Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  Time passes quickly when you enter a dreamscape. As your mind paints the pictures, conjures the images, and provides the odors, time becomes an insignificant part of the big picture. So it was for Gunner as Enrique expertly guided the chopper to the airfield at Kon Kaen. The rising dust from the settling aircraft brought Gunner McConnell back to the present, tearing from his mind the images of the past, bringing him from the edge of the twilight zone and back into the reality zone.

  While Enrique refueled the chopper, Gunner got into the cargo bay and opened the crate containing the M-60 machine gun. He quickly and expertly assembled the gun and set it on a fixed tripod in the open door. He opened one of the ammo boxes, strung the linked ammunition into the firing chamber, and closed the top housing. He then jacked a round into the chamber and scared the hell out of Enrique as he test-fired a half dozen rounds out the door.

  “Jesus Christ, Gunner! You scared the hell out of me with that gun, to say nothing of the fact that you could’ve blown us to hell and back with those tracer rounds.”

  Gunner knew that he’d scare Enrique with his test firing of the machine gun and while he mused to himself, he came off as humble in his excuse. “Sorry, Enrique, I thought the safety was on. I guess I don’t know as much about weapons as I thought.”

  “You’re full of shit, Mr. McConnell! From what I hear, you’re an expert with weapons—especially knives.”

  The refueling took thirty minutes, longer than Gunner expected, but it gave him plenty of time to reassemble the gun. It was just about the time when he fired that first round through the barrel that his inner voice started talking to him. This was not part of a dream. It was his intuitive self, droning on about the plans they had made for paying off the old general. It was amazing to him that while he continued to receive inner guidance from his “other” voice, he continued to function in the real world. Gunner had not really heard a word Enrique said to him, but had gotten into the co-pilot’s seat, strapped himself in, and assisted in the preflight check. He hadn’t noticed that they had taken off, flying just above the jungle canopy as he had instructed, until they came to the open space that would become their LZ. Kosum Phisai lay just below them; they identified purple smoke thrown by one of Nam Phat’s elite guards.

  The chopper settled gently to earth and Gunner mechanically got out, leaving the M-60 on board. In his left hand, he carried a metallic briefcase full of money. He bent low and raced across the open area to the tree where Nam Phat and the most trusted members of his inner guard sat. The old general stood as Gunner approached, his hand raised in a salute. Gunner wasted little time, his inner voice directing his body with the precision of a finely tuned machine. His left hand dropped the briefcase on the ground at the foot of the general while his right hand reached across his body and removed a razor-sharp machete from its scabbard. As swiftly as a snake strikes down a field mouse, the blade found the outstretched hand of Nam Phat, severing the old man’s hand at the wrist.

  The look on Nam Phat’s face as he looked down at the stub that used to be his hand was one of astonishment. His piercing scream made the jungle birds and chattering monkeys instantly cease their prattle. His once agile hand lay in a bloody pool at his feet. It had happened so swiftly that the fingers on the severed hand continued to pump in a mock handshake. The old man’s head began to get light from blood loss. The fingers of his other hand began to cool down. A cold sweat poured from his brow, soaking the front of his tee shirt. His eyes looked deeply into Gunner’s for an answer to his unspoken question. Why? they said. Why have you taken my hand from me?

  It was a rhetorical question. The answer popped instantly into his head. You stole from him. You weren’t honorable in your business dealings. It was common in the Orient to extract payment for theft by removing one’s fingers and, if the theft was great enough, a hand. This was the result of his decision to ask for more money that he thought he was entitled to.

  All this happened in an instant. Nam Phat looked into Gunner’s eyes again. McConnell’s eyes were as dead as a shark’s stare. Nam Phat knew at that moment that he wouldn’t be allowed to live because of his business decision. He looked for a brief moment at Xuan Ti, wondering why Xuan hadn’t made a move to stop Gunner. Another rhetorical question. Xuan was tired of being Nam Phat’s underling and aspired to the old man’s throne. Xuan Ti. Nam Phat had treated him like the son he never had, and now this. He stood by and let a common thug do his dirty work. Xuan Ti and all the trusted inner guard turned away from the old man. Nobody made a move to help him.

