He opened the kitchen door from the inside and entered the alley. He stepped gingerly over the spot where Johnny Hong had been brutally murdered. He slid through the shadows of Baker’s Alley like a bamboo viper, and, after checking to make sure he wasn’t being followed, glided undetected onto Main Street. A warm Santa Ana wind whipped around him, filling the air and the sidewalk with yesterday’s newspapers. Willy grabbed a piece of the Herald and read the front page. The election for the house seat in the newly formed twenty-sixth district was three days off. The Herald predicted that Mr. Vinh Ho would win in a landslide, mainly due to his deep connections in the community. Willy crumpled the paper and tossed it into the dry gutter. The drought had lasted five years in L.A. and it looked like no end was in sight. He couldn’t do much about the lack of rain, but he damned well could do something about the election.
Chou Lai had also been observing the streets over the past few days. Not so much with his own eyes and ears, but through his network of paid informants. It was just one of those informants that told him about the cardboard castle in the alley across from Club Saigon. He had gone there last night just before dawn, figuring to surprise Willy while he was asleep.
He shredded the cardboard with a machete he had borrowed from one of his enforcers. Chou slashed the cardboard to ribbons, waiting for the inevitable swing that would contact a solid object . . . the sleeping form of Willy Beal. No such contact ever took place. His mind took over his reason as he swung again and again at the rough brown paper. The son of a bitch is invisible, just like the last time we met. No, he’s not a demon. He’s just a man. A bum, he thought.
Tears streamed down his impassioned face as he thought of the lifeless body of Ke Son Nu. He searched for other clues to help him locate this phantom. He looked for food wrappers that might tell him where this ghost of the alleys shopped, but he found none. He found nothing except shredded cardboard. The bum was very clever. He was a more formidable opponent than Chou realized. He was more than the drunken vagrant his informer had described. He was a shrewd and careful street survivor. Chou had encountered these kinds of people before. He knew they meant trouble. He had always disposed of them, but not before they gave him trouble.
He felt the side of his sharp-jawed face and found the pencil-thin scar that ran from his cheek to his jawline. He felt it and remembered how he got it. Another bum. It was several years ago. A street derelict that was sleeping off a drink in this very alley. He reached inside the sleeping man’s coat and pulled out a dilapidated nylon wallet. He remembered thinking that the tramp had probably gotten it from a trash dumpster. The only card in the wallet was a VA Hospital ID. The bum was a Vietnam vet in the alcohol rehabilitation program at the Santa Monica outpatient unit. Chou laughed to himself. Another drunken American GI. How many had he seen wandering this neighborhood? How many Americans had his grandfather killed as an NVA soldier in the Vietnam War? Chou looked for cash and found two dollars, which he removed from the bum’s wallet before throwing it onto the ground.
He turned to exit the alley when he felt his knees buckle from a well-placed kick from behind. He looked up and saw the bum standing over him. The bum was dancing like an extra in a Bruce Lee movie. Chou reached inside his coat for his knife, but before he could clear his inside vest pocket, the bum launched a half-moon kick accompanied by a shriek that would wake up the dead. Chou’s blade fell to the asphalt and skittered down the alley, leaving a trail of sparks on the rough pavement.
Chou was stunned. The kick had opened up a gash on his face that was now gushing blood. How could this stumblebum be whipping his ass so bad? He looked up from where he lay. The bum was still energetically dancing around his prone body. He looked like the winning contestant at a Tai Chi competition. The bum was focused. Chou’s eyes were out of focus. He looked over to where his weapon had finally settled. Too far to make a run, he thought, unless I want this guy to tap dance on my rib cage.
His mind was a blur, as all sorts of scenarios danced in his head. All of them involved personal pain. His personal pain! In the end, he just feigned unconsciousness, lying in a pool of his own blood. He heard the bum’s footfalls as his tormentor exited the alley, and only then did he know it was safe for him to move. Later that day, he assembled several of his cohorts, telling them to find a bum that resembled Charles Manson and had the moves of Chuck Norris. “Find the GI and kill him.” That was the order he gave. He had never seen the bum around Little Saigon again.
Willy heard the commotion in the alley from across the street. Years of booze had dulled some of his senses, but his hearing was still perfect. He hid behind an old Ford truck, notebook in hand. He continued to watch from his new clandestine location, while carefully taking notes. He could see his cardboard home flying in all directions. He even glimpsed Chou as he passed into view for the briefest of seconds. It was the VC. The same VC he’d seen in the other alley when he made himself invisible.
