other knee, then move up.”

  Ky’s bucking had caused the sheet to come off most of his body. He was naked, and there was a dragon tattooed on his chest, fire spouting from its mouth. He was hairless except on his head and groin. He didn’t just sit behind a desk or ride in a Mercedes. Taut muscles showed that he probably practiced some form of martial arts. I guessed a Chinese flavor. His eyes showed no fear, and the rate of his blinking had not increased, even with the pain in his useless knee and the pistol at his throat.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Ky said. Perfect English. His breathing was regular, and he acted like it was just another night in peaceful Saigon.

  I shot Ky’s other knee.

  This time, Ky didn’t buck. He grimaced and inhaled, eyes still on me for just a split second before they turned to the door behind me.

  “Whoa, podner,” Comer said. “Slow your gait or you’ll get thrown.”

  I kept the Hush Puppy hard against Ky’s throat and looked toward the door. Comer and Molar were standing next to each other, shotguns aimed at my chest.

  “Get the light, would you please, Molar?” Comer said. Molar walked to a table lamp and switched it on, the grin on his mouth like a butcher slicing up Grade A filets to take home to his wife.

  I twisted my body toward the bed so I could see the two spooks, never lessening the pressure on the pistol at Ky’s throat. He was beginning to tremble, shock not far away.

  “Where’s Luong?” I asked.

  Comer chuckled and took a step closer to me.

  “That injun’ di di’ed when I told him to skedaddle,” Comer said. “Pulled rank. Besides, he wanted to live to kill a few more of his gook cousins.”

  Too many times we had saved each other’s lives to believe this bullshit. Luong was either dead or waiting for the right time to smoke these two. He was my only chance. He must have been confused when they showed. Just enough for Luong to hesitate. At least, that was my hope. I moved my left hand slowly toward the pocket that held the smoke grenade.

  “You can see this mission is nearly over,” I said. “Jimmy was about to tell me where he’s hidden the guns.”

  Comer stepped to a chair in the corner and sat down, the shotgun never wavering from my chest.

  “Don’t let me slow your roundup,” Comer said. “Let’s hear what Mr. Ky has to say.”

  “Not before I know why you’re here, Comer.”

  “Seems you’ve strayed a few klicks off the trail, son. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure as hell positive you waxed Viper. And let some dinks live who should be under a tombstone. You oughta be in LBJ or in front of a firing squad.”

  “So this was all a setup?”

  “Just good planning. You know, kill two birds with one shotgun. Makes it easier to ride the range when the Indians are dead. Now, I want to hear from old Jimmy there before he checks out. Looks like he’s losin’ a bushel of blood.”

  “Then what? We gonna walk out of here like we’re buddies?”

  Comer was decked out in his cowboy shit, minus the Stetson. His jeans covered the top of his snakeskin boots, and his pearl-buttoned shirt was tucked under his silver belt buckle. He waved the shotgun at me.

  “Boy,” Comer said, “you got three seconds to ask Jimmy again. Then we can rap.”

  The Hawaiian shirt that Molar wore hung over the waist of his Bermuda shorts, and the buttons were undone, showing the tooth necklace on his hairy chest. He wore Converse All Star basketball shoes. His face wasn’t sweating, but his stink filled the room. Molar took a step toward me.

  “Make that one second,” Molar said. “I can’t wait to grease this asshole.”

  Molar’s brains splashed on the mirror. Luong was in the doorway, firing his Hush Puppy. Before Molar toppled to the floor, he pulled the trigger on his shotgun, the flechettes going just over my head and into the louvered closet. The woman shrieked, and there was a thud. One of the barbs must have grazed my head. Blood leaked into my eye, and I staggered away from the bed.

  When I turned, Comer was crawling across the rug, trying to aim his shotgun at Luong.

  Luong fired at Comer, the round hitting him in the leg. Luong looked over my shoulder and yelled “Du oi.” Down.

  I felt the bullet go into my arm at the same time I heard Ky fire the Colt. On my way down, I pulled the pin on the smoke grenade. By the time I hit the floor, I had thrown it into the corner.

  Luong was now firing at Ky, who was rolling off the bed. No way Luong would let Ky survive. He knew who was really behind Tran’s death. And Colleen’s. He kept firing, and Ky’s body danced one last step before it dropped to floor.

  Comer turned toward me.

  The grenade went off with a bang, and smoke immediately filled the room.

  Before I was completely sightless, I fired two more rounds in Comer’s direction and heard him grunt. I could vaguely see Ky’s lifeless body, but the sound was as deafening as standing next to a howitzer in free fire.

  Someone grabbed my good arm and began pulling me toward the door. I started to cough, but let Luong lead the way, the dizziness already making it hard to stay conscious and the blood and smoke blinding me.

