Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  The black Cadillac pulled alongside the curb and the heavily tinted rear window opened. “Spare some change for an old veteran?” Willy liked to appeal to the patriotic side of human nature. Mom and apple pie. Yankee doodle dandy. The thought that perhaps Little Saigon was not the appropriate place to exhibit patriotic behavior never entered his mind. If it had, it might account for his less than generous panhandling revenue.

  As Willy extended his shaking hand through the limo’s window he felt his wrist being tightly held. The voice came from the shadows of the car’s plush interior. “Before I give you anything we have to talk. I’ll release your hand if you promise to get into the car.”

  The stranger’s voice sounded ominous. This turn of events had a sinister set to it. One minute I’m begging for change to purchase a jug, then, when I’m almost there, this gangster comes along and wants me to go for a ride in his fancy car.

  “How ‘bout a buck for a wounded vet? . . . before we talk.” With an extra dollar, I can get some Gallo instead of Boones Farm, he thought. Willy felt the bill folded into his hand and his wrist simultaneously released. He took the bill without looking at it and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Then, with the moves of a gazelle, he cut and ran.

  It was obvious from the way he ran through traffic that he wasn’t the rummy that everyone believed he was. Willy Beal was back in the jungle. He was being chased by the Viet Cong. His life was on the line and he would do whatever was necessary to evade his enemy.

  Chou Lai was surprised by Willy as he tried to extricate himself from the Caddy and give chase. As youthful as he was, Chou was no match for the speed of Willy Beal in fear of his life. “When I catch you, I’ll kill you,” he shouted as he chased Willy through midday traffic. He shouted several times to shopkeepers, who tried to ignore the chase as none of their business. “Stop him. Stop the bum,” he shouted, to no avail.

  The chased animal, the prey, is always dangerous. A trapped animal is more dangerous. Willy turned into an alley and ducked behind a foul-smelling dumpster. He hoped that his assailant had not seen him come in here. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence crossed the alley just a few feet from where he now caught his breath. If he had to, he knew he could climb the fence. He could even endure the pain of going over the three barb wire strands that ran along the top of it. He could do it all, but he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. The last time he had been chased by the VC, he had spent days running through the sweltering jungle. In the end, he had been cornered, with the open ground behind him and the enemy in front of him. He had chosen to fight, and when the smoke had cleared, fifteen dead men had lain at his feet. He was dazed and badly wounded, but he managed to escape. His grateful government had awarded him the Distinguished Service Cross for heroism above and beyond the call of duty. With that medal and fifteen cents, you could buy a cup of coffee in post-Vietnam War America.

  He hunkered down in the shadow of the trash bin trying to make himself invisible. That last chase was not the last time he’d run into VC, but the next time he’d done so, Willy had discovered something amazing about his mind. He was one of those intensely strange people that could use the power of his mind to make himself be someone else or go somewhere else. If he was an Indian, he’d be known as a “shape shifter.” He could think it and, at least, to himself, in his own mind, he would make it so. Think invisible. Think invisible. Think invisible, and he was.

  Chou stopped running as he ran past the alley. He walked for a short while, then decided to come back and investigate. The alley was not too deep, and had a chain link fence with strands of barbed wire that closed it off from the adjoining residential property. He may have slipped in here, Chou thought, as he cautiously entered the alley. His mind went into overdrive. Am I the hunter or the hunted? The animal was trapped in here. His instincts and the hair bristling on the back of his neck made him keenly aware that he was not alone. Chou reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the switchblade that was the stock-in-trade of Vinh Ho’s enforcers. He hit the button and the blade snapped out with a loud metallic click.

  Think invisible, Willy thought as he squeezed closer and tighter against the dumpster. The fence was just inches from his face. He thought about trying to get over it before the Viet Cong with the knife discovered him, but decided to stand his ground. His keen sense of hearing had heard the switchblade snap open . . . Think invisible. Think invisible.

