Sally Boy (22 page)

Sal raised his weapon, pointing the muzzle
directly at the Colonel’s head. In a flash, every NVA soldier was
on their feet, locked-and-loaded, with their AK-47s leveled at the
team.

“We didn’t come here for a history lesson,
asshole! Just give us the junk so we can go.”

“Scalise! Put down that fucking weapon,”
Wilson shouted angrily.

Sal slowly lowered his weapon and flashed a
contemptuous smile at the Colonel.

“You Americans have so much anger and
violence in you. Eventually, it will bring about your
destruction.”

“Colonel, I’m terribly sorry for his
actions. Please accept my apologies.”

“No need to apologize, Wilson. I probably
would have done the same if the situation were reversed.”

“Be that as it may, we’ll take our
merchandise now, Colonel.”

Motioning to one of his soldiers, the
Colonel signaled them to bring in the duffel bags containing the
heroin.

“Check it out,” Wilson instructed Smith.

Smith opened his pack and removed a pouch
containing purity testing equipment. He then set up two vials and
poured a clear liquid into each. After opening two separate kilo
bags of heroin with a pocket knife, Smith scooped out a small
portion of the powder from each, and placed it in the clear liquid.
The liquid turned blue. Looking up, Smith nodded, “It’s pure,
sir.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I’ll see you again in
six months.” Wilson shook the Colonel’s hand once more.

“Six months it is,” The Colonel replied
coldly.

Exiting the hut and eager to put distance
between themselves and the village, Wilson navigated the harsh
terrain with speed and silence. After covering a good portion of
ground, Wilson heard something suspicious ahead in the dark brush.
Knowing that they were not friendlies, Wilson raised his fist and
the team covered, as a Vietcong patrol came into view. As he
listened, Wilson could hear the patrol leader arguing with one of
his soldiers about where Colonel Nguyen wanted them to set up their
ambush for the Americans.

Feeling the harsh sting of betrayal,
Wilson’s face tightened in rage, as he resigned himself to the fact
that his long-time business associate had planned a double-cross.
Wilson thought, Why didn’t they just take us out in the village?
They probably would have if Scalise hadn’t made a move on the
Colonel. They figured we were expecting something. Scalise must’ve
spooked them. Nguyen didn’t want to be caught in the middle of the
action.

Understanding that his business dealings
with the Colonel were now over, and that he must find a new
supplier, Wilson refocused his efforts on getting out of the area.
The team hid in the brush until the patrol left the area. When he
felt it was safe, Wilson motioned the team to move out. With a
sense of urgency the men trekked to the pick-up-point and
waited.

“What time is the extraction? The sun will
be up soon,” Sal asked impatiently as he checked his watch.

Wilson sat on a large rock honing the blade
of his sizable knife on a sharpening stone. “Let me ask you
something, Scalise. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’re bullshit
heroics back in the village put not only our operation in jeopardy
but the entire team. I can never allow that to happen. Ever! So I
would really like to know, what the fuck were you thinking when you
drew down on the Colonel?”

“Fuck him!”

“That’s all you got to say? I warned you
what I’d do if you pulled any of that cowboy shit with me. Didn’t
I?”

“Hey, I’m not taking any shit from some
fucking gook warlord. That motherfucker was an NVA officer and
we’re buying smack from him. I didn’t say nothing before but I’m
telling you right now, what youse are doing, it ain’t fucking
right.”

“Listen troop, we don’t like it either. But
this junk finances our operations and keeps us in business,” Smith
fired back coldly.

“Is that so?”

“Those fucking assholes in Washington wanna
fight this war with one hand tied behind their backs. All that
approach to warfare gets you is dead. So if they won’t let us win,
we might as well get rich.”

Suddenly, Sal felt queasy, much like he
would right before an ambush. His mind raced and he thought, Why
are they telling me all this? Why now? Trying to clarify his
position, Sal explained passionately, “Look, I don’t really give a
shit. Awright? Do whatever the fuck you wanna do. You’re absolutely
right, it’s your business. It doesn’t concern me at all. You got no
reason to worry about me.”

“No reason to worry about you, huh?” Wilson
lifted his head revealing a disturbing gleam in his eyes. “You just
want to get back to your rat-hole apartment in the Bronx. Don’t you
grease-ball?”

“That was the deal we made when you got me
outta the stockade.”

