Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  “You mean like honor amongst thieves,” I said with a sheepish grin. Everyone laughed and relaxed a little.

  The gorilla continued his story. “I once saw a guy that didn’t pay his tab. He was a Brit like George. McConnell is the kind of guy that enjoys taking care of his own accounts. Well, McConnell walks up behind the limey one night as he’s drinking a beer. Without so much as a word, he pulls out his blade and slices the guy’s ear off. Clean as a whistle, slick as you please. The Brit grabs the side of his head where his ear used to be and shrieks at the top of his lungs. I was sitting on the other side of him, the side that could still hear. Then McConnell bends down and whispers in his good ear. He told him he’d be keeping his ear as payment for his bar tab. Then he puts the bloody appendage into his shirt pocket and he says to George, ‘This bloke’s paid his tab in full.’ George nods, then tears up his tab and sets it on the bar in front of him. Then McConnell wiped his knife on the front of the Brit’s shirt and tells him, so everyone can hear, that if it happened again, he’d take the other one. It never happens a second time. McConnell’s a real mean guy. Not someone you want to fuck around with. You still want a membership in this club, Cherry?”

  Jerry wanted to kill this asshole for his incessant “Cherry” remarks, but silently held his ground while giving him the stink-eye.

  “Yeah. McConnell just sounds to me like a man that pays attention to business. This might be a good place for me to make some contacts. Yeah, I want in.”

  On the outside, Jerry was as cool as ice. On the inside, his guts were churning into pulp. Imagine the luck . . . Gunner actually managed this place. If he hung out here, he was sure, he could make contact with his prime suspect, and, after the story that the gorilla told him, Gunner was just that—Jerry’s prime suspect. He was sure to turn up to check on his business interests. Jerry got the impression from what he knew of Gunner and information received from other sources that Gunner would enjoy coming into the club just to see how many members had skipped on their tabs. What he wasn’t sure about was whether Gunner would recognize him as a member of the old “A” Team.

  Twenty-plus years can change a man’s looks, but that hadn’t stopped Jerry from recognizing Willy Beal. Jerry also wasn’t sure whether the Colonel had told Gunner about his visit to the Club Saigon or had a photo taken of him while he was there. It was a dilemma of major proportions. It wouldn’t take a nuclear physicist to complete the Jerry Andrews AKA Jack Dorn puzzle, and then Jerry would end up on the Bangkok Psychotic’s hit list. He was walking a fine line, and that fine line could get him killed. Not exactly what he’d had in mind when he went on this vacation.

  Gunner always liked to relax after a hard day in the killing fields. He felt like he’d solidified his position in the drug operation. He was glad to have a new ally in Xuan Ti, and happier still now that the old general was out of the way. The only thing bothering him now were the postcards that kept coming from the States. He’d set fire to the last one, but could still see it in his mind. YOU KILLED PREACHER WITH YOUR DRUGS. YOU KILLED MEYERS WITH YOUR GUN. Signed, BORN TO BE BADDER. He rubbed his forearm where the tattoo was located. BORN TO BE BAD. “I am what I am,” he said as he left his room, making sure he put a paper match between the door and the jamb.

  Rosy perked up when she saw him come down the stairs from his apartment. John brought his drink and had it waiting for him on the bar.

  “Rosy, you been true to me while I was gone?”

  “You bet, GI! You ask John? I am here all the time you away. No leave, all day.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said as he grabbed a handful of her abundant ass. “I see you’re not wearing anything under your skirt.”

  “It just like I tell you. I wait for you only. I know what you like. You want to fuck me now?”

  “No, darling. I’ve had a rough day in the killing fields and I need to prime my pump before we get into any recreational activities.” Gunner reached over and took Rosy’s hand, moving it into his crotch. “Work on this while I finish my drink, then we’ll go over to the Club Bangkok and see how business is doing.”

