Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  Chou Lai had come into the club, looking dapper in his three-piece business suit. He took a seat at the back table, across from Uncle Vinh. It was an image that Uncle Vinh made all his lieutenants adhere to. After all, he used to say, they “were businessmen, not thugs.”

  “Chou. You look troubled, my friend.” There was a sound of deep concern in the old man’s voice.

  “I have gotten the word out onto the streets and back alleys of our district, but I have not heard any news about the killings of Ke Son Nu or Johnny Hong.”

  “I think our killer is a very clever man, Chou. Be patient. Word will come to us soon, and when it does, I will allow you to exact your vengeance. I will do this before I tell the police anything.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I have always counted on your generosity, just as you can count on my loyalty.” Chou reached across the table and took his uncle’s wrinkled hand, reverently kissing his large red ruby ring.

  For the past three weeks, Gunner had knocked around Bangkok, nervously awaiting the call from Phu Ho that would tell him the transfer of the poppies had been completed. He passed the days slowly, consuming large quantities of Thai beer, bullshitting with retired military and mercenary associates, and getting eyestrain watching bar girls hump a brass pole on the stage at the Mu Thai.

  He knew it was only a matter of days now until he heard from Phu Ho, and he wanted to stay close to his room, but the boredom drove him further and further into the inner city until, at last, he stopped at the postal station to check his box. His inner voice told him not to. It told him that he would be greeted with another postcard, a card he didn’t want to see. He should have listened to his inner voice, as he usually did. He didn’t receive an envelope with the familiar handwriting. This time, he got a postcard with a picture of L.A.’s Little Saigon, and smack dab in the middle of the card, staring out at him in all her nighttime glory, was the Club Saigon. Whoever the son of a bitch was that was doing this to him had gone into the club and purchased the card. He remembered that Uncle Vinh sold them for fifteen cents each at the cash register near the front entrance to the restaurant. How close is this guy to me? Gunner thought. He looked at the writing again. No doubt about it, it was the same as on the other cards and the last letter he received. He read the text. YOU KILLED PREACHER WITH YOUR DRUGS. YOU KILLED MEYERS WITH YOUR GUN. It was signed, “BORN TO BE BADDER.”

  Whoever the hell this guy was, he knew about Tom Meyers. Gunner had needed someone to fill his body bag. It had to be someone that was the same physical size as he was. The same hair color, skin, teeth. He had to kill him so there wouldn’t be any dental work left, or GRU would check them against his military dental records. Gunner was real clever.

  Tom was downstairs in the commo bunker when Charley started his attack in ’68. Gunner knew it was imminent. They had intercepted communications from the 15th NVA, bragging that they would be having a holiday dinner at the team house. As the first mortar rounds began to rain in on the camp, a much larger explosion occurred in the commo bunker. Gunner had taped a Claymore mine to the outside of the commo bunker door, then called from some distance for Tom. “New crypto codes, Meyers.” As he reached the door, Gunner set off the Claymore, which was mounted at head height. No dental records would be necessary or attainable, thanks to the six hundred steel ball bearings and two pounds of C-4 that make up a standard Claymore. Gunner ran into the bunker and dragged what was left of the body out into the compound. He placed his death’s-head ring on the right hand of what, up until a few minutes ago, had been Mrs. Anne Meyers’ son.

  Gunner cursed at himself. He thought he had been so careful. He wondered who it was on the team that saw him make the switch. Whoever it was lived in or near L.A. The postmark on the stamp was from a post office in Santa Monica. Santa Monica, he remembered, was where the VA Hospital was located. The same VA Hospital where Preacher died. That would be Gunner’s starting point when he got back to L.A.

  When he arrived back at the Mu Tai, he went straight to his room. On the way up, the bartender passed him a note. It was from Phu Ho. It simply said, “The shipment has arrived safely.” Gunner smiled as he took the note over to an ashtray on the nightstand next to his bed. His eyes glowed in unison as he took the Zippo lighter out of his pocket and set fire to the note. He held the note up to his face, watching each word disappear until the racing flame caught up with his fingers. He set it in the ashtray and continued to watch as the paper turned to a gray ash. Always cautious, he tamped the ash into a powder before taking it into his bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. Now is my time, old man, he thought. I will exact my vengeance tomorrow.

