He sat drinking an Irish coffee, trying to comprehend the cable and all the nuances that Captain Davis was capable of putting in the brief message.
It started off quite simply. “JERRY. STOP. I THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE TO KNOW.” That was the direct part. Henry only wanted to get his undivided attention.
“THERE HASN’T BEEN A LITTLE SAIGON KILLING SINCE YOU LEFT. STOP.” What he was really trying to tell him?
“CONCLUSION. STOP.” Oh no, Henry’s going to act like a real detective and solve the case, he thought. “YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT McCONNELL. STOP.” Henry always jumped to conclusions, and that’s why he wasn’t in the field anymore.
Davis’ message continued, “OR YOU’RE THE KILLER. STOP. JUST JOKING. STOP.” It was obviously time for the captain to retire, but it was interesting to know that for now, at least, the murders had stopped.
Jerry read the message once more, then took out his Zippo and burned it, making sure there was nothing left but ash. He thought about L.A. as he watched the flame engulf the message. He wondered how Willy was making out. Before he left, he had told Mondo that if Willy ever came in and needed a drink, to put it on his tab. He missed the gang at the 44 Magnum, secretly hoping that the gays had not gotten a foothold in his old watering hole. But he was sure Mondo wouldn’t let that happen.
His thoughts were interrupted when Yin and Yang pulled up chairs on either side of him and let their hands fall into his crotch. He felt himself getting weaker where they were concerned, but resolved to hold out for a little while longer before letting them molest his aging body parts.
The telephone rang and Charley brought it over to him. “This call for you, Mr. Dorn. I think it Mr. McConnell,” he said, his hand held over the receiver.
Jerry took the receiver from Charley and pushed the girl’s hands away from his zipper. “Jack Dorn here,” he said, not knowing whether Charley actually could identify Gunner’s voice.
“Why so formal, chum? It’s me, Gunner.”
“Gunner, it’s good to hear from you. Are we still on for tonight, good buddy?”
“That’s what I called you for. Duty calls. I’ve got some business to take care of in the interior so I won’t be able to make it tonight or, for that matter, for a couple of days.”
“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that, Mac. I was looking forward to us getting together and telling some war stories and other lies.”
“I’m sure in your new line of business, you go into the bush occasionally, Jerry. What say you go with me? There’re some people I’d like you to meet. It could be profitable for you.”
This looked like the opportunity Jerry had been waiting for, but he needed to move carefully. “Sounds great. How much time do I have before we leave?”
“I’ve got my company chopper waiting for us now. What say I pick you up at your hotel in two hours?”
“I’ll be ready; and thanks for this opportunity, Gunner.” Jerry’s sincerity almost brought a tear to his own eye, but the reality of another trip into the jungle with a man of Gunner’s deviousness would be terrifying even to the stoutest of hearts.
The receiver buzzed in Jerry’s ear for several seconds before he realized that Gunner had hung up. He was on the verge of having another flashback when his mind came into sharp focus. I’ve got to call Frank, he thought, as he hung up the phone. Charley came over to take the telephone back behind the bar. Jerry put his hand on it. “Leave it here for a few minutes, Charley, I’ve got a call to make.”
Charley, being the good and mindful host that he was, moved away from Jerry and told Yin and Yang to give him some privacy, promising them they could blow Jerry later as an enticement for them to leave him alone just now. They moved to a booth in the back of the bar as Jerry dialed Frank Liu’s office.
The phone rang three times before it was picked up. Jerry was relieved. He didn’t feel good about going into the bush without some backup. He hoped that Frank could provide that.
“Can I help you?” His voice was as refreshing as a cool drink of water in the desert.
“Frank, it’s me, Jerry, AKA Jack. Listen up. Gunner just called and invited me to go into the bush on some business trip he has planned. I’m not sure what to think of it. He made it sound like it was going to be on the up and up, but you know how devious he can be.”
“You did the right thing calling me. How long till he picks you up?”
“He said he’d meet me in a couple of hours. He’s coming to my hotel to pick me up.”
