Barry Levy

“Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” Sun Tzu, from The Art of War

Chapter One

Elephant Grass

Vietnam, 1968, somewhere near the Laotian border

The Iroquois’ blades pound like a war drum as Kick looks past his combat boots at the grassy hilltop coming up fast. Hand signs. Jumping. Crouching. Running low for the tree line. Huey sounds fading and North Vietnam invading his senses. The reek of damp rot. Heat like a furnace. Babbler birds chattering all at once. Ears straining for clicks of metal, foreign voices, or shifting feet. Fuck it’s hot.

If the jungle’s not trying to kill him with weather, it’s sending snakes, rock apes, tigers, or the Viet Cong. Kick looks at the other camouflaged faces, panting in the heat. His boys are focused. He tells them with his hands to lay dog for thirty minutes. See if Charlie comes calling. Near the end of basic training his drill sergeant used to softly drop nuggets of military wisdom into their ears. “Be swift as the wind, gentle as the forest, fierce as fire, unshakable as the mountain.”

Kick and his five boys keep this in mind as they wind through the elephant grass like snakes, slow and quiet. Pivot right, slide leg and shoulder through the blades. Pivot left, slide through. Pivot. Slide. Pivot. Slide. They’re whispers on the sticky breeze. Not seeing much, but not being seen. Their other senses compensate. All the M16 muzzles are down, the safeties off. The wet hairs on Kick’s arms stand straight up, desperately trying to wick away the heat. A cluster of sweat hangs on his face for a moment, before racing down into his open tiger-striped camo shirt. His spartan body is soaking wet. He looks much older than his twenty young years. At only five-foot-seven he’s strong like steel cable, flexible like rubber, and completely fat free. He’s a Canadian-born, American-made killing machine on his second tour, and he’s leading a crack team of soldiers. He’s living his dream.

The air is still. Kick listens hard for anything to give away his prey. The Cong and the North Vietnamese Army. Armed, trained, and supplied by China and Russia. They’re out there in the grass. Above in the hills. Dug deep into tunnels. Waiting. Squatting. Listening. Ready.

Kick catches a glimpse of Hollywood McCormick’s muscular form on point. The Crazy Canuck loves point. Seeping adrenaline and heart-thumping rhythm are recreation to him. He’s a spring loaded, six-foot-two beast. But he’s silent. Hollywood’s gear doesn’t make a sound as he slides along. Not a tinkle. Not the smoke grenades, or the regulars. Not his knife, his M16, or the unconventional sawed-off shotgun. Not even the cheap sunglasses stowed in his shirt pocket that gave him his nickname. Hollywood’s shit is tight. He varies the time between steps to something close to random, and everyone follows with broken cadence. Simpson, the Black kid from Chicago, calls it white boy rhythm.

Before they left this morning, Hollywood said what he always says for good luck. “Looks like a badass mother of a day.” He’s sweating profusely as he looks back at Kick, and smiles before popping a salt pill. Kick and the rest follow suit. Running low on salt can really fuck up your day in ’Nam.

Looking behind, Kick checks in with Simpson. He’s still green, but solid in a fight. Next comes Frosty the Australian from Brisbane, who’s cool under fire, and reliable. Watt is next with the radio. Kick likes the attitude on this smart-assed New Yorker, who takes pride in his job and makes sure no one forgets how important he is. In the rear is Beach, with seven kills now. He’s West Texas to the core, from cattle country around Marfa, and he’s a badass piece of work.

They haven’t had an officer with them for weeks, since the last second lieutenant caught a round in his skull being John Wayne. The Lt sparked up a smoke on patrol which is like hoisting a flag that says, “Kill me.” He was warned, but he knew everything, and it was only dumb luck he was the only casualty. Now Kick’s the sarge in charge and everything’s working great because his boys ain’t broke. The team is dialed in like one animal. From any angle they are the jungle, hunting in perfect silence.