  Gunner was happy as he returned to the bar. He went to the wall phone and dialed the number of his pilot. A fuzzy voice answered on the second ring. “Thai Bush Flight Service, Sandoval speaking.” He and Sandoval had been doing business together for years. The arrangement that they had was that when he was not flying for Vinh Ho, he was free to do business with anyone he pleased, just as long as that business did not conflict with Uncle Vinh’s.

  Enrique Sandoval knew what business that was and stayed clear of any conflicts. He knew that he was to put the business of the Colonel ahead of anything else he had going. After all, it was the Colonel that supplied him with a new aircraft every other year. Enrique Sandoval knew where to place his loyalty and his priorities. His air service now consisted of the Piper Navajo, a UH-1D helicopter, and a DE Havilland Twin Otter. For a guy that was still listed as MIA, Enrique Sandoval was doing better than most of the ex-GIs. Most of them that had made it home, he’d read whenever he could get his hands on an American newspaper, were characterized as a sorry lot; and as the American economy got worse over the years, it was the Vietnam vets that seemed to be without jobs, strung out on booze and drugs, or committing suicide at an exponential rate.

  Enrique, like the people he worked for, didn’t have any conscience about feeding the physical misery of his former compatriots. What the fuck had they ever done for him anyway? The chopper he was flying was shot down over the A Shau Valley, near the border with North Vietnam. He was injured, still strapped into the cockpit with the bodies of his co-pilot and door gunner. The American forces never sent out a search party for him. All the “maydays” that he shouted over his radio transmitter seemed to fall on deaf ears. He activated an emergency locator beacon, but nobody came. He felt deserted. For two days, he was stuck in his ship. The stench was terrible. Then the VC captured him. That was during Tet in 1972. He was a late entry into the war, serving only three months before his capture.

  In 1973, he was secretly released, after extended negotiations between the VC and an ARVN Colonel by the name of Vinh Ho. Colonel Ho had arranged to have him clandestinely delivered to Bangkok. The Americans were never to know and he would continue to be listed as MIA. Enrique didn’t know it at the time, but he’d just earned his parade.

  By the time Enrique went to Thailand, he hated the U.S. and all she stood for, in part as a result of continuous brainwashing while in the hands of the VC. He agreed to never speak to any of his remaining family again. No need for that: he was convinced they had all abandoned him along with his government. Colonel Ho set him up with his own air transport service on the outskirts of Bangkok. Six months later, the Colonel introduced Sandoval to Gunner McConnell, and Sandoval began doing business in the drug trade. Enrique was one of the 58,000 that got a parade. His name was enshrined on the Vietnam Memorial, “The Wall,” in Washington, D.C.

  “Enrique, my man. Tomorrow we fly back into the jungle, so cancel whatever you’ve got planned and prepare a flight plan for Kosum Phisai. It’s a little east of the last drop we made in that area.”

  It was so like Gunner not to ask what he had scheduled, but that was the arrangement Enrique had with Colonel Ho, and he wasn’t about to ignore his commitment at the risk of losing everything. “My pleasure, Mr. McConnell. Is there any preferred mode of travel you’d like to take?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,
Enrique. Let’s take the chopper for old times’ sake. I’m meeting the General, and we won’t be stopping for long. Just in, make a drop, then out again.”

  “What about an LZ?”

  “I’ve got a map for you that has the LZ marked out. Should be easy for an ace like you to find. Oh yeah, keep the rotors going while we’re on the ground. I won’t be long.”

  Gunner is such a motherfucker, he thought. Never misses a chance to dig at me because I’ve been shot down. At least, that was the way Enrique interpreted the remark. “Sounds good to me, my friend. What time do you want to leave?”

  “I’ll be at your place at seven a.m. Set your flight plan as follows: first, we fly to Khon Kaen. There’s an airport there where we refuel. I want full tanks when we head back to Bangkok. After that, we make our meeting at Kosum Phisai and then head for home. I don’t expect to be on the ground more than thirty seconds.”

  “No problem, Mr. McConnell. See you at seven.” In all the years that Enrique had been doing this for the Colonel and his local boss, Gunner McConnell, he’d never stayed on a landing strip for only thirty seconds. A red flag went up in his head, and the writing on the flag told him to be ready for anything tomorrow.

  Gunner slept well that night in anticipation of the payback he intended to put on Nam Phat. He would take the old man out with extreme prejudice.

  Jerry’s head was splitting again. All the details in this case were stressing him out so bad that he thought he’d pass out from this latest migraine. The room was beginning to spin and he hadn’t even drunk his first scotch of the day. Maybe that was the problem. He needed an infusion of booze to get back on an even keel. He sat down, afraid that someone would notice his unsteady behavior and report him to the captain. Two things could happen if that occurred. One, he’d get his vacation approved. Or two, and this was more likely, he’d be removed from the case. Not wishing to take a chance on the latter, he opted to take three aspirin, regain his composure, and head for the 44 Magnum.

  It was still early when Jerry arrived at his favorite watering hole. His mind was at ease as far as his job went, having put the forces of Interpol, the FBI, and the CIA into motion before he left the office. He was sure his desk would be cluttered with reports when he got there the next morning.

  Mondo looked surprised to see him. “You look like you could use this, Jerry. This one’s on me,” he said. As if reading Jerry’s mind, Mondo slammed a rocks glass with a double shot of Johnny Walker Red in front of him. “You know, Jerry, you’re looking as bad as you did a few weeks ago when you were on your surveillance. In fact, no offense, but you look like shit, man.”

  “No offense taken, amigo, and thanks for the drink. Say isn’t it time for your lesson?”

  “What lesson, Jerry?”

  “Your swimming lesson for the next time you have to swim the Rio Grande.”

  “Very funny, Jerry. You got me good on that one. If I need a swimming lesson, then you need a floating lesson.”

  “How is that, Armando?”

  “Cause shit floats, man, and you still look like shit.”

  How many times had Mondo and Jerry gone through this scenario? Jerry knew he’d better change the subject before Mondo did him in with his caustic brand of south-of-the-border humor. In the humor department, Jerry was no match for the bartender, and they both knew it. “Have you seen Willy Beal in the past few days, Mondo?”

  “I saw him briefly two days ago, but he only stopped in to ask if you were here. Then, poof, gone like a puff of smoke at an Indian powwow. If he comes in again, do you want me to give him a message for you?”

  Jerry wondered what Willy was up to. It had been several days since Jerry had last talked to him. There had been no more murders since the death of Ke Son Nu. While he hated to think about it, Willy B. didn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. “No, Mondo. Just let him know I’d like to talk with him.” Jerry handed Mondo a quarter.

  “Thanks, Jerry, for the generous tip. Is there some other service I can perform for you?”

  Jerry knew he could lay a heavy trip on Mondo after what he said, but thought better of saying anything else, knowing it would unleash his rapier-like wit. “Yeah. If you see Willy, give him the quarter and tell him to call me. He has the number,” he said, tongue in cheek, “that is, if he can remember it.”

  “If he can’t, Jerry, I’ll write the number of the station house down for him, in ink on his forearm or someplace he won’t lose it.”

  “Thanks, Mondo. Now please pour us another one. The back of my throat’s as dry as my ex-wife’s vagina.” Jerry couldn’t believe he had just said that. That’s when he knew it really was time for a vacation.

  Chou Lai had gone from shop to shop in the Little Saigon Business District, asking questions that could lead him to the identity of the murderer. He had been at it for a couple of weeks before he happened into the Delta Hotel. He approached the deskman, who sat in his tall chair, sleeping on one elbow. “Sorry to wake you, Tran, but I have a few questions to ask.”