  Thanks to the generosity of the enemy, and some stealthy maneuvering through the back streets and alleys of Little Saigon, Willy had obtained a fifth of Old Crow Bourbon from the local momma san and poppa san liquor store. It was the best booze he had drunk since his old teammate Jerry had dropped out of sight. He was sure that Jerry wouldn’t be gone for long, unless, that is, he ran afoul of that son of a bitch Gunner McConnell. From what he had heard from the streets and from Mondo, Willy was certain that Jerry had gone to Thailand for a vacation. Some vacation, he thought.

  Willy moved out of the Little Saigon District and further uptown to find a safe place to drink his bottle. He found a relatively obscure alley a couple of blocks from the 44 Mag, and together with a couple of other winos, he spent the rest of the afternoon in search of truth and his personal reality. Sharing with friends, no matter what their station, was something that Willy Beal did. It was part of what made him what he was. To his friends, he was always the guy that could be counted on and someone you could talk to about your most sensitive of problems. He never laughed at you or made light of what you told him. That was one of the best facets of the many-sided personality of Willy Beal.

  That was the bright side. The dark side of Willy Beal was another story. Willy never exhibited the dark side unless his back was to the wall and he felt his enemies were about. But then, Willy went from a down-home farm boy mentality, changing with chameleon-like efficiency into a jungle cat. He became a calculating “Dark Man,” a predator, a shark out of the water, a land piranha.

  As he passed the bottle around the small circle of his street friends, Willy thought back to a time, a time when there were aspects of glory and pride in being an American soldier in Vietnam. He remembered for the moment—and everything came only in lucid moments when you were a lush—a time, before it got so political, when all the dogface soldiers thought they were actually fighting the spread of Communism. They thought they were fighting to preserve the way of life back home . . . “Mom and apple pie.” Except mom became Jane Fonda and apple pie was something the politicians ate while the liberal media reported the increasing number of America’s battlefield casualties. Over fifty-eight thousand of them died or turned up missing in that war. Fifty-eight thousand American corpses became a burial mound for LBJ to survey the fruited plains with, after his election to the presidency of this late, great country.

  Sure, he had tried to stop Communism. That’s what the history books say. But at what price? The price, and Willy had thought about this a lot since he left the service, was honor. The price was pride. The price was the deaths of thousands of young men, young men not smart enough to know what they were fighting for. The price was the genocide of an entire generation of America’s finest. They were sacrificed for votes. Sacrificed for political popularity. Sacrificed for a bunch of draft card-burning scumbags, and left-wing pinko Commies. Fifty-eight thousand good Americans were sacrificed so Jane Fonda could make exercise videos for future generations of anorexic women and effeminate men.

  Well, that was all over now. The stigma was gone in an alcoholic blur. The sting of defeat was a fleeting memory for Willy Beal. There was no more draft, and hence no cards to burn. Jane had married Ted and flew off into the sunset in their Lear Jet. Communism, at least in Russia, had died. So what had they fought for? Sure, the politicians were still around, different suits filled by the same kind of people. Every once in a while, the politicos would flap their wings and the new Vietnamese government would give them a few more bodies to placate the mourning masses. The families of those still missing continued to hold out hope that their sons and daughters were in a P.O.W. camp somewhere in Southeast Asia, instead of becoming compost for some rice-eater’s family. The politicians continued to play their game, except “anything to get reelected” was their battle cry!

  Willy Beal was the microcosm of that war. Here he sat, in a b
ack alley with a bunch of homeless bums. He knew each of their stories personally from many long nights of their slurred, drunken talks. He had stood around a burn barrel with all of them while the rain fell unmercifully, soaking each of them in spite of the heat from the fire. Some of his friends died of pneumonia after long cold nights on the bum. They all had one thing in common, one common thread that set them apart from the rest of America. They were homeless due to more than just circumstance. They were homeless because while they were away protecting the shores of America from the enemy, America had become their enemy. America had been taken over by her subversive elements from within. The scum always rises to the top, and things were no different in the good old US of A.

  She never took them back. There were never any parades held to welcome home her gallant, returning sons. She never opened her arms to them and pressed them to her bosom. And in failing to do so, she took away the home of countless thousands of returning vets. No, Willy thought as he took another long pull on the bottle, the 58,000 were just the tip of the iceberg. When the inevitable body count is finally complete, thousands more will be added to that granite list, and what message will America have given to her native sons and the mothers of those sons? Like most truths, the message is simple. When you’re dead, you’re dead. But when you’re dead and living, that’s the true definition of Hell.