It takes thirty minutes of sliding through the elephant grass like this to get to a hilltop. They’ll go to ground for the night and wait for signs of fires, movement, chatter, and Charlie’s favorite, nuoc mam. Kick loves that nasty fermented fish sauce. It drifts through the jungle like death and has helped them notch more kills than anything else.

When they find a VC camp, they call the nearest firebase for an artillery strike. Arty. Hollywood calls it arty arty boom boom. Once they direct the fire mission, they call for an EVAC and di di mao. Local for run like a hell. They never want to meet the enemy face to face. Not in Chuck’s back yard.

They are ghosts floating through the bush. A long range recon patrol. As Frosty puts it, “They fuckin’ find it, fuck it up, and fuck the fuck off.”

There’s a pull in the pit of Kick’s stomach. Shit. He stops cold. A second later Hollywood’s arm shoots up at ninety degrees and forms a hard fist. They all freeze and their M16s quietly rise. He opens his mouth to breathe silently. After twenty seconds Vietnamese voices grow loud enough to hear.

A patrol is moving past on a high-speed trail at their three o’clock. There’s the unmistakable metallic sound of weapons. Now yelling. Still frozen. More yelling. Hollywood slowly gets low, and the rest follow him down on one knee. He directs four of them to aim in a pattern toward the voices, with Beach looking 180 degrees the other way, watching their six. They kneel in silence, glistening in the grass.

Chapter Two

Wet Yer Whistle

November, 1988 — Vancouver, BC, Canada

Kick has stared at this sad old girl a hundred times wondering when they’re going to put her down. A ruin of herself, she groans against her moorings, worn down by time, salt, and struggle, but still holds her rusted head high.

Flexing his cigarette hand, he watches the shrapnel scar on the back of it change shape, then turns it over for the exit scar on his palm. Should have worn gloves today. He feels old and looks the part. No one can ever guess his age. Most peg him at late fifties, even though he’s only forty-three. Who would assume a five-foot-seven shrimp like him is a decorated war hero, trained assassin, occasional spy, and a highly paid mercenary? Cigarette smoke blows back into his eyes, and he pinches them closed. They’re raccoon-dark and wrinkled to shit. The years have not been kind to his body. He’s strong-armed it through well over twelve labors and come inches from death too many times to count. He touches his forehead.

He’s messed up and it’s fucking with his inner radar. He feels eyes on him constantly and people behind him, but no internal alarms have gone off. It’s weird. Like his natural defenses are being jammed. His eyes feel strange.

There’s a cruel waterfall pouring hard behind his face that drops into a deep chasm in his chest. He takes a drag on his smoke and the bite feels good. A little pain often snaps him out of these funks, but not today. The low tide reeks. He’s lightheaded but trapped under a heavy blanket of gloom. Smoke curls seductively up to his face. The smell reminds him of childhood, baseball and freshly cut grass. Happier times with his parents.

He drops his smoke and the heel of his cowboy boot crushes the butt. His boots need a polish. Months of this shaggy beard and long crazy hair are driving him nuts, but he can’t bring himself to deal with it. Kick has never let himself go like this. Like a lot of vets, he prides himself on being clean-shaven and squared away. But he’s not. The more he fills the chasm, the deeper it gets, the harder the water falls, and the heavier the blanket presses down. Last time he saw himself in the mirror he looked like darkness. He used to enjoy his badass appearance, but he’s starting to look dead. Kick touches the Smith & Wesson M&P-45 holstered under his left arm, then taps on the silencer and spare mag. He feels a bit better.

Kick’s been low before, but now he can’t remember how he got out of it. An assignment? His mind’s so foggy. He breathes deeply and catches a whiff of the ocean again. His breath dissolves in the putrid air. It smells like death. He’s seeing things again. Strange things he can’t think about, so he doesn’t, and that makes it worse. The strange things get mad when they’re ignored.

