Money For Old Rope
By
John
Helden
It was a balmy
Saturday night outside Salsa cafe on Bui Vien Street in Saigon’s backpacker
district. The sun had just laid down its head and the street was filled with
tourists eating dinner. Mick, 35, tall,
medium build with short black hair and black, empty eyes, was distracted from
his book for a moment by a couple of geckos chasing each other around on the
sign opposite. He picked it up again.
This time he was disturbed by the presence of his friend, Terry, sat to
his left, slowly tearing his beer mat to pieces.
He put the book
down and looked to his left, shaking his head.
“I don’t
understand why you never read anything,” he said, “it would take your mind off
the cigarettes.”
Terry, five years
younger than Mick, small, gaunt, short hair, ginger goatee, flicked a mosquito
away from his ear and carried on tearing.
“You know that
ripping things up is supposed to be a sign that you’re sexually frustrated?”
“Is it really,
Doctor Phil?” said Terry, “Well don’t worry, if I get a bit frisky, you’ll be perfectly
safe.”
Mick picked up the
book again.
“You don’t know
what you’re missing. Listen to this,
When a buffalo was killed the Native Americans ate
practically everything including the liver, the tongue and the heart. They used
the animals hide to help make the
teepees in which they lived as well as belts, bags and pouches, clothes and
shoes. Buffalo bones were formed into
knives, clubs and arrowheads while the horns were used to make spoons, ladles
and cups. Brains were used for tanning hides, sinews for bow strings, the
bladders for bags and pouches and the tail became a whip or a fly brush. They
also …”
“So, is that your
new master plan,” said Terry, “buffalo hunting?”
“Yeah, well it
might come to that. We can’t have another mess like last weekend.”
Terry took a swig
of his Tiger beer.
“A mess? We got
his wallet, his iPhone and his laptop. Not a bad haul for the night.”
“Terry, you left
him in a pool of blood. That alley looked like the Somme when you were
finished.”
“Excuse me. I ask
him, all polite, for his wallet and he tells me to fuck off! Potty mouth, does
he kiss his ma with that …”
“Hey, hey, steady
on,” said Mick, “check out the bones on that one.”
A backpacker
floated out of the crowd and took the seat next to Mick at the table to his
right. He looked about 22, six-foot
tall, muscular, blond streaks in black hair and teeth like like a toothpaste
commercial. On one wrist he had oversized Buddha beads with a matching Sanskrit
tattoo on his shoulder. On his nose sat a pair of John Lennon glasses and on
his rucksack, a worn-out patch showing off the tricolor flag of Thailand.
“I think I just
found my soul mate,” said Terry, “I’ve just found my soul mate.”
The pair quickly
averted their gaze as the stranger ordered a Tiger beer in an American accent
that Mick couldn’t quite place.
“Where you from,
mate?” he asked.
“Oh hi, I’m
from
the States. Oregon. How about you?”
“I’m from
England.”
“Oh, London,
right?”
“Yes mate, we’re
all from London. And my friend here’s from Ireland.”
Terry looked up
and managed to find a brief smile then went back to finishing off his third
beer mat of the night.
“So how long have you been in Asia?” asked
Mick.
The conversation
drifted on with Brandon from Oregon telling all his tales of Bangkok and Phuket
then onto Sihanoukville and Phnom Penh. He elaborated on his life as a fresh
out of college, card-carrying liberal with two weeks of partying left before he
started a job in his father’s lumber firm. All the while Mick and Terry reeled
their prey in and out with expert timing on a par with Roy Dillon himself. By
the time he had sunk five bottles of Tiger
beer and three shots of tequila Brandon was ready to be led anywhere and back
again with bells on.
“No”, said Mick,
“put
your cash away, I told you, the night is young. You can get the next bill.”
“Ok,” said
Brandon. “Where to now?”
“Well,” said
Mick,
“Like I was saying, if you want a taste of the real Vietnam we should pay a
visit to Miss Trang.”
Brandon gave Mick
a puzzled look.
“Miss Trang? I told you about my friend Miss Trang. With
the private bar with the hot Viet girls? We drink some, listen to some cool
music and if you want a bit more the girls are up for it. If not, we sup up and
head for Apocalypse Now. It’s up to you,
fella, I mean, if you won’t go anywhere that isn’t on Trip Adviser, well,
that’s another thing.”
“Hey please, bro,
that’s not what I’m about. You know me, I’m all about the party, man, let’s do
it! Miss Trang’s, bro.”
He raised his arm
for a high five and Mick left it hanging in the air, reached for his wallet, summoned
a waitress and paid the bill. He led Brandon onto Pham Nhu Lao Street, with
Terry at the rear, looking at the American like a stoat on a rabbit. Mick
climbed into the front of a Mai Linh Linh taxi and gave the driver an address
scrawled on a piece of paper. He looked at the address, mumbled something in
Vietnamese, shook his head and started up the engine. Terry was in the back
with Brandon who
started telling him about a girl he had tried to pick up on the way back from a
visit to the Choeung Ek killing fields, just outside
Phnom Penh.