  Jerry left the Club Bangkok with his new membership card neatly tucked into his wallet. George had typed his name onto the gold embossed card and laminated it in the back room while Jerry continued to drink and make small talk. He had not told anyone where he was staying, just made normal conversation with his newfound friends. They agreed to meet back at the club later that evening.

  It was just a short walk back to the Cam Po Nam Hotel and Bar, but he decided to try the local transportation. He hailed a cyclo driver who stopped and picked him up. It was a bumpy ride the bicycle cab made along the crudely paved streets but, just as the sun was setting in the west, the pedi-cab managed to get him to the Cam Po. It had been a long, hot day. He had made some contacts that would get him near Gunner, but it would be dangerous. Hawaii would have been a better, safer choice for a vacation.

  As he walked into Cam Po’s bar, Yin and Yang jumped up from their stools and each grabbed onto an arm.

  Yin always did the talking for the two. “You look hot, GI. Not used to the sun?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “My sister and me take you upstairs and give you a cool bath, okay?”

  Yin held his hand real tight while Yang ran her hands over his sweltering buns. He hoped they hadn’t noticed the wet spot on the front of his trousers as he said, “I think maybe I’d rather just sit down and have a cold beer. Maybe the bath later.”

  The girls seemed depressed, with pouty looks on their faces. Charley brought him a frosty beer and sat two paper umbrella drinks in front of the girls. “If you want, Mr. Dorn, I’ll send them away. Sometimes they hustle too much.”

  “It’s all right, Charley. No harm, no foul. Let me ask you this, Charley: what do you know about a place called the Club Bangkok?”

  Charley leaned on the bar top, pulling himself closer to Jerry. It was obvious he didn’t want any of the scattered patrons to eavesdrop on this conversation. As for Yin and Yang, they were probably brain dead and didn’t matter anyway. “Club Bangkok exclusive American mercenary club. It managed by a big GI by the name of McConnell. He very bad man. You wise to stay far away from him. In fact, you wise to stay away from Club Bangkok.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about the club, Charley, or is that it?”

  “Club not owned by Mr. McConnell. He just manages it. It’s rumored that the club is owned by a big Vietnamese drug dealer, Vinh Ho. He used to be a colonel in the ARVN but escaped into the U.S. That’s all I know, but if you want, maybe I can find out more for you. Maybe it cost some because I have to get an informant.”

  “Let me think about that for a while. For now, let’s forget we ever had this conversation, okay?” Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty and pressed it into George’s hand. Unfortunately, his sleight of hand wasn’t quick enough, and the sight of the money got the girls excited. He guessed it was time for him to pop his “cherry” in Bangkok, especially if he was going to keep his cover from being blown. He was certain that while his cover hadn’t been blown yet, it was about to be.

  He looked at his escorts and said, “What say we go upstairs and have that bath now, ladies?” They both were giggling as they led him up to his room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was nine thirty when Gunner and Rosy arrived at the Club Bangkok. The club was busy when George buzzed them in. A Thai rock band played ’60s rock and roll while their lead singer, to the delight of the raucous crowd, did bad Elvis Presley impersonations. “Busy night tonight, George,” said Gunner. “How much business have we done so far this evening?”

  George went back to the cash register and quickly reviewed the receipts. “Looks like about eight hundred, Mr. McConnell. Not bad for early on a Saturday night.”

  Gunner looked around, surveying the crowd. “George, have the band turn up the sound level for the next set.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. McConnell,” he said. He walked out from behind the bar to the bandstand and engaged the lead guitarist’s ear.

  Gunner looked over at Rosy. She was wearing a tight leather miniskirt that accentuated her heavy thighs and large buttocks. The skirt couldn’t have been covering her beaver by more than an inch and a half. Modesty wasn’t one of Rosy’s characteristics. Gunner liked having her around because she didn’t ask questions and, when he needed it, she was his sex machine. But that was before he had followed her last week. That was before he discovered that his girl Rosy had another flat in a high-class section of downtown Bangkok. That was before she saw the thin Chinese-American man slide an envelope under her door.

