Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  That’s when the voices came out to play for the very first time in his life, subtly, almost imperceptibly, at first . . . “Kill him, kill him,” they said.

  “What?!”

  “Kill him,” they said, more loudly.

  His dick got even harder thinking about taking a civilian human life than thinking about fucking his whore. In Nam, he used to shoot his wad during combat. Sheer ecstasy. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle as if he were in a euphoric high. He pushed his whore out of the light, leaving himself alone in the lighted ring to face the whacked-out surfer. He uncorked the bottle and took a long pull on it. The hot liquid heated up his guts and warmed his extremities as he calculated his next move. He never went into combat without a plan. This engagement would be no different.

  The whacked-out surfer entered the circle. He heard Mother Teresa murmuring from outside the ring of combat. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

  His inner voice spoke with hatefulness, “Fucking bleeding-heart bitch. Forget her feelings and get on with it.” It was then he realized that he had no control over the inner voice.

  He broke the end of the bottle off on the seawall. Shards of glass clattered over the concrete path. He was left holding a jagged-glass scalpel. Without warning, he thrust it into the surfer’s face. The surfer fell to the ground, whimpering in excruciating pain. He reached up toward his tormentor with outthrust palms. He had been blinded by the shattered bottle.

  He begged. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. Please . . . ” his weak voice trailed off. Without much effort, he grabbed the surfer’s hands and threw him over the seawall, where he landed on his face in the wet sand.

  He stood on the short seawall and looked down at the suffering surfer. The inner voice was driving him now. “Don’t be a pussy. Kill the son of a bitch. Kill him now.” It was over in a heartbeat. He executed the rest of the plan with businesslike efficiency. He grabbed the back of the surfer’s hair and stared down into his bleeding, sightless, eyes. He slammed his neck forward and thrust the surfer’s face deep into the sand. The surfer only coughed once before he choked on his own blood and vomit on that lonely beach in Waikiki.

  The voice came to him again. “Good job, soldier.”

  He was really horny now and dearly wanted to fuck Mother Teresa, but she was gone. He stared hard into the dark, trying to find her, but he knew she had left him for a passing sailor. What did it matter anyway? He had already shot his rocks when he killed the surfer. “Shit,” he said remembering he had already paid the bitch for services unrendered. The inner voice came to him one more time on that night. “If we ever see her again, we’ll kill her too.” Inside his head, he had made an alliance with the Devil, an unholy alliance, but an alliance nonetheless.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The election was just three days away, and Uncle Vinh knew he had to come out of seclusion and press some flesh if he was to get elected. His opponent, a twenty-five-year-old Vietnamese master’s student, had drummed up a lot of support, and the polls showed that the gap between them had dwindled to just two percentage points, with a margin of error of five. Ho had thought earlier about sending his goons out to change his young rival’s mind about running, but decided the competition would look good to the voters in his district. But that was before the Vietnam veterans had demonstrated and forced him into seclusion. In the past week, his opponent had hammered him in the newspapers regarding his wealth, and how he had attained it. All Colonel Ho could do now was stay at his mansion in the foothills of Malibu and hope his early lead in the polls would hold up.

  The death of Chou Lai was a great shock to him personally and to the organization that he had built. He had loved Chou like the son he never had, and had been grooming him to take over when he retired. Now that was over. He had called Gunner and told him to come immediately to L.A. Gunner would help him get back in control again, just as Chou would have done if he were still alive. He told Gunner that Phu Ho would prepare the next drug shipment and take over Gunner’s duties while he was in L.A.

  The black limo pulled to the curb at Los Angeles International Airport, just as Gunner walked from the customs clearing building. Gunner’s favorite driver opened the door for him, welcoming him with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered promise of more to come. He smiled as he got inside and settled in across from Vinh. As always, the old man wore his dark glasses. He greeted Gunner with a handshake and a slight bowing of the head. Even with the shades, Gunner could see that the old man looked haggard. Deep lines had formed around his eyes and the veins in his neck pulsed with each rapid beat of his heart. The hands that held his black, gold-tipped cane had heavy liver spots. The skin on them looked mottled and pachydermal, and they shook like an engine with two hundred thousand miles on it.