  On the steps outside, we both stopped to breathe before we stumbled toward the gate. Ky didn’t breathe any more. If Comer wasn’t dead now, he would be soon.

  Luong dragged me into the bushes across the street. Smoke from the grenade made me cough, and every hack caused the wound in my arm to send lava toward my shoulder. I sat on the clay and put my head in my hands, trying to decide what to do next. Molar and Ky were dead. It was likely Comer was too. If he survived, there was no way I would live even a few more days. He would send a posse to find me.
Luong and I would be the survivors of a mission gone critically wrong that had US fatalities never listed in the Washington Post. I raised my head and waited to see if anyone would come to the house. Explosions and gunfire in Saigon were more the norm than a soundless night. Luong crouched beside me, watching.

  Now I was definitely rogue. Even though Comer had betrayed me, the Phoenix program would turn all its resources toward executing anyone who killed one of the highest officers in the spook regime. No Long Binh Jail. No firing squad. That didn’t matter to me as much as seeing Comer bleed out. Besides, I would have time to make up a story.

  Not even a jeep crossed in front of us. The neighbors might have heard the shots, and they would be keeping their heads down, hoping the violence didn’t spread. Smoke still drifted from the windows of Ky’s house, but no flames. All I could smell was the afterburn of the grenade.

  A man staggered down the stairs, holding his stiff leg, his other hand on his stomach. He coughed and bent over at the waist, wobbling like one of the grunts on Tu Do after a twenty-four-hour binge about to chuck his dinner of fish balls. It was Comer. Alone.

  Luong was right behind me, and I could feel his hand on my back steadying me as we crossed the street. Before Comer could stand straight, I grabbed his arm and pulled him behind a palm tree to the side of the turnaround. Hidden from the street by bushes, I kicked Comer in the back of his knees, forcing him to the clay and onto his back. His Levis were ripped at the thigh, and blood ran down the jeans in a steady red line. When he landed, Comer put both hands on his belly and didn’t try to stop the fall. His stomach made the sound of squeezing a saturated sponge and blood oozed between his fingers. I pushed the tip of the Hush Puppy against his head and put my hand over his mouth, hissing in his ear.

  “Why, Comer?”

  It wouldn’t be long before shock froze his mind or a passing MP noticed the smoke. Leaves, grass, and soil were still damp from an afternoon shower, and my nose was healing enough to smell the ripeness. The only sound was the ever-present boom of distant artillery.

  Luong stood facing the road, his back to us.

  Spit and blood from Comer’s mouth wet my hand. He pushed against my fingers and stared at me in the dim light. I let him talk.

  “You’re a fuckin’ traitor, Morgan,” he said. “You wasted Viper. You’ve gone into the darkness.” He groaned and tried to sit up. “Killin’ is getting’ to be fun for you. We can’t have that. Gives us a bad rap.” Comer coughed up a wad of phlegm and tried to spit. It sounded like he was a late-stage tuberculosis patient.

  I pushed harder with the Hush Puppy.

  “Viper deserved to die,” I said. “He sent me out to kill an innocent woman. And I think you knew. Did you?”

  Beams from headlights showed through the palms and made shadows on the street. Luong tensed, and we both looked at the house. No more smoke. The jeep passed without stopping.

  Comer’s eyes were starting to flicker. I slapped him.

  “Don’t go away just yet,” I said. “Did you know Liem was innocent?”

  “What the fuck do you care? She was just another gook cunt.”

  “Why did you have me grease her?”

  “She wouldn’t fuck the right colonel. Don’t mean nuthin’.”

  “Did you know anything about Ky selling baby-sans?”

  “Why the fuck does it matter to you? Ky was mixed up in lots of dirty business.”

  “Answer the question. Did Ky know about the babies? You were paying the expenses of the orphanages out of drug money.”

  “Ah, now, Morgan, how would you know that?”

  “The babies. Ky.”

  “Sure, Ky knew how to squeeze an ounce of blood out of every dumbshit in this shithole country. That includes baby-sans.”

  “And you had a part in it?”

  “Can’t get me to confess to that one, Morgan. Why? You want one a’ them heifers to ride home?”

  I twisted the barrel of the Hush Puppy hard enough to make a sound on Comer’s forehead like grinding my Gerber.

  Luong was close enough to hear. He bent down, never taking his eyes off patrol.

  “Sell babies?” Luong asked.

  “Who the fuck you think you are asking me questions, monkey? I don’t talk to greaseball slants unless they’re servin’ me a cold one.”

  “Sell babies?” Luong asked again.

  “Fuck you, ape man. I bought ’em. Ky was the one who sold ’em.”

