Willy had dragged the body of the dead VC over in front of the door and tied him by the neck to the door knob. He knew that the dead weight of the body would drastically slow Jerry’s efforts to free himself and give him the time he needed with his old nemesis.
Willy also knew that Gunner was still inside his room. He hoped he had heard the commotion and was hiding under his bed, but he knew better. He had never seen fear on Gunner’s face and he didn’t think he would see it now. He hitched his garrote through the belt loop of his pants, felt his trusty knife, and began mounting the stairs again. Willy’s head began to grind out that familiar tune as his heart pumped out fresh blood to his extremities. He was elated, free from fear, and close to terminating a chapter in his life that had taken him over twenty years to read. Each step was bringing him closer to his goal. Each step brought him closer to freeing himself from old demons that had refused to stay asleep after the war. A smile creased the face of William Baines Beal as he got ever closer to his goal. It was a smile of release. He was happy. “This one’s for you, Blaster. You were right about the war, the politicians, and the homecoming. This one’s for you,” he said as he mounted the last stair and walked toward Gunner’s door. “When Johnny comes marching home again—ah, Gunner, I hardly knew ya.”
Maybe he was just getting older, maybe he was just getting wiser, but Gunner couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be his last day on the planet. He had never felt quite like this before. He had been in a lot of tight places in his life, places that seemed, on the surface at least, to be tighter than the spot he now found himself in. He was pissed that he was scared, but there was no doubt in his mind that the fear had grabbed him by the nuts and was squeezing until he became a soprano.
He would have to overcome it, he told himself. Suck it up and kick some ass. What the fuck was he scared of, anyway? Willy Beal was nothing more than a down-and-out Vietnam vet. Willy’s nothing more than a boozer who, if left alone, would end up dead of hypothermia in some alley one night, or end up like that asshole Preacher, he thought. He gathered up the remaining postcards, tore them in half and tossed them onto the floor. He took his nine-millimeter off the safety and pulled the hammer back. He pointed it at the door and shouted, “Fuck you, Willy Beal. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Come on, Willy, Gunner’s waiting to give you a lesson in self-defense. I know you’re out there, you chickenshit son of a bitch. All you got to do is walk through that door. I’m here. I’m waiting.”
“That’s Gunner,” Jerry said as he pushed hard against the closet door. He could hear him shouting from upstairs. Jerry only heard pieces of what he said, something about “Willy Beal—you chickenshit son of a bitch—I’m waiting.” It was Gunner, all right. His vocabulary hadn’t changed much since he was in the service.
It was all coming down, and Jerry had to get out of this closet. As hard as he pushed, it only budged an inch. Willy had to have put a chair or a table up against it. Jerry jammed his fingers into the one-inch crack and heaved against it with his shoulder. It moved slightly, but not far enough for him to get his body through. As he pushed against the door, he was able to see out through the crack. His flickering Zippo provided just enough light for him to see. A pair of legs greeted his eyes. He pushed his face hard up against the door and noticed a hand. He pushed against the appendages with his own hand, which he fished through the crack in the door. They didn’t provide any resistance as he pushed. It was a dead body, or someone as unconscious as a fighter whose face just ran into Mike Tyson’s fist. Jerry pushed again to make sure.
That fucking Willy, he thought. Gunner was right, he is a chickenshit son of a bitch. He went and tied a body to the door knob to keep me imprisoned in here. Enough was enough. It was time for Jerry to make some real noise of his own. He only hoped that the cavalry was in place, because if they weren’t, he was going to be doing an imitation of Custer at the Little Bighorn.
Gunner was right about one thing: Willy was just outside his door. Willy knew it would be tough to be invisible in this situation. But he could feel the fear in Gunner’s voice, which surprised him. Fear hadn’t been part of Willy’s vocabulary or psyche since he’d seen the bright light and the tunnel while he floated painlessly above the floor of that jungle so long ago. He had no other choice now but a frontal assault on Gunner’s position. He had been involved in frontal assaults in Nam and done really well as the assaulter. The fact that he was still alive after three tours in Southeast Asia was a testimony to his durability under fire. “If it’s a frontal assault he wants, it’s a frontal assault he gets,” he whispered as he edged closer to the door.
