Little Tiger

By Doc Macomber

When Air force Special Investigator, Jack Vu, is approached at his promotion party by an attractive Vietnamese woman, he is surprised to learn she is an old family friend now a member of the renown USAF Tops in Blues vocal group, and she needs his help.
The last time Vu saw Me Long she was just a little girl. She tells him that earlier in the week, a photographer approached her in the French Quarter and kissed her. She slapped the man, but he became confused and thinks she is joking. When it is clear Me Long isn’t the girlfriend he claims he left behind in Vietnam just weeks early, he steps back and begs for her to listen.
Reluctantly, she does but doesn’t believe a word of it. There is simply no way she has a twin sibling living in Vietnam. No way! The photography passes her his business card and tells her he is leaving the country soon but he would be happy to help make the connection if she wanted.
Vu finds her story fascinating if not a little strange. After some prodding, he agrees he will investigate the matter for her. He tells her he doesn’t think she’s in any danger.
Days later, Vu is called into his Commander’s office and is given a new assignment. “Well, Sergeant, looks like you get to visit your homeland. A USAF singer Me Long Bragg has gone missing in Hanoi and her band manager believes she may have been kidnapped. Pack your bags, you’re leaving tonight.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Floating Word Press, LLC.
• Release date: Sep 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781941297179

Doc Macomber

Doc Macomber belongs to many leading writing organizations, including the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Friends of Mystery, and Willamette Writers. He has contributed articles to the prestigious Mystery Readers Journal and Bloodletter on the history of ethnic detectives, and the origin of his hybrid Vietnamese investigator, Jack Vu. He also contributed a chapter titled: “Finding the Key Strengths and Weaknesses of your Detective Character” in “Now Write! Mysteries: Suspense, Crime and Thriller Fiction Exercises from Today’s Best Writers and Teachers” published in 2012 by the Penguin Group (USA). His Jack Vu mystery series includes: The Killer Coin, Wolf’s Remedy, Snip, and Riff Raff, set in Costa Rica, a finalist in the Killer Nashville Claymore Award. His Jason Colefield mystery series features his latest release, River City (2014). Mr. Macomber formerly served with an Air Force Special Tactics Unit and now lives aboard a trawler on the Columbia River. As a decorated Marine Captain once noted, “Doc sees much ... says little ... and writes it all down.”

Book preview

Little Tiger

(A Jack Vu Mystery)

By

Doc Macomber

Published by Denny Ray Macomber on Smashwords

Copyright 2020 by Denny Ray Macomber

Cover art by Karl Gillespie at Diversity Design Studios

Author photograph copyright 2014 by Ty Hitzemann

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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1

The bone-washer, Song May, struggled up the steep hill pushing a rickety wheelbarrow of fresh dirt. When she crested the top, she stopped to catch her breath. Years of unearthing coffins had destroyed her youthful back, leaving her bent like a wilted stem of elephant grass.

She heaved the wheelbarrow upright dumping the load onto the ground, careful not to mingle it with the adjacent pile. For if it did it would bring bad karma to the family of the deceased.

After two more trips up the long hill, Song May rested. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped sweat from her face. She put back on her conical hat and looked out over the hillside.

The cemetery was at the outskirts of Hanoi, twenty kilometers from the city central. Even so, it was hardly what you would have expected: no chapel, no enclosing wall, no wrought-iron gate; just over two-hundred rectangular marked mounds—some bearing wooden crosses, others denoted with elaborate headstones. In the area where Song May was digging the earth was the color of blood. In the middle of the cemetery enveloped in weeds was a rusted carcass of an American made jeep; wheel-less, shot to pieces, a remnant from the Vietnam War—the American War— the Vietnamese liked to say.

A small caretaker’s plywood shack stood at the top of the hill. Song May and her son lived there with no electricity, no running water. They got their drinking water from an above-ground water tank. Two 55-gallon plastic drums collected rainwater to be used for bathing. Cooking was done on a propane burner when they could afford gas. Their laundry was done in the muddy waters of the Red River—a short hike to the south.