His mind goes soggy and limp as his boot touches his olive drab backpack. There are random newspaper clippings and bits of paper sticking out. What are they for? Why can’t he remember? His mind used to be sharp. He picks up the rucksack and looks at it like a child. Right. The mission. For truth. He remembers that much. He’s telling the fat cat story. That’s what it is. Tell that story, no matter what. It’s coming back to him. He knows where he is. Pier Number Three at the Versatile Pacific Shipyards in North Vancouver. What’s left of it, at least. It’s rotting away, collapsing, or getting smashed up to make way for shiny condos.

The sky is still drizzling and by the look of the darkening clouds it’s going to rain hard soon. Hissing sounds spray from passing cars in the distance. People are scurrying with umbrellas, or running with heads down, hats on, and hoods up. The holiday lights are up, and it’s good they burn day and night. He’s clinging to the happy little lights, since the sun barely seems to rise this time of year. A salty tear rolls out of one eye. He’s capsized with no way to right himself. The military didn’t teach him that.

Across the harbor, set against Vancouver’s wall of glassy buildings, a Helijet, crammed full of suits, all warm and cozy, takes off on its way to Victoria on Vancouver Island. Kick fought a war for the suits and they don’t even know it. They’ll know it before this is over. The suits said the war he fought was for freedom, but he knows it was really for tin, rubber, and rice. His war’s mission was to protect trade with Southeast Asia from the commies. Fuckin’ commies.

The mission he’s on now will have to be his last though, because he’s running out of juice. But he must Charlie Mike — complete the mission. His mind follows the sound of the Helijet rotors, and he gets lost in the thump of the blades.

The next thing he knows rain is pounding off him at the top of cement stairs. They lead down to a basement bar. Somehow, he made it to East Pender Street, in Vancouver’s lower Eastside. An old country and western song drifts up from a door at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Dusty’s Wet Yer Whistle’ has been newly painted in gold and black letters on its wired glass pane. His right foot’s killing him today, and he shifts the weight off it. Waylon Jennings’ ‘I’m a Ramblin’ Man’ is playing as he limps on down the stairs. A deep voice cuts through the twang like a cannon, and Kick gets ready to face the music.

#

Dusty, the bar owner, cocks his bald head as he hears the gimpy walk coming down the stairs. He mumbles to himself, “Motherfucker’s got his fuckin’ nerve.” He’s a six-foot-six barrel of a Black man, and his left bicep bulges as he pulls on the draft tap for Phil, an older heavy-set man of Malaysian descent. Probably won’t charge him for this. Once upon a time Phil had a bunch of car dealerships, but he drank them all away.

The gimpy walk pauses outside the door. Dusty imagines he’s lighting a smoke to get his nerve up, before he steps inside and drips all over his clean floor. Dusty looks down at his Merle Haggard ‘Mama Tried’ t-shirt, and sighs. “And if he tells that fuckin’ joke again, I’ll pop him.”

“What’s that, Dusty?” Phil asks.

The door opens and Kick walks in, cigarette in his mouth, dripping water everywhere. “Jesus, Mama should have tried harder!”

Phil laughs, but Dusty doesn’t even look up. He strokes his Fu-Manchu mustache and murmurs, “Un-fucking-believable. Fair weather fucking asshole.” Malaysian Phil can see he’s about to be in the middle, so he salutes the tattered Marine Corps flag above the bar and thanks Dusty for kicking ass in Khe Sahn before scurrying back to his table, holding the pint like a sacrament.

Kick sniffs the air. “This place smells a bit less like failure today.”

Dusty takes him in. His hair and beard are insanely long and shaggy, and his eyes have sunk back into his face. He’s lost weight, which Dusty didn’t think was possible, and looks crazed.

Dusty puts his hand on the draft tap. “You look like proof that no one here gets out alive.” Kick says nothing. Dusty pours him a pint of the shitty stuff and plants it on a coaster. “Or like Che Guevara’s illegitimate dead cousin. From the ugly side of the family.”

“You look like Ho Chi Minh’s legitimate daughter. Is it cultural appropriation for a Black man to have a Fu Manchu? And what happened to the Afro?”