“I’m sure she
was
into me but, I think, you know, all the mass graves and the case full of skulls
and stuff kinda put her off. But honest, bro, any other time she’d have been
loving me.”
Terry turned from
the window, lowered his voice, spoke slowly, deliberately, “I’m not your bro.
Call me that again, I’ll break your jaw.”
“OK. You know
what,” said Brandon, “maybe I should just jump out here, it’s been a long day.”
Mick turned and
gave his friend a look as cold as an ice bucket.
“You’re gonna
have
to forgive my friend’s sense of humor, Brandon.” he said, then added, with a
hint of bile, “it’s not to everyone’s taste.”
Terry leaned over
and gave the American’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Never got drunk
with an Irishman before? Everything’s grand, I’m just joking with ya.”
The taxi fell into
silence. After a few minutes, it turned off the main road, followed a few tiny
alleys, then back onto a wide road for another few minutes. Then the driver
pulled up across the street from what looked like a disused shop. He clicked
off the meter, Mick put a hundred thousand Dong into the drivers hand, which
included a half-dollar tip.
#
There was no door.
The whole shop front, with its shutters pulled up, was the door. A huge rat
turned its head to look at the trio approaching. Unimpressed, it slouched off
slowly, arrogantly, to lose itself down a sewer grate. In the middle of the
room, off to the left, was a ragged sofa, so old it could have been brown or
orange or red. Sat in the middle was a woman in her early fifties, wearing
enough makeup to cover a chorus line. She was dealing out some playing cards
onto the plastic table in front of her. She looked up and turned to her right.
“Ah, Mr. Mick, Mr.
Terry, yes, how are you?” She spoke as though in a rush, no pauses between
phrases.
“We’re fine,
Miss
Trang,” said Mick.
“Oh Miss Trang,”
said Terry, putting his hand on Brandon’s shoulder, “my friend here’s very
lonely, he loves Vietnamese girls so much,
looking for a nice wife he is to ....”
“Oh, he very
handsome, what you name?” she said and went over to Brandon with a look on her
face like a hungry lizard. Before he knew it she had him by the wrist and was
leading him towards the bottom of a rusty old staircase at the back of the
room. The old woman shouted something in Vietnamese into the darkness at the
top of the stairs, and someone shouted something back down. She turned to
Brandon,
“You come, we have
beautiful girl and beer, we have big fun upstairs.”
Terry put his hand
on the small of Brandon’s back.
“Stop worrying,”
he said, “you’re with friends. Miss Trang’s got some beautiful daughters up
there and, if you’re really lucky, maybe a nice granddaughter or two.”
Brandon gave him a
horrified look and allowed Terry to usher him up the stairs while Miss Trang
turned to Mick. She brushed the back of her hand over his cheek, then kissed
him lightly on the lips.
“Why you no come
see me now, you no like mama anymore?”
He felt a mixture
of disgust and desire until she touched him between the legs and the rush of
blood settled the matter.
“You do business
first then come see Mama, we have big fun you and me, eh?”
She squeezed him a
little harder and swept her tongue over his lips. He looked shyly to the
ground, like a little boy and shuffled off up the stairs. They led to a large,
scruffy-looking room, now bathed in a dim red light. The space was dominated by
a massive table in the middle, surrounded on three sides by matching,
threadbare sofas at around knee height. Two slim girls, about eighteen years
old, in short, garish, ten-dollar dresses appeared and dragged Brandon over to
one of the sofas. They sat either side of him, lightly stroking his arms, then
down his cheek. The one on his left ruffled his hair and they both giggled,
said a few words in Vietnamese, giggled some more. Mick and Terry sat opposite,
watching him melt. Loud, Vietnamese pop music kicked in from somewhere, then
came the questions.
“What you name? Oh,
Bran-don. Very nice.”
“Where you from?
America? Oh, very good. America, yes. I Mekong girl, Mekong.”
“How long you
Vietnam? Are you married, girlfriend?”
“No?” said the
other one, an astonished look on her face, “oh, you so handsome.”
The snacks and
drinks started appearing. A mean-looking woman, twice as old as the other
girls, brought in a case of sixteen bottles of Tiger beer and handed a bottle
to everyone. Fifteen minutes later she
returned to remove the half-full crate to replace it with another full one.
Meanwhile, every time Brandon’s face was turned one of the girls would open a
packet of chewing gum at three dollars a pop, or a bag of cashew nuts at four.
Then the case of half-full beer would disappear again to be replaced by another.
By now Brandon was focusing on the girl to his left, any attempt to touch her
thighs repelled by her grabbing his hand in hers, a drunken beam threatening to
split his face. Mick smiled to himself, wondering if Brandon's liberal
conscience would interfere with him giving her a good pounding. He imagined if
the American didn’t make her come, he’d probably spend an hour apologizing to
her then leave her fifty dollars extra by way of compensation. But he knew no
one had sex with anyone at Miss Trang's.
The American
called her over.
“This girl Miss
Trang. We go upstairs now, how much?”