In the distance, Song May could make out the city, a far cry from the shantytown and scant farmland that surrounded her home. But how long before even that would change? Before the Wild Boar hunted them?

Her homeland was undergoing transformation…

For years the communist leaders in the North had allowed Ho Chi Minh City to be the focal point of the country’s business capital. But now that was changing. The center of business was moving from Ho Chi Minh City north to Hanoi because Industrial leaders had determined it made better monetary sense. Move the agriculture base to Ho Chi Minh City since southern climates were much more conducive to producing rice than the colder climate of Hanoi’s providences, and in exchange, move business operations to the North. It was a win win scenario, they claimed, because an extra rice harvest per year translated into billions of dollars of exports. The money could be used to fund government projects and create jobs.

But Song May had her doubts.

Already the new freeway being built on the outskirts of Hanoi had been contracted out to a foreign capitalist—the Koreans, who had stolen the project from the Vietnamese. Once again foreigners were invading like they had for centuries. And this time their weapons were more deadly.

The Boar had arrived just as her parents had predicted…

Near Yen Phu, for example, as part of the so-called deal, the Koreans were building a new bridge, three skyscrapers and an industrial park. It angered the farmers. Yet, everyone knew the rich ran the country.

Song May figured this was why those monstrosities she could see in the distance seemed to be popping up everywhere, in place of precious rice paddies; the earth was shrinking. Even the dead would be forced out eventually.

For now she tried not to think about it. The sacred bone-washing service still put food on the table—at least for now.

Her routine was simple. Day after day, her son Vinh and she would unearth coffins. Some were hand carved and made from cherry wood. Most were built in Hanoi’s coffin district. It was rare to receive one from the provinces along the Mekong Delta, but occasionally they did, and those were treated specially. Every three years the bones of a deceased family member were dug up and washed by hand—an old Buddhist custom. Families would come and watch the unearthing in their best clothing. Some came smelling of rice wine; others came smelling of sweat and tears; and others came to barter fresh vegetables, rice, or ripe fruit to pay for the bone washing service because they were too poor to pay with dong, the local currency.

There was little time for rest.

Song May rubbed her aching joints and looked down at her leathery hands. Her skin was like that of a cũ Người phụ nữ, an old woman, hands so rough they felt like sandpaper, dark as coal, without redemption—a real taboo for a Vietnamese woman.

Years of hard labor in the harsh sun had done this. Young women would never think of it. They wanted to be white. For Song May, it was a foolish pursuit.

Since Vinh was nowhere to be found she cut her break short and went back to work.

Today the earth cried. Graves yawned open and emitted a horrible stench. Buried so long under wet conditions, no wood lasted forever—even varnished hardwoods. Bugs burrowed into cavities. Worms wiggled inside cracks. Sewage bubbled up and seeped through seams. The sour odor permeated everything.

Tying a scarf over her nose she dropped to her knees and using her swollen hands she dug up the remaining dirt which her son had carelessly left behind. She would have to talk to him about his laziness.

A former soldier of the Viet Cong Army was coming today. The Colonel was now Commandant General of Hanoi’s Immigration Bureau and he was due to arrive any moment. His mother’s bones had to be ready for viewing or else there would be trouble.

Just a little more dirt, here and there . . . Song May was certain.

The lid had to be just below this thin layer where big chunks of moist clay broke off. Rather unusual, she thought. The dirt usually held its strength better than this. Had Vinh already opened the coffin? She would have to question him. And, where was he?

She stopped digging suddenly and looked up. A male voice was shouting from the hillside: Song May! Song May!

A humid translucent mist covered the cemetery grounds, yet she made out the Colonel and waved. He was a stocky figure, older than his youthful days as a soldier certainly, but still distinguished and proudly wearing a military uniform, looking as if at any moment he would be ready to engage in battle.