“Good, that gives me plenty of time. I’ll send a runner over with a transmitting device. It’s a microchip. Take the device, then sew it into the collar of your fatigue jacket. I’ll be able to locate you within a three-hundred-mile radius. The device will be operational when you get it. Within ten miles, it acts as a transmitting speaker. It’s voice-activated, and we will have you on full audio. Consider yourself under surveillance from this point on.”
“Sounds good. All I know so far is we’re meeting a chopper that’s taking us on this little sojourn.”
“Trust me, Jerry. We’ll stay close enough to get you out if the shit gets too thick. We have operatives in all his camps and I personally will be along. This could be the break I’ve been looking for.”
Jerry handed the buzzing phone back to Charley. “I’ll be in my room, Charley. I’m expecting someone with a package. Show them up when they arrive.” Charley nodded like he always did. Jerry hoped he could trust him to not tell anyone about his phone conversations. In his business, you never trusted anyone unless you’d known them for years. Oriental innkeepers were not high on his trustworthiness list. Jerry was sure if the money was right, Charley would even sell his own mother down the river. He never asked questions about Jerry’s business, but he was always close by. Jerry tried to push the paranoia from his aching brain. I’ll cut him some mental slack, he thought. He hasn’t done anything yet to make me distrust him.
Jerry had been lying on his bed for thirty minutes, just resting his eyes, when a knock at the door aroused him. He got up and opened the door, but nobody was there. At his feet was an envelope, which the caller must have slid partway under the door. Jerry checked the hall. Nobody was about. He locked the door behind him and pushed a chair under the doorknob for additional security.
Frank hadn’t been lying. The chip was no bigger than Jerry’s little fingernail. He held it up to the light, amazed at the simple complexity of the device. He hoped it could do everything Frank had told him it could. He already had his sewing kit out and had cut a few threads in the collar of his fatigue jacket. He carefully slid the device between the pieces of cloth and, making sure not to touch it with the needle, sewed it into the collar. He held his jacket in front of him, admiring his handiwork. Undetectable to the human eye was the first thought that came to his mind. The second thought was more in tune with reality. Whoever said Gunner was human?
He heard the beeping of the jeep’s horn through his window. He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for an hour and felt groggy. He slid open the rain-washed window and shouted down to Gunner. “Be right down, good buddy.” It always irked his insides to be nice to people he didn’t especially care to associate with. Working for the LAPD was a lot like that. There was always someone that he was forced to work with that he didn’t like. “Grin and bear it,” was what Captain Davis always said. But he didn’t have Jerry’s ulcer or have to pay his pharmacy bills.
Jerry jumped into the jeep and, without so much as a “howdy-do” from Gunner, they were off. Driving through the city was reminiscent of yesterday’s experience with Frank, except Gunner provided him with some reading material. “You know anything about this?” he said as he handed Jerry a postcard with a picture of L.A.’s Little Saigon at night.
At first glance, Jerry thought it was Bangkok until his eyes focused on the caption. NIGHTLIFE IN L.A.’S LITTLE SAIGON GOES DUSK TO DAWN. A TRIP TO THE FAR EAST RIGHT IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. He noticed the picture was a shot of the Club Saigon Restaurant at ni
ght. Gunner was watching him. He glanced over, trying, Jerry was sure, to read his face and eyes. Did his recognition of the Club Saigon give him away? Did his facial characteristics or his eye set tell Gunner that there was more to his visit than he’d told him? Did his cheek twitch like it did sometimes when he was stressed out from too much police work and not enough sleep?
“Go ahead, read it. I didn’t give it to you so you could just look at the pretty picture.”
Jerry flipped the card over and read the printed scrawl on the other side. YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE. PREACHER KNEW AND HE TOLD ME. He rolled the card over between his fingers and looked at the postage cancellation. It came from the post office at the VA Hospital in Santa Monica.
Gunner could read Jerry’s face all he wanted to. Jerry hadn’t a clue as to who sent it or what it meant. “Is the preacher referenced in this our old teammate, Preacher Abraham?” he said in total honesty.
“That’s my guess, Jerry. He’s not what interests me. I’m trying to find out who wrote the card. Maybe another one of our mates survived the Nam and we could have a reunion.”
