Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  “Then how did you get it?”

  “We junkies would take turns making runs to L.A. We couldn’t tie our own shoelaces, but we knew whose turn it was to go into L.A. and make a score from some poor junkie over there.”

  “And you’re saying that’s all changed?”

  “Yeah, the stuff is all over town now—easier to find than grass.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Access.”

  “Access?” I replied.

  “No more trips to L.A. The junk comes directly here.”

  “How’s it getting in? Who’s bringing it in?”

  “I don’t know,” he shot back. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Gene, please.”

  He sighed. “Well, there was this one guy I knew, his name was Harold. He was just a junkie like the rest of us until he started making bigger and bigger scores. He decided to go into business for himself.”

  “Where was Harold getting his supply from?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  I stared at him.

  Gene sighed again and looked around the casino. “Okay, look, I’ll tell you, but you have keep this to yourself. I mean it, man, these people are for real.”

  “I promise,” I lied.

  “There’s an abandoned magnesium factory out in the boonies past Henderson. It’s nicknamed Israel.”

  “Israel?”

  “The Promised Land. It’s not there for junkies looking for a bump. It’s for someone looking to make a big score. I went out there once with Harold—but only once. It creeped me out bad, man. It’s one of the reasons I got clean.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a dark place, Trip. I mean dark, like evil dark. I was pretty strung out, but not strung out near enough. We drove in. Harold showed some cat a bag full of bread, his car was loaded up, and we left. It was like buying…a Christmas Tree or something. The stuff was good too, like the best ever. Anyway, like I said, this was before I got clean, so it might not even be there anymore, but if it is, stay as far away from it as possible. There’s evil there, man. Pure evil. Ask me where Harold is now, Trip.”

  “Where’s Harold now, Gene?”

  “Dead. He was found with his throat slit a few months ago by the underpass off Bonanza.”

  I only nodded a response.

  “That’s about all I can tell you, Trip. Really, that’s all I know.”

  “Thanks, Gene. That helps a lot.”

  Gene let go a nervous smile.

  “So, is there anything I can do for you? You need some bread?”

  “Nah, man, I’m good. Just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Just tell folks I’m alive and doing okay. Would you do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  He took a pen from his pocket and grabbed a used cocktail napkin left by the roulette table. “Look, I need to get back to work,” he said, writing, “but here’s my number. Maybe we could grab a cup of joe sometime? Talk about good stuff, like music and chicks.”

  “I’d like that,” I replied, taking the napkin.

  “Good seeing you, Trip.”

  As I was walking away, Gene called out to me. “Hey, Trip!”

  I turned around.

  “Did I really help you just now?”

  “You helped me a whole bunch, Gene. Thanks, man.”

  Gene smiled and went back to polishing the rail.

  An expert on drug trafficking, I was not. But it didn’t take an expert to connect the dots between the sudden availability of heroin in Las Vegas with Charlie Wu’s arrival in town. I didn’t have a clue what, if anything, an abandoned factory out in the desert had to do with Uncle Charlie’s murder, or who nabbed Jean-Claude’s mother, but it sure felt like it did.

  Before I left the Dunes, I stopped by a pay phone and checked in with Luther. He said Clegg still hadn’t called, but that the boy was doing fine, and was sound asleep in a booth. I thanked him and promised I’d be back within the hour. Right after I made after one more stop.

  I’d never been to New York City. Always planned to go, but after I got tossed out of Indiana University, I landed in Vegas, and almost immediately started gigging. Of course, half the musicians I played with hailed from the Big Apple, and I could’ve called any one of them and asked what I wanted to know, but given it wasn’t quite nine in the morning—the middle of the night for any respectable musician—I knew if I did that, it wouldn’t exactly endear me to my fellow brothers and sisters in song. So, instead, I chose another option.

  Rusty Merrell owned the Texaco station out by the airport. It was a full-service station with two pumps and two bays. Rusty would not only fill you up, check your oil, and clean your windshield, but he would fix anything going wrong with your ride, as well. He was the only person I ever allowed to touch my pride and joy, and I counted on him for all its routine services. Rusty had been a navigator aboard a B-24 during the war, which would explain his fascination with maps. Granted, you could pick up a road map at just about any gas station in Vegas, but most of those stations only had maps of Nevada, or at the very best, the southwestern states. Rusty, on the other hand, not only had maps of every state in the union, but I think every country on earth. Rusty’s son, Butch, appeared the minute I pulled up to the pump.

  “Hey, Trip. Fill ‘er up?” he asked, sporting a teen idol smile.

  “You bet, Butch.”

  “High test?”

  “You know it. Hey, Butch, is your dad around?”

  “Yeah, he’s underneath that Nova in there. Want me to get him?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll go to him.”

  I went into the garage and saw two legs sticking out from under a ’63 Nova. Rusty knew cars like Kellogg knew corn flakes, but that didn’t stop him from cursing at them when a particular nut, bolt, or hose wouldn’t do what he wanted it to do. I’ll spare you the colorful commentary I walked up on.

  “I’m not sure it knows what that word means, Rusty,” I said.