Willy felt a rush of adrenalin as he silently strode across the street. He hugged the wall adjacent to the alley and listened. He knew it was a dead-end alley. The VC was trapped. He felt inside his coat, and his hand found the handle of the 8” butcher knife he had stolen from the kitchen of the Club Saigon. He removed it from his coat and waited in the half-light of early morning.
Chou was frustrated, having shred and reshred every piece of cardboard in the alley. Now the bum that killed Ke Son Nu would see the mess and get legs for another part of town. He would be afraid, and fear would take him far away from the scene of his crime, far from Chou’s vengeance. Chou wiped his sweating forehead and straightened his hair. He stepped gingerly from the alley, the heels of his two-hundred-dollar hand sewn Italian shoes clicked on the pavement as he made his way back to Main Street.
Just as Chou reached the street, Willy stepped out from behind the corner. He stood directly in front of the VC, a smile creasing his lips. Chou was surprised and astonished at the arrogance of the man. He jumped back a step, holding his machete at the ready.
“I’ve tracked you for many days, GI,” he said, as he looked directly into Willy’s eyes.
There was no fear in them. They were like placid, limpid pools. He could throw a stone into them and watch them change as the fear took over.
“You killed a friend of mine, GI. Now you must pay for your crime.” He continued to stare, his words choking in his throat.
Still the fear he wished to evoke had not shown itself. He stepped back another pace to give himself more swinging room with the 8” blade he held.
Willy advanced a pace, then another, reducing the space between them to just inches. He looked into the VC’s eyes and saw the consternation and dismay of the hunter turned hunted. Willy knew from long experience in the jungle that the fear would soon manifest itself, not in Willy Beal, but in Chou.
Chou took several quick steps backward. Retreating, he suddenly found himself in the shadows of the alley . . . Willy’s alley, his home, his turf. He was ankle-deep in the remains of Willy’s castle. His expensive, leather-soled shoes slipped from side to side on the slick cardboard. “I warn you, GI, stay away from me or I’ll kill you.”
Willy could now hear the fear really creep into Chou’s voice. It was an idle threat from a cornered man who couldn’t back it up.
The fear had kicked in. Willy knew in his heart and mind he had now become the hunter. His prey, armed as he was, cowered in front of him. He watched as the blade of the machete was raised above Chou’s head. Raised with shaking arms, nervous hands, and eyes that told Willy that Chou would rather be somewhere else.
Gunner, when they were on the team together, had taught Willy about controlling fear. “You control your own fear, Willy. Push it deep down inside you and like a piston in a cold engine, your adrenalin will surge to the surface and act as a catalyst for your survival skills.”
It was good advice in the jungles of Vietnam and it was good advice in the alleys of Little Saigon, the alleys Willy called home. Willy knew it was jus
t a matter of time until the VC dropped the machete and fell to his knees, begging for his life. This guy was like all the Vietnamese wise guys he had ever known. All blow and no go!
“I don’t think so,” Willy said. “You’re so fucking scared now the only organ you’ve got working for you is your bladder.”
Willy was right. Chou lost whatever concentration he had and looked at the spreading wet spot on the front of his expensive silk pants. The knife felt like it weighed two hundred pounds as his skinny wrists and hands let go of it and it fell onto the pavement. Chou thought back to the last time he had faced “a bum” in an alley. He remembered having to play possum in order to survive. He hoped, as he looked into Willy’s unflinching eyes, that he would survive this time. But he knew in his heart that it wasn’t likely.
What was wrong with him? He was certain this was the man that killed Ke Son Nu. His anger should be enough to fuel his body into action. But it wasn’t enough! He stood shaking in front of this bum, pissing his pants and at his mercy.
The kick came out of nowhere. Nowhere being the Bruce Lee mindset of an ex-Special Forces trooper named Willy Beal. Willy remembered the training he’d received at Fort Bragg. His brain remembered, his heart remembered, and most of all, now that he was sober again, his feet remembered.
His teacher’s name was SFC Judd. Judd was his sensei, the Japanese word for teacher. Judd taught him discipline, mental and bodily discipline. Judd taught him all the moves, the punches, and the kicks. Judd taught Willy to be as graceful as a gazelle through the katas of tae kwon do. But above all, Judd taught trooper William Baines Beal to be a trained and effective hand-to-hand killer.