Right, he thought. A party. A reenactment of your escape from the Army. Willy had told him a detailed story one night over a few beers at the 44 Magnum. Six body bags. One of them belonging to Sgt. Gunner McConnell. Except Gunner was long gone. “Het Roi, Fini,” as the Vietnamese used to say. Not in the bag, though. He had fled into Thailand with the help of Colonel Vinh Ho. Six vinyl bags each marked with the name of a team member. Willy ticked them off to him with the precision of a finely tuned memory. Not what Jerry had expected from the rum-soaked brain of a down-and-out, alcoholic Vietnam vet.
He reverently saluted after he pronounced each name. ADAMS, ROTUN, BAKER, COLLINS, JACKSON, TAGGERT. Jerry told him he made a mistake, that Taggert wasn’t one of the bodies. After all, he should know. He was the one who brought them into the “C” Team and then on to GRU.
“Taggert was in one of the bags, Jerry,” Willy said to him. “He was in the bag marked McConnell.”
“Bullshit,” Jerry had said. “I saw the skull’s-head ring on his hand.”
“Gunner’s ring, Taggart’s hand,” was all Willy said. Sgt. Taggert was listed as Missing in Action. Jerry thought back, searching his own memory for a clue. Sgt. Taggert, to his knowledge, had never been found. As far as Jerry knew, he was still listed as MIA.
Jerry remembered asking Willy how he knew all this. Willy looked him right in the eye, and his eyes were as clear as when Jerry had last seen him overseas. He said, “I was supposed to be in one of those bags.”
Jerry’s heart almost stopped when Willy told him how Gunner had coaxed them into the commo bunker on the pretext of witnessing him destroying their secret crypto codes. Nobody thought twice about the satchel that was attached to the back of the bunker door. Gunner made an excuse, left the room for a second, slammed the door on his teammates, and blew them all to hell. Willy had been sitting behind the document safe and been spared. He rushed out of the blown door, and using the smoke from the explosion as his cover, ran into the compound.
Gunner had killed his own teammates to cover his desertion. That’s what Willy Beal told him that night in the 44 Magnum. Jerry had thought it was the unchecked ramblings of a drunk, especially since at earlier times, Willy hadn’t remembered this with any clarity. But now, in his heart, Jerry knew that what Willy told him that night was the truth.
He handed the postcard back to Gunner. “I don’t know who could have written that to you, or what it means, Gunner,” Jerry lied. He knew the answer to both those statements. He hoped that Gunner couldn’t read that deception on his face. Willy Beal had located Gunner and reached out like an old ghost to try and snatch him into his web. The wino of West L.A. was asserting himself with a dangerous criminal and had thus far gotten away with it. If Jerry could, he’d try and protect Willy’s identity.
“You know, Jerry, if I find the son of a bitch that’s writing these things, I’ll squeeze the life out of him,” Gunner said through sneering teeth. “If you hear something, make sure you let your old buddy know.”
They rapidly pulled out of the city and all its noise and human squalor. They crossed a bridge over one of the muddy rivers that surround Bangkok, and almost immediately were swallowed up by jungle. After traveling for another fifteen minutes, they reached a newly chopped-out clearing. A Huey sat in the center of it. As they drove up, a smiling Spaniard walked out of the chopper to greet them. His smile never wavered even after he saw Jerry with Gunner.
Gunner said, “Jack Dorn, I’d like you to meet my personal pilot, Enrique Sandoval.”
Enrique offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Señor Dorn.”
“Just call him Jack,” Gunner said, trying not to show any signs of their previous meeting.
Enrique looked over to Gunner. “I’m ready if you are, Mr. McConnell.” He strode off and entered the chopper.
Gunner grinned. “Best fucking pilot in the Far East, Jerry. Enrique and I have been together for a long time. He’s another disenfranchised Vietnam vet, just like we are.” They both moved to the jump seat and buckled in. Gunner reached into a sack he had stowed under the seat and handed Jerry an AR-15 with a thirty-round banana clip in the magazine. He took out an M-16 with back-to-back clips that were taped together. “Lock and load, good buddy,” he said with the same intensity he used to have in Nam. He pulled back on the slide and slammed a round into the chamber while checking to see that the safety was on. Jerry did as he was instructed, not wanting to raise any suspicion or give Gunner a reason to distrust him.
