Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  That’s what he felt like now as he opened the bag and began to read the scrawl that he knew so well, and hated to see. “HERE’S ANOTHER ONE FOR YOUR COLLECTION—PREACHER WISHES HE COULD BE WITH YOU, BUT YOU’LL SEE HIM SOON ENOUGH. SEE YOU IN L.A., DICKHEAD!” Gunner’s arms stopped crawling. He was pissed off. His face flushed as he reached into the Crown Royal bag and pulled out a blood-caked ear. He stuffed the note and the ear into his pocket and headed for his club.

  Jerry cleared customs at L.A. International at nine a.m. He was dog tired from flying all night on the crowded 747 and needed to sleep for about three days, but the urgency in Captain Davis’ telegram overcame his personal needs. The cab ride to police headquarters was uneventful. Nothing had changed in L.A. The air was foul-looking and fouler-smelling. The taxi maneuvered through the last vestiges of morning rush-hour traffic, and thirty minutes later, dropped him off in front of Rampart Station.

  He hoped the captain didn’t mind the jungle fatigues that he was wearing. He thought about it for a second. Everyone was right: he did look like shit. Even if he were wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, he’d look like shit. What they said about clothes making the man is bullshit. He noticed Andre Agassi on billboards all around town. What did he say, “Image is everything?” If he was right, and Jerry was sure he was, that meant he ranked somewhere between one and zero on the image parade. He’d been thinking about joining a health club before his foray into the jungles of Bangkok. No time to think about that now. He was about to be briefed by Captain Henry Davis, whom he hadn’t seen for the past few weeks and change.

  The squad room hadn’t changed except for his cubicle. His desk was covered with a new series of black-and-white photos. Jerry looked briefly at the victims. Two more murders since he left town on his working vacation. Both were male. Both were Vietnamese. Both had their throats cut. One had his face beat up pretty bad and looked like Rocky Balboa after he got his ass kicked by Mr. T. The other looked clean as a jelly bean, except his ear was missing. Something wasn’t right. Jerry looked back at the victim with the face that looked like a Big Mac before it was fried. He shuffled through the stack of photos. As near as he could tell, that victim had both his ears. Capt. Davis’ voice boomed out over the squad room like thunder after lightning. “Andrews. Get your ass in here.”

  “Right, Captain. I’m on my way.”

  Jerry went through the glass door that partitioned off the captain from the rest of the police, the glass cage that signified his rank and kept the riffraff out of his face. “Nice to have you back, Jerry. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, Captain. Did you call me in here to talk about my vacation?”

  “From the reports I got from Interpol, it didn’t sound like much of a vacation.” He looked at Jerry for the first time. “Jerry, are you undercover again? You look like you’re dressed for a Bangkok SWAT team convention. No offense, Jerry, but you look like shit.”

  “None taken, Captain. What gives? I noticed two more victims’ photos on my desk.”

  “Yeah. It looked like they might be slasher murders. There are some similarities. The victims are both Oriental. They both had their throats slashed. The bodies were both found in Little Saigon. One was in an alley and was covered with cardboard. The other was found behind a liquor store. We ID’d the pretty one. He was an enforcer for Colonel Vinh Ho. The other guy hasn’t been identified yet, but we’re checking dental records now. We expect something back from the lab in a couple of days. I guess this means your suspect in Bangkok is off the hook.”

  “And if he isn’t? What then, Captain?”

  “We need to get the press and the mayor’s office off our backs. We need an indictment. You need to start rounding up any suspects or persons of interest and start grilling them. Get your informants to work. Do something, or we’ll both be hitting little white balls in a Florida retirement community.”

  “I’ve got one other possible suspect, Captain, but it may take a couple of days to reel him into custody.” The thought of accusing Willy Beal of the Little Saigon serial killings was something Jerry had tried to avoid ever since first considering it, but from the sound of the captain’s voice, it was time to haul Willy in for questioning.

  “I’d suggest that you find this suspect and bring him in for questioning, Jerry. Golf isn’t one of my better games.”

