Club Saigon

by Marty Grossman

  “Sorry, folks. My mistake. Will he be all right?” he said pointing his gun toward the anesthetized patient?

  “He’ll be fine if you allow us to continue, officer!” shouted the angry surgeon.

  Davis looked at the surgical nurse who had now bent to retrieve the colon. “Any other operations scheduled on this floor today?”

  She looked up at him and scowled, “ORs 1–6 all have operations scheduled as we speak.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You can continue,” he said backing out of the room.

  Davis turned left as he exited the OR and raced down the corridor toward OR 7. He and Jerry almost ran into each other as Jerry was leaving OR 5. They stood in the hall looking at each other for a second before Jerry spoke. “Jesus, Cap, I almost lost my cookies in there. You ever see what they do with fat people? I think they called it a liposuction. I could make big bucks with that machine over at the 44 Magnum.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jerry?”

  “I could start my own blowjob booth using the vacuum cleaner I saw in that operating room. Mondo would probably make me split the profits with him, but it would still be worth it.”

  “You’re a sick man, Jerry,” he said with a smile on his lips. “You need some therapy and when this case is solved, I’ll see that you get it.”

  “Thanks, Cap,” Jerry said as he patted his protruding stomach. “Maybe when this case is over we should schedule you for a liposuction?”

  “Get serious, Jerry. We have a killer to catch. The nurse in OR 1 told me operations were scheduled in ORs 1–6.” They walked by OR 6 without going in and crouched outside the door to OR 7. “Ready,” he said as they both pressed against the wall.

  “Let’s go,” Jerry shouted as they crashed through the door leveling our guns at an empty room. OR 8 was the same, as quiet as a tomb. No doctors, no nurses, no patients.

  They stood out in the corridor shaking their heads and wondering just how two men and a patient on a gurney could disappear. That was when Jerry looked up and saw another sign. It was hung over a smaller door. AUTOPSY. Jerry looked over at Captain Davis and pointed to the sign. It would be just like Willy with his morbid sense of humor. The kid was really sick and had to be stopped. That is if it was Willy. Jerry still wasn’t convinced that Gunner wasn’t behind the murders. “You ready, Cap?”

  “Let’s do it,” he said as they crashed through yet another door. The room was dark, and it took a second for Jerry’s eyes to adjust to the diminished light. But it didn’t take his nose that long to pick up the smell of blood. After his time in Vietnam, he could smell blood a mile off. He reached over to the wall and flicked on the light switch. His eyes closed instinctively from the bright light, but he blinked them back into focus and surveyed the room. It was empty.

  Captain Davis walked over to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. “Jesus, Jerry,” he said pointing down at the table. “It looks like a bloodbath took place here.”

  “You’d think that the doctors would clean up after an autopsy. This looks more like the sacrificial location at a Santa Ria Convention.”

  “Look over there,” he said pointing to the back of the room. “The gurney’s over next to the back wall. I bet all those doors are freezers and Colonel Ho is in one of them.”

  It didn’t take a brilliant detective to find the right cooler. The gurney stood next to one that had the letters “VC” scrawled in blood on the stainless-steel door. Jerry opened it up with his handkerchief, careful not to obliterate any fingerprints. The big toe had a bright yellow tag tied to it. It read, “COLONEL VINH HO, VC—CIA—DRUG LORD.”

  Captain Davis slid the drawer out and viewed the body. “It looks like we’ve got our boy,” he said pointing to the missing ear.

  Jerry didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was mounting. He couldn’t disagree.

  The captain continued. “I need to get to a phone and get a forensic lab team down here. Jerry, you go find our killer and have him in custody before the sun comes up tomorrow. You got it?”

  “I’m on my way, Captain.”