  Chou moved through the narrow alley with catlike precision. He moved from one side of the alley to the other, searching for the man he felt was hiding here. He knocked over some trash cans, then moved to a pile of cardboard boxes that were steeped high enough to conceal a man. Nothing. He looked at the dumpster standing in the corner near the fence. His body tensed. He moved slowly toward it, his knife held at the ready.

  Willy’s nose perked up. His stalker was a smoker. He smelled the stale tobacco. Probably in his hair, Willy thought. His once razor-sharp senses had not been totally dulled by his years of alcohol abuse. He picked up the scent of cheap after shave. Aqua Velva. The VC must be a real punk to be wearing that cheap stuff, he silently laughed to himself. He sniffed the air again, just like he used to do in the jungles of Vietnam. Pinot. The guy was also a greaseball. He wore cheap after shave and cheap French hair oil. I can take this guy, he thought. Remember, discretion is the better part of valor. Be invisible. The VC can’t kill you if they can’t see you. Willy Beal wasn’t drunk anymore, at least not in the conventional sense. He was, however, drunk in an unconventional sense. Willy was intoxicated with a euphoric feeling of power. Pure power. The kind of power experienced by a trapped jungle cat. First he is hunted, then he becomes the hunter. He was first the prey, then the predator. The power of the predator, that’s the kind of power that a sober Willy Beal could possess. Be invisible. Make yourself invisible. He crouched in the shadow of the trash bin and waited.

  When he had approached the alley, Chou had felt like a predator. But since then, his confidence had begun to falter. The only thing motivating his actions was the thought in the back of his mind. The picture of what Ke Son looked like, alone, afraid, dead, and earless in the bottom of the stairwell. Chou sucked in a deep breath. He climbed up onto the dumpster and looked inside. Mounds of smelly garbage and waste paper filled the container almost to overflowing. He heaved his short, agile body over the edge and stood inside the dumpster. If Uncle Vinh could just see me now, he thought. He poked and prodded at the garbage. “You in here, GI? Come out and talk with me. I don’t want to hurt you. All I want to do is talk.”

  Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement. The American had vanished. Disappeared. Chou looked over at the fence, which stood just a few feet away. He looked at the proximity of the dumpster and the short distance someone would have to jump to get over the fence. He shook his head, sure that the American had used that route to escape. He climbed out, dusted his clothes off, and ran his hands through his oily hair. Chou closed his switchblade, put his knife back in his pocket and left the alley.

  The footfalls of the VC started moving away from Willy Beal. Willy wouldn’t have to fight . . . not today, anyway. He had wished himself invisible and made it so. He would remember this VC. He would be able to smell him even though he had never got a good look at him. He knew he had not seen the last of him. Eventually, they would be locked in mortal combat . . . to the death, one winner, one loser . . . and he didn’t intend to be the loser. His thirst rose as his adrenalin level came down. The VC had provided him with many more piasters than he needed for a jug, but he knew he’d have to be careful. It would be best to stay in the shadows and wait until after it was dark. But waiting was out of the question, especially when the bottle called. And after all, he could always make himself invisible if the need arose.

  Gunner had paid Enrique Sandoval in U.S. greenbacks. Five thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar denominations. The money paid for the trip and, more importantly, Enrique’s silence. That was what the generosity of Vinh Ho was all about. Everybody was
happy and everybody was quiet. Gunner handed the money to Enrique, knowing that Enrique wouldn’t count it in front of him. It was part of the code of these expatriates. Honor, silence, dignity, and the search for glory after their defeat in the unpopular war. They all thought about it. They all knew it was the politicians that lost it for them. They never lost their fighting spirit. But none of that made the bitter pill any more palatable. They were, after all, modern-day soldiers of fortune. There was no politics involved in what they were doing . . . at least, not on the surface. In this war, politicians were the enemy, and if they got in the way, they were killed.

  Gunner arrived back at the Mu Tai after dusk. He went into the bar and checked for messages before going up to his room. One of his favorite bar girls, Rosy was her name, sat at mid-bar, watching him from the moment he came through the door. “Hey, GI, how about a drink for your Rosy?”

