Seeds of Fear

DEVIL WITH A BLUE DRESS P. D. Cacek

You wan me suckee you good, GI?

Gil Thornton's elbow slammed into the side of the restaurant's neoclassic facade as his hand reached for the side arm that should have been caressing his hip like an enamored lover.

That should have been there.

But wasn't.

Hadn't been for twenty-plus years.

You wan me suckee you good, GI?

Gil pushed away from the thin sheet-marble column and ran a shaky hand through thinning hair. Tried to force an even shakier smile to his lips, but found that particular action as impossible as trying to draw a long-forgotten gun.

To shoot a long-dead whore.

watching him

He would have laughed out loud if he'd been able to stop panting. The reaction and the (fear) memories had undoubtedly been the direct result of the "182nd Point 5" reunion dinner he'd just suffered through.

And wondered, again — for the hundredth time that evening, actually — why the hell he'd suddenly felt obliged to sit through an overpriced meal and down watery scotch alongside men whom he shared nothing in common with except the number 182.5.

The exact middle of the summer of '69 draft choice.

If you didn't count leap year.

Which Uncle Sam didn't.

Why after all these years? was still playing like a broken record in his mind when the evening's "Reopening of Old Wounds" had drifted away from firefights and cheap pussy and focused on the current administration's brownnosing attempt to reestablish trade agreements with the Nam.

The boys of the "182nd Point 5 Club" thought that was a bad idea.

And Gil had kept quiet, sucking down three times his usual two-drink limit and making himself a promise he intended to keep this time: No more reunions with men incapable of putting the past behind them.

Like he'd done.

At least until tonight.

"So ya wanna suckee or not?"

Gil lowered his hand slowly, remembering the side arm at the last moment, and quickly grabbed the restaurant's brass handrail instead.

still watching him

"What?"

The vague female shape stepped away from the line of parked cars and started a slow, cautious advance — high heels clicking against the sidewalk like bamboo chimes, her body moving beneath the minidress like a snake trying to shed its skin.

Gil enjoyed the show until she stepped into the light and tossed her head. A flash of bright blue (the color of a peacock's breast) stabbed him in the gut.

You wan me suckee you good, GI?

"What?"

The heart-shaped face he remembered (expected) melted under the light into a haggard scowl topped with a Raggedy Anne fright wig. Sighing, the hooker tossed the fringed blue scarf back over her shoulders, exposing tired-looking breasts that had been cinched into a black leather vest, and stared up at him. Ran a jaundiced tongue over corpse-pale lips as she rolled nearly colorless eyes.

You wan me suckee you good, GI?

Gil felt his backbone mold itself to the smooth marble sheeting.

"Shit, man," the hooker hissed at him, "you from outta town or sumthin'? You wanna blow job or not?"

He couldn't tell her age — somewhere between twenty and death was as close as he could come — but the streets had already done a number on her. Gil could almost smell the coppery sweet stench of decay rising from beneath the short skirt.

Could almost hear the skin on his balls go snap crackle pop as they shriveled at the thought of her tongue and teeth closing over his —

"I'll do it for twenty-five," she said, taking a step closer, running knobby-fingered hands down the front of her thighs. "What'dya say?"

Gil shifted his weight, feeling the solid wall of protection at his back give way to a sweating chill as he focused on the bright

sun-faded palms already dripping onto the tin-roofed plywood stalls where bird-legged children ran between the coils of barbed wire and a heart-shape-faced whore in a blue dress walked past a stinking, dilapidated bar called the

San Francisco skyline towering overhead.

… as he tried not to breathe in air that suddenly seemed thick, heavy with the stench of urine and burning shit and fish drifting in from the Bay.

… as he rushed down the polished marble stair, ducking at the last moment to avoid the outstretched claws. As he listened to another voice whispering seductively in his ear.

you — wan — me — sue — kee — you — good — G — I became Gil's marching cadence as he crossed against the light and turned in to the deeper canyons of the Financial District.

He didn't even stop at the opposite side of the street to hail a cab — something he never would have done (considering the five-block technical climb back to his apartment) if it hadn't been for the booze. and the reopened wounds his «buddies» of the 182nd Point 5 had picked at all night.