  Gunner knew the old man was running for political office. Unlike Willy Beal, he didn’t mind. The worst-case scenario, as he saw it, was the old man would end up running the country like he ran his business—ruthlessly at a huge profit. He smiled to himself as he thought about the possibilities. Gunner McConnell, Secretary of Defense. Better yet, Gunner McConnell, Attorney General of the United States. A perfect job for someone with his qualifications. If anyone knew crime, it was Gunner McConnell. If he was the top cop, the first guy he’d arrest would be his father. He’d put him away for life without the possibility of parole for child abuse and wife beating.

  “You look well, Mac, my old friend. Life in Bangkok seems to agree with you.”

  “Yes, it does, Colonel, and I have you to thank for it. You also look good,” Gunner lied. Not one to dally in polite conversation, he came right to the point. “Why is it you sent for me in such a rush? In a few more weeks, I would have been here anyway with a new shipment of goods.”

  “It is a long story, my friend. It started several months ago, when I decided that the time was right for me to run for political office. As you know, we had the judges in our pockets. Each year they have been discreetly rewarded by the organization. They helped us to get our area redistricted so that I would be assured of victory.”

  “It was wise of you to run for office at this time, Colonel. Our business interests have come under scrutiny at the federal level lately, and we need a man in Washington. Who better than you, sir?”

  “Thank you, my friend. Things were going along very smoothly until the killings in our Little Saigon interrupted them. The man I had chosen to succeed me was deeply in love with a girl named Ke Son Nu. She was brutally murdered by the man they call the Little Saigon Slasher. Chou Lai, the man I was talking about, never recovered from her death. They were to be married and he swore an oath to avenge her death. He never lived to carry out his vendetta. As a result, my campaign has suffered. He was the driving force behind my election victory. He single – handedly was bringing the voters in our district into line prior to the election. At the present time, I am only a single percentage point ahead of my rival, a student by the name of Trang Ti Nam. He is a clever boy, and has rallied the people around the cause of class equality.”

  “Why not just get rid of him, Colonel? Just give me the word and he’s dead meat!”

  “I wish that it were that easy my friend, but it is not. It is too late to do him harm and still have credibility. We must just see this election through until its conclusion and hope for the best.”

  “We’ll do more than hope, sir. Is there something that I can do for you? You didn’t fly me here just to sit in this limo with you.”

  “Before we talk about that, I must tell you that I believe Chou Lai died at the hands of a Vietnam veteran. Most likely the same one that has dogged me at my restaurant and likely is the serial killer. I think he is the same person that provoked the veterans to riot at my restaurant the day of my political rally.”

  “What makes you suspect that, sir?” Gunner’s mind went to the postcards that he had in his inside coat pocket. I wonder if it’s the same guy.

  “On the day of the rally, I stood behind a curtain at the restau
rant. I was waiting to enter and give a speech at a political rally for special campaign donors. But then, I was informed by security that a riot was starting out front and to wait awhile before making my entrance. I heeded that warning, but stood at a break in the curtain and looked out at those in attendance. A tall, thin man stood out. I couldn’t see his name tag, but he closely resembled a man I had seen hanging around the club before. Several weeks ago, Chou Lai had reported that he had a run-in with a veteran vagrant and described the same man. He wore a cheap polyester suit and was clean-shaven this time, but I’d bet it was the same man. I noticed that he was most interested in two things.” Vinh Ho paused to catch his breath as the car smoothly wound its way through traffic toward Little Saigon.

  “What two things, Colonel?”