Gunner checked his nine millimeter for the third time as he crouched behind his bed. He removed the clip, checked the spring and slammed it back into the handle of the weapon. He looked over the barrel and drew a bead down the front sight on the center of the door. His heart was pounding to the coursing rhythm of the blood pumping through his system. The voices began to sound like a choir, more than one but less than a hundred. They were all shouting the same thing, “Kill that fucking Willy. Terminate the little bastard with extreme prejudice.”
A bead of sweat ran down Gunner’s forehead and over his lip. He tasted the salt as he squinted hard on the center of the door. “I know you’re out there, Willy. Come on in so we can talk about old times.”
Willy crouched low next to the door. Sure, he thought. My old buddy Gunner wants to talk about the war now. Willy’s inner voices warned him not to trust Gunner, a warning that he didn’t need. He smiled to himself as he heard Gunner’s voice crack as he talked through the door. The voices told him that Gunner was scared, real scared. He liked it when fear replaced rational judgment. Anyone that put themselves in that situation was in a failure mode from the get-go. “I know I’m good at making myself invisible, but I probably won’t be able to pass through a wood door or solid walls,” Willy whispered as he slinked to the center of the door and laid down on his back. He stared up at the brass door knob for just a second before he rapped hard on the center of the door.
The door blew out with explosive force as the first of fourteen rounds crashed through its center. Willy’s hand was covered with blood. He wasn’t quick enough to get it back down out of the line of fire and took a nine-millimeter round dead center through the palm of his hand. He cursed at himself as he looked at the hand dripping blood onto his chest. Still, it was better than it might have been. He wasn’t mortally wounded. He could still complete his mission. He listened closely and didn’t hear the sounds of reloading coming from the room.
“Take that, you son of a bitch,” shouted Gunner as the last of his bullets blew out the center of the flimsy wood door. He stood up and advanced on the door. With the amount of firepower that he had laid down, he expected to look through the hole in the door and see Willy’s body sprawled in the hallway. Gunner bent close to the door. His eyes moved back and forth across the hallway. Willy wasn’t there. “Motherfucker,” he shouted and turned to get another clip from his bed stand.
Willy swung up from his position under the door, reached through the hole and opened it wide. Gunner heard the door open from behind him, but was singleminded in reloading his weapon. Just then he felt a blow to the back of his neck and tumbled over the bed, dropping his gun and magazine onto the floor.
They stood facing each other from opposite sides of the bed. Willy leered at Gunner. “I’m here to take me some payback for what you did to those six guys in the bunker, Gunner.” Willy pulled his knife out from its sheath in the back of his pants. He held it up for Gunner to see. “You’re going to look real funny without ears, Gunner. Just like you did to the VC, except this time I’m the one doing the slicing and you’re the slicee.”
“Willy, you’re crazy. What’re you talking about? That was over twenty years ago,” said Gunner with a twinge of fear still in his voice.
“I know how long it’s been. I counted every day and every hour ‘til I had you in the same room with me. It’s wh
at makes Sammy run, Gunner. After tonight, I’ve got nothing else to live for—you’re the reason for my existence. Oh, by the way, do you remember the jar you used to keep the ears in?”
“Don’t tell me you were the one that stole it from me? I always figured Daiwe took it and got rid of it.” Gunner’s fear was replaced with anger as he stared across the three-foot expanse of bed at Willy Beal—the thief, Willy Beal.
“No, it wasn’t Daiwe. I took it and smuggled it out of the country with my personal gear. I looked at it every day for the last twenty-two years. I pictured your ears in it someday. No time like the present.”
Gunner stared back at Willy with the intensity of a middle linebacker waiting for the snap count. “I swore that if I ever found the guy that took my jar, I’d treat him just like any other thief is treated in Southeast Asia. I’d cut his fucking hand off. Now that I know it’s you, I plan on cutting your heart out along with it.” Gunner reached under his pillow with the swiftness of a striking cobra and produced his own blade. He waved it across the bed toward Willy. “Care to dance, Mr. Beal?”