  George came back to the bar. “May I get you folks a drink?” he asked as he wiped down the bar top.

  “You sure can, George. I’ll have a Wild Turkey 101, neat. Make that two fingers. You can get Rosy her usual. Rum and coke with a paper umbrella.”

  Rosy squeezed Gunner’s knee, rubbing herself up against him. The drinks came just as the band came back from a short break between sets. The lead singer began to sing his rendition of “Rock Around the Clock.” Rosy noticed that they were louder than before, but other than that, paid no attention to the group. Gunner put his arm around her hourglass waist and leaned toward her ear. “What say we go to the back office? I’ve got some business to take care of.”

  Rosy thought she knew the kind of business he was talking about. “Business first, pleasure later or pleasure first?” she asked with a wink in her eye.

  “A little of both, Rosy,” he said as he felt her hand run up and down his leg.

  They got up together and walked to the back of the club. “George,” said Gunner as he passed the end of the bar, “I’ve got some business to take care of. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Right you are, Mr. McConnell. I’ve got things under control out here.”

  Rosy led the way to the back office. All the while, Gunner’s intense eyes were glued to her tight, titillating ass. I’m going to miss her, he thought, as mental images of their past savage lovemaking came into the window of his mind. Gunner reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass key as he reached across her sexy body and opened the door.

  The door snapped open, then silently swung inward on smooth, well-worn hinges. Rosy went straight to the long couch and stretched her body out, purposely baring her thighs as she looked seductively at Gunner.

  Gunner stood momentarily in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the red and purple lights radiating from the light track over the dancefloor. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In a heartbeat, the boisterous sounds from the club went away.

  He stood for a moment, unspeaking, just staring at Rosy’s supine figure as she took her place on the leather couch
that dominated the office. She was still sipping on her rum and coke when he walked up to her and slapped her in the face. The paper umbrella disintegrated along with her drinking straw and several teeth. Her cheek turned white from the blow. Blood began to flow out of her mouth and nose, running in a thin red trickle onto the floor where she now lay.

  Rosy looked up into the face of Gunner McConnell. Tears flowed into her eyes then ran over the lower lids of her eyes like an overflowing water bucket and mixed with the blood on her face. She cowered down, expecting another blow. Afraid to do or say anything, she just looked up at the frenzied man standing over her. As she made eye contact with Gunner, she knew immediately by his maniacal stare that he had found out about her other apartment. Instinctively, she knew that he knew. She silently prayed that the cavalry, led by Frank Liu, would burst through the outer door and save her, but she also knew that it wasn’t likely.

  Gunner reached down, almost gently, and grabbed the front of Rosy’s blouse. He lifted her body effortlessly back onto the couch, his eyes never leaving hers. Fear, that’s what he saw in her eyes, and he liked that. Once fear entered a person, they were easier to deal with. In all likelihood, he would get the truth out of her before this night was out, hell, before the next ten minutes were out. “Who’re you seeing, Rosy? Who’s the other guy?”

  Her mind soared into action. Perhaps this wasn’t about Frank Liu. Maybe, just maybe, Gunner thought she was just fucking another guy. “I thought you no mind me seeing someone else when you are away, GI. I mean no harm. I just lonely sometimes.” She tried to look at him straight in the eye, without averting her own eyes, but it was impossible.

  Once fear takes over, it makes liars out of all of us. Gunner knew, from his years in Nam interrogating prisoners, a person who is afraid will say anything or do anything to get themselves off the hook. He liked playing the game. He was skilled at the game. He would let them tell tall tales and he got depraved pleasure from the extent to which a terrified mind would go when fear was the driving force. He knew how to read the signs. The way a person sweats and eyes that can’t maintain contact . . . Nervous twitching in the cheeks or hands and the subtle pulling at clothing. He could always tell, and, he enjoyed playing out the victims. “Tell me, Rosy. It won’t do you any good to be silent. I’ll find out in the end anyway. Who’s the guy, Rosy?”