"You remember those friggin' 'bars' down on Plantation Road?"

"Man, oh man. my wiener never ate so good."

"Shit, yeah — them B-girls were the best, man. You remember, Gil?"

I remember.

"You remember, Gil?"

"I remember."

"But ya gotta be careful, pal. 'cause you never know which one could be workin' for ol' Charlie. Right. gotta watch their eyes, man."

"Right. Gotta watch their eyes," he whispered, and caught the reflection of his own eyes in the subdued, night-lit windows of the district's «trendier» boutiques and storefront offices.

eyes watching

God, he was getting old.

Getting? Fuck, he was old. Despite the hand-tailored suits ("customized" to hang loose around the softness at his belt line and wide over his stooped shoulders) and weekly salon trims, Gil could see his father and grandfather where there had once been a hard-muscled, hard-assed boy who always thought he'd be that way.

Back when "getting old" meant surviving your tour of duty.

The good ol' days.

Gil made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been a laugh if it had been any other night and he hadn't downed quite so many waterlogged whiskeys and smiled. Flipped his reflection the single-digit salute.

And momentarily forgot how to breathe.

you wan me suckee you good, GI?

The large poster dominated the travel agent's window, its young Vietnamese model — complete with straw "Ah so" hat and white silk ao dai pajamas — holding a bouquet of jungle orchids: half-turned toward the camera. A shy smile on her lips. The pale green cast of her eyes a silent indictment to her racial impurity. Either Amerasian or Eurasian.

Gil was surprised the gooks had let her live, let alone become their country's poster child.

She looked about the right age, probably no more than

eighteen, GI. and she no do this much like other girls. I keep her special for you, GI. just eighteen

GI

twenty, and twenty years ago there was more than enough American DNA swimming in the ol' gene pool to produce a whole generation with shit-green eyes.

Gil let his own eyes drop to the caption just below the half-caste's tiny breasts: Come Back to VIETNAM.

Come back.

Come back.

Come back, GI… I no bite

She was standing next to him in the glass, wearing the same bright blue ao dai she'd been wearing the day Gil killed her.

Watching him.

You wan me suckee you good, GI? she asked, her voice a whisper as she slowly lifted her hand to his shoulder. I be your numbah one girlfriend Vietnam.

Gil was shivering even before he felt the coldness of her hand through the thick layers of tailored wool. She was just as lovely as the last time he'd seen her.

And just as dead.

You wan me suck —

" — ee you good, GI?"

Gil tightened his grip on the limp rice-paper bag he was carrying and rolled his shoulders beneath the sweat-soaked uniform tee. Ignored the sweet-soft voice as he forced himself to take another step through the morning's almost liquid heat.

When he got to the next stall — a seller of plaster Buffies and other objets d'art — Gil wiped the dripping skin below his boonie hat and cursed softly to himself. Seven-fucking-A.M. and he already felt like a used rubber. wrinkling into himself and leaking juice like a sieve.

"You wan me suckee you good, GI?"

Jesus, didn't whores take ANY time off?

Gil quarter-turned again and thumped his boot-heels hard against Duong Cong-Ly's rutted, monsoon-pitted asphalt; ignoring the muffled squawks of a half dozen dusty chickens the same way he'd ignored the whore's «come-on» line.

The first time.

Halfway around the plywood and hammered-tin stalls that made up Centertown's "business district" and Gil could still feel the silent, angry stares collecting along his backbone like starving leeches.

Had been collecting there from the first moment he stepped foot in country.

He knew no amount of shoulder rolling would detach them.

That no amount of bug juice would keep them off him.

For long.

Gil didn't like being stared at. Never had. But now it was worse. Now his life might be threatened by one of those stares.

Because you never knew.

Never knew when Charlie might be the one staring.

never knew

He'd even heard about whores with glass up their snatches just waiting for horny GIs.

They were still watching. He could feel them.

Didn't they know he was one of the GOOD GUYS? Didn't they know he was there to try and save their fucking country for them? Why the fuck did they have to WATCH him all the time?