  Luong spit on Comer’s face and stood up, back on patrol.

  Nothing moved around us except smoke and the occasional drop of rain. I twisted the Hush Puppy again.

  “You are one sick, evil asshole, Comer. What about the drugs? You know there’s grunts out their shootin’ up what you’re sellin’.”

  “If it wasn’t us, it’d be somebody else. Can’t have an inventory if there ain’t no market. Besides, what do think pays your salary? You’re off the books, Morgan, just like all the other spooks runnin’ around here.”

  The rain started. Just a few drops. Comer’s body convulsed, and I knew there wasn’t much time.

  “Ky ran the drug trade?”

  Comer’s eyes flickered. I shook him.

  “Answer me,” I said.

  He stared at the dirt.

  “Right on. He did that and paid good greenbacks for the franchise.”

  “Did you get any of the money for sellin’ kids?”

  “You saw my new Stetson, didn’t ya’?”

  “Who else knows about tonight?”

  “Nobody. Me and Molar wanted to slice you up for killin’ Viper. And bein’ a pussy. Ky was the cover.”

  “Did you tell anyone in Phoenix about Viper and me?

  “Why? You afraid they’ll get you for that murder, too?”

  “Just answer.”

  “Maybe we can do a little horse tradin’. You know, I’ll tell you if ya’ let me ride on outa Dodge.”

  “The only trade is gonna be how quick you die.”

  “Not fair, is it, Morgan? You’re gonna take my scalp anyways.”

  “No one else at Phoenix is in on it?”

  “What the fuck, Morgan. To them, you’re the best killer in the herd. But you’re not gonna see your momma again. They’re gonna hunt you down and kill you just like you did Ky.”

  I took the Hush Puppy from his forehead and shot him in the temple. I didn’t want it to be a forehead shot and leave my signature. We dragged Comer’s body into the house and dropped it at the bottom of the stairs.

  Upstairs, Ky’s lifeless body was in the room where Molar lay dead. I found Molar’s necklace and ripped it off, planning to throw it away before some GI thought he found a righteous souvenir. We didn’t have time to search the house.

  Turning to leave, I noticed a drawer had come open on the nightstand during the firefight. A thick wad of hundred-dollar bills was wrapped in a rubber band next to a pile of jewelry. I grabbed the money, knowing Luong could use the cash. No need for me wherever I was headed, and the thought of taking payment for killing these leeches was absurd.

  “Meet up outside,” I said to Luong. “Watch for MPs or anyone else. I’ve got one more thing to do.” I followed him down the stairs.

  On the first floor, I used my Zippo to set the drapes in a front room on fire. When I reached the end of the curtains, a bulge formed the outline of something I couldn’t figure out. I pulled back the cloth. Two young girls in skimpy nightgowns. Behind me, flames were lighting the dark and starting to crackle. Eyes stretched wide, the girls shrunk back and stared. Maybe ten years old. Max. Long, black hair. Bruises on their faces. Bare feet. Hands over flat chests. The heat was warming my back. I grabbed an arm on each and pulled the whimpering girls out of the room.

  Outside, Luong and I both tossed grenades through the door and di di’ed for cover, each of us dragging one of the girls. The blaze and noise would soon bring the MPs or any other night patrol. The four of us disappeared into the bushes across the street.

 
Within minutes, flames lit the night on Tu Do. Smoke filled the trees. The rain picked up and fell from the branches of palms. I held my arms around one of the girls, trying to keep her dry. Luong held the other while we waited for the adrenaline to run its course.

  “I’ll take these girls to the Red Cross,” I said. “No more orphanages. Even if Ky is dead.”

  Luong stroked the girl’s hair.

  “No, Morgan,” Luong said. “I take home. Mountains. Family.”

  Never had Luong strung together this many words in English. I always knew he could understand, but words were as rare as a solid night’s sleep.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes. Tran dead. Girls live.”

  Too many butchered lowlanders. Something must have changed Luong. I crouched closer to the quivering girl in my arms, hoping it would keep her a little warmer.

  “I thought you hated Vietnamese,” I said.

  “Yes. Not girl-sans. Not ham hiep wife.” Rape. “Not let girl-sans die.” Luong pointed to my chest, then back at his. “You. Me. Same, same. War, not cua chong toi.” Ours.

  “How will you make it to the mountains with two little girls?”

  “Americans think dead.” He nodded toward the burning villa. “You tell. Me. Girls. Walk. No sweat, GI.” Luong smiled.

  The roll of bills was in my pocket, and I held it out it out to Luong.

  “Here,” I said. “This will help.”

  Luong looked at the money and shook his head.

  “No, Morgan,” he said. “That too many problems. Don’t need in village. You keep.”