During the American War, Song May figured he must have been something to see. Even at his age, his rather large muscles still pressed tightly against the green fabric and his silver buttons and lapels sparkled. His heroism was displayed in a rainbow of ribbons decorating his breast pocket. Not a thing was out of place.

Everyone knew the Colonel was an important man. He held a position of power. Song May did not want to anger him.

As the Colonel trundled down the hillside toward her, his polished shoes sliced through the tall elephant grass like machetes. Song May stood up straight, brushed dirt from her knees, and prepared to greet him.

Tot, she thought. She could get paid finally. Vinh and she could eat something besides beet soup.

How are you today? The Colonel said and showed off his bright white teeth. A splendid day . . . is it not?

Song May bowed in greeting making no reply, for the Colonel would not expect this from someone of her standing. Instead she laid out a colorful blanket graveside and lit several sticks of incense. It was customary that the coffin be opened in advance of the family’s arrival. That the bones be laid out orderly on a satin khan lau or small blanket. In the Colonel’s case, though, she had forgotten the bones had been stored inside a small container, a teak chest, hand-made and painted gold. The chest supposedly had thirty-three coats of varnish, one for every year of his mother’s life.

The Colonel put out his hand. Please, allow me, he said firmly and moved her aside.

And with that Song May stepped back and bowed, allowing the Colonel his privacy.

From a distance she watched him kneel before the grave and begin to chant a prayer in Vietnamese. When he was finished, he bent over and opened the coffin and then suddenly froze. A guttural cry escaped his lips.

The Colonel flopped back on his rump, quickly pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and began dabbing the tears welling in his eyes. Song May sensed something was terribly wrong and hurried to his side.

Colonel? What is it?

The man restrained his rage and slowly stood, regaining his composure. Despite his attempt to remain calm, he glared at her, the veins in his thick neck quivering. He pointed down at the open casket.

Look for yourself!

2

Manuel turned and asked, Who is she?

I do not know . . . Jack Vu stared at the attractive Asian women in the yellow dress standing alone in the corner of the brightly lit banquet room, watching everyone mingle about with plates of food.

It is your party, yes?

Manuel! Vu frowned. There are rules.

For the breaking, my friend. I will see you later. She is very beautiful and should not be lonely. She needs me as her companion.

But you are married.

Oh, yes, there is that. Perhaps I will sample the egg rolls instead.

Manuel gave Vu a quick smile and walked off toward the hors d’oeuvre table across the room.

Despite trying, Vu could not place the petite almond-shaped face in his book of friends, so he assumed that she was accompanying one of the other guests, perhaps a wife or date of a co-worker of his. Yet, it didn’t stop him from staring and remaining curious.

She wore a traditional ao dai, a sleek, silk yellow dress slit up the seam to the thigh. A Vietnamese garment that a famous General had proclaimed: shows nothing and reveals everything . . .

It clung to her slender body like it had been painted on by an artist. He imagined Betty wearing the same dress and how it would feel to slowly disrobe her, caressing her velvety skin under the moonlight.

The stranger possessed distinct Asian features and in sandals stood a tad taller than he. Her bloodline was Vietnamese. That, however, was where the similarities ended because something was mysteriously foreign about her features, probably born of mixed ethnicity. If he had to guess, he would say she was part American. Her darker skin suggested that she was from the Southern Region—perhaps Ho Chi Minh City like him. Northerners had a different skin color, fairer, whiter. People from the warmer climates tended to have rich, golden skin like hers.

While he was taking a last look, his Mexican friend Manuel walked back over carrying a plate of appetizers.

Have you figured out who she is?

Without waiting for a reply, Manuel sniffed at the plate of egg rolls as if it were a dish prepared at one of the finest restaurants in New Orleans. He opened his mouth and plucked one of the crisp delicacies from his plate.

Vu continued to stare across the room. I cannot place her.