To keep himself from drawing the service «piece» on his hip and taking out a few of the WATCHERS (because you never knew when Charlie might be one of them), Gil ran a greasy hand over the back of his neck and took a deep breath.. almost gagging on the combined stench of his fear sweat and Vietnam's pungent ambience.

Something had died nearby. Either that, or the wind had shifted and was blowing from the direction of the nuc mam seller. A thin-legged boy pulled down his shorts and added to the overall olfactory effect.

Watching him. Watching Gil with hate-filled eyes.

The gun would have felt so good in his hand.

Rolling his shoulders, turning away from the (eyes) child, Gil opened the soggy bag and looked inside — reassuring himself that it was still there.

It was.

Although the humidity had already gotten to the plastic (unbroken) shrink-wrap covering the jacket, fogging over the full color photo, Gil could still make out some of the lettering: Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels.

Featuring their hit single: "Devil with a Blue Dress."

Gil sighed and nodded, carefully folded the bag closed and tucked it under his arm. Felt better knowing it was still there, even though it was the reason he was out wandering the marketplace; collecting hard-edged stares the way a turd collects flies.

But that was okay, he reminded himself, because he had the record.

The night before he and seven of his barracks-mates had each pitched in twenty-five cents for the weekly "record run," then drew straws to see who the runner would be.

Gil made sure he lost.

Almost ten months in country and he hadn't realized how much "Devil with a Blue Dress" had meant to him. back in the «World». when he still had a future that wasn't measured in firefights and hostile stares.

The rest of the "record runners" would probably be pissed when he got back with the classic, but fuck 'em, he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them the reason behind it. Couldn't tell them that it was the song blaring on the radio of his dad's Chevy the first and last time he'd had sex.

Made love.

Screwed.

Fucked.

Gil hugged the record to his chest and found himself stopped in front of a fruit stall, staring at flat-topped green coconuts.

They were the only things in the display he could recognize.

Something familiar.. like the constant bulge straining against the front of his fatigue pants.

Both his family doctor and the 90th Repo'-Depot's medic had warned him about "sticking his pecker where it don't belong."

Gil shook his head when the fruit seller lifted one of the nuts and heard his dog tags jingle — in three-part harmony. Two STANDARDS, dull tin gray, and one NONSTANDARD. Blood red.

If, however, he did "stick his pecker where it didn't belong" and caught something "more aggressive than crotch rot," the NONSTANDARD tag would tell the medic in charge to avoid the rush and just hand him a body bag. Because he was gonna die.

Allergies to penicillin and most sulfa drugs did not a "happy soldier" make.

Especially when pussy came cheaper than a crew-cut coconut.

Especially when his «buddies» back at Tan Son Nhut would be keeping time to the Wheels' driving beat between the legs of some hooch maid while he, Corporal Gil "Can't Get No Satisfaction" Thornton, humped the barracks' communal stereo system.

And watched.

"Fuckin' shit!" Gil snarled, waving aside the seller's jabbering makee deal makee deal, and spun on the balls of his feet. The lug soles of his boots made soft crushing sounds as he turned.

She was standing directly behind him; black-almond eyes smiling up at him.

watching him

"You wan me suckee you good, GI?"

Gil felt the front of his pants shrink another size.

She was young and beautiful. Her black hair gleaming under the relentless sun. Her eyes clear and bright.

And watching him.

Gil's fingers dug into the bag, striking plastic wrap.

"You wan me suckee you good, GI?" she asked again as if he hadn't heard.

While she waited for his answer, she tossed a thick black braid over the shoulder of her blue ao dai. A bright blue ao dai. . the "Devil with a Blue Dress" brought to life.

Halfway around the world from where they first met in the backseat of his dad's car. But this time she wasn't blond.

And this time what was between her legs could kill him as surely as a VC's bullet.

Not as quickly.

Not as cleanly.

But just as dead.

One more grunt for Charlie's body count.

One less grunt to watch.

"You have girlfriend Vietnam?" she asked when it became apparent Gil wasn't going to answer.

Her skin, without the usual scabbed-over lesions and pustules he'd seen on some of the camp's other "girