Mekong Delta Blues

by Phil Swann

  “Fascinating. What does this have to do with me being there when you talk to Mrs. Wu?”

  “I want her to be overwhelmed. It encourages forthrightfulness. Got it?”

  I nodded and dragged myself up. “We need to go down to the club first. I have to tell Jean-Claude I found his mother.”

  “Trip, I don’t think that’s—”

  “Clegg, he’s a kid. He needs to know his mother is okay.”

  Clegg sighed. “All right, but let’s make it fast. It practically took an act of Congress for me to get us this meeting. I don’t want anybody thinking about it too long and changing their minds.”

  “I’m in the army?”

  “Get over it.”

  I heard the music even before Clegg and I were halfway down the stairs. Eighty-Eight was rehearsing the boys, which wasn’t unusual, but what was unusual was I heard a trumpet. The Eighty-Eight Eddie Quartet doesn’t have a trumpet player in the group—not unless I’m playing with them, of course.

  We walked into the club, and sure enough, Jean-Claude was up on stage playing a respectable solo on “Our Love is Here to Stay.” He was even trading fours with Reeds, the sax man. Luther and Betsy were sitting at a table next to the stage. Clegg and I walked up, and Luther put his finger to his lips for us to shush. We grabbed two chairs and sat down.

  Jean-Claude looked like a little prince in paradise. And why not? He was on a stage jamming with some of the best musicians in the world. I know grown men and women who would have given their right arm to have been where he was in that moment. On top of that, he was more than holding his own. Was he brilliant? No. But he sure wasn’t embarrassing. In fact, if I hadn’t known what the boy had been through, I might have been a little bit jealous. As it was, I was just proud. By golly, that was my pupil up there.

  The song came to an end with Reeds blowing a riff down the C scale and then conceding the last notes to Jean-Claude. Eighty-Eight finished it off with the Count Basie ending. We all applauded, but Luther came out of his seat.

  “Goodness gracious!” Luther bellowed. “That was fine. Mighty fine.”

  “What do think, Eddie?” I hollered up to Eighty-Eight. “Does the boy have a future?”

  Eighty-Eight Eddie’s perpetual cartoon-like smile spread even wider across his bony old face. He stood up from the piano and pushed his fedora back on his head. “I’d say that was a foregone conclusion, Trip.” He looked over at Jean-Claude. “Little man, that was some righteous blowin’ you just did. Thank you for offering that up to us. We are not worthy.”

  The boys in the band all agreed, with Reeds sticking out his hand for Jean-Claude to slap, which he did.

  Eddie added, “You come by and sit in with us anytime you want, J.C.”

  “J.C.?” I whispered to Luther.

  “Eddie started calling him that the second they met. It seems to have stuck.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jean-Claude replied.

  Betsy elbowed me in the side. “You hear that, Trip? Thank you, sir. Now that’s how a gentleman talks.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Hey, J.C., can you come down here for a second? I need to talk to you.”

  Jean-Claude set down his trumpet and came off the stage. His body stiffened when he saw Clegg.

  “Jean-Claude, this is my buddy…”

  “Peter,” Clegg said, putting out his hand. “Man, can you play.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jean-Claude predictably replied.

  “Come on, Betsy,” Luther said. “Let’s give these gentlemen some privacy.”

  “It’s okay, Luther. You guys can stay. I have some great news Jean-Claude. I found your mother.”

  His face lit up. “You found her?”

  “I did. With the help of Peter, here.”

  “Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s fine. She’s…” I looked at Clegg for help.

  He jumped in. “Not too far from here. She’s being kept safe.”

  “Why does she need to be kept safe?”

  I answered, “Well, you know, after everything that happened at your step-father’s house, it’s just best. But we’re going to go see her right now.”

  “Is she in jail?”

  “Jail? No, no, she’s not in—”

  “Then can I come?”

