Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  “Not especially. Why?”

  “I was thinking you should come by The Jam Jar for lunch today.”

  There was a slight pause. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a pal, and I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Luther’s got something tasty going on in the kitchen,” I crooned.

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to come by and find out.”

  “You buying?”

  “Of course.”

  “I guess I can slip away. How’s one o’clock?”

  “Can you make it twelve-thirty? I have a busy day.”

  “What are you up to now, Callaway?”

  “I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.”

  I hung up the phone and formulated my next move. Luther must have heard the wheels turning in my head.

  “The detective’s coming over for lunch,” Luther stated more than asked.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nope. I like Detective Barnard. He appreciates good food.”

  “He does, indeed,” I replied, not having the heart to tell Luther that Detective Sam Barnard would appreciate aluminum siding if it were edible.

  “So, how did your lesson go yesterday?”

  Maybe it was the hour or the fact I wasn’t completely awake yet, but it took me a second to remember what lesson Luther was referring to. “My lesson? Oh, yeah, the lesson. It went fine.”

  “Who’s your student? Or can’t you tell me?”

  “A thirteen-year-old boy. His name is Jean-Claude.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Very good. Reminds me a little of me, in fact.”

  Luther only nodded, but I’d seen that nod before. There was something he wanted to say. All I needed to do was stay silent and wait until he said it. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Well, I don’t know what Agent Clegg has you doing, and I don’t want to know, but I’m fairly certain a thirteen-year-old boy doesn’t have much to do with it. Am I right?”

  I responded with a noncommittal tilt of the head.

  “Right. Well then, here’s all I’m going to say to you, young man. You don’t take teaching that boy music lightly, you hear me? Especially if he’s got the gift. Whatever the adults around him are up to don’t got nothin’ to do with him and his God-given talent. You will not mess around with that, not if I have anything to say about it. You have responsibility, Trip. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best to teach him what I know.”

  “You better, or you’ll have me to answer to, and you don’t want that.”

  “No, sir. I won’t let you down…or Jean-Claude.”

  “Good. Now I guess I best get in the kitchen and start whipping up something for you and Detective Barnard to eat. Any suggestions?”

  “I’m sure anything you make will be spectacular. Thanks, Luther.”

  He threw his big hand out at me as he went through the swinging doors.

  I said earlier that Luther had been my friend and mentor from nearly the moment I stepped off the bus in Las Vegas, but that was probably too general. More specifically, Luther had taught me how to navigate the tricky ins-and-outs of the music business, along with how to carry myself like a top-notched musician in this town; a skill one can only learn by doing and failing, which I did, many times. But Luther was always there to keep my failures from being fatal. In a sense, he was my personal, six-five, two hundred forty-pound, guardian angel. Beyond that, Luther had also become my conscience. The person who would tell me the thing I needed to hear when I needed to hear it.

  I’m known to be somewhat of a free-spirit. I’ve always tended to do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it—been that way since I was Jean-Claude’s age. Pop used to say I was about as grounded as a kite in a tornado. Given the state of the world, I still contend that’s not such a bad way to live one’s life. Having said that, I’m also forced to admit that my devil-may-care attitude does have a downside. It has, on occasion, rendered me somewhat blind to how it affects others—especially those I care about the most. It’s a definite character flaw and rest assured I’m working on it. I will say this, however: as self-absorbed as I can sometimes be, I’m not stupid. Luther Beaurepaire had the map of the world etched across his leathery, brown face, so when he told me something, I was smart enough to take it to heart, and this edict from the big man bypassed everything and spoke right to my ol’ ticker. Jean-Claude was a talented kid who I was positive had had more than a few adults in his life let him down. I vowed right then and there I wasn’t going to be another one.

  Once showered, shaved, and properly preened, I returned to the club an hour later in time to greet my lunch guest as he was coming through the door.

  “Sam!” I announced to an empty room.

  Detective Sam Barnard was a hulking, fireplug of a man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and the fashion sense of a cinder block. That aside, he was a good soul with whom you always knew where you stood. From his unapologetic love for Spike Jones’ records to his outlandish choice of neckties—on this day it was a purplish paisley print abomination—subtlety was not part of the man’s makeup. But in a world where obfuscation and pretense had become acceptable social norms, I found Barnard’s what you see is what you get manner a welcomed respite.

  “Okay, Callaway,” Barnard said, lumbering toward me. “You got me here. Now, why don’t you tell me what you want before I eat?”

  “Are you naturally suspicious or is it a byproduct of your work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Barnard,” Luther said, coming through the swinging doors. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Beaurepaire,” Barnard replied, shaking Luther’s hand. “How are you?”

  “If I was any better, I’d have to take something for it.”

  Luther let out a hearty laugh, and the policeman joined him.

  “And your daughter? How’s she?” Barnard asked.

  “Fine, thanks for asking. Running roughshod over me, as usual. I swear that girl’s her mother all over again. Well, I best go get you boys some vittles. You hungry, Detective?”

  Barnard patted his bulging belly, “I’ll try to force something down.”