  Tran Van Quai woke suddenly, snapping to a semblance of attention behind his chair. “You are speaking to me, Chou Lai?”

  “Yes, I speak to you, Tran. A couple of weeks ago, you hear that a girl named Ke Son Nu was killed on her way home from work?”

  “Yes. I hear that. But I never see Miss Nu. I don’t know her. She never comes into this neighborhood.”

  “I know that, but you may have seen the killer and not known it. I would be most appreciative if you had any information that would lead me to him.”

  “How appreciative, Chou?” said Tran, his greedy side coming to the top like soured cream on coffee.

  “I’m sure we could work out a mutually agreed-upon cash settlement. In fact, I would also tell Uncle Vinh about your willingness to cooperate. He would also, I’m sure, give you a fitting reward.”

  Tran smiled, displaying a huge gold-capped front tooth with a red heart in the center. “Maybe I do see something suspicious about two weeks ago. An American stayed here. He insisted that I let him use room 502. Room 502 is high up and overlooks the same street that the Club Saigon is on. I think maybe he spies on the club. He looked like shit and smelled like the inside of a bottle of cheap wine. Oh, yes, he carried a little bag. He took the bag with him when he left each morning.”

  “How tall was he, Tran? What color was his hair? Any distinguishing marks or jewelry?”

  “I try harder to remember details, Chou. You think Uncle Vinh will be very generous with me?”

  “I think so. You have given me more information than I received all week. Now what about a physical description of this American?”

  “He is about six feet tall. I remember because when he first came here to get his room I had to look up to talk with him. His hair was brown, I think. His eyes also brown. I don’t remember any other features, unless bad breath is a physical feature. Oh yes,” Tran added as an afterthought. “He had a large silver ring on his right hand.”

  “Thank you, Tran. I’m sure Uncle Vinh will be very generous to you for the information. If you should see anything else or hear anything on the street, please contact me.” Chou reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of hundred dollar bills. He peeled off two of them and stuffed the bills into Tran’s shirt pocket.

  “You are most generous, Mr. Chou. I will keep my ears to the pavement and try to get more information on the American, or anyone else that seems suspicious, or might know something about that night.”

  Captain Davis was waiting for Jerry when he got to the office the next morning. The look on Davis’ chubby face told Jerry that today might be a good time to check with him about an extended vacation. One thing about being a cop for so long: Jerry had become an expert at reading facial expressions, especially on the face of his short-time captain. He sat on the edge of his desk reading papers that were on top, and alternately looking up at his Little Saigon scoreboard. “More information from the feds came in for you last night, Jerry. You o
ught to have a look at it right away. Your desk gets more action than a whorehouse.”

  “I will, Cap, as soon as I get some coffee and a fat pill from the donut box.” Jerry ambled over to the coffee urn and filled his cup, grabbing an apple fritter from the box of donuts donated daily by the Dunkin Donut Shop.

  “Those things will kill you, Jerry, if you eat too many of them,” the captain said, looking down at Jerry’s growing table muscles.

  He was right. Jerry really needed to work out more and get back into shape. A trip to the Far East would sweat that off him in a couple of days. Another reason to hit the captain up for a vacation. “Yeah, Captain, I was meaning to talk to you about that. As you know”—Jerry was sure the captain had no idea—“I haven’t had a vacation in the past few years. Since the killings have stopped, I’d like to take some time off.”

  Jerry paused briefly before continuing, hoping to get a read on Captain Davis’ face. He looked amenable.

  “Not only for the health reasons that you just mentioned, but I had an idea that I could mix business with pleasure.”

  Jerry stopped again. The captain looked like he might buy into his idea.

  “You see this suspect here?” Jerry pointed to a picture of Gunner that was on the board. Without waiting for the captain’s recognition, he went on. “Gunner McConnell, AKA Ray McCormack, AKA Mac Millan. I know this guy personally from the war. My idea was to go to Thailand for my vacation, look into his activities, and either eliminate or confirm him as a suspect in the case.”

  The captain came off the end of the desk. “You want me to approve your vacation . . . to Thailand?”