  Gunner gave her a kiss on her neck as he went by. “John, give the girl what she wants and put it on my tab. I’ll be down after I clean up this funky body of mine.”

  “You want me to clean up your funky body, GI?” said Rosy as she put her hand inside the front of his pants.

  “Not now, honey. You and I will party later.” Gunner pulled her hand out of his pants and headed upstairs as Rosy’s drink arrived.

  “Thank you, GI, I save myself for you.”

  Right, Gunner thought as he checked the door to his room for signs of any disturbance. He knew that Rosy would only save herself until the next guy with a ten-spot wanted her to give him some head. The paper match that he put in the door frame was still there. Nobody had gone into his room since he’d left. The housekeepers only made up his room three times a week and never on weekends. He took his room key out of his pocket and let himself in.

  Rosy had two drinks. She liked Mai Tais, because of the paper umbrellas. When she had first started patronizing the bar she had made a deal with John the bartender. He agreed that he wouldn’t make her drinks too strong, and he would still charge full price to whoever bought them for her. She told John that she liked to be sober when she left for the night or used his back office to give a “quickie” to one of his bar patrons. He made her short shots and she gave him a percentage off all the clients she got in the bar. On slow nights, she gave him all the head he could take. Rosy was happy, and so was John. It was business as usual in the Far East.

  Rosy slid off her stool and coolly walked back to the office, letting herself in with the door key John had given her. John was busy, animatedly talking with a customer. She closed the door behind her and sat down behind the desk that, except for a couch along one wall, dominated the small room. She made some of her money on the couch, but most of it over the telephone. She dialed quickly, because the number was etched permanently in her memory. She knew she could not stay long. She would have to hurry. If she was missed and they asked questions of her, it might mean the end of this arrangement.

  She knew the voice on the other end, from the many conversations they had had in the past. She spoke in a jerky monotone after she heard the line picked up on the other end. “Frank? Rosy here. Just listen, I don’t have time for conversation. Mac is back.”

  In the second she paused, Frank Liu whispered into the receiver. “Thanks, Rosy. I’ll leave your envelope in the same place. You can pick it up tomorrow.” The buzzing coming from the handset told him she had hung up.

  Running surveillance on Gunner McConnell had been difficult for Interpol. It would have been impossible without an informant like Rosy on the inside. Time and again she had come up with key information on McConnell’s movements, information that allowed the agency to increase their knowledge of his activities and Vinh Ho’s operation.

  She was a hard woman for someone only nineteen years old. But girls that are in the prostitution trade in the Orient grow up fast and hard. Like her two sisters, she had been sold to a madam at the age of eleven. She’d worked hard and bought her way out of the whorehouse when she was sixteen. She had been freelancing ever since. Being a paid informant was just another way for her to make good money. And the money was really good. It beat having to spread her legs for guys she picked up in bars, and considering the rampant spread of VD and HIV in Bangkok, she felt it was far less dangerous.

  She came out of the office and sat back down at the bar. “I’ll have another Mai Tai, John. Okay, you put it on Mr. McConnell’s tab.”

  “Sure thing, Rosy. He said to take care of you until he came back, so that’s what I’ll do.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jerry wasn’t sure what to expect from following the gorilla twins into the private club, but it had been his experience that the direct approach was sometimes best. The thought had entered his mind that the doorman, upon seeing a stranger at the entrance, would not let him in. Worse yet, the Club Bangkok might not be a bar. It could be a front for some sinister operation. He knew if he stood here thinking about it, he’d talk himself out of attempting entry. So he stopped thinking and walked up to the door.

  He depressed the buzzer and was surprised when the door opened and he was buzzed inside. The twin goons were nowhere in sight. The Club Bangkok was, as he suspected, a bar. It was a class act compared to his hotel. The bartender stood behind the heavy mahogany bar, dressed in tails. Jerry looked down at his fatigues, wondering if he could pass the dress code in this place. The bartender motioned him over. The room was fairly dark, and Jerry’s eyes were still adjusting to the low light. It was a good thing he wasn’t wearing Vinh Ho’s dark glasses, or he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. He took a seat at the bar and noticed the plastic nameplate the bartender was wearing on his shirt, “George.” A large sign behind the bar read: “PRIVATE CLUB MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you in here before, sir. Do you have a membership card, sir?” he said in an uppity British accent.