The chopper lifted off, going to an undisclosed location known only to Gunner and Enrique. As they lifted into the air, Jerry’s thoughts turned toward personal survival. He hoped the homing device he sewed into his collar was working. Gunner used to have a saying when they were in Nam that addressed the survival issue. They were all sitting around the team-house one afternoon sucking up some 3.2 suds. The subject of survival came up and Gunner got up from his chair and struck a scholarly pose. He said for the whole world to hear, “Survival defined: when I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m thirsty, I drink. When I’m horny, I fuck. And when I’m menaced, I kill.”
Jerry remembered sitting almost dumbfounded. The man was as basic as they came. An animal. A survivalist that couldn’t be counted on to help you out in a life-and-death situation. He never trusted him from that day until he delivered what he thought was his body to GRU. The man can’t be trusted. The thought stayed with him as they flew farther and farther into the depths of the Thai jungle.
The popping sound of the chopper rotor made him flash back. He had had bouts over the past twenty-odd years with what the shrinks had come to call post-traumatic stress disorder. These instances were brought on much in the same way as the occasional flashbacks. The difference was that PTSD could last for days and even weeks, not for just a few seconds or minutes in the vacuum of time. It was a real malady with real symptoms. For the first few years after his release from the Army, he suffered from this strange illness. The same civilians that were so violently opposed to US involvement in the war refused to recognize PTSD as a real, unintended consequence of it. He thought it was strange that he was flashing back and thinking of PTSD. What a paradox.
Gunner pulled at Jerry’s sleeve and pointed out the open door at some land features, momentarily waking him from his fugue state. Gunner the survivalist. Jerry was sure Gunner had flashbacks too, but he wondered if he ever suffered from PTSD. His ferret-like features further reinforced Jerry’s feeling that Gunner was like a rat on life’s treadmill. You live then you die. You live. Round and round you go. Spinning the wheel and getting nowhere. If you get hungry along the way you stop and eat. If you get thirsty, you stop and drink. If your dick gets hard you look for a female rat to hump. Life for a guy like Gunner was a simple case of needs acknowledged, needs answered. A dualism. A dichotomy of simplicity. That’s what made him so dangerous. That’s what allowed him to survive h
is childhood with a dad that hated him and a mom that was dispassionate to his needs. Gunner McConnell was the definitive survivor.
The Army had been the perfect place for him. “Three hots and a cot whether you work or not,” Jerry remembered Gunner saying more than once to him when describing the Army. The system nurtured him. He thrived on the destructive nature of the beast until he became that very beast.
As the chopper droned on, Jerry broke from his thoughts and looked over at Gunner sitting contentedly next to him. He glanced over at Enrique, hoping that Gunner hadn’t seen any signs of recognition from either of them. Enrique’s eyes remained glued straight ahead, looking down occasionally at his instrument panel.
Gunner’s eyes had begun to close. How easy it would be to push him out the door. Turnabout was fair play. In some small way, that would make up for the time he had tossed the VC prisoners out of their chopper so they could do the air dance. The thought occurred to Jerry, just briefly, how funny Gunner would look doing the air dance from three thousand feet. Just as quickly, the thought disappeared from his head. He had to think of contingency plans for compromising positions that he might face later on during this mission.
The chopper began to lose altitude and was headed for a clearing which looked like it had been recently clear-cut. Gunner was awake now, pointing down into the surrounding foliage and telling Enrique where to land.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Willy waited until just before dawn to let himself out of the closet. Before he left, he stashed his flashlight and the mallet he’d stolen from the kitchen into a cardboard box. He pushed the box into the back corner of the closet and covered it with a rag.
He was amazed at how good his senses were working since he’d stopped drinking. He peered around the darkened kitchen, knowing he would test his ability to enter and record all the details many times before he actually would conclude his mission. He had not been born with intuition, but painful experiences had burned it into him. He learned the art of observation in Advanced Infantry Training and Ranger School at Fort Bragg. His years in the jungle had taught him awareness. His years on the streets had taught him patience. Now that Willy Beal was sober, he was an awesome opponent.
Club Saigon Page 24