Between bites, Manuel said, Did she come alone?

I didn’t see her walk in. She appears to be looking for someone.

Go introduce yourself. You are the host.

I’ll wait for Betty.

Where is the good doctor?

Vu checked his wristwatch. Running late.

Manuel nodded and turned his attention toward his second egg roll stuffed with pork. Between bites he uttered, Perhaps a dead body arrived in her office.

He agreed. Something must have delayed her . . .

The banquet doors flung open and he felt a pang of excitement. But it was short-lived. Betty had not arrived. Instead, Sergeant Bruce Hill and Sergeant Dorene Gates, homicide detectives from New Orleans 8th precinct, entered the room. They spotted Vu and headed in his direction.

Seeing Detective Gates surprised Vu, considering they had never been on the friendliest terms. Maybe the debacle in Louisville had softened her.

The two detectives walked over and greeted the two men. Once the formalities were out of the way, Hill said casually, Congrats on the promotion, buddy. This is quite a shindig. Military spring for it?

No, Vu said. Betty and I paid.

You better not let that one get away, Jack. She’s a keeper.

Betty should be along shortly. Help yourself to the buffet.

Hill turned and looked across the room. There was a long line at the buffet table.

Looks a little crowded, Hill said and eyed the last appetizer on Manuel’s plate. That a chicken wing?

Vu was appalled. It is pork egg roll. Perhaps you would like to get a beverage? Vu turned, pointing out the portable bar near the back of the room.

Gates was in no hurry to move. She scoured the guests spotting the Asian woman, standing by herself. Who’s the sexy honeybee?

Before he could answer, Manuel blurted out. A very good question, detective. Our host doesn’t appear to know her.

Gates threw a curious glance at Vu before turning her attention back to the woman in the yellow dress. Hill seemed not the least bit interested and eyed a guest walking by carrying two beers.

Oh, here. Gates held out a brown paper bag in the shape of a bottle and handed it to Vu.

You are too kind.

Gates, want anything from the bar?

Yeah, get me a Vietnamese beer.

Hill smiled and then slapped Vu on the back. Congrats again on the promotion. You must be doing something right, buddy.

After Hill walked off toward the bar, Vu looked uncomfortably at Gates. Neither was any good at small talk. By now Manuel had eaten the last of his food and retreated across the room for more. Gates looked as if she was about to talk, then turned her back to Vu and stared at the Asian. Vu set the bottle down on a table reserved for gifts and then reluctantly returned.

Eventually, Hill showed up with his drink and handed Gates a green bottle of Saigon beer.

He clanked her bottle and chugged.

So—when you retire? Hill burped.

Vu looked up at the big man. Next year.

Then what?

It is too soon to know.

You could apply to our office?

Gates nearly spit out her beer and glared at her partner. Hill kept a straight face. Gates was wound a little tight. But then, so was Vu in some respects. Another Buddhist connection to her he had not thought of before now.

Actually, police work was about the last thing on his mind. The fact of the matter was he felt burnt out. His unit had been on such a high deployment tempo lately that he hadn’t had time to think of much else. And with all the budget and personnel cuts from the new administration, just staying on top of all the cases had become a challenge. Then, along comes this very messy internal investigation into the theft of government property. An investigator from their unit had been charged. An Air Force Major had flown in to conduct an audit of operations and then the FBI and the Attorney General got involved. The incident had turned very ugly. His unit had been required to account for every expense down to the penny.

Then out of the blue his commanding officer promoted him.

Vu assumed it had to do with the way he conducted himself during the internal investigation—a subtle reward for keeping his mouth shut. It was no surprise that he was questioning whether all the stress had been worth it.

All troublesome thoughts vanished when a pair of hands slid around his waist and he felt a moist kiss upon his ear. Immediately, he recognized the familiar lavender scented fragrance of Betty’s freshly washed hair.

Sorry I’m late, Tech Sergeant, Betty whispered, nibbling