Willy Beal was not invisible on this occasion. Far from it. To Chou Lai, he was as visible as Chou’s own dwindling life force. Willy had chosen a new mindset. He was in the jungle and must dispatch his enemy without firing a burst from his AR-15. Silent and deadly, that was what he’d learned from Judd. “Termination with extreme prejudice” was what Judd had called it.
Chou had already begun to fall from the first kick when Willy, standing directly in front of him, rolled his fingers into a tight ball and delivered a straight palm thrust that splintered Chou Lai’s nose and drove the bones into Chou Lai’s brain. It was over as quick as that. Chou felt a flash of light and he was gone. His dead eyes stared straight up from where he lay on his back, testimony to the deadly skill of Willy Beal when he was in the jungle and cornered by an enemy that wanted to kill him. Willy looked down at the VC lying prone on the pavement. Willy remembered an utterance that he’d heard in a Clint Eastwood movie that seemed appropriate now. The VC was nothing more than “a legend in his own mind.”
Willy thought about a story he’d been told by Jerry the night after the big party in Pleiku. Jerry swore him to secrecy, then told Willy that Gunner had killed an ARVN soldier, disfigured him, and dumped his body into a 55-gallon drum behind the Club Saigon. It seemed appropriate for Willy to now do the same thing. He dragged the lifeless body of the VC further back into the alley and propped it up against the dumpster. Willy reached inside his tattered coat and drew out the butcher knife. He quickly and efficiently sliced off the right ear of the VC and stuck it in his pocket. After dumping the body into the dumpster, he went back to where his home had been and picked up the cardboard, carefully stacking it over the body of Chou Lai until the body was not visible to the casual passing eye. He took out his notebook and noted the time and place of death. Willy, his work done, casually left the recesses of the alley, whistling a tune that Barry Sadler had made famous during the Vietnam War. “Fighting soldiers from the sky. Fearless men who jump and die... The brave men of the Green Beret.” Willy remembered reading somewhere that Barry had been killed in some third-world toilet. This one’s for you, Barry, he thought as the first light of morning struck his face.
As the chopper settled gently onto the cleared LZ, the whump, whump, whump of the main rotor blades brought back memories of Nam. Jerry followed Gunner out the side door and pushed into the lush tropical foliage that surrounded the helipad.
“Wait here, Jerry. My people will be back here after they make sure the perimeter is still secure. My man Xuan Ti secures our AO before and after each landing. He used to be the head of security for a general by the name of Nam Phat, before General Phat was killed.”
Jerry knew better than to ask how the general died.
“There’s Xuan now,” Gunner said, pointing across the LZ.
He looked like little more than a kid to Jerry, but Gunner’s glowing expression of adulation seemed to indicate that Xuan had made his bones and had earned Gunner’s respect.
“Looks like a kid to me. You sure his nuts have dropped down into his scrotum yet, Gunner?”
“That kid would kill you in a heartbeat, Jerry. By the way, I’ll introduce you to Xuan as Jack Dorn. It’ll be less complicated that way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Can’t tell you, Jack, but I can tell you that you’ll get an education. I hope you don’t mind working with the Southeast Asians. Most of my strike force and field hands are Thais. I do have a few Cambodians working for me at my processing plant, but the majority of my troops are from Thailand.”
It was beginning to look like Gunner was taking Jerry into his confidence, as he was talking freely about his drug operation. Jerry began to feel a lot less nervous about his situation. “I’ll try and keep that in mind. Hopefully, I won’t have any flashbacks.” They both laughed as Xuan approached and extended his hand.
Gunner introduced Jerry as Jack Dorn. He told Xuan that Jack was a former American mercenary, currently engaged in the arms business. Xuan’s face lit up when he heard that Jack was an arms dealer. “Perhaps I will give you a list of weapons that I need. I am constantly upgrading the high level of security that I run for Mr. McConnell’s operation,” he said in perfect English.
“I’m sure I can accommodate your arms order, Xuan.”
Gunner looked at Jerry with a smile as wide as the L.A. freeway. “The kid speaks better English than we do. I’ve had him tutored since he was just out of knee pants.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s much out of knee pants now,” Jerry said.
“Remember what I told you about Xuan, Jack. He’s a lot older than he looks, especially in terms of his combat and martial arts experience,” Gunner said, almost inaudibly under his breath.