  “I’ll get on it right away, Henry.” Jerry backed out of Henry’s office, closing the glass door as quietly as he could. Before he was halfway out the door, he saw Henry reach for his telephone. He’d be on the phone to the chief, promising an arrest—that was his style. He was more of a politician than he fancied himself, he just hadn’t found it out yet.

  Smiley had taken some good photos of the latest two murders Jerry had missed while on vacation. Jerry stood by his desk and looked over the latest collection of death scene shots. The detailed black-and-white photos did not turn up any body parts missing on one of the victims. The victim as yet unidentified may have been a copycat killing. It might even be simpler than that, a mugging gone bad. It happened all the time in that neighborhood.

  The other photos, the photos of the victim that had been identified as Mr. Chou Lai, were definitely done by their man. The throat was neatly cut. The ear was removed with surgical precision, a trickle of blood leading from the side of the head where the ear had been located, then disappearing under the victim’s collar. Jerry looked at the guy’s suit. He was a classy dresser. No polyester for this VC, he thought. What the hell was this guy doing in an alley at that time of day wading through a forest of cardboard?

  Jerry wondered where Willy was when this murder took place. He wondered if Willy had an alibi. He hoped Willy had been at a sleep-off center or with some of his homeless Vietnam buddies that could verify his whereabouts. Shit, what was he thinking? For the price of a cheap bottle of wine, any of these bums would tell you whatever you wanted to hear. The D.A. would have a field day with that kind of corroborating witness. Willy Beal needed a solid alibi and he needed it now!

  Jerry’s head started to pound and he felt a migraine coming on. Damn. He hoped he wouldn’t pass out right there in the squad room. He grabbed a cup of water from the cooler and sat down. He found the large bottle of aspirin he had stashed in his middle desk drawer and removed four pills. He slugged them down with the water, wishing it was a beer with a bourbon chaser. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to start to subside. Ten minutes later, he was feeling better, but he knew he still looked like shit.

  If he’d had his druthers, he’d be back in Bangkok getting a blowjob from Yin and Yang instead of searching out an old team member with the idea of arresting him for murder. Willy was his only real suspect now that it appeared, on the face of it at least, that Gunner was in Bangkok at the time of the serial killer’s last murder . . . although there were a few days Jerry couldn’t account for Gunner’s whereabouts. Still, it was time to find Willy and ask him a few pointed questions about his whereabouts during the time of the last killings and the previous murders.

  He was sure that Mondo could give him a lead to help him locate the elusive Willy Beal. He also was curious about how big a bar tab Willy had run up on him.

  It was 5:30 when he walked through the door of the 44 Magnum, freshly showered at last. Mondo spotted him immediately. “Hey, Jerry, how have you been, amigo? How was your vacation?”

  Jerry walked up to an open spot at the bar. He looked around and noticed that the place was full of cops again. “I’ve been fine, Mondo. Not much of a vacation, but it feels good to be home.”

  “Hey, Jerry,” Mondo said, reaching across the bar and patting Jerry’s belly. “Looks like you lost some weight. You’re looking good, amigo. Better than most of these younger guys.”

  “Yeah. I got plenty of exercise on my vacation. Between that and the heat, I probably lost twenty pounds.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but you look good just the same. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Scotch rocks and a copy of my
tab.”

  “Your tabs on file at Ripley’s, Believe it or Not, Jerry.”

  “Real funny, Mondo. Just bring it over so I can see how far into my jeans Willy Beal managed to get.”

  “You’re not planning on collecting from him, are you?”

  “That’s my business, Mondo. Say, I noticed that this place is wall-to-wall cops again.”

  “Yeah. Lana Lovelips and Busty Bob moved on to another tavern. A place over on Fifth, near the New Faith Church of Homosexual Freedom.”

  “I don’t remember a bar being in that neighborhood.”

  “It’s not a bar. They call them social clubs. It’s called the New Faith Social Club. They specialize in blowjobs with your brew.”

