The prohibition, of course, did not extend to the Army, the various police agencies, or the paramilitary Thai Rangers. These latter bad boys, in their characteristic Victor Charlie black pajamas, swaggered in bands through the waterfront district with the slings of their Kalashnikovs hung around their necks along with their trademark sky-blue neckerchiefs. Belew gave them room but little thought, as an experienced jungle traveler would a cobra sunning himself on a trailside rock.
The bar was called the Headless Thompson Gunner. It had a cute neon sign with the outline in blue of a big combat-booted dude with no head blazing away with an old drum-fed Tommy 1927 A5, the same gun all the Feds back home — having discovered the hard way in numerous shootouts that, beyond being a shitty handgun round, 9mm was also a shitty submachine gun round — were lugging around in spite of its enormous weight. The sign even had a flickering red-neon muzzle flash, Belew wished the place would open a franchise in Manhattan. It would make the Park Avenue set soil themselves.
It wasn’t really pitch-black inside, but after the dazzle-bath on the street it seemed that way until Belew’s eyes sorted themselves out. He took off the Ray-Bans and tucked them into his jacket pocket to speed things along.
On a rat’s-ass little stage to the left of the door a couple of listless babes gyrated to Madonna, lit by cyan and magenta spots that made them look more like tropical fish than go-go dancers. Both of them wore bikinis. For a town where everything was for sale, Bangkok had its surprisingly prim side. You could see anything your deviant heart desired, if you were willing to pay, but not walking in flat off the street. Even down in the gut of the Chao Phrya slum.
As he got his bearings, Belew listened to the music. It was not really his kind of sound — if he had to hear modern music, he preferred speed metal — but it brought back pleasant memories. Madonna was a dear girl, sweet and genuinely vulnerable behind her sex-bitch-goddess onstage persona. Still, José Canseco probably fit better into her lifestyle…
“J. Ro-bear! Mon dieu, fuck me, it is good to see you!”
It sounded like a man trying to bellow with a mouthful of pebbles, and it gave you a major clue why Demosthenes failed to keep the Macedonians out of Athens. Still squinting, Belew saw an oblong oasis of relative light that was the bar, and outlined against that light a hulking shadow.
Grinning, Belew threaded toward that shadow between tables of serious drinkers, who all looked like pirates off the South China Sea and conceivably were pirates off the Chao Phrya. He held out his hand to have it engulfed by a vast black-furred paw. The barkeep and owner of the Headless Thompson Gunner was an enormous lumpy man with a square, scar-tracked face beginning to sag at the jowls, a nose like a bad potato, large and basset-soulful eyes, and, despite the hot humidity that filled the bar along with smoke in defiance of the creaking ceiling fan, a toupee stretched across the top of his head like black-dyed road-kill.
He was, of course, named Roland.
He claimed to be the inspiration for the Zevon song, which was to say the least, unlikely. For one thing he wasn’t a Norwegian. For another there was the inconvenient matter of him still being in possession of his head — which, as his old black-war buddy Belew loved to remind him, no sane man would pick for himself and thus was surely the one he had been born with, QED.
“So how are things, you ugly Walloon ape?” Belew asked, reclaiming his hand, which his sometimes comrade-in-arms had tried yet again to crush and, as always, failed.
“Well enough,” Roland rumbled. He tipped his large head toward the stage. “If they don’t cause trouble.”
They were four Thai Rangers knocking back brews and raising a general hooraw. They had checked their AKs at the door — four men with assault rifles were not stud enough to force their way into a Chao Phrya bar — but the dancers kept giving them apprehensive looks.
“They are either on furlough from the northwest, raping the Karen of their teakwood at the behest of the army of Burma — pardonnez-moi, Myanmar — or from the east running guns to the Khmers Rouges. If you wish to know more, you must ask them yourself — do you still drink nothing stronger than fruit juice?”
Belew nodded. “Still.”
