anything."
We landed on the
helipad. Howton turned in his seat, looked at me expectantly. "Now what?"
The radio kicked
in. "Nine Nine Four. This is Gunship Tiger Fifty Seven Seven. Stand by for new
orders."
"Ask and you shall
receive," said Howton. "Got your ass covered back there, Doctor Death?"
"Wrapped in a pimp
Cadillac, you limp-ass white boy. What's the poop?" sang out Doctor Death.
"No poop. We hang
on to our Mystery Guest and wait for the sun to shine."
"I'm getting
restless back here, boss. I ain't killed nothing all goddamn morning and I am getting a
considerable mad on."
"How is the war
going? Are we winning?" I asked Howton, although that was what I myself was here to find out and
I knew Howton had no answers.
"War can't take you
no place but cold and old. You ask me how the war's going, I'll tell you I miss the hell out of
my wife and I don't think I'm ever going to be young again. You ought to be asking Doctor Death,"
suggested Howton. "If he don't exactly know the answer, he's sure-ass good at making up one that sounds good."
"Doctor
Death?"
"Who that yammering
in my ear?" said the big black with a wide grin splitting his face. "Is that the baby we want to
throw out with the bathwater?"
"Affirmative."
"Welcome aboard,
Chief. You out here trying to do to Vietnam what your folks done did to Custer?"
"Something like
that," I said. "How do you think the war is going?"
"Just like a
waitress with her legs crossed and her arms folded. The frigging service here is
terrible."
Howton smiled and
jerked his thumb back at Doctor Death. "His name is actually Jackson Jackson, but Doctor Death
suits him better. Unwise to try to unconnect him with his own label. Ain't saying he's mean, but
his pockets are full of teeth donated by second place in arguments with him."
"Sounds mean," I
said. I spoke into the headset. "Once a tribesman, Elk Shoulder, fought many enemies
single-handed, as many as the bar could hold, I guess. He said he didn't like the damn white man
music on the jukebox. Survived the fight without a scratch. He grabbed some guy's head, tore the
legs off a bar stool, and beat on his head right along with the music, singing he don't know
exactly what because he don't speak any English, but no matter 'cause he's got the rhythm down,
that's for sure. And he walked off, where somebody else would have died. If you get the rhythm,
it is said you can walk off. When you talk, I hear the same rhythm."
"That's me to a T.
I am the King of Walking It Off," said Doctor Death. "I am so goddamn mean I am going to survive
Vietnam. Man, you can't get no meaner than that."
Another chopper, a
gunship, joined us on the helipad.
It discharged
several men, two guns at ready, obviously guards, with a prisoner between them, and a man walking
like an architect's idea of what a human would walk like if he were a high-rise.
"Big lettuce
coming, massa," said Doctor Death. "Look like to me we done getting the head dude."
Howton snapped a
crisp salute, his face blanking, becoming an expressionless mask. Even Doctor Death stopped
smiling as General W. approached the craft.
The general spotted
me, smiled warily and gave a brisk salute. I did not return it. He did not seem surprised by my
lapse.
"You're Lieutenant
Lookspeaker? You know who I am. Let me make this perfectly clear. I have no part of this project
other than arranging its final implementation. I decidedly do not approve of your mission. Is
that understood, soldier?" The general's face was red, his voice clipped mean like overmown
grass.
"I understand,
General."
"I don't think you
do," snapped the general. "In any case, I am delivering for interrogation purposes, or rather for
what I assume is interrogation purposes, the highest-ranking VC prisoner we've got. His name and
rank is—"
"I don't need to
know that."
"Will you need an
interpreter?" asked the general. "It wasn't mentioned but I have prepared for
We landed on the
helipad. Howton turned in his seat, looked at me expectantly. "Now what?"
The radio kicked
in. "Nine Nine Four. This is Gunship Tiger Fifty Seven Seven. Stand by for new
orders."
"Ask and you shall
receive," said Howton. "Got your ass covered back there, Doctor Death?"
"Wrapped in a pimp
Cadillac, you limp-ass white boy. What's the poop?" sang out Doctor Death.
"No poop. We hang
on to our Mystery Guest and wait for the sun to shine."
"I'm getting
restless back here, boss. I ain't killed nothing all goddamn morning and I am getting a
considerable mad on."
"How is the war
going? Are we winning?" I asked Howton, although that was what I myself was here to find out and
I knew Howton had no answers.
"War can't take you
no place but cold and old. You ask me how the war's going, I'll tell you I miss the hell out of
my wife and I don't think I'm ever going to be young again. You ought to be asking Doctor Death,"
suggested Howton. "If he don't exactly know the answer, he's sure-ass good at making up one that sounds good."
"Doctor
Death?"
"Who that yammering
in my ear?" said the big black with a wide grin splitting his face. "Is that the baby we want to
throw out with the bathwater?"
"Affirmative."
"Welcome aboard,
Chief. You out here trying to do to Vietnam what your folks done did to Custer?"
"Something like
that," I said. "How do you think the war is going?"
"Just like a
waitress with her legs crossed and her arms folded. The frigging service here is
terrible."
Howton smiled and
jerked his thumb back at Doctor Death. "His name is actually Jackson Jackson, but Doctor Death
suits him better. Unwise to try to unconnect him with his own label. Ain't saying he's mean, but
his pockets are full of teeth donated by second place in arguments with him."
"Sounds mean," I
said. I spoke into the headset. "Once a tribesman, Elk Shoulder, fought many enemies
single-handed, as many as the bar could hold, I guess. He said he didn't like the damn white man
music on the jukebox. Survived the fight without a scratch. He grabbed some guy's head, tore the
legs off a bar stool, and beat on his head right along with the music, singing he don't know
exactly what because he don't speak any English, but no matter 'cause he's got the rhythm down,
that's for sure. And he walked off, where somebody else would have died. If you get the rhythm,
it is said you can walk off. When you talk, I hear the same rhythm."
"That's me to a T.
I am the King of Walking It Off," said Doctor Death. "I am so goddamn mean I am going to survive
Vietnam. Man, you can't get no meaner than that."
Another chopper, a
gunship, joined us on the helipad.
It discharged
several men, two guns at ready, obviously guards, with a prisoner between them, and a man walking
like an architect's idea of what a human would walk like if he were a high-rise.
"Big lettuce
coming, massa," said Doctor Death. "Look like to me we done getting the head dude."
Howton snapped a
crisp salute, his face blanking, becoming an expressionless mask. Even Doctor Death stopped
smiling as General W. approached the craft.
The general spotted
me, smiled warily and gave a brisk salute. I did not return it. He did not seem surprised by my
lapse.
"You're Lieutenant
Lookspeaker? You know who I am. Let me make this perfectly clear. I have no part of this project
other than arranging its final implementation. I decidedly do not approve of your mission. Is
that understood, soldier?" The general's face was red, his voice clipped mean like overmown
grass.
"I understand,
General."
"I don't think you
do," snapped the general. "In any case, I am delivering for interrogation purposes, or rather for
what I assume is interrogation purposes, the highest-ranking VC prisoner we've got. His name and
rank is—"
"I don't need to
know that."
"Will you need an
interpreter?" asked the general. "It wasn't mentioned but I have prepared for
Similar Books