  “Those two guys ought to be having the time of their lives, then. Mondo, when was the last time you saw Willy? This tab doesn’t show any entries for the past three weeks.”

  “That’s the last I saw of your buddy, Jerry. It was three weeks ago today. He comes in here looking as bright and shiny as a new penny. He tells me he’s off the booze. I asked him what was up and he says, ‘I got me a special job to do, Mondo.’ That’s all, except he looks at my back bar and spots a bottle of Crown Royal. I still hadn’t taken the velvet bag off it. He asked if he could have the bag. Said something about a special present he was giving to an old Army buddy. You get anything from Willy in a velvet bag lately, Jerry?”

  “No, I haven’t. Did he say anything else?”

  “No. He just took the velvet bag, thanked me, and headed out the door. I haven’t seen him since. Here’s your tab,” Mondo said, reaching behind the bar and putting it in front of Jerry. “Comes to one hundred fifty-two bucks. The boss has been pressuring me to get it paid. I told him you were on vacation and would take care of it as soon as you got back.”

  Jerry’s migraine came back after he saw the bar tab, but he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his weather-worn checkbook. He quickly scrawled out a check for one hundred fifty-two bucks and handed it across the bar to Mondo. He knew if he didn’t find Willy soon, he’d be on forced retirement. The good news was it sounded like Willy was getting his life back together. The bad news was—he was Jerry’s number one murder suspect. He had hoped, deep down inside, that the dice would roll out and Gunner would turn up craps. But at least on the surface, it appeared it was not to be. Jerry had to find Willy and get him in custody before he killed again, that is, if he was the slasher, and he damn sure was not going to get that done sitting in a saloon. “Thanks for the drink and the information, Mondo,” he said as he got up to leave.

  “Just so you know, amigo. Some of the old Vietnam veterans that hang out in the alley told me that Willy was organizing them for a protest rally in Little Saigon. They said it was going to be last week in front of the Club Saigon.”

  Jerry had read about the incident on the airplane coming back from Bangkok. He’d had no idea Willy was behind it. A picture in the L.A. Times had shown vets on the sidewalk in front of the Club Saigon. They were carrying signs and some were throwing rocks at the windows. The article had said something about the vets breaking up a political rally. Jerry tried to push his memory through the migraine haze that assaulted his head, but he just couldn’t. The harder he tried to think, the harder it was to think. He made a mental note to check last week’s newspapers and damage reports for more details. “Thanks, Mondo. I’m off to Little Saigon. See you when I can stay longer.”

  The flight out of Bangkok on Thai Air was as pleasant as always. Gunner loved flying first class. He sat back in his wide seat, sipping a double blackjack over ice. He thought about the frantic call he’d received from Uncle Vinh. Vinh had told him to drop everything and get his butt back to L.A. as quickly as possible, and told him about the death of Chou Lai. Gunner’s first thought had been, This is my chance to be the number two man in the organization. Forget the fact that he and Chou Lai had been casual friends, forget the fact that Chou Lai had been brutally murdered, but don’t forget the fact that once he was in L.A., he could find out who had been sending the “postcards from Hell.”

  It’ll be an interesting trip, he thought, as he laid his head back against the headrest. He ordered another drink and smiled to himself. The intercom notified the passengers that the in-flight movie was about to start. Tonight’s movie was Gardens of Stone. Shit, he thought. Another bleeding-heart-liberal Vietnam war movie. He could see in his mind’s eye the six body bags that his teammates filled. Body bags that had become part of his personal Garden of Stone. He tore his headset off and stuffed it into the seat back pocket in front of him. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the stack of postcards that had been sent to him and began to reread them. “When I catch the son of a bitch that sent these, I’ll rip his balls off,” he mumbled, as he thumbed through them in earnest.