Madison needed desperately to talk with Captain Davis, but had been given his marching orders. He could only sit in his position and watch, as Gunner stood silhouetted against the half-pulled window shade. He knew enough about this man from the briefing to justify taking him out. He could make the shot now and save everyone a lot of trouble later on, but he had his orders, and he waited.
Being a sharpshooter for a SWAT team is a real head trip. How many targets had he shot in the head? Must have been hundreds, maybe thousands. Madison was trained to kill. Born to shoot. But the real truth was—he had never killed anyone or taken a shot at a perp. All his kills were paper targets. Maybe tonight’s the night, he thought as he lay in his concealed blind. No more bullshit from the rest of the squad after they’d had a few beers. No more having to hear myself called the “Paper Executioner.”
“Call me, Davis. Make contact so I can tell you how easy this will be. Call me, dammit,” he said under his breath. Nothing. No static, no sound. Nothing. Just him sitting in this cold fucking alley waiting for some desk-flying detective to tell him when he could shoot. He had felt the frustration many times before, but he was well trained. He knew his job. He bit back some bile that was in his throat and tried to relax. “The easiest shot of my life,” he mumbled, as he let the crosshairs of his night scope set squarely on the forehead of Gunner McConnell, maintained breath control, and placed his finger on the trigger.
FORTY-SIX
In desperation, Jerry lunged against the door. The time for remaining silent had passed a long while ago. He screamed as he smashed into the solid door time after time, trying to move it just far enough to allow him to squeeze out. After several attempts, he began to curse Colonel Vinh Ho for feeding his bodyguards so well. This large Vietnamese bodyguard gave new meaning to the expression “dead weight.”
He finally laid down on the floor and began kicking at the door. With each kick, he felt it give slightly until, with a loud “Hooah,” he knocked the door, hinges and all, crashing out of the frame, just like he’d seen Steven Segal do a hundred times before in the movies.
The sun was beginning to rise in L.A. The pinkness of the morning light began to stream into the windows, allowing him to see without the aid of his trusty Zippo—which, in any case, had run out of fuel. He stumbled out of the closet and mounted the stairs. The fusillade of gunshots made him think twice about audacious entrances as he dove over the banister and onto the floor of the restaurant. He quickly crawled under a table, which he turned over in front of himself for protection. He reached into his belt for the gun he had in his waistband. It was gone, he remembered, Willy had taken it when he was unconscious. It was probably time to run out into the street and see if the cavalry had arrived. Sure. He’d run out into the street shouting at the top of his lungs, “Help. The son of a bitch is upstairs killing someone, but I can’t go after him because he took my gun and he’s using it on someone else.” If he went that route, he might as well apply for early retirement right now. He’d never hear the end of it in the squad room. Twenty-two years ago, he’d have gone after them using hand to hand. Sergeant Judd had told Jerry that Jerry was a trained killer. A master of Kung Fu or some other Oriental horse hockey. He looked down at his hands and tried to pretend they belonged to Chuck Norris. As hard as he tried to imagine, as hard as he tried to get himself pumped up for action, the hands staring him in the face right now only seemed like a pair of late middle-aged paws better suited for jerking off than killing.
He had to trust his instincts, and they told him that Willy had not killed him when he had the chance, and would not kill him now if he could help it. Gunner was a different story. Jerry heard scuffling coming from upstairs.
First a fusillade of shots, then a door crashing off the hinges. The muffled sounds of two men talking at first, then yelling at each other. The sounds of the altercation, the crash of broken glass, the shards cascading down onto the pavement below and one shot. The sounds of the conflict were all around him and he knew that he had to make his move.
They stood across from each other. Both had their knives at the ready. Gunner looked into Willy’s eyes. They bored through him like a laser. Willy’s eyes were hard and set. He stared through Gunner like he was nothing more than a phantasm.
Gunner cursed Willy again. “You little fuck. I’m going to cut you from asshole to elbow.”
“Talk’s cheap, Gunner. It’s filet time.” Willy slashed out with lightning swiftness, his blade cutting a path across Gunner’s cheek. Blood spurted out of the gash and coursed down Gunner’s neck like a rip tide at Malibu.