Shaking his head at Belew’s foibles, Roland poured him a glass of apricot juice. He had gone into the Congo as a Belgian paratrooper in 1960 and gone back as a mercenary under Schramme to fight the murderous Simbas in 1964. Since then he’d bounced around the Third World, from the Yemen to Nicaragua to Syria to splintered India, fighting mostly communist and communist-backed insurgents. Ten years ago, pushing fifty, he had bought the bar and retired.
He pushed the glass at Belew. “How the times change,” he said with a sigh. “When I quit, I was convinced the Soviets were winning, slowly but surely.”
He shook his head and laughed. “How quaint that fear seems now, when it is a good morning for Monsieur Gorbachev if he awakens to find he still has Moscow.”
Belew raised his glass. “To changing times.” Roland poured a splash of cognac in a glass, and both men drank.
“But plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose did not become a cliché for no reason,” Roland said, setting down his empty glass with a solid thunk. “Perhaps history has ended, as one of your people has written, but whatever is taking its place still offers employment to such bad men as you, it seems.”
Belew grinned. “And so it does. And bad men like me still have need of bad men like you.” He leaned across the bar. “Roland, I need your help. Right now. The risk is high. So is the pay.”
Ten minutes later J. Robert Belew emerged from the Headless Thompson Gunner. As the sunlight hit him full in the face, he paused long enough to put his Ray-Bans back in front of his eyes. Then he took off down the street like a man on a mission.
Half a block in the other direction, nearer the Menam Chao Phrya, Lynn Saxon and Gary Hamilton sat under the gaudy fringed shade of a tuk-tuk motorized-tricycle cab. Saxon had added a Panama hat with a band that matched the rest of his ensemble, He looked like an up-market drug mule who thought he was on the fast track to middle management but was actually being cultured to take a fall. Hamilton was carrying some extra marble to his beef, and in the wet Chao Phrya heat was sweating as if it were a medal event in the Goodwill Games.
As Belew receded from them without a backward glance, Saxon held up his hand.
“Did I not tell you?” he crowed. “Did I not?”
“You did.” Grudgingly, Agent Hamilton slapped his palm.
“All right, then,” Saxon said. He pulled his Sonny Crockett Bren Ten from its waistband holster and pulled back the slide to check the load. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Chapter Seventeen
The young woman slowed way down on her 50cc Suzi scooter, scoping Mark over the tops of the white heart-shaped shades she was wearing despite the fact that night had settled in to stay on Ho Chi Minh City’s main drag. She wore a sleeveless denim vest patterned in swirls of studs, blue denim gloves clear to the elbow, and white capri pants. She caught Mark’s eye, bobbing around up there in the ozone, gave him a phosphorescent smile, and putted away.
He watched her rump recede, caught himself, and felt like a male chauvinist. But it had been a long time for him. He thought of Tachyon’s sister, Roxalana. She was back on Takis. One more reason to question his decision to leave.
Naturally Jumpin’ Jack Flash had gotten to her first. It didn’t seem fair somehow.
Hey, can I help it if I’m the one with dangerous charisma? came the sardonic voice from the back of his mind.
“Hey, man, You like?”
“Huh?” Mark said intelligently. He blinked his way back to reality, such as it was.
A pair of Vietnamese dudes in shades sat fore-and-aft on a 100cc Honda scooter. The pillion rider nodded after the woman on the Suzuki. “You like her, man? She number one.”
Mark blushed. He was completely unprepared for this kind of situation. Either they were trying to engage him in some sort of thigh-slapping male-ch
auvinist ritual, hooting after the hapless woman like New York construction workers, or they were her brothers, bent upon cadging an admission from him that he liked their sister so that they could set upon him and stomp him silly. Only Mark, at least a foot taller than either of them and carrying some of the most powerful aces the world had ever known in a back pocket of his faded Levi’s, would worry about that.
So he smiled like a goon, bobbed his head and kind of waved, and walked on. Behind him the dudes on the bike shrugged and zoomed past him into the people flow.
Dong Khoi Street ran wide and only slightly seedy from the city center to the Saigon River. Mark had found the Wild Cards office closed when he straggled back from Cholon. It had been a relief; he still couldn’t see himself turning the men with their pith helmets and Kalashnikovs on the wretched family of squatters huddled in “his” apartment. Even if young Ali thought he was a wimp.