  “He was most interested in the demonstration against my candidacy. It was starting to get out of hand and turning into a full-blown riot. My men were out front, but they were of little help against such large numbers of angry GIs. We called the police but they wouldn’t lift a hand against the veterans. I noticed that the polyester suit began to move closer to the podium. He moved with forceful intensity. He moved closer and closer until he was standing in the front row. I knew by the look in his eyes that he was an assassin, and I was his target. I think he is the same man that has been killing the young men in Little Saigon. I think he is the Slasher, and I was to be his next victim.”

  “That’s quite a story, sir. I’ve gotten some interesting mail over the last few months: postcards from someone who I think is an old Army buddy of mine. Someone who I think lives here in L.A. I was glad when you called me. I intend to use this time to not only serve you but to find the guy that’s been writing this garbage to me.” Gunner reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of postcards, which he handed to Colonel Ho.

  The old gentleman sifted through the cards, looking carefully at each one. It became obvious to Gunner that Vinh Ho was searching for a clue that would help him find the killer of Chou Lai. “Perhaps we can help each other, my friend. If you solve the mystery of the identity of this man, then perhaps we will also have the identity of the killer of Chou Lai, perhaps even the identity of the Slasher. There have been ten killings that I am aware of. Three of the victims have been close to me. I felt the night of my political party that I would also become a victim of this killer. I was not willing to be a sacrificial lamb for the police, who would surely have been able to identify the killer if he had attacked me in front of all those people.”

  Gunner reached into his coat again and removed an old black-and-white photograph. The photo had been taken in 1967. It was a picture of his “A” Team. He passed the photo over to Colonel Ho. “I know this was taken a long time ago, but do you recognize the man that was at your restaurant in this photo?”

  “These men are so young,” he said, as he fingered the print. He looked closely at all the faces, pressing his aged memory in an attempt at recognition. “Time changes the way we look. I am a good example of that. This is a photograph of another time and another place, but if artificially aged, I would have to say that I have seen three of these people here in L.A . . . other than you, of course.”

  “Which three, Colonel?” Gunner said excitedly.

  Colonel Ho pointed a shaking finger at a skinny soldier in the front row of the picture. Gunner had marked the names in white ink under each man in the front row and over the heads of those in the back row of the old photo. Twelve men. Twelve proud men. His former teammates. “I think this man used to buy drugs from one of my dealers. I have not seen him for a few months. He was not the one in the restaurant.” He had pointed to the man known as Preacher. He fumbled back through the postcards. He read from some of the first cards. “It sounds like this man died? I am sorry. Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Used to be a friend, back during the war. He was a user then, and it looks like he died a user. He was a good soldier when he wasn’t high.” Gunner looked into the dark glasses staring at him across the limo’s expansive interior. “You said he wasn’t the one in your restaurant. Who was?”

  “I can’t be sure. This was taken so long ago,” he said. But then he seemed to change his mind. “While some things change with age, my friend one thing does not. These were the same eyes that stared up at the dais on the night of the election party.” His finger became steady for the briefest moment and clearly lay on the subtitle that read “WILLY B.”

  I knew it had to be him, Gunner thought. He was one of the few guys in the outfit that could go head to head with Gunner and come out on top. He was intelligent, elusive to the point of claiming he could make himself invisible, and tough as nails. Gunner knew that no matter how far down Willy Beal had fallen, he would be a tough customer. Gunner also knew that he could easily have killed Chou Lai. “You said three men, Colonel. What about the third man?”

  “The third man might be the most dangerous. Him I am sure I have seen. He has questioned me at the restaurant. This one.” He pointed to Jerry. “He is a Los Angeles Police Detective.”

  No shit, Gunner thought. But I already knew that thanks to Enrique. “I don’t think he will be a problem from us, Colonel. He was masquerading as an arms dealer recently in Bangkok. Thanks to an informant, I knew all about him. Xuan Ti and I took him for a boat ride that I made sure he didn’t live through.”

  “I should have known. You have always been very thorough, McConnell.”