  Clegg helped me out again. “No, the place she’s at wouldn’t let you in on account you’re a little too young. It’s kind of like—”

  “A hospital,” Jean-Claude said. “They wouldn’t let me see my father when he was in hospital because I was too young. It’s like that, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “It’s one of those stupid rules they have. But I’ll make sure she knows you’re staying with me and you’re doing fine.”

  “Will you tell her I love her?”

  “Yes, I will tell her you love her.”

  “And that everything will be okay?”

  “I will do that. I will tell her you said everything will be okay.”

  Clegg gave me a nod. I understood.

  “Okay, we have to go now, Jean-Claude. I’ll tell you everything your mother said when I get back. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, Eddie?”

  “Yessir?” Eight-Eight responded, still sitting at the piano.

  “You remember that old Armstrong song you taught me a few years ago?”

  He looked up in the air and rubbed his chin. “Hmm, I’ve taught you so many things, Trip, let me see. Are you talking about ‘Saint James Infirmary’?”

  “That’s the one. Think you could teach it to Jean-Claude?”

  “I taught it to you, didn’t I? Come on up here, J.C. Allow me to enlighten your mind and expand your horizons.”

  I left Jean-Claude in the capable hands of Eighty-Eight Eddie, and a few minutes later, Clegg and I were barreling through the desert in his ’59 Caddy.

  As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a huge fan of the desert. It’s too big, too open, and in my opinion, too removed from things synonymous with the Twentieth Century. Why people would choose to live in such a wilderness is beyond me, but they do, and I hope they’re happy. Just don’t invite me over for dinner, and then be surprised when I don’t show up. Having said all that, as much as the desert made me uneasy, it wasn’t close to the discomfort I was feeling regarding where we were going. Clegg said it was a secret facility operated by an obscure agency within the Department of Defense. Gene described it as an evil place to buy heroin. To me, it was a location any sane person would take great steps to avoid. I explained all this to Clegg. His response was a sympathetic, but not too believable, nod of the head.

  After driving about thirty miles, we turned off the main road and headed deeper into the desert. All I saw ahead of us was a wall of ominous black rock miles away in the distance. I was not happy and was about to ask Clegg if we were lost when I saw it.

  At first, the factory was exactly what I expected. Smokestacks jutting out of buildings to which, not being a metallurgist, I had no clue to their purpose. All the structures looked to be connected by a gargantuan conveyer belt, which I could only presume was used to move ore from one building to another. It was bigger than I expected, but not unusual. What was unusual, however, was what was nestled in front of the factory. The closer we got, the more surreal the anomaly became. It was a town. And not just any kind of town. But a genuine, honest to goodness, ghost town.

  “What in the world?” I muttered, apparently louder than I thought I had.

  Clegg responded, “Once upon a time, it was a little mining camp called Digger Pine. Then, World War II broke out, and under the direction of the War Production Board, it, like a lot of industry in this country, turned its attention to supporting the war effort.”

  “Making magnesium.”

  “From mining to refining. There was a huge demand for the stuff back then. It was used in making bombs, bullets, aircraft—you name it. It was called the wonder metal. It didn’t take long before the tin
y mining camp became a full-fledged town with its own police, jail, hospital, library, even a school.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “After the war, the need for magnesium disappeared, and the factory was shut down. Within a year or two, the town was deserted.”

  “But it’s back.”

  “Apparently so,” Clegg replied, “But why?”

  It wasn’t until we were almost upon it that I noticed the barbed wire fencing and a shed the size of a toll booth. There was also a lowered gate. The sign attached to the gate read: HALT.

  Clegg said, “Listen, they know I’m coming, but they don’t know about you.”

  “I thought I was a part of your master plan?”

  “You are, but I only came up with my master plan in your apartment. Just follow my lead, and don’t say anything stupid.”

  We pulled up, stopped, and a young man in uniform came out of the shed. Clegg reached into his pocket, removed two items that looked like small leather wallets, and rolled down the window. “Colonel Clegg and Lieutenant Callaway,” he said, handing the wallets to the soldier. “We’re here to see your CO.”