  “There you go,” Luther replied. “Trip, get the detective here something to wet his whistle. I’ll be back directly with your food.”

  Luther vanished back into the kitchen.

  I went around the bar and grabbed two frosted mugs from the freezer. “Sorry, is this okay? I know you’re on duty and not supposed to drink.”

  “It’s a beer, it’s not drinking,” Barnard replied.

  I drew the golden libations and handed Barnard his mug. The detective slid into a booth next to the kitchen doors, and I came around the bar and slid in across from him.

  “So, you seen our mutual friend lately?” he asked, as I was still sliding.

  I had a suspicion Barnard knew I was working with Clegg. What made things more complicated was the possibility that Barnard was still working with Clegg too. Knowing Clegg, this enigma wrapped in a mystery was just how he wanted things. Ever since the regrettable innocent where we all got to know one another, both Detective Barnard and I took great pains to steer clear of the subject of Agent Peter Clegg. On those rare occasions when his name did come up, it made for a tricky, if not clumsy, dance, as neither one of us knew who was supposed to be Fred, and who was supposed to be Ginger.

  “What mutual friend would you be referring to?” I responded.

  Barnard chortled. “The one who walks through walls and knows considerably more than he ever lets on. You know exactly who I’m referring to.”

  “Oh, we run into each other from time to time. You?”

  Barnard grinned. “The same.”

  I nodded, innocently.

  “Okay, enough beating around the bush. What’s up?”

  I decided to stop playing around. “Can you…I think it’s ca
lled, run a license plate number for me?”

  Barnard gave me his cop stare. “Why?”

  “Because I want to know who owns the car the plates are registered to.”

  He stared at me again. Then he said something surprising. “Okay, sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, give me the plate number.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I reached into my shirt pocket, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him. “I thought this would be harder.”

  “Nope. I’ll run it for you this afternoon.”

  “Why are you—”

  “If I don’t give it to you, you’ll just find some other way to get it. This way, if I do it, I’ll have a head start if it turns out you’re into something you shouldn’t be into. Anything else?”

  Before I could answer, Luther came out of the kitchen carrying two enormous plates and set them on the table in front of us.

  Luther always presented his food as if it were a work of art. Because it was. “Now what you boys got here is some jambalaya, with some red beans, and a nice slab of brisket on the side. I’ve been smokin’ it real slow-like since last night, so it should be quite delicious. But I’ll let you be the judge. Make sure you let me know whatcha think before you leave, Detective.”

  I’d never seen a smile on a grown man’s face like the one I witnessed on Detective Sam Barnard’s that day. It was like he was a ten-year-old boy who’d just been given a sparkling new bicycle. “You might have outdone yourself this time, Luther. It smells…”

  “Too good to eat?” I interjected.

  “Not a chance,” Barnard responded, picking up his fork.

  Luther laughed. “You two enjoy.”

  Watching Detective Sam Barnard eat was not for the faint-hearted. It was not unlike one of those nature shows on TV where a lion takes down a zebra on the Serengeti, except the lion might actually have better table manners. It wasn’t so much disgusting as it was gruesome. If the food wasn’t already dead, it wouldn’t stand a chance against LVPD’s own king of the jungle. I decided while I was on a roll, and the man was in culinary ecstasy, I might as well see if I could get something more out of him.

  “So…there is one other thing, Sam. If you don’t mind?”

  He responded with an animal noise through his stuffed mouth that I took to be an invitation to go ahead and ask my question.

  “What do you know about a Chinese fella named Charlie Wu?”

  Barnard abruptly stopped chewing, dropped his fork, and sat back in the booth. He stared at me for a prolonged moment before he spoke. Once he did, it was in a tone I had seldom if ever heard from the man. “Callaway, I’m going to say something I don’t say to too many people. Ready?”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

  “I like you.”

  “Thanks. I like you too.”

  “I tell you that because I want you to be clear about the next thing I’m going to say. Whatever you’re doing with Uncle Charlie—or whoever you’re doing something for regarding Uncle Charlie—stop right now.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “I mean it, Trip. I’m not playing here. This man, and his organization, are the definition of psychopaths. When he moved to town, the brass put every division in the department on alert that the body count was about to go way up, and then they showed us pictures. I’ve been on the force for twenty years, and I’d thought I’d witnessed every act of savagery man could perpetrate against his fellow man, but I have never seen anything like what Wu’s people are capable of. That’s why I’m telling you now, in no uncertain terms, drop it. Walk away. Tell Clegg you’re out. Am I making myself clear?”

  Detective Barnard was not a man prone to hyperbole. He was also not the type to do the whole heart-to-heart routine. I’d never seen him so earnest about anything before…or so blatantly reference Clegg. I nodded. “Crystal.”

  “Does this license plate number have anything to do with Uncle Charlie? Because if it does…”

  “No,” I lied. “That’s a personal thing. There’s a girl. I like her, there’s another guy…it’s that kind of thing.”

  Barnard gave me his cop once-over again, and then he nodded. “Okay. Just do as say.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Good. Now eat your food before I eat it for you.”