  Rusty rolled out from under the car. “Trip! How you doin’, son?”

  “I’m doing good. Looks like you got your hands full, though.”

  He laid his wrench on the ground and sat up. “Nah, just a water pump with an attitude. I’ll get the best of it, don’t you worry.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, I’m not.”

  “What can I do you for, Trip? The Falcon acting up?”

  “No, it’s purring like a kitten. I’m here to look at a map.”

  “A map? Of where?”

  “New York City. You got one?”

  He stood up. “There for second I thought you were going to ask me for something hard. Come on into my office.”

  Rusty’s office was just off the garage. It was a small but clean little room with the requisite calendars and petroleum adverts hanging on the wall. He opened a file cabinet and began thumbing through it.

  “I assume you’re not looking for a map of New York City from the eighteen hundreds.”

  “You’d assume correct.”

  “Uh-huh,” he muttered, continuing his search. “Street or subway map?”

  “Street,” I answered.

  “Here we go,” he said, pulling out a folded map. “Just got this one in. Had the dang thing filed in the wrong place. New York City, 1965. What are you looking for?”

  “161 West 10th Street.”

  He gave me a look. “Why didn’t you say so? Heck, I don’t need a map to tell you where that is. That’s downtown on the west side in Greenwich Village.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. Here, take a look.”

  He opened the map and laid it on his desk. “You see, here’s Broadway, here’s Houston, and here’s 14th Street. West 10th is right there. You’re deep in Greenwich Village. You should know that, Trip. You’re a jazz musician. The Village Vanguard is here on 7th.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, I just needed
to make sure. How do you know so much about New York City, Rusty?”

  “I was born and raised in Parsippany. I didn’t move out here until after the war, and that was only because Sally Ann’s from here.”

  “That’s right, I forgot.”

  “Is that all you needed?”

  “That’s it. Thanks, Rusty.”

  “No Problem. Why do you need to know where that address is located?”

  “Oh, you know…”

  “A girl. Why’d I even ask? Well, good luck.”

  Rusty slapped me on the back and went back to the Nova. Butch was closing the hood on my Falcon as I walked up.

  “You were a half quart low on oil, but I took care of it. I also topped off your water.”

  “Thanks, Butch. What do I owe you?”

  “Three-fifty will cover it.”

  I handed him a fiver. “Keep the change.”

  “No, Trip, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know, I’m doing it anyway. Take your girl to a picture or something.”

  “Okay. Can you get me a girl?”

  I laughed. “You’re on your own with that one, pal.”

  I pulled out of Rusty’s and headed back to The Jam Jar. I had more theories bouncing around my head than Oscar Peterson had ways to play a G-chord. None of my theories made a whole lot of sense, mind you, but then again, with my imagination, I could make them all sound reasonable. Especially, if I was willing to add two plus two and accept twelve as the answer.

  As I approached The Jam Jar, I had hoped to find Clegg’s black Cadillac sitting out front. I didn’t. I decided I was giving him one more hour, and then I was calling Barnard.

  I entered through the back door into the kitchen. Betsy was in the walk-in freezer. “Thank you, Bets,” I said, sticking my head in the freezer.

  “For what?” she asked, moving me to the side as she came out.

  “Looking after Jean-Claude.”

  She shut the door. “It was nothing. He’s a sweet kid. You supposed grown-ups could learn a thing or two from him.”

  Luther came through the swinging doors from the club.

  “Any word from Clegg?” I asked.

  “Not a peep,” he answered, setting bottles on the counter.

  “Is Jean-Claude still—”

  “Sawing logs under the picture of Duke.”

  “Good. I’m going to run up to my apartment. I’ll be back in few minutes.”

  “We ain’t going nowhere,” Betsy said.

  I grabbed an apple off the counter. “You mind?”

  “That’ll be a nickel.”

  “Not this time, Bets.”

  I heard her giggling as I headed up the stairs.

  I kicked off my loafers and dropped the needle on some Ella. I plopped down on the couch, opened my diary, and started making entries. The last thing I remember was Ella scatting through the intro to “Cry Me a River.”

  I was awoken by a steady knock on my door.

  “Coming, Luther!” I hollered, jumping up and wiping the fog from my eyes. I opened the door, but it wasn’t Luther.

  “Wake you?” Clegg asked, forgoing an invitation and walking in. The man looked exhausted.

  “I might have dozed off. Don’t change the subject. Where have you been?”

  “I just got here, we don’t have a subject,” he said, falling onto my couch.

  “I’ve had a subject since about five this morning when Barnard called and told me Charlie Wu had been knocked off. I’ve been waiting all morning to hear from you. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Noon,” he answered, tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling.

  “Noon? Really? Wow, I must have really passed out.”

  “Relax, I called Sam hours ago. You’re good there.”

  “You promise.”

  “Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up three fingers. “How’s the boy doing?”

  “He’s doing—wait, did you see Luther? Did Jean-Claude see you?”

  “No, I didn’t go into the club. I came straight up here.”

  “Then how did you know Jean-Claude was here?”