  The machete rose high above Gunner’s head, and in one swift downward move, sliced cleanly through the old man’s neck. So swiftly did the sword strike that Nam Phat’s head remained in place, hardly bleeding. Just a trickle. Gunner made a maniacal expression as he kicked the old man hard in his chest. The jolt from the kick cause Nam Phat’s head to fall off onto the ground next to where his hand lay.

  Gunner grabbed the head by its long black-and-gray hair and held it aloft for all to see. Then he tossed it out into the open perimeter. He bent again and removed a huge jade ring from the ring finger of the severed hand. It had been the symbol of Nam Phat’s authority. He tossed it over to Xuan Ti, who, in one smooth motion, caught the ring and placed it on his own finger.

  As Gunner ran back toward the idling chopper he yelled to Xuan Ti. “You’re the leader now. The symbol of your authority is on your finger. The money we agreed to is in the briefcase. I’ll see you when your next shipment is ready to move.”

  It had only taken a little more than thirty seconds on the ground. Enrique had not witnessed the killing; he was busy watching his instrument panel. Gunner jumped onto the chopper and gave Enrique the thumbs-up sign. As the Huey rose above the LZ, Gunner cranked back on the operating handle of the M-60 and began to strafe the outer perimeter of the clearing. Soldiers that were not part of the inner guard ran in all directions. For Gunner, it was like shooting fish in a rain barrel. He had now completed his agreement with Xuan Ti. He had killed those who were not totally loyal to Xuan Ti and not part of his scheme to take over the leadership of the drug-producing clan.

  Enrique Sandoval just flew with his eyes straight ahead. After a short time, he eased the UH-1D into a slow bank toward the south and brought his airship onto a heading that would take them on a straight-line course directly into Bangkok. He pushed the images of the soldiers, dead and dying on the ground, out of his head and replaced them with thoughts that were more palatable. Beer and pussy could make him forget anything.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jerry slept long and hard on his first night back in-country. It was the best sleep he’d had in years, despite the lumpy pad that the Hotel Cam Po Nam was trying to pass off as a mattress.

  In-country. That’s what they used to call it in Nam. When Jerry first arrived at Cam Rahn Bay, he was what the real echelon warriors called a “cherry.” The first words he heard during my Orientation were, “in-country.”

  Between tours, when the Army enticed you into returning to Nam for another tour, they would send you on an R&R. They offered choice: stateside including Hawaii or the Far East. It was between Jerry’s first two tours that he first went to Bangkok for R&R. When he got back to the “A” Team the first words out of Daiwe’s mouth were, “Nice to have you back in-country.” Daiwe had never got the opportunity to be welcomed back “in-country.” Jerry’s mind shot back to that day in ’68 when he arrived in Kontum. Six body bags littered the dirty floor of their chopper. One of them belonged to Daiwe Jackson.

  Jerry laid back and tried to force the words out of his head while talking himself into staying in the sack for another half hour. The mattress began to irritate him as he moved from side to side, trying to find a furrow without lumps. It was like trying to sleep on the bumpy dirt road. If those lumps were tits, he knew he’d find a way to get comfortable, but they weren’t, and he wasn’t, so what the hell. He finally gave up trying to find the comfort zone and resolved to get up and do some clan
destine police work. After all, it was his first day back “in-country.”

  The Cam Po Nam was empty as he came down the stairs, with the exception of Charley, who stood behind the bar reading a Thai newspaper. He noticed Jerry right off and put a cup of coffee up on the bar. “You like coffee in the morning, Mr. Dorn? Most Americans like coffee. If you no like, I drink.”

  “Yeah, Charley, coffee is great in the morning. What time is it, anyway? I never reset my watch after flying in-country yesterday.” Shit, I said it again. It’s funny how some thoughts just stay with you and won’t let go no matter how hard you try to rid yourself of them. Kind of like my ex-wife.

  “It ten thirty, Mr. Dorn. You sleep well last night. Room 201 my best room.”