“Well that contract has been terminated, and
so has your usefulness to this team.”

“Fuck you!” Sal readied his weapon.

“There’s no need for that, Scalise. You’re a
highly trained soldier now. A real fucking killing machine from
what Smith tells me. Perhaps you could even give me a run for my
money. But I doubt it.”

“Look, I’m fourteen days short. I ain’t
gonna do nothing that’ll compromise you or your operations. I
swear. I just wanna go home. So back the fuck off,” Sal pled as he
moved toward Wilson at a non-threatening pace.

Laughing, Wilson blurted, “Whoever said that
you were going home?”

With an angry roar, Sal kicked Wilson
squarely in his face. Wilson flew backwards off the rock and he hit
the ground with a thud. Turning toward Murphy and Jones, Smith
ordered, “Use your knives. We don’t want to attract any
unfriendlies.”

Placing their M-16s on the ground, Murphy
and Jones drew their bayonets and they rushed Sal. Using his newly
acquired martial arts skills, Sal became a whirlwind of kicks and
punches, making quick work of the two would-be assassins. Bloody
and beaten, Murphy and Jones fell to the ground.

“Bravo, Scalise. I taught you well. It’s a
shame to have to kill someone with your talents.” Smith drew his
bayonet.

“No! He’s mine,” Wilson yelled as he rose up
onto his knees and wiped the blood from his mouth onto his sleeve.
“You were a fucking dead man the moment I laid eyes on you,
Scalise. We were never gonna let you leave the ‘Nam alive.”

“I was ready for this, asshole. I knew back
in that cell that someday it would come down to you and me.”

“Now you’re gonna die.” Wilson smiled,
showing his blood-stained teeth.

“Let’s do this.”

Distracted by the sound of a helicopter
flying up the valley, Smith shouted, “Kill him quick! Before the
chopper gets here.”

Like a wild bull, Wilson attacked Sal with a
flurry of vicious kicks and punches. However, Sal was able to
thwart Wilson’s initial assault and deliver a roundhouse kick
squarely to Wilson’s ribs, knocking him to the ground. Springing
right back to his feet, Wilson kicked Sal in his chest, driving him
back several steps. Countering quickly, Sal struck Wilson in his
solar plexus and he dropped to one knee. Realizing that he couldn’t
defeat Sal fairly, Wilson snatched up a handful of dirt and threw
it up into his eyes, temporarily blinding Sal. Wilson kicked Sal in
his midsection, and then delivered a vicious right upper-cut
knocking Sal to the ground. Managing to wipe the dirt from his
eyes, Sal quickly got back to his feet.

As they circled around each other like
gladiators in the Coliseum, they knew only one man could survive.
Bloody and injured they engaged once more. Finally, Wilson wrestled
Sal to the ground and administered a lethal choke hold. Feeling
light-headed, Sal knew that he was finished if he lost
consciousness. All at once the hours of training and punishment he
received at the hands of Smith kicked in. Remembering the simple
counter that Smith had taught him to break free from this choke
hold, Sal sunk his teeth deep into Wilson’s arm. Blood spewed from
the limb as Wilson screamed. Sal escaped from Wilson’s grasp, and
reversed position earning a firm grip on Wilson’s neck. In one
strong, decisive twist, the vertebrae cracked and the light of life
drained from Wilson’s eyes. Releasing his hold on Wilson, Sal
rolled away and quickly retrieved his weapon.

“I guess this is what you call a Mexican
stand-off,” Smith declared, amused by Sal’s victory.

“You coulda shot me. Why didn’t you?”

“You saved my life. I owed you one. Besides,
we were getting tired of working for that asshole, anyway. Wilson
makes us even. Fair enough, Scalise?”

Sal nodded as the chopper touched down.

“We get to keep the merchandise and you get
to live. You must have a Guardian Angel looking out for you or
something.”

Sal smirked.

“Narcotics is a dirty business, Scalise.
Sometimes your most dangerous adversary isn’t your enemy. Sometimes
it’s the guy standing on the rung just below you on the ladder of
power. Remember that.”

“I didn’t know you CIA guys were so fucking
philosophical.”

“So what are you gonna to do now?”

“I’m going home. And I don’t want nothing to
stop me. Understand? If you guys know what’s good for you, you’ll
leave all this shit in the field.”

“You want a lift? We’ll be glad to drop you
at your old base camp.”

“Get on the fucking chopper and take that
piecea shit with you.”

Promptly, Murphy and Jones gathered up the
duffel bags of heroin. They each grabbed one of Wilson’s arms and
dragged his body to the Huey.

As he headed toward the helicopter, Smith
stopped and started to remove something from his pack.

Pointing his weapon at Smith’s head, Sal
warned, “That’s enougha that.”

“Don’t get nervous, I’m just getting
something from my pack.” Smith removed a small pouch and tossed it
to Sal. “Here, I think this belongs to you.”

Letting the bag hit his chest, Sal watched
it fall to the ground at his feet. “What the fuck is this?”

“Call it a going away present. You know
Scalise, things got a way of evening out. Maybe someday when you
least expect it, when you’re at your most vulnerable, one of us
will show up in the Bronx and pay you a visit. You won’t hear us
coming and you won’t be so healthy when we leave. I can promise you
that.”

“Go fuck yourself. You’re not soldiers.
You’re fucking garbage. Be advised, if I ever do see any of youse
back in the world, I’m gonna fucking kill you. Capisi?” Remembering
their first encounter, Sal exaggeratedly enunciated his last word.
“Now get on the fucking chopper before I light your ass up.”

Climbing into the helicopter, Smith flashed
Sal a disconcerting smile. The Huey ascended and the remaining team
members were gone in seconds. The morning light over the horizon
gave Sal confidence. Slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, he
picked up the bag Smith had thrown to him. Sal untied the string
and removed the contents to find the cherished framed photograph
his grandmother had given him. Smiling, he tucked it into his
pack.

Though he knew his chances of making it
through the enemy patrols and brutal terrain were slim, Sal also
understood that his odds of surviving the journey through the
hostile jungle were better than his chances of getting home on that
chopper with Smith. Determined to make it back to the Bronx, Sal
took a deep breath, and darted into the dense, black brush.

* * * * *

The eardrum-shattering scream of commercial
jet aircraft taking-off and landing were a stark contrast to the
soothing female voice announcing flight changes and delays. Weighed
down by his heavy medals and citations, Sal wore a well-pressed
Class-A uniform and patent leather shoes. His face beamed,
reflecting a feeling of pride in himself and his heroic service.
With his lone green duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Sal
strolled through the New York airport as if he were taking a
morning constitutional.

As he made his way through the terminal, Sal
encountered several passing long-haired hippies in ripped blue
jeans, leather sandals, and tie-dyed t-shirts. Knowing that the
majority of returning soldiers were cursed, ridiculed, and even
spat upon, Sal refused to give them the satisfaction of making him
feel uncomfortable. As the hippies fired looks of contempt in his
direction, Sal reciprocated with an unemotional gaze of
indifference.

Marching out of the nearest exit, Sal hailed
a taxi. One speedily arrived and came to a screeching stop. Opening
the back door, Sal tossed his bulky green bag onto the seat and
climbed in closing the door. The driver, a heavy-set, older black
gentleman with gray thinning hair and several missing teeth, wasn’t
exactly the welcome wagon. Peering up into the rear-view mirror,
the cabby set the fare flag. “Where to, soldier boy?” he inquired
rudely.

“The Bronx, Arthur Avenue.”

“You just coming home from overseas?”

“Yeah.”

“You survived Vietnam just to come back to
that?” the driver remarked unkindly.

“Shut the fuck up and drive, asshole.”

The cabby slammed the vehicle into gear and
stammered mockingly, “You gots it, General.” The vehicle tore away
from the curb, frightening some pigeons gathered on the
sidewalk.

As the cab weaved in-and-out of traffic, Sal
scanned his surroundings happily, recalling his first trip through
New York as a boy while riding in his father’s car. Putting his
head back, Sal closed his eyes and drifted off into a light sleep.
Before he even had time to dream, the vehicle came to an abrupt
halt. Sal’s body drifted forward, and then slammed back hard
against the seat.

“We’re here. Which building is your’s, young
man?” the cabby yelled, trying to wake him.

Taking a few moments to get his bearings,
Sal looked around for his father’s car, hoping he still owned the
same black Cadillac, and was home. A big smile broke over his face
the moment he located the familiar vehicle parked in its usual spot
right in front of the building.