Miss Trang pointed
at her wrist.
“Oh no, not
possible, very too late now, she go home.”
She shouted
something in Vietnamese and both girls stood up like well-oiled machines and
started to count all the empty bottles and other debris on the table. They
reported their findings to their boss who began scribbling everything down in a
receipt book. Then the girls vanished to be replaced by a huge, angry looking
man who took the bill from the old woman and handed it to Brandon. It was for six
million Dong, about three hundred US dollars.
Mick sat back enjoying
the show, Brandon’s face quickly turning from a look of lust to confusion and
then into fear, with Terry grinning away like Gollum, finally getting to put on
his Precious. The American checked the numbers again scratching the side
of his head, glancing from side to side for a bolt hole, but there was no way
out, save through the giant standing next to him.
“No,” he said,
“this can’t be right. We haven’t been here an hour.”
“Yes,” said
the
thug, “you pay, six million Dong.”
Brandon looked at
Terry, but he just shrugged and opened another bag of nuts. Mick got up and
went over to Miss Trang and the pair acted like they were doing some heavy
bartering. Lots of Pidgin English with the occasional point being made with a
shrug or a hurt look. Eventually he went to Brandon and told him he had to pay four
million or things would turn ugly. He looked up at him, bewildered, but
followed his advice, took out his wallet and, with a brief flash of anger in
his eyes, handed over the money. Mick resisted the urge to smile as he saw what
looked like three or four credit cards, as well as plenty of notes. He took the
cash, counted it, then handed it to Miss Trang who went down the stairs, muttering
away in Vietnamese with a scowl on
her face. Brandon tried to get up to leave but fell straight back down on the
sofa with a surprised look on his face.
He tried a second time, but his legs had forgotten how to stand, “Like
marshmallows with holes in them,” Mick said under his breath. Terry
went around the table and sat on the sofa next to Brandon.
“Jesus, bro,”
slurred
Brandon, “that Tiger beer’s got a hit to it, eh?”
“I distinctly
remember telling you not to call me bro, didn’t I?” said Terry. “Didn’t I?”
He aimed a head
butt at Brandon’s nose but missed, catching him right between the eyes, but it
still had the desired effect. Brandon sank back in the chair, eyes closed.
Terry picked up the American’s glasses from the table and was just about to
start going through his pockets when Mick came over.
“Terry,” he
said,
“What the hell, man! Why’d you have to do that? The Rohypnol was already
kicking in. Come on, the man’s waiting, and get yourself some fucking
cigarettes soon as, ok?”
With some effort
they managed to get Brandon to his feet and drag him across the room, down the
stairs and out the back door. Waiting there was a black SUV with tinted
windows, a Chinese man sat in the front smoking a Marlboro. They dumped Brandon
on the back seat then Mick went back inside to say goodbye to Miss Trang.
“So we OK now?”
he
said.
“Yes, Mr. Mick,
bill all pay now. You come again soon. Mama get lonely.” She leaned forward
and bit his ear, gently,
Mick feeling her warm breath all the way down his back.
“Mama know what
you like.” she whispered.
He flushed and
fled out the door. When he got back outside, Terry was sat on a beer barrel with
his hands folded across his chest.
Opposite him stood the Chinese man, who looked ordinary enough, in jeans
and a plain, white t-shirt, except for the half dozen thick, gold rings spread
about his fingers and eyes that would give the devil a panic attack.
“Hey Mick, you
friend no say much,” he said.
“Oh, I have my
moments,” said Terry, “believe me. Maybe
me and you’ll have a long chat one day.”
“I think you
friend need get laid,” said the Chinese man, smirking, “he look all tense.”
“You know,”
said
Terry, “you need to work on your chat up lines, but you’re right, it’s been a
while. So if you wanna work on my tension with that pretty mouth of yours what
are you waiting for, lover?”
The Chinese man
dropped his cigarette and his smile, put his hand in his pocket and moved
towards Terry, Mick stepping between them.
“Jesus Terry,
what’s got into you tonight?”
“What’s got
into
me? I’ll tell you what’s got into me. I’ve been thinking about that little
buffalo story you told me.”
“What?”
Terry walked a few
feet away and beckoned his friend over. The pair started whispering.
The Chinese man
looked around nervously, reaching into his back pocket for his smokes, lit another
one up.
“Quick,” he
said,
“I have many customer wait for liver. Five thousand dollar, we have deal.”
Terry and Mick
broke their huddle and went back over.
“And what do you
do with the rest of him?” asked Mick. “You just throw it all in the river? I
don’t think so.”
The Chinese man
looked away into the distance, beads of sweat appearing on his face, waiting
for the moment to pass.
“Have you found
that site with the prices on, Terry?”
“Got it, there you
go.”
He passed his
phone to Mick.
“Ok then, let’s
start from the top. How much are you offering for the eyes?”
Terry smiled for
the first time that night and passed Brandon’s John Lennon specs over to the
Chinese man.
“There you go, bro. We’ll
even throw in a free pair of glasses.”