  The soldier looked at them, and then looked in the car at me.

  “Wait here, sir.”

  He went back in the shed and picked up a phone. Less than a minute later he was back at our car.

  He handed the wallets back to Clegg. “Colonel Pennington is expecting you. Drive on in, and when you pass the old church, make a right, and then head down the road. Park in front of the bank. You can’t miss it.”

  “Would that be Buck Pennington?” Clegg asked, handing me one of the wallets.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, soldier.”

  The soldier saluted, raised the gate, and we drove in.

  The wooden steeple was the only thing left that would identify the dilapidated structure as having ever been a church. Once we passed it, Clegg made a hard right and proceeded down a rutted-out road as instructed. The road—a generous description of a path—ran from one end of the town to the other. I counted a dozen buildings, most in worse shape than the church, and all surrounded by nothing but dust and tumbleweed. It wasn’t exactly Dodge City but had I seen Matt Dillion and Chester moseying down the street, I wouldn’t have been totally surprised.

  Clegg pulled up and parked in front of a one story, adobe building, with the word BANK painted over its entrance.

  “Do me a favor,” Clegg said, opening his door. “Salute when you meet the colonel.”

  “Seriously?” I replied, getting out the car.

  “As a heart attack,” he replied.

  We were no sooner out of the Caddy when we were met by another man in uniform. I wasn’t an expert on military personnel, but I knew enough to ascertain this fella was not a low-ranking enlisted man. Besides being older than the boy at the gate, his uniform looked like it had been properly tailored. I tended to notice such things and was an expert on that.

  “Colonel,” the man said, saluting Clegg. “I’m Major Reeves. If you’ll follow me, sir?”

  We followed the major toward the bank building, but instead of him leading us into it, he took us around the side to where a silver Airstream trailer was parked. He knocked twice, opened the door, and stuck in his head.

  “Peter?” I heard a gruff voice yell from inside.

  The major stepped back and allowed Clegg and I to enter. He stayed outside and closed the door behind us.

  The man–bull behind the desk pulled a stogie from his teeth and stood up. “Peter Clegg, you good-for-nothing so and so, you get in here.”

  “Buck, you ugly old possum, how are you?” Clegg responded.

  Both men beamed as they shook hands.

  Colonel Buck Pennington was the Hollywood archetype of the old soldier. Though not a tall man, and at least ten years older than Clegg, his chiseled face, Popeye arms, and bulging chest, spoke to someone you’d absolutely want on your side in a barroom brawl. Everything about the man said, I am army.

  “Buck, this is Lieutenant Trip Callaway.”

  I offered my hand.

  The man’s face instantly changed. “Don’t you know how to salute, boy?”

  “What?”

  Clegg put his face in his hands. “Oh geez, Callaway. I told you.”

  “I’m your superior officer, boy,” the colonel growled. “Where I come from that deserves a salute. Maybe you need some time in the stockade to think about that? Is that what you need, boy?”

  “No…I’m sorry…” I quickly did my best impersonation of Van Johnson in “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo,” snapped to attention, and offered a salute.

  Colonel Pennington stepped back, tugged at his shirt, and then looked over at Clegg. After a second or two, both men burst out laughing.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, my hand still at my forehead.

  Neither man could speak. Clegg fell into a chair.

  “That was a good one, Peter,” Pennington choked out.

  “Put your arm down, Trip,” Clegg said, wiping his eyes. “You look ridiculous.”

  That’s when I realized I’d been set up. “So, you know?”

  Pennington replied, “Of course, I know, son. Peter told me about you when he called this morning.”

  “Sorry, Trip,” Clegg said, still chuckling. “It was too good to pass up.”

  I let out a long breath and lowered my arm. “Real funny, guys.”

  Actually, it was pretty funny. I might have even cracked a smile myself. Don’t let anyone ever say Trip Callaway can’t take a joke.

  “Have a seat, Callaway,” Pennington said, going back behind his desk.

  “You can call me Trip, Colonel.”

  The colonel smiled. “Okay, Trip. Great name, by the way. And don’t worry, they’ll teach you how to salute real good in basic.”

  Both men burst out laughing again.

  Clegg patted me on the shoulder. “How are Barbara and the girls, Buck?”

  “Everybody’s wonderful, Pete. Marg is expecting her second, and Suzy is finally getting hitched next month. A good boy too, studying to be an engineer.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. So, I guess we should get down to business.”

  “I guess we should,” Clegg replied.

  Pennington nodded. “Go ahead. It’s your meeting.”

  “Well, before we see the woman, I’d like to know what you’re doing here?”

  The colonel sat back in his chair. “Come again?”

  “Why are you here? What’s the purpose of this outpost?”

  “You serious?”

  “Of course, I’m serious,” Clegg answered.

  Pennington squinted. “I thought the reason you came out here was to tell me what I’m doing here.”

  “You mean, you don’t know why you’re here?” Clegg asked.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Pennington yelled. “I don’t have a clue why I’m out here. We’re holding that little lady for you guys, but I don’t know why you need the army, not to mention this whole godforsaken place, for just that. When you called, I thought I’d finally be getting some answers. Pete, you have to tell me, am I even supposed to be talking to you? You are still a spook, right?”

  Clegg looked at me, and then back to Pennington. “How long you been out here, Buck?”

  “Two months,” the colonel answered, sharply.

  “Who was the CO before you?”

  “No idea. I don’t think there was one. As far as I can tell, we’re the first humans who’ve been in this town for years. My only orders were to secure the facility, and make it operational.”

  “Operational for what?”

  “How the hell should I know? I was told it was Top Secret, vital to national security, all of that guff. Which makes no sense at all.”

  “Why not?” Clegg asked.

  “Well, to start with, if this mission is so important, why did I get saddled with a handful of undisciplined kids who don’t kno
w their Army issued keisters from second base? I had to whip them into some kind of shape before I could even think about doing anything to this dump. Which has included, by the way, getting the water running, the electrical transformers rewired, and all those buildings out there cleared of nearly two decades of infestations. So far, we’ve converted the school into a passable barracks, the saloon into a mess hall, and got the hospital somewhat functioning again. Why? Nobody will tell me, and it’s really starting to tick me off.”

  “Where’s the water coming from?”

  “Where everyone else’s water comes from, the Colorado River. Hoover Dam is only about ten miles due east on the other side of that mountain out there. Luckily, someone ran plumbing and electricity to this Shangri La back in ’42 when the factory was still operational.”

  “And that factory?”

  “What about it? It’s an old factory. We haven’t touched it yet.”

  “Have you been in it?”

  “Of course, I’ve been in it. It’s nothing but an abandoned old factory.”

  Clegg nodded. “What’s the size of your platoon?”

  “Platoon? Are you kidding me? I barely have enough men to field a baseball team. And that includes two officers, Major Reeves, who you’ve already met, and Doc Lassiter over at the hospital.”

  “Any nurses?”

  “Yeah, right.” Pennington stood, came around his desk, and sat on its corner. “Pete, you didn’t answer my question. Should I even be talking to you?”

  “It’s okay, Buck. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “Promise?”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned you’re not.”

  Pennington ran his hand through his thin gray hair. “Unbelievable. Look, Peter, I may only have a dozen or so snot-nosed kids here, but they’re still U.S. soldiers, and they deserve better than this. I don’t know how much more calisthenics, and marching up and down the crappy road out there I can heap on them. Now, I’ve done what I can to make this place survivable. Hell, I’ve got hand cramps from all the supply requisitions I’ve signed. But enough’s enough. I’m not a decorator. I’m a soldier.” Pennington took a breath and collected himself. “Okay, if you can’t tell me why I’m here, then maybe you should tell me why you’re here?”