That left him loose, to say the least, and what motion there was in Ho Chi Minh City after dark tended to flow down Dong Khoi and back up the parallel Nguyen Hue Street, so he let his boot-heels wander down that way too.
This wasn’t the loud, bustling, boisterous, decadent, and dangerous Saigon of the movies. But then, those movies were filmed in Bangkok these days, or Manila.
…Another young woman was giving him the eye, this one with her long hair piled and pinned atop her head. As Mark noticed her, she flashed him a good many white teeth and accelerated.
“Hey, man! Yo, My, that girl fine, yes?” Mark looked around. Two more guys on a motor bike — and he found something else to feel a guilt twinge at, that the only reason he could tell these two from the last was that their scooter was different. He grinned and shook his head — no comprendo Inglés — and moved on.
There were people enough, kids cruising past on those farty little scooters like the ones who kept accosting him for whatever unknowable purpose, pedestrians, tourists looking big and ungainly. A café or two were still open, a few shops selling curios, cigarettes, lottery tickets, and maps to the famous former Viet Cong tunnel complex of Cu Chi in what was now the northern suburbs, which the government was touting big-time as a tourist attraction.
There was even a nightclub or restaurant called Maxim’s, with bright lights and swing music pouring out the front. Mark took a peek inside, but all he saw were suits and evening gowns. It jarred his image of life in a communist country almost as much as the lottery tickets had.
But the whole scene was, like, subdued. Ho Chi Minh City seemed to be holding its collective breath, waiting, for what he couldn’t tell.
Maybe it was the rain.
As he was walking away from Maxim’s, a kid came up to him. Mark glanced at him with unafraid eyes — maybe Takis was starting to wear off some, after all. At least this one wasn’t riding a scooter.
The boy was tall for a Vietnamese, and then Mark realized with a shock his skin was the color of chocolate. Much darker than any Vietnamese he’d seen.
“Give me some money,” the boy said. “I’m hungry.”
Stunned, Mark reached reflexively into his pocket and pulled out a couple of wadded dong notes. The kid accepted them, grunted at them, made them vanish, and shuffled away.
They were all over him then, big-boned kids, round-eyed kids, kids with dark skin and frizzy hair, adolescents and young adults, saying, “Take me to America,” and “Give me money,” and “My father was American.”
It didn’t take long for him to realize that if he tried to help them all, he’d soon be flat himself, and him without a roof to sleep under tonight. Hands on his pockets, feeling selfish and horrible, he lurched away as fast as his long legs would carry him.
After a few paces the youths gave up the listless chase and began to drift back up the street in search of better-heeled Americans to guilt-trip. The experience left him feeling eerie and disconnected, left his head ringing. He was suddenly very, very homesick for Sprout.
In that frame of mind he heard a familiar voice singing — chanting, really — to a dry and sinister backbeat.
“I’m a joker, I’m insane
“And you can not say my name —”
He gravitated toward the saloon-style doors through which the sound slithered, snakelike. As he reached them, the voice rose to a screaming crescendo: “I am the serpent who gnaws ‘The roots of the world!’”
Familiar, but dead. The voice belonged to Thomas Marion Douglas, lead singer for Destiny. He had been one of Doctor Tachyon’s successes with his early trump vaccine. More or less. The return to nat status had finished Douglas off twenty years ago.
Mark had briefly known him. Or maybe he hadn’t.
He peered inside. The bar was poorly lit — but then, the next well-lit bar you go into will be the first, now, won’t it? It did not take his eyes any time to adjust, but it took his mind a while.
The walls were plastered with posters, giant icon heads, Elvis and the Beatles and Janis and Jimi, Peter Fonda on his bike with his Captain America colors, Buddy Holly before the wild card. Tom Douglas as the Lizard King, going down beneath a wave of cops in New Haven. Richard Nixon flashing V-for-victory, Martin Luther King having a dream. The Grateful Dead. A single-sheet for Peter Sellers in The Party. There was a pool table and a lighted Budweiser sign behind the bar and a TV up on the wall playing SportsCenter to no one in particular.