  The 44 Magnum was on the way to Willy’s new home, so he stopped by to see Mondo and find out if Jerry had been asking about him. Sobriety had been a revitalizing experience, but one he knew deep inside he wouldn’t be able to continue. The snakes had gone away, but the craving had not. Only his internal clock and the completion of his mission would tell him when he could drink again. Without the booze, the voices had returned to taunt him. The fucking voices. They were a good reason for anyone to stay on the sauce. At least when he was drunk, they were diminished.

  Being drunk all the time was a method Willy and many of his street friends understood. They understood that it was a way for them to forget the country that had abandoned them during the war and continued to ignore them and their needs, now that they were home. Home. That’s a laugh, Willy thought. None of them considered the USA a real home. Home is where the heart and the hearth are. They had neither. If he had ever needed a drink, it was now, but Willy put his mission ahead of his needs. That was the way it had been then, and that was the way it was now.

  “Yo, Mondo, long time no see, amigo. How you been doing?”

  “Me personally or the bar?”

  “You personally.”

  “I been doing good, but as you can see, someone walked in here with blood all over their clothes and my patrons are leaving.”

  “Sorry about that, Mondo. I guess I forgot about what I looked like.”

  “Amigo, you just get a starring role in a Clive Barker movie or what?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I told you that I had a job over at Santa Monica General Hospital, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but you could have cleaned up before going out in public. I thought you were only joking about you being a surgeon, Willy. I had no idea you really were. No offense, but I think the patrons that left might have mistaken you for Jack the Ripper or that Little Saigon Slasher. Can I get you something or are you still on the wagon?”

  “You’re a funny guy, Mondo. I still have a few things left to do before I can take you up on that drink. How about a raincheck?”

  “You got it, buddy. You seen Jerry lately? He was looking for you a couple of days ago.”

  “No, I’ve been too busy working at the hospital. Look, you see Jerry, ask him to look me up. I’ve moved into a tiny place over in the Vietnamese section of town. I’m sure he knows where that is.”

  “Give me the address and I’ll pass it on to him when he comes in for a drink.”

  “Shit, why should we do that? He’s a fucking detective, right? Just give him a clue and let him try and find me. It’ll be like a game.”

  “What’s the clue?”

  “Just tell him that Willy found a tiny hole-in-the-wall place in the center of Little Saigon.”

  “That’s it? From that, he’s supposed to find you?”

  “If he’s as good as you say he is, it should be a piece of cake for him.”

  Mondo’s dark Latino eyes stared into Willy’s lamps. Willy could feel the emotion before he saw the pained expression on Mondo’s face. “Is there anything I can do for you, Señor Willy? You are my friend. I got some money saved up. I can give it to you to tide you over for a while.”

  Willy felt a twinge of sadness. He also felt that he thought about Mondo like he was one of his Vietnam brothers. Willy knew that they would never see each other again. He reached down and caressed the knife concealed in the waistband of his hospital greens. It was another friend that had not let him down. With Jerry, that made three, more than enough friends for one lifetime. Willy slid off the barstool and headed for the street. The sky had turned a dark blue: a blazing orange ball was the last natural light of twilight they would see until morning. Willy turned back as he left. “Via con Dios, amigo.”

  After getting out of his hospital clothes and taking a half-dozen Tylenols for his migraine, Jerry headed into town. The drive took about half an hou
r in the heavy after-work traffic. The sun had just gone down and he had only one night left to produce and book a suspect. Those words from Captain Davis kept running around in his head. He knew he had two suspects to choose from, but both of them had given him the slip at the hospital. There was a good chance that eventually he’d find them both in the Little Saigon District, but chances were slim to none that he’d find them before daylight. Stranger things have happened, he thought as he pulled off the freeway and found a parking spot near the 44 Magnum. He needed a drink. That would give him a chance to talk with Mondo, see if he’d heard anything, and think it over before going off into the night on another long, and probably fruitless, stakeout.

  He was surprised when he walked into the place. It was almost empty except for four men sitting at a table in the back. He pulled up a stool at the bar. Mondo hadn’t seen him come in. His eyes were glued to the six o’clock news, where a sexy anchor chick was talking about the death of the prominent Little Saigon businessman, Colonel Vinh Ho.