  “Trip, haven’t you realized by now I know everything?”

  “In that case, maybe you can tell me who killed Uncle Charlie?”

  “Okay, maybe I don’t know everything.”

  “And who nabbed Mrs. Uncle Charlie?”

  “Oh, that one I can answer. We did.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, we have her.”

  “Because she killed her husband.”

  “I don’t know if she killed her husband or not,” he said.

  “Then…why?”

  “Suspicion of espionage.”

  “Espionage? Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. The facts are sketchy, but from what I can gather, they’re accusing her of providing aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “What enemy? And who are they? I thought you said we picked her up.”

  “Both great questions. As to what enemy, it’s the one in southeast Asia folks are only now starting to pay attention to. As to who they are, that’s a bit more complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “When I said, we picked her up I didn’t mean we as in me. I meant we, as in the U.S. government. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Okay, now I’m completely lost.”

  Clegg’s tone became noticeably more serious. “You’re not the only one.”

  “This doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not.” As if a firecracker had gone off under his posterior, Clegg leaped up from the couch and began pacing around the room. “Everyone in the Justice Department from the AG down knew I was running an operation on Charlie Wu. Yet, somehow, I was kept out of the loop on the Michelle Wu espionage thing. And if you think that doesn’t wrinkles my shorts….”

  “So, who authorized picking up Michelle Wu if it wasn’t you?”

  “Another great question. All I know for sure is the operation was run through the Defense Intelligence Agency. Funny thing though, even my friends there don’t know anything about it.”

  “The defense…what’s that?”

  “An agency Kennedy created a few years ago as part of the D.O.D.”

  “Do you know where she’s being held?”

  He nodded. “It took some digging, but yeah. She’s at a secret facility south of here, outside the town of Henderson. And for the record, neither I nor those friends of mine in the DIA knew the place existed until I found it.”

  A chill went down the back of my neck. “Clegg, this facility wouldn’t be an old magnesium factory, would it?”

  Clegg looked at me like I’d just told him I was dating his sister. “Now, how and the hell did you know that?”

  “Would you believe a drummer told me?”

  “At this point, I’d believe about anything. Come on. You can explain it to me on the way.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “To that magnesium factory. I got us cleared to talk to Mrs. Wu. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached in his jacket pocket, took out an envelope, and handed it to me. “This is for you.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Your commission. You’ve been drafted. Congratulations, Lieutenant Callaway.”

  Chapter 9

  “I’m in the army!”

  “Yeah, I tried to get you into the Air Force or the Coast Guard, but that was a no-go. The Marines and Navy just laughed at me. The Army was the only branch I could talk into taking you.”

  “But—”

  “Hey, at least you’re an officer. That’s good, right?”

  “But—”

  “Trip, you needed a security clearance. This makes it easier for me to get you one. And I don’t mind telling you that it was no small feat.”

  “But, you’re not—

  “Actually, I am. A full bird colonel, believe it or not. Don’t worry. You don’t have to salute me or anything.”

  “Clegg, I can’t be
in the—”

  “Listen to me, Trip. Things are heating up in Vietnam. It’s not getting a lot of press yet, but we currently have large-scale offensives underway all over the country—from the north all the way down to the Mekong Delta. And they’re only going to get bigger. I have it on good authority it won’t be long until guys your age will start getting called up by the thousands. It’s about to get ugly. Trust me. I’m doing you a favor.”

  I fell into a chair. I didn’t have any words.

  He continued, “You’re just lucky we have fans in lofty places.”

  “And the we you’re referring to now, would be?”

  “You and me. Since bringing down that KGB spy ring, we’re famous in certain circles. Cheer up. Yes, you’re in the military, but you’re on special assignment dispatched to me. Nothing’s going to change.”

  “I keep my gig at the Sands?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re still going to help my music career like you promised?”

  “Just as I promised.”

  “And I don’t have to wear a stupid uniform?”

  “Never…almost never.”

  “Almost?”

  “And eventually you’ll have to go through basic training because that’s the deal I made with the Army, but other than that—”

  “Boot camp!” I yelled.

  “Relax, there’s nothing to it. Think of it as an eight-week vacation at a health resort—with guns. Anyway, worry about that later. Right now, we have this mess with Wu to straighten out. Come on. We got to get moving.”

  “But I…”

  “Come on, Lieutenant. Hop to it.”

  “Why do you want me there when you see Michelle Wu? Won’t she know I’m working with the government the minute she sees me with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And that’s okay?”

  “It’s more than okay. It’s a part of my master plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “You like football, Trip?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Figures. Well, there’s this guy named Vince Lombardi. He coaches the—”

  “Green Bay Packers. I know who Vince Lombardi is, I’m not a moron.”

  “I never assume. Anyway, Vince has made his bacon by running a play called the power sweep. Essentially, what it is, is, Bart Starr gives the ball to the running back, Paul Hornung in this case, and Paul takes off to one side of the field or another. The defense is overwhelmed because, you see, Paul’s got practically his entire team running in front of him. It’s a brilliant play and nearly unstoppable.”