Blood & Tacos #2 (6 page)

The Nightclub was a few blocks away, but Tinh insisted they go up to the marketplace,
procure themselves some cigarettes and some bac si de. Mathes glared at him.
"Hardly the time for a drink, Sarge."

"Always time for a drink, Joe."

"Man, goddammit—my name is Mathes. Corporal Mathes!"

"What’s your first name, Mathes?"

Mathes’ face got redder. "All right, it is Joseph, as a matter
of fact. But you didn’t fuckin’ know that!"

"Mm," Tinh said, the corner of his mouth tugging up a fraction.
"You don’t like this mission, do you, Mathes?"

"Following some crazy Arvin Christ-knows-where to save a handful of half-gook
bastards? The fuck do you think? That sound like a good mission to you, Sarge?"

"No, it don’t," Tinh said. "But it does sound like
you need a drink."

Even in the rain, the marketplace was packed, water dripping from the colorful
overhangs at each stall. Mathes had never ventured down here, preferring to
take his chances on whatever C-rations they had back at MACV. And with good
reason, he now saw. Everybody in the marketplace chattered loudly, bickering
back and forth. Mathes saw bottles of wine with scorpions in them, fertilized
duck eggs eaten with a spoon, and in one lone stall was something called thit
cho. Mathes asked Tinh what that was.

"Mm. Dog meat."

Mathes almost puked right there. "Jesus Christ, man!"

"Mm. Big in Hanoi," said Tinh.

Mathes followed in Tinh’s steps. No one seemed to give the big Yankee
a second glance, but Mathes couldn’t shake the feeling they were all staring.
They arrived at a stall, and Mathes stationed himself in the corner where no
one could sneak up on him.

The stall’s owner greeted Tinh with a hearty smile, and Mathes was surprised
to see Tinh smile back. They took the next minute to scream at each other in
Vietnamese and French.

"Hey, Tinh," Mathes said, "calm down. What’s the problem?"

"We’re haggling. How much money you got, Mathes?"

Mathes shrugged. "I dunno. Fifty bucks."

"Mm. Lemme borrow it, huh?"

"What?"

"You want this mission over with ASAP, right?"

"Well, yeah—"

"Then borrow me fifty bucks."

Mathes reached for his wallet. His eyes popped. "My fuckin’ wallet’s
gone! Goddammit, I—"

Tinh held up his wallet. "Gotta watch that, Mathes. Lotsa pickpockets."

Mathes snatched at it, but Tinh removed the cash first before handing it back.
Tinh looked at the owner, held up the money.

The owner turned and hollered at the back of the stall. A moment later, a small
boy appeared carrying a case of Lucky Strikes. Tinh handed it to Mathes. "Makes
a fine tobacco."

Mathes grunted.

Tinh and the owner spoke some more, their raucous Vietnamese giving Mathes
a headache. The owner reached under the table and produced an unlabeled bottle.
Tinh took it and they yelled at each other some more until the owner handed
him another bottle. Tinh handed over Mathes’ cash.

"Let’s go," he said.

In the jeep, Tinh pulled the cork from one of the bottles and
took a pull, then another. He handed it to Mathes.

"I’m driving here, man."

"Mm. I know." Tinh pushed the bottle at him.

Mathes took it and glanced down at the milky stuff inside. Looked harmless.
How much bite could there be in whiskey made of rice? He put the bottle to his
lips and knocked back a quick slug.

Fire immediately spread over his tongue. Mathes jerked the wheel to the left,
almost plowing into a scooter. As Mathes corrected the jeep, a cottony feel
dripped down his throat, coated his guts. It felt like a thin layer of Fluffernutter
in his esophagus.

"Mm," Tinh said. "Good?"

Mathes smiled and nodded.

"Mm. Good."

They found Mama Tu on the porch of the VAA Nightclub, bundled
up in her chair, watching the drizzle and smoking a cigarette. She didn’t
look any worse for the wear to Mathes, except he’d never seen her scowl
quite like that. Could just be that he’d never seen her in the light of
day.

Tinh bowed deeply to her and nudged Mathes to do the same. Tinh elbowed Mathes
again, and Mathes handed her one of the whiskey bottles.

She leaned forward to take it. "Thankee, Joe."

"Yes, ma’am."

Tinh handed her the other bottle. She said in Vietnamese, "They stuck
you with this round-eye?"

"He’s here in an advisory capacity."

Mama Tu laughed. "And who’s going to advise him?" she said,
smiling warmly at Mathes. Mathes smiled back. The rain came down harder, but
she did not invite them onto the porch.