Xuan moved the column out. Jerry estimated that they were a well-armed, platoon-sized unit. About thirty men. They all looked so young. It reminded Jerry of some of the Montagnard strikers they had on the old team. Xuan let five men pass, then he got into the column right behind his radio operator. Another five went by, then Gunner and Jerry slid into place. The jungle swallowed up the column like a boa constrictor eating a long lizard.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Willy spent the day wandering. First, he wandered the streets of Little Saigon, sucking up lungsful of the smoggy L.A. air. The searing pain he felt from the acrid air made him laugh to himself. It was something he learned over in Nam . . . “Dau lam.” Pain is good. It almost became the team motto. After he’d gotten out of the Army, he used to joke with his street buddies about the foul L.A. air. Willy thought of himself as a survivor. He called himself a toxic survivor in conversations with his street acquaintances and even went so far as airbrushing it on a tee shirt he once owned. But like most people that live on the street, once his clothes got so disgusting they needed washing, Willy would throw them away and find others in any nearby dumpster. His tee shirt had gone the way of the rest of his dirty clothes, but he hoped one day it would make the rounds and he’d find it in another trash can. He swore, that if that day ever came, he’d wash it up good, wear it for a while, then give it to one of his friends.
He didn’t have to hide anymore. Now that Chou was dead, he was free to gather information and observe the comings and goings of Vinh Ho from less clandestine surroundings. After all, his nemesis, the VC, had been killed. He was the main re
ason Willy had been in hiding. He felt in his coat pocket, clutching the reassuring detached ear. Yes, the VC was definitely dead, he thought, and this ear might just throw suspicion onto Gunner and away from me.
In his travels that morning, he’d stopped by the 44 Magnum and asked Mondo if he’d heard from Jerry. Mondo replied in the negative. Willy asked the bartender if he had a box that he could use to mail a small package. Mondo searched under the bar and found a box that had held a bottle of Crown Royal. He handed it over without looking inside. It contained the plush purple velvet bag that usually accompanied the expensive liquor. A nice touch, Willy thought. A light went on in his head. Just a flicker at first, then a full-blown lightning burst that would have made Nikola Tesla shine like his electric generator. What a nice touch to send his old pal Gunner the VC’s ear—and package it in the velvet Crown Royal bag.
Mondo could only shake his head as Willy left. The man was clean, sober, and appeared to be high on life instead of high on booze and drugs. Mondo had noticed it right off. The man looked sharp, talked coherently for the first time since he’d been introduced, and seemed to be walking on a cloud; an air of confidence pervading his psyche. It was great to see him like this, he thought, the way friends can turn you around. He hoped Jerry would be home from his vacation soon to see this revelation in his buddy. He also hoped Jerry would pay off Willy’s old bar tab, which had reached triple digits before he came clean.
The campaign signs, plastered all over Little Saigon, read, “MEET THE CANDIDATE. UNCLE VINH HO WILL HOST AN INFORMAL RECEPTION AT THE CLUB SAIGON, SATURDAY AT 8 PM.” Willy looked at his watch, but remembered that the cheap plastic watch he got from the dumpster didn’t have a day/date feature. One day had melded into another during the course of his surveillance of the candidate from Vietnam. Not to worry, he thought. A sharp guy like me can find out what day it is. As Willy walked into the bowels of Little Saigon he passed a newsstand and noticed that the day and date were emblazoned on the banner on the L.A. Times. Saturday, June 13, 1992. Tonight’s the night, he thought, as his heart began to pump loud enough so it could be heard in his ears . . . both of them! Willy’s eyes wandered down below the date and noticed the banner headline. ANOTHER MURDER IN LITTLE SAIGON. Shit, he thought. They discovered the body of the VC already. He grabbed the newspaper from the stack and read further, discovering that the killer had murdered a man by the name of Chou Lai. Chou Lai was an associate of Colonel Vinh Ho, a prominent local businessman in the Vietnamese community. The article went on to say that the body had been mutilated much like all the others: an ear had been severed and was not discovered at the crime scene. That little piece of information, like much of the other facts in the continuing newspaper article, was attributed to the unnamed source in the police department. The story went on to link this crime to the serial killings that had plagued Little Saigon. “If you’ve got a quarter, you can take the paper to your park bench; otherwise, put it down and leave it for the paying customers, you bum.” The sound of the newsstand operator jarred Willy back into the present.
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