  Jerry could’ve insulted the room, but thought it would be best if he didn’t. “Yeah, Charley, I slept like a log.”

  Jerry looked around and noticed that Yin and Yang weren’t perched like birds of prey, waiting to pluck out the wallet of some unsuspecting tourist. But then again, what would a tourist be doing in this part of town and this dive?

  It looked like a real nice day outside. The sun had risen above the building line across the street and was attempting to penetrate the dirt on the Cam Po’s front windows. Jerry finished his first cup of coffee, had another cup, then decided it was time to see the sights. “See you later, Charley. I’ve got some business to generate. Need to see a man about some heavy hardware.”

  “You hardware salesman, Mr. Dorn?” Charley said as Jerry slipped out of his chair and headed for the door.

  “Something like that, Charley. See you later.”

  Jerry hadn’t realized how much air circulation the paddle fans on the ceiling of the Cam Po Nam gave off until he opened the door and walked outside. The muggy heat hit him in the face like a hot towel before a shave. Sweat poured out of his body as he became aware, for the first time, of all the activity taking place on the streets in this backwater part of the city. Vendors had set up their portable, ramshackle shops and carts on both sides of Ho Thai Street. Food was the main thing the vendors sold in this melting pot of coastal Thailand. Jerry knew Bangkok was the home of hundreds of expatriate GIs, but he failed to see an American face as he scanned the street for someone to make initial contact with.

  His plan was simple. For the first few days, he would get out and about, letting people know that he was a disgruntled American with automatic weapons for sale. Eventually, he was certain, his path would cross Gunner McConnell’s. He hoped that by then he would be as hard to recognize as Gunner’s mug shots were to him when Interpol sent them to his office. He still couldn’t fully make himself believe it was Gunner. It was Willy Beal who was dead nuts sure that the guy we were looking at was Gunner. As far as Jerry was concerned, the last time he’d seen him his remains were inside one of Uncle Sam’s finest vinyl coffins.

  Jerry knew if he hung out in sleazy bars, their paths would eventually cross. Jerry wondered if Gunner still liked to drink boilermakers, his drink of choice back in Nam. As he walked slowly down the street, the smells of this ancient and crowded city made his nose twitch. He could smell the rice cooking in huge pots at several of the food stalls. The roast pork, beef, and probably a stray dog or two being barbecued in the open pits made him start salivating. He thought about it and remembered that he had eaten his last solid food on the airplane. That was yesterday or the day before, depending on how one looked at the time zone situation. In any case, he was damn hungry. He bought some beef and a large plate of rice, and moved off into a shaded area adjacent to a building that fronted on Ho Thai. Shade or not, he was as hot as he’d ever been before. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was in Hell. Sweat dripped from his brow and onto his food, but it mattered little to him, ravenous as he was. His thoughts went back to the Vietnam jungles when he was conducting his military operations. The bland rice reminded him of the times they had to go out on patrol in Nam. Jerry could see himself sitting on the jungle floor with sweat dripping onto his food, his stomach churning, ever vigilant and nervous as his eyes searched for the unseen enemy. He swore after that war that he’d never eat rice again and if he weren’t as hungry as a starving dog just now, or if better vittles were close by, He wouldn’t have broken that vow. He’d have killed for a Big Mac just then.

  Jerry was paranoid when he served in Nam. Probably not clinically paranoid, but paranoid nonetheless. When they went out on patrol, he would reduce the amount of food he was carrying so he could carry a minimum of six hundred rounds of M-16 ammunition in his pack. What that meant was he would break down his ration packet into the smallest increments. Usually, he just had rice packaged in plastic bags. One bag of rice for an entire day. Just add water and wait thirty minutes. Rice du jour. Three meals a day out of one plastic bag of rice. Two weeks equaled fourteen bags of rice and six hundred rounds of ammo. If bullets were burgers, he’d be fatter than Chubby Checker at a pizza convention. As it was, he weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds dripping wet when he left the country for the last time.

  The sweat drenched rice sure tasted good. He ordered and ate another plate while he continued to vigilantly watch the street. When he finished, he tossed his paper plate into a burn barrel provided by the vendor. He put his bamboo chopsticks into his shirt pocket for later.