"Mama Tu," Tinh said, "please tell me what happened."

She pulled on her cigarette. "I was watching the babies. The boys were
sleeping, but Yen began crying. She had a nightmare."

"What time?"

"About three. Then this big asshole came stomping in and shoved a gun
in my face, said they were taking the babies."

"They?"

"Him and two others. Wearing masks."

"What did they look like? Apart from the masks?"

Mama Tu got up from her chair and went into the house. Mathes looked at Tinh.
Tinh watched the door patiently. Mama Tu returned with three glasses and handed
them to Tinh. He poured as she lowered herself back into the chair.

Mama Tu said, "Mot hai ba, yo," and they all clinked glasses. Mathes
took a sip but saw that they were draining theirs. He held his breath and guzzled
his. When he brought the glass down, the rain blurred his eyes. He wiped at
them, but they were still blurry.

Mama Tu said, "The leader was big. A scar down his right forearm. The
other man was bigger, moved like he didn’t know how his body worked. An
idiot. They both had country accents. Farm boys."

"And the third?"

Mama Tu looked at her glass. "A woman. Small, skinny. Very young."

Tinh’s glass shattered in his hand.

Mathes said, "Jesus! What is it?"

Tinh said to Mama Tu, "You knew who they were."

She looked at him. "I know who I wish they weren’t."

Mathes had no idea what to make of Tinh’s expression. Confusion? Fear?
Any emotion looked out of place on Tinh, and Mathes wasn’t sure it wasn’t
the booze talking. Jesus, these gooks could brew some whiskey.

After a second, Tinh’s normal blank look returned. "Mm. Thank you,
Mama Tu."

Mama Tu gestured with her glass. "Thank you, Son Tinh."

Tinh bowed again. Mathes did the same. He followed Tinh to the jeep, pulled
his poncho out from under the driver’s seat, and put it on. "Where
to?" he said.

"Hell," Sergeant Tinh said. "But we gotta make a stop first."

The rain poured down, but the compound was largely dry. Deep in
the jungle thicket, the four huts sat under protection of the green canopy.
The creek that ran alongside swelled, but was far from reaching the high banks.
My knew this would not last if the rain kept up like this.

She carefully walked across the rickety bridge, her yellow ao dai plastered
to her lithe form. She stopped and looked up at the gray sky. She thought she
heard a plane, her toes involuntarily curling in her slippers. But it was just
her imagination.

At the far end of the bridge, Thuy unpacked the case of MON-50 claymores and
handed them to My. He was in unusually high spirits, humming as he worked.

"Darling," she said, "this bridge would collapse under the
weight of a large sneeze. Is all this ordinance really necessary?"

Thuy clucked his tongue. "My dear girl, once this war gets properly underway,
it’s only the drama anyone will remember. We have to give the fucking
Americans a show or we’ll never get rid of them. That’s all they
give a shit about: fireworks."

"The Americans? I thought Son Tinh—I thought he was expected?"
My frowned up at the sky, as though the gods were listening.

"Same fucking thing, as far as I’m concerned."

"But the tunnels will be manned, there will be ground patrols inside
the perimeter. Anyone with even half a brain would never use this old thing
in a frontal assault." She batted at the bridge to emphasize her point.
It groaned in agreement.

"If this goes like I think it will, no one will cross this bridge until
it’s all over. If it’s me, I’ll blow the damn thing myself.
If it’s our adversary," he said, pulling the tripwire tight across
the mouth of the bridge, "then he’ll do the honors for me."

And then Thuy actually smiled.

"Who the fuck’re these guys again?" Mathes said.
He had a terrible itch on his nose, but he didn’t dare scratch.

"Old friends," Tinh said. His hands, like Mathes’, were held
high in the air.

The docks on this part of the Saigon River were rotting. Any boats moored were
peeling apart at the seams, clinging to buoyancy. As they had approached, they’d
seen no signs of life, except for some stray dogs Mathes later realized were
rats. The little shipyard looked abandoned apart from the chain link gate, which
looked brand new. Mathes had been admiring the action on it, how easily it rolled,
when he looked up and there was a pistol in his face.

If the five men holding guns on them were bothered by the rain, they didn’t
show it. They stood silent, the rain hammering the hulking wrecks of pontoons
and various other boats in the yard. The five gooks were dressed in ratty uniforms
pieced together from other armies: a French shirt, a Russian jacket, Chinese
hats. The United Nations of Fuck You, Yankee.