  For the past two nights, there had been no action at the Club Saigon. Willy had sat patiently in the dark of the closet, letting himself out just past midnight, when the kitchen was closed, the staff had left, and his notes told him Vinh Ho would be seated at his personal table. But each time, Vinh Ho had not been there. Perhaps Willy hadn’t been careful enough about noting the times—but no, he discounted that notion. The old man was lying low for another reason—fear!

  Willy was sure that any day now, Vinh Ho would be back to his regular schedule. His band of veterans had shaken up the old VC, but Willy knew he could wait him out. Willy knew that the old man would surface before the election, which was just three days off. He had to make some personal appearances and kiss some babies. That’s how elections were won in the good old USA. Willy just stayed invisible, although he ached to be on the prowl. He wanted a drink to steady his nerves, but knew that would have to wait. He was on a mission: complete the mission, then drink. That was the program he’d set up and that was the program he was steadfastly clinging to. He checked the luminous dial of his trash can watch and noticed that it was eleven p.m. In another hour, he would let himself out and recon the restaurant. Hopefully, tonight would be the night he’d waited over twenty years for: the night he’d avenge Preacher, and rid the once-great United States of America of Colonel Vinh Ho.

  THIRTY-THREE

  It had been a long time since the demon had been unleashed. It seemed like so long ago that the voices had first made their appearance. It was in Honolulu in 1967. He had gone on R&R to Hawaii. It was late, past two in the morning. He had spent the day on the beach checking out “the round-eye babes,” and most of the night traveling from one sleazy strip joint to the next until his pecker was as hard as a petrified Oscar Meyer wiener.

  He was weaving his way back to his hotel room, just off the beach in Waikiki. In his left hand, he had a full bottle of Jack Daniels; on his right arm, he had a sultry white whore who agreed to go with him to his room for the night. They walked along the beach path toward San Succi Beach. He figured he’d make like Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity and fuck her on the moonlit, sandy beach, the surf lapping at their feet, before taking her to his place for a final hosing.

  It’s funny how unexpected events can break up the process of wish fulfillment, but that’s what happened on that “romantic” night. As they crossed the wide boulevard that would take them to San Succi Beach, a shadowy figure appeared out of the dark. The figure wore nothing but a ragged pair of swim trunks and looked oddly dazed and disheveled. He stayed at arm’s length, staring curiously at the couple as they walked past him. They sat down for a minute on the beachfront breakwater, pausing from their long walk from the strip club. He kissed her deeply, his tongue probing her throat like a snake in heat. She pushed him back and extended her hand. “This might be a good time to take care of our financial arrangement,” she said, as her hand stroked his throbbing fifth appendage.

  The light of a nearby lamppost fell across them and onto the stranger as he approached. He paid the girl quickly, then squeezed her hand tighter, whispering, “Let’s get up and get out of here. I don’t like the feeling I’m get
ting about this guy following us.

  She looked past him, directing her sight to the approaching stranger. She noticed his nose bleeding, the blood rolling down the front of his naked chest before coagulating at the top of his trunks. “I think he’s hurt,” she said compassionately. “Look at the way he’s staggering. Look at those cuts around his eyes. He’s hurt. We’ve got to help him.” Who the hell was he with, a local whore or Mother Teresa?

  The stranger staggered closer, looking curiously at them. The stranger’s eyes couldn’t focus and he had the remnants of heart-lung suction monitors still attached to his chest. He resembled a whacked-out surfer that had shot the tube and before he could kick out, hit the breakwater. He half expected the stranger to ask if anyone had seen his broken board, but he didn’t. He just stood and stared. The surfer’s staccato expression left him feeling fearful. Not physically fearful—the surfer was a scrawny example of humanity—but psychologically fearful. The tilting of his head at a twenty-degree angle to the axis of his pencil-thin neck. The slack jaw. The drool that fell from his mouth and onto his bare feet, like the surfer was Pavlov’s dog after the bell had rung. There was no doubt in his military mind. The surfer was definitely whacked out. It was obvious the surfer’s bell had been rung. All he wanted to do was take his hooker turned good Samaritan down to San Succi and fuck her brains out.