  He window-shopped for a while, looking into the glass storefronts, while observing the action behind him in the reflection. The heat was stifling, driving him toward thoughts of a tall cold one, when he spotted what he figured were his first potential expatriates.

  There were two of them. They stood directly across the street from him. They leaned up against the brick wall of a dilapidated building, covertly speaking to each other. They were dressed in freshly pressed camouflage fatigues, the kind that used to be government issue over in Nam. They had close-cropped, military-style haircuts. They were both similarly tattooed on their right forearm. A serpentine dagger stabbed through a skull. He thought back as he continued to watch their movements. Some of the guys that had taken part in the Phoenix Project had those tattoos. He made a mental note to go easy. He was sure these two were bad dudes, probably just as bad as Gunner or worse.

  After a few minutes, they meandered down Ho Thai and turned off into a shaded alley. Jerry walked past the alley, glancing sideways as he tried to locate the two men. They were gone. Vanished! Swallowed up like insects devoured by a dark snake. He noticed a wooden door, painted red and covered by a narrow awning. The alley dead-ended. It was obvious to him that unless they were warlocks, or had some other mystical power that would allow them to fly or disappear, they had gone through the door. He walked down another block, crossed the cobblestone street and walked back toward the alley for a better look. The sign on the door read, CLUB BANGKOK, PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY.

  Willy Beal wandered the streets of Little Saigon in his usual alcoholic void. He stumbled from liquor store to liquor store in search of a bottle of cheap wine. Between stores, he would panhandle until he’d accumulated enough change for another bottle.

  It was at times like these that he wondered where his friend Jerry had gone. The extra money that Jerry gave him sure had come in handy. It kept him in booze for days without him having to degrade himself by publicly begging. His once proud self-esteem was taking a real bashing. More than once he had stopped in at the 44 Magnum to inquire as to Jerry’s whereabouts. Mondo would let him put stuff on a tab Jerry had left, but after a while, too much of that started to feel like begging too.

  Things just weren’t the same for Willy with Jerry out of town. What the hell, he thought. I’ve lived without the guy for years. I can do it again, he said to himself as he staggered in the direction of part of Little Saigon that to him was the most familiar. The sign in the storefront window read PARTY DOWN LIQUORS. It was typical of the “mom and pop” type stores that were common in Little Saigon. Willy had been panhandling in front of the Delta Hotel for over half an hour, not collecting enough change to buy a rubber from a cond
om machine, let alone a bottle of wine. PARTY DOWN’s neon sign kept winking at him, and like a plug in a bass pond, luring him toward her portals. He looked down in his hand. Fifty-eight cents and a Canadian nickel. Mom and pop probably wouldn’t take the nickel and he still needed seventeen cents for their cheapest bottle of muscatel. Guess I’ll just keep working this corner until I have the money, he thought, not wanting to move farther away from the neon temptress. I sure hope I score some decent change before my throat dries up and slams shut, he thought. One thing about panhandling. It gives you time for introspection.

  Tran Van Quai had seen the American panhandling in front of the hotel. He knew he could’ve asked or told Willy to leave, but he thought it would be more profitable to just drop a dime on him. His telephone call to Chou Lai was brief. Chou picked up the car phone on the second ring. “Chou. This is Tran at the Delta Hotel.”

  “What’s troubling you, Tran? I’m a busy man.”

  “Too busy to come over here and remove an American from in front of the hotel?”

  “And just why would I want to do that?”

  “Because this American is one that I have seen around many times in the past. He was on the streets when Ke Son was murdered.”

  “Are you sure, Tran?”

  “I swear to you on my mother’s grave. All I have told you is true.”

  “I am indebted to you.” Chou Lai pushed the “end call” button on his car phone and instructed his driver to drive directly to the Delta Hotel.

  “Thank you, sir, and have a nice day.” Five more cents and Willy had the fare to purchase the juice. Willy Beal was really excited. He knew he would soon be out of the sun, lying in the shade of a tall building, in one of the many back alleys he frequented.