  “Can’t say that I have, George. How do I go about joining this club?”

  “You have to be recommended by a member, sir. I can’t serve you without a proper membership card.”

  Jerry looked around again, buying some time. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light, he noticed the two men he had followed. They were sitting in a booth along the back wall, talking with a third man. He couldn’t make out any facial details, but he knew he had to make a move or George would ask him to leave. He stood up quickly. “Excuse me for just a second, old boy,” he said with his best British inflection.

  He made a beeline to the back table, noticing that as he got closer, the three men became more guarded about their conversation. They eyed him curiously as he stepped up to their table. The large one in the center was first to speak. “Do we know you, stranger?”

  “We haven’t been formally introduced. My name’s Jack Dorn.” Jerry reached inside his fatigue pocket to pull out some business cards that Frank had printed up for him. He almost pissed his pants as all three pulled out handguns and aimed them at his head.

  Have you ever noticed during certain stressful moments in your life that time passes in slow motion? Like a camera on auto-wind, clicking pictures at .15 seconds a frame. This was one of those moments. Jerry was looking down the barrels of three guns, being pointed at him by three mercenaries all of who were complete strangers to him. He was in a private club where he wasn’t even a member and worst of all, he was about to piss his pants. “Easy, fellas. Just getting a business card out to help introduce myself to you.”

  They all eyed him curiously, but as the cards came slowly out, the guns disappeared under the table. “You don’t suppose a guy might get a drink around here?” he said with a little more confidence.

  The big guy in the center spoke again. For all Jerry knew, the other two were mute. “George,” he shouted, “get this guy a beer.” He looked down at Jerry’s fatigue pants. A wet spot had started to form during his bout of slow motion. “You better bring him a shot along with that.” All three snickered as the big guy pointed to his zipper.

  George
brought Jerry a drink and Jerry sat down. The gorillas were still laughing when he introduced himself. “As you can see by the card, my name’s Jack Dorn. I work for the Southeast Asia Branch of International Armaments, Inc. This is my first trip to Bangkok while in this line of work and I’m trying to make some contacts.”

  The middle gorilla spoke again. “You say this is your first trip to Bangkok while in this line of work? That implies that perhaps you’ve been here before.”

  “Yeah. I was here back in ’67. I took an R&R here between tours in Nam.”

  “How many tours did you do in Nam? You look like a cherry to me.”

  The big guy touched a nerve, but Jerry decided to stay cool for the time being. He lied. “Four tours. Two on “A” Teams, one with Mike Force, and one with command and control, MACV SOG.”

  “You’re a regular hero, Cherry. What makes you think we’d be interested in buying guns from you? It must be obvious to you that we already have guns.”

  The little clique laughed in unison while pointing at Jerry’s wet spot.

  “I sell more than toys, gentlemen. Anyone can buy nine-millimeter handguns on any street corner in Bangkok. I sell the heavy shit.” Jerry had their attention now. The laughter died down and they listened. “I followed two of you in here because you looked like mercenaries, and might be interested in my merchandise. I found out after I came in, from George over there, that I needed a sponsor at this club before they’d let me drink here. I’ve lost enough water in here, if you know what I mean. It would be nice to be able to replace it.”

  The big guy looked over at his compatriots. They all nodded in the affirmative. He held up one of “Jack’s” cards. “George. Get Mr. Dorn here a membership card. I’ll sponsor him.”

  George came over and took the card returning behind the bar where he went to work, making Jerry a club card.

  “You can start a tab now. Club’s run by an American by the name of McConnell. He’s an ex-Green Beret, just like you. Club rules are that you come in each month and pay your tab. Kind of the honor system.”