  “Hey, what’s a guy have to do to get a drink in here?” Jerry shouted.

  Mondo turned around and ran to where he was sitting. “Sorry, Jerry. Hey, the news bitch said that he was brutalized the same way the other slasher victims were. Is that true?”

  “What makes you think I’d know the answer to that question? I came in here for a scotch or three before I have to go on another stakeout.”

  “The news bitch just interviewed Captain Davis and he said you were there.”

  “Okay, so I was there, but I’m not able to go on record and tell any details of an ongoing investigation . . . even to my bartender.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The news chick already let the cat out of the bag. She jerked the sheet back and her cameraman got a shot of the old guy’s head. What a mess, and I could see he was going to have a hard time hearing the Buddha Bells when he got to the end of his journey.” Mondo poured three fingers of scotch and set it on the bar in front of Jerry.

  “You got anything to tell me, Mondo?”

  “Yeah, Jerry. You hear the one about the vacuum cleaner salesman?”

  Jerry had seen enough vacuum cleaners for one day and just wasn’t in the mood for one of Mondo’s jokes. “Look, Mondo, I’m kind of in a hurry tonight. I don’t have time even for one of your good one-liners. Have you seen Willy lately?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I saw him just an hour or so ago.”

  Jerry was so excited he almost spilled his drink. He leaned forward to get the information. “Did he say anything? Did he ask about me or say where he was or where he would be going?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. You know, I kind of got attached to your buddy Willy. I like him a lot.”

  “Great. I’m happy for you. Did he say anything that might give me a lead to where I could find him, like maybe his address, or what alley he’s staying in now? It’s very important that I talk to him,” he said with urgency.

  “He’s not staying in an alley. In fact, he looked really good, except his hospital uniform was full of blood.”

  “His hospital uniform was full of blood?”

  “Yeah. You knew he had a job at Santa Monica General, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t know he had a job, but I did see him there. Now what about the blood, and his address?”

  “Well, he came in here earlier wearing hospital greens. There was blood all over them. Scared off all my customers. He told me he was living in Little Saigon. Said he wanted it to be a mystery to see what a good detective you were.”

  “What kind of fucking game are you playing with me, Mondo?”

  “No game, Señor Jerry. Willy said to tell you that he was living in a hole-in-the-wall place in the center of Little Saigon.”

  “Those were his exact words, Mondo? Think carefully.”

  “Yes. That’s what he said, all right.”

  Jerry gulped down the rest of his drink, savoring for the moment the hot liquid as it coursed down his throat and into his stomach. He had a map in the car. He thought he partially knew what Willy meant by his cryptic statement. He needed to find the exact center of Little Saigon if he was to have any chance at all of locating Willy. “Thanks, Mondo. I don’t have time for another drink, but thanks for the information.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Jerry. I hope Mr. Willy is going to be all right. I wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to him.”

  “Neither would I, Mondo. Later, amigo.” Jerry ran out of the door and got into his car. He turned on the dome light and found a detailed city street map in the glove compartment. He took out a pencil from his notebook and traced a diagonal line from one end of the Little Saigon District to the other. He drew another line and looked where they crossed. Baker’s Alley. Maybe Jerry was right and Willy was living in an alley? No, he thought, BAKER’S ALLEY. It was the location of one of the Slasher killings and ran behind and alongside the Club Saigon. Colonel Ho owned the Club Saigon, or at least his heirs now did.

  It was a place to start. He turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and began to drive the seven or eight city blocks between the 44 Magnum and the Club Saigon.

  FORTY-ONE

  There are certain intervals in a man’s life where time stands still. Death is one of those intervals. A man’s life cycle comes full circle, then stands in abeyance while his spiritual convictions are proven or disproven. So it was on the day that six members of the team met their fate. Nobody asked them whether they wanted to die, but somebody made the decision for them. It was much the same for those that had died on the inside but lived on the outside. They made it back from the abyss, only they could never rest.