  I had places to go and things to do, but no matter how many times I conspicuously looked at my Timex, Detective Barnard wouldn’t take the hint. Finally, after bestowing enough adoration upon Luther to practically canonize the old fella—and with his belt two notches looser—the cop bid us both a most satisfied adieu. I immediately dashed upstairs, gathered my things, and a few minutes later was on the road myself. My lesson with Jean-Claude wasn’t until three-thirty, but I had a wrong that needed to be righted first.

  I’d almost convinced myself I had driven past the motel I’d followed Michelle Wu to on the previous day when I spotted its unremarkable sign. There were only two cars in the gravel lot, so I had my choice of where to park. I opted for a space in front of the room Mrs. Wu went into after sending her taxi cab on its way. It was room number thirteen. If I were a superstitious lad, perhaps I would have recognized that to be an ominous warning of things to come, but I’m not, so it didn’t.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get the name of the person who occupied the room on the day before, but reasoned I was a jazz musician and improvising was in my blood. I considered going to the office and using my knee-weakening Callaway smile to coax the name out of the person at the front desk but dismissed that particular riff as quickly as it popped into my head. I’d been around the hotel business long enough to know that be it a low-rent rendezvous joint in the desert, or a swanky resort on The Strip, all inns tended to abide by the same code when protecting the anonymity of their guests. It ultimately didn’t matter though, as the solution appeared several doors down from room thirteen in the form of a waifish young girl pushing a maid’s cart.

  Playing the odds room thirteen was now unoccupied, I got out of my car, marched up to the door, and started knocking. Thankfully, I wagered correctly.

  “There’s no one in there, sir,” the girl yelled-out right on cue.

  And my solo commenced. “Are you sure?” I replied, trying to sound desperate. “He said he was going to be here.” I was taking another chance by using the masculine pronoun but reckoned it was a pretty safe bet.

  “You talking about Mr. Wilson?” she asked, walking up and leaving her cart behind. It was then I noticed the girl wasn’t so much waifish, as just very young; she couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

  “Yes, I am. Do you know…Bud?

  “Bud?” she said, crinkling her tiny nose. “Mr. Wilson’s first name isn’t Bud. It’s Henry.”

  This was way too easy. “Of course, it’s Henry, but I call him Bud.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Just because,” I answered.

  “Are you his friend?”

  “Very old friend. I’m passing through from Los Angeles, and we were going to meet up here, but my car broke down yesterday in Barstow.”

  “What happened?”

  “Uh…alternator.”

  “I’m sorry, he left yesterday.”

  “Is that right? Oh well, I suppose these things happen. Okay then, have a good day.”

  Having gotten what I came for, I started back to my car.

  “Your friend is a very nice man. He gives me things.”

  I ceased my retreat and came back to the girl. I wasn’t sure how to respond to her odd statement, so I vamped. “He does? Well, that’s Henry for you…always giving people things.”

  “Daddy tells me not to accept gifts from the guests, but Mr. Wilson makes me. You won’t tell Daddy, will you?”

  “No, no, my lips are sealed. My name’s…Carl, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “Tina.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tina. So, I gather Henry stays here a lot.”

  She
nodded. “At least once a week. You know about his mother, right?”

  “Yes, yes, I do. It’s…very sad.”

  “Mr. Wilson doesn’t think she’ll get better.”

  “Really? That’s…”

  “It’s good his sister is here to help though.”

  “His sister?”

  “I’ve only met her a couple of times. Her name is Michelle, and she’s really nice. I figure her being here makes it easier on Mr. Wilson, given he lives all the way down in Phoenix, and all. Do you know his sister?”

  “We’ve met,” I answered. “So, Tina, you say Henry gives you things. What does he give you?”

  “This.” She stuck out her head and let the silver chain hanging around her neck dangle freely. A small, white charm was attached to it.

  “That’s pretty. What is it?”

  “It’s an elephant tooth. Mr. Wilson says it’s one of kind.”

  “Wow, that’s really something.”

  “And this.” She stuck out her hand and showed me the ring on her finger. It was also white.

  “Is this from an elephant too?”

  “A rhino!” she screeched.

  “That’s amazing, Tina. You’re very lucky.”

  “I know. And look what else.”

  She went to her pocket, took out a casino chip, and held it up to my face. “It’s worth five whole dollars!”

  “No kidding? Five dollars? Can I see it for a second?”

  She frowned.

  “I promise I won’t steal it. I just want to take a closer look at it.”

  “You promise you won’t take off with it?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Okay, here.”

  I took the chip, and within a half a second, saw all I needed to see. I handed it back to the girl. “Yup, it’s the real McCoy, all right.”

  “Tina!” a man’s voice called out.

  I looked toward the office and saw a man poking his head out the door.

  “That’s Daddy,” Tina said. “I got to go. It was nice talking to you, Carl. Sorry, you missed Mr. Wilson. I’ll tell him I saw you next time he’s here.”

  “Oh, no need to do that, Tina. I’ll tell him myself. You have a good day.”

  “You too, Carl. Bye!”