  The car pulled up to the curb in front of the Restaurant. Colonel Ho passed the photo and the postcards back to Gunner. “Tomorrow, I must campaign hard, my friend. I hope you will be by my side. It would not look good for the new number two man in my organization to not stand with me on an occasion such as my election to the United States Congress. From the look on your face, I have given you some insight. For that I am grateful, but I need you with me for the next few days until the election is over. If all goes well, you can find this man for us and take care of him so he will never be a problem for us again.”

  “As you wish, Colonel. Are you going out into Little Saigon tonight?”

  “No. But I will be here first thing in the morning. You stay here tonight and secure things for me. Use my upstairs apartment; it is very comfortable. I will send Lin Chin back to visit you after she has taken me to the place I will sleep tonight. I must be very careful, my friend. Since I saw the sinister look in the stranger’s eye, I have not slept in the same place twice.”

  “It’s best to be cautious, sir, and I appreciate you sending her back for me. I haven’t been with a woman like her for a long time.”

  “I’m sure she will please you, my friend. Until tomorrow, then.”

  Jerry left the 44 Magnum, heading for Little Saigon. He didn’t have a clue where to find Willy, but he knew that the last murder victim had been found in an alley across the street from the Club Saigon. The police report that was on his desk had a curious note about an alley full of cardboard. That’s all it said, but if he knew anything about Willy’s lifestyle, it could mean that he was living there.

  It was just past ten when Jerry arrived at the alley across from the Club Saigon. The alley was dark and offered good protection. He parked his car in the alley facing out toward the street. He looked across the street and into the newly repaired front window of the Club Saigon. There were just two people sitting at the bar and no cars in front of the building. As he drove into the alley, he noticed that the cardboard that had been mentioned in the report was not there. The alley was bare except for a few trash cans and a bawling calico cat.

  Jerry hoped to find Willy near the Restaurant. It was the only place he could think that he’d be. He had a thermos full of coffee and put his mind into surveillance gear. It was going to be a long night and he hoped to quietly pick up Willy. He did not relish having to go out and interview a bunch of street people to find him, but if he didn’t find him soon on his own, that’s what he’d have to do. It would be much more difficult that way, because he knew Willy Beal had a lot
of veteran friends out there, and once he knew he was out to arrest him, he’d do like he did in Nam—he’d make himself invisible.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Lin Chin was a very careful girl. She had been driving for the organization since she was seventeen. At age fourteen, she had begun to work in the brothels of Little Saigon. It was Vinh Ho who had appreciated her extreme Amerasian beauty and purchased her from her mother. Anywhere else in the Asian community, she would be considered repulsive because of her mixed heritage, but not to Vinh Ho. She was trained in the parlor arts, fine arts, and martial arts, and at age sixteen, she was sent to stay at Vinh’s home, where she had continued to live until only recently. For his protection, she had been sent away, only surfacing to drive for him. She was instructed where to pick him up by a voice on the phone and assured that this arrangement was for security reasons only and would soon change.

  She drove the limo past the Club Saigon at one a.m. and noticed two things that were not right. The restaurant was closed and had no customers, and there was a strange car parked across the street in the alley, facing out toward the street. She noted that it was the same alley where Chou Lai had been killed. She paused, then drove quickly past the entrance to the Club Saigon, opting to go around the block again.

  She stopped the limo in an alley three blocks away, and turned the car in the opposite direction. She made another pass in front of the Club Saigon. Nothing had changed. She went around the block, then killed her lights, and drove the car into the alley that ran alongside and behind the Club Saigon. Baker’s Alley, she remembered, was where the dishwasher Johnny Hong was killed a few months ago. It was no matter. Just a coincidence, she thought. She had a key to the back door which she had never had to use until now. It was too late to call Colonel Ho on the car phone and she knew how tired her boss was and didn’t want to disturb him. She would go upstairs and report what she had seen to Mr. McConnell.