Dusty scoffs. “This is a mustache with a soul patch. And I’m shaving my head like all the cool brothers.”

“That beer for me?”

“I ain’t drinking that shit.” Dusty pours himself a whiskey neat. Kick dumps his pack on the bar and shakes the rain off his coat.

Dusty watches the water scatter on the floor. “You’re so considerate. Maybe I should use your disgusting face to mop that up.”

“Cool brother, my ass.” Kick hangs his coat on a hook under the bar top. It’s a small detail Dusty is proud of, along with the boot rail at the base and the original marble top. Kick settles on a stool and gulps his beer.

Dusty waits until he puts it down, then raises his glass to Kick. “Cheers.”

“Oh yeah. Cheers.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Where you been for six weeks?”

“Working.”

“Really? ’Cause your handlers have been trying to find you. Musta lost your number.”

Kick finishes his beer and butts his smoke. “You know I don’t have a phone.”

“Right. In case the VC are still looking for you. Something tells me if they wanted to get to you, they wouldn’t call first.” Dusty looks at the backpack. “Still trying to put the country in jail?”

“I just have to get it organized and published.”

“Is that all. You must be talking to a publisher then.” There’s a pause. “Look, take some friendly advice and hang up your fuckin’ spurs, Tex. Just settle down and stop … whatever the fuck it is you’re doing.”

Kick holds up his empty glass and looks at it with disgust. “You’re still buying reject kegs from O’Keefe? I thought you’d have moved to an up-market brand by now. Like Aqua Velva.” He belches.

“Guess you’re not familiar with that whole gift horse thing, huh?”

“Why are you so snippy?” Kick snaps.

“Snippy? You walk in here looking like a homeless junkie, after I spent weeks wonderin’ if you were alive or dead.”

“Come on!”

“You come on! When ’Nam vets drop out of sight, what does it usually mean? Do I have to say it?”

Kick looks at the bar top. “I haven’t been myself.”

“Ya think?”

There’s a strained pause. “I’m sorry.”

“There it is.” Dusty drains his whiskey. It’s clear that his friend’s in trouble, but he knows he can only push so hard. Dusty pours himself another, grabs Kick’s pack, and heads to a table to see what’s in it. He stops short. “Nothing explosive in here, right?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“That’s a legit question. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what’s in this bag sometimes.” Dusty takes a seat. “Pretend you’re normal and have a conversation with an old friend you haven’t seen in weeks.”

Kick does a half-assed job of pouring a fresh beer and walks over.

Dusty looks at the head on the beer and shakes his head. “Oh my god, you’re a grown-ass man and you don’t know how to pour a proper beer!” Kick ignores the remark as Dusty pulls out several newspaper clippings from the pack and examines them. “What ya got in here?” He reads the headlines. “From The Telegraph. ‘Bazooka Barrels, Tank Parts, Bomb Sights - All Made in Canada for Vietnam’. All right, here’s a good one, ‘Death of Beheaded Canadian Official Ruled Suicide’. Now that one’s funny ’cause he would have had to cut off his own head.”

Kick snatches the clippings back and sits. He picks up a candle from the table. “What’s this?”

“You like that? Every table’s got a candle now. I’m classin’ the place up.”

“Are you going to start serving cuisine?”

“If by that you mean poutine, it’s crossed my mind. I’m coming up on my ten-year anniversary.”

Kick looks around. “No shit. We’ve known each other that long, huh?”

Dusty laughs. “Yeah, you dragged your arrogant ass in a few weeks after I opened. Hadn’t heard lip like that since Danang.”

“You’re gonna need more than candles to gentrify this old dump.”

“You let me worry about that.” Dusty points at the articles. “This was all reported years ago, right? Can’t you tell no one cares? Move on.”

“Once I put it all together and give it some context, it’ll get it done. You’ll see. And you’re right — I need an editor, and I’m … working on that. Your problem is your tail’s still between your legs. Hiding up here in the great white north. Don’t you ever go back to Atlanta to visit?”