Gunner was incensed. His nostrils flared as he felt his own blood wetting the front of his shirt. He leaped across the bed and tackled Willy around the waist. They both struggled as they hit the hardwood floor. They rolled around for several seconds. Gunner emerged on top, pinning Willy with his legs. Willy struggled but couldn’t get out from under the bigger man. “It’s time for me to take a memento of this fight, Willy . . . It’s ear time. I don’t know how many times I’ve done this, Willy, but something tells him this is going to be the best of all. I sure wish you were Vietnamese, Willy San. I always liked doing those Vietnamese.”
Gunner reached forward with his knife as Willy shifted wildly underneath him. Gunner pitched forward, losing his precarious balance, and Willy pushed out from underneath him. Willy was on his feet in a flash. He still had his garrote and Jerry’s gun.
Gunner jumped up, facing Willy, his back to the window. He was still pissed about Willy drawing first blood. He looked down and saw Willy’s knife lying on the floor. Gunner moved quickly and kicked it under the bed. “It’s showtime, Willy. Time to end this foolishness. The way I see it is, you and me need to settle this thing now so I can get to the airport on time for my flight to Australia. There’s some great pussy waiting for me Down Under.” The fear was gone for the moment from Gunner’s eyes. The fear had left him when he saw Willy’s weapon skitter under the bed.
Willy wanted to reach for his wire and do Gunner in a ritualistic fashion, but the garrote was a weapon more suited to covert operations. This was a frontal assault. That’s what he had decided before he crashed through the door. No sense changing a perfectly good game plan at this stage of the confrontation. Willy took two quick steps backward and produced the .357 he had taken from Jerry. As he pointed the weapon in Gunner’s direction he felt the hot blade of Gunner’s knife tear through his arm. He discharged the weapon but missed to the left.
“Adios, motherfucker,” Gunner yelled as he bounded toward the window to execute his contingency plan. As he dove through the window he heard the report of an M-16. For a moment, he thought he was back in Nam. Back in the jungle with the team. Kicking ass and taking names. The whole world had slowed to a snail’s pace as he fell to the pavement in Baker’s Alley. Gunner McConnell never felt the pavement. He never felt his neck snap. He never heard the popping o
f his leg bones as they broke on contact with the pavement. Sergeant Madison had seen him about to escape and made a decision. He would face its consequences later, whatever they were. But one thing was certain: he would never again be known as the Paper Executioner.
Madison’s radio crackled to life. “What the hell’s going on back there, Madison?”
“Our perp’s down in the alley. I think he’s dead. Another guy’s standing at the window. Should I do him?”
“Hold your fire, Madison, until we know where Jerry’s at in all this. You understand, Madison? Hold your position and hold your fire.”
“Yes, sir, I’m holding.”
Willy stood at the window looking down onto the alley. Madison trained his crosshairs on Willy’s chest and waited. Willy knew there was a sniper waiting to take him down but he didn’t care. His mission was complete and, to his way of thinking, he didn’t have anything else to live for.
Jerry stood just outside the door, looking at Willy as he stood forlornly by the window. Jerry felt sorry for him. He was alone now, submerged in his own thoughts. He had that distant look of a man at peace with himself and Jerry knew that Willy had no malice toward him. As Jerry walked into the room, his eyes met Willy’s, and Willy held the gun out to him by the barrel, at arm’s length. Jerry walked up and took the weapon.
For a moment, Jerry forgot he was a cop and Willy was the prime suspect in L.A.’s most bizarre serial murder case in history. For the moment, they were just a couple of ex-GIs who had shared some ugly history and hurt inside for what each of them had to endure. They hugged each other tightly and the tears came easily. For the first time since they’d left the team, they cried openly. As they walked out of the room together Willy looked up at him and said, “They’re not going to lock me up in a cell for what I’ve done, are they, Jerry? You know, ever since I was captured, I haven’t been able to take being locked up. Please, Jerry, tell me they won’t lock me up.”
Club Saigon Page 42