Dominating the scene was a truly humongous poster behind the door; Humphrey Bogart in regulation fedora and cigarette, eyes crinkly and wise. And the voices from the gang at the bar were American.
Mark had felt more than a few flashes of dislocation of late, mainly because no other earthling in history, except for Jay Ackroyd and Kelly Jenkins, had ever been as dislocated as he had. But that old devil culture shock had been creeping along behind him on muffled hooves, lo these many months, and at the sound and smell and sight of so much that was so American, he stepped right up and sandbagged Mark behind the ear.
He staggered. He almost went down. He had to take a step back, take a deep breath, reassure himself that this was real, or that he was.
He glanced up. Visible over the door in spillover light from within were the painted words RICK’S CAFÉ AMERICAIN.
What else could it be? he told himself, and walked on in.
He bellied up to the bar, and the words “Hi, guys!” burst out through his shyness, propelled by loneliness and the longing for homelike things.
Conversation died. Faces turned to him. He realized then that many of those faces diverged pretty widely from the human norm. It made no particular impression on him. He had no problem with jokers, and besides, these were Americans.
He looked at the bartender. He was a joker, too, a squatty little guy with warty slate-gray skin, stone bald, with a line of fleshy spines running from the top of his head down his back to the tip of a short, heavy tail. He didn’t seem to be wearing anything but a grimy barkeep’s apron.
“I’d like a Pepsi,” Mark said.
“‘He’d like a Pepsi,’” a voice echoed. Mark had done enough time in the schoolyards of his childhood to be all too familiar with that mocking tone. He blinked around, wondering what he’d done.
He was beginning to register a few details his initial rush of homesickness had obscured. Like the poster of Bloat on one wall, like an obscene parody of Buddha. The stern visage of General Francis Zappa affixed to the dartboard with a fistful of darts through his prominent nose. Most alarmingly, the poster of the Turtle floating above the battle lines in Czechago with a peace sign painted on his shell had been crossed out with emphatic slashes of red paint.
A pair of left hands gripped Mark’s biceps and spun him around. He found himself looking into a round, malevolent Charlie Brown kind of face, with neutral-colored hair roached up in a butch cut and round wire-rimmed glasses of the kind the kids all called Lennons — what Mark himself was wearing. The overhead light pooled in the lenses and hid the eyes behind.
“You stink like a nat,” the round-faced man said, ??
?and you look like some kind of hippie.”
Mark had been letting his hair grow. He took a breath that was like dry-swallowing aspirin.
The man confronting him folded two sets of arms across his chest. Muscles rolled like billiard balls in the biceps. Below the lower set of arms were two sets of bulges that suggested more pairs of arms concealed under the tan T-shirt.
The sound system was cranking “Sympathy for the Devil,” which Mark didn’t think was propitious. “You don’t belong here,” the round-faced man said.
“Yeah,” said a man with a fierce bird’s head, white-crested and short-beaked. “This is our bar, nat.”
“Cut him some slack, Luce,” said a man who stood behind the man in the Lennon glasses. He loomed above the rest, at least Mark’s height, six-four. He had square-cut brown bangs and dark-prince good looks, though his height and the length of his face and lantern jaw gave him the appearance of Lurch’s ingénue brother. He wore a tweed jacket buttoned over a black T-shirt.
He reached over the caterpillar man’s top shoulder with a huge, horrible green-on-green-mottled spiky lobster claw, placed the tip under Mark’s chin, and tipped Mark’s head up. Porcelain-hard spines dug into Mark’s flesh.
“W-why did you do that to Turtle’s picture?” asked Mark, partially emboldened by the intercession.
Luce’s four free hands shoved him in the chest. Hard. He stumbled back away from the claw.
“Are you stoned or just stupid?” Luce demanded. “He sold us out, man!”
“What are you talking about? What did he do?”
Luce looked around at his buddies with an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “‘What did he do?’” he mimicked. “What did he do? He only wiped out the fucking Rox. He’s only the biggest joker-killer in all history, you nat piece of shit! Where have you been, some other fucking planet?”