“Where they called me a baby killer? And all those white cops? No thanks.” Dusty pours himself another whiskey. Phil is mumbling to himself at his table. “You still good, Phil?” Phil puts his head on the table.

Kick looks around. “Why’s it so quiet in here?”

“Tomorrow’s welfare Wednesday. Don’t worry, it’ll be packed by noon.” Dusty sits back down. “So, when Canada finds all this out, what do you expect will happen? You’ll get a parade? A thank you? No one gives a shit.”

“People deserve to know how the world really works. Is that wrong?”

“Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’ll get your head chopped off.”

“Sometimes that’s the only way things change,” Kick snaps back.

“I don’t see a lot of headless people bragging how they changed the world, do you?”

Kick takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Seriously, candles?”

“I’m gonna bring in new customers.”

Kick looks over at the snoring Phil. “Something wrong with your current clientele?”

“I like Phil. Know why?”

“His charm and personal hygiene?”

“You’re one to talk. Phil grew up in Kuala Lumpur, during Vietnam,” Dusty says. “We’re two of his heroes ’cause we stopped communism in its path, so his family didn’t have to fight them in Malaysia. When he moved to Vancouver, he was shocked to find out everyone thinks America lost the Vietnam War, ’cause in Malaysia, we won. Which is why, as you know, a lot of our buddies put down roots in Southeast Asia.”

Kick’s unusually quiet for a moment, and Dusty thinks he sees a tear in his eye. “Yeah,” Kick says. “We did all right. To us.”

Dusty touches his glass to Kick’s and says, “Badass motherfuckin’ commie-killin’ sons-a-bitches, that’s what we are.” They drink. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” Kick answers. “Great. Just busy.”

Dusty eases off. “Well good, ’cause I’m having an event. It’s an anniversary party, and one of the local papers is giving me publicity. I’ve reached out to try and get some local military types drinking here on the regular. Happy hours, open mic nights, maybe some comedy.”

Kick laughs, and Dusty says, “See? You’re already entertained.”

“Okay, I’ve never seen you as much of a comedy guy. And are you expecting a lot of mirth to come out of these military types?”

“Maybe! Sometimes comics need a place to try out new stuff. And you know what happens when they do that?”

Kick laughs. “Crickets?”

“No.”

“Heckling?” Kick laughs harder.

“No, smartass. Other comics hang out, too. Bring friends and have drinks. And if they wanna smoke a joint in the bathroom, where I just put in a new exhaust fan, I won’t give a shit, unlike some places around here. That’s just some of the changes I got planned.” Dusty pulls a flier out of his pocket and stuffs it in Kick’s pocket. “My event is on Thursday, motherfucker, if you’re not busy jacking off to newspaper clippings ’n’ shit.”

“That’s Veterans Day.”

“It’s called Remembrance Day here. In case you forgot, Canadian. Try and dress presentable, and bathe. Jesus, you smell like a rock ape’s asshole!”

“You need one rule,” Kick demands.

Dusty sighs. “Don’t go there.”

“No draft dodgers. It should be on a sign at the door.”

“Like they’re going to make a bee-line for my bar. An after everything we went through over there, you can blame them for not going. Seriously?”

Kick raises his voice. “When you’re called, you go!”

“You weren’t called! No one called you! You didn’t get drafted, motherfucker — you volunteered! What the fuck were you thinking anyway?”

Kick picks up his bag and coat and storms out the back.

Dusty stands up and yells, “Shit, that’s all it takes to get rid of you? Wish I knew a decade ago! And use the front door like a normal person!” The back door slams and Dusty stares at it.

Kick’s been spit-polished and clean-shaven for as long as he’s known him. He’s had other vet friends go to seed like this, and it hasn’t ended well. There aren’t many ’Nam buddies left in Dusty’s world. Kick may be a pain in the ass, but he’s still his best friend, and he’s in trouble.

Dusty heads back to the bar. “Fuckin’ asshole.”