  The near-death experience (NDE) is supposed to give one the awareness of what is hidden from the rest of us, but that was not to be for the men of A-255. Their NDEs did not leave them only with the knowledge, it also left them with the memories. Memories of the cruelest kind. Memories of loved ones that left them or that didn’t support them anymore. Memories of their friends that had fallen by their sides or died in their arms. Memories of the battles they fought and the men, much like themselves fighting for an ideal, that they killed. Memories of a country that abandoned them before they had a chance to finish what the politicians had begun. Hateful memories. The celebrities that were treated with respect by their peers when in actuality they should have been left to rot in a traitor’s prison. But isn’t that also why they fought? The Constitution guarantees the Constitutional rights of all Americans, not just those that supported the Asian war.

  It was a confusing paradox that drove thousands of good men onto the streets of America after the war. They lived there like the rotting flesh of a slain soldier left in the jungle. They were considered an eyesore by the rest of America. More than that, they reminded America every day of her mistakes. Not the mistake of fighting the Asian war, but the mistake of what America did to a generation of brave, principled men. They were not ashamed of America, but they reminded America of her shame.

  He had been through a near-death experience. Left for dead on the jungle floor, he crawled for hours trying to reach safety. At long last his strength ebbed and flowed from him like the blood oozing from his wounds. A real American fighting man fights to his last breath for life and the “cause.” In battle, he will thrust his bayonet into the gut of his enemy even though his soul is surely already dead. That is the fervor for life in the American fighting man.

  He found himself looking through unseeing eyes. He thought he was looking up through the jungle canopy into the bright light of day. He had heard people talk about the white light and the tunnel, but his white light was the sun and his tunnel the jungle that surrounded him. He had never believed it until that day. Then his body soared up through the trees. Up, up he flew, his wounds and pain forgotten. The center of the light source was black, like looking down the barrel of a shotgun he had just cleaned. Up, up he went. Faster and faster. So fast he wasn’t aware of his own breathing. There were soun
ds of his past acquaintances, his friends, and departed family members. They all assured him and told him not to be afraid, and he wasn’t. Up, up he went with the swiftness of a bullet. Up into the bright light. He remembered thinking that he must be dead. This was death and his struggle with life had ended.

  It wasn’t hideous like he had imagined it might be, seeing many of his friends die in battle. He had held many of them in his arms as they died. Some died calmly while others fought to stay alive until their last breath. He had never understood until now. For him, it felt good. It felt warm and comfortable. He wasn’t afraid anymore like he had been when he was back on the jungle floor. He soared like an eagle over his domain. He dared to look back. The green jungle canopy endlessly stretched below him in a collage of hues and shades of green. In that instant, he was abruptly returned to earth. The act of looking back had triggered his return. Back through the tunnel of warm light he was swept. Back to the damp heat of the jungle thatch.

  Two days later, an American patrol had found him. He was given aid and returned to a MASH where they labored over his broken body. After six months in a rehabilitation hospital in Japan, his physical wounds had healed, and he was flown back to the USA. He was debriefed, and one month later he was a member of a new team: the MD20-20 team, winos anonymous, the homeless street team.

  He loved the shadows of Baker’s Alley at night. He easily made himself invisible here. He crouched low as he entered the alley, making his way to the back door of the Club Saigon. There were no lights shining through the side windows. He was sure that the club was closed out of respect for the death of Colonel Ho. His nostrils flared as he walked up the back steps. He could smell something unusual, but couldn’t quite put his finger on the odor. He looked up and saw that a small back window on the top floor was ajar. There was no light coming from it. He thought as he stared up intensely, wondering if Gunner was at home and just sleeping, or if he’d flown the coop completely. His nostrils flared again! He’s still here, he thought. Gunner wouldn’t let the golden egg get away so easily. He would stay to get his just reward. Willy knew what the odor was. It was the smell of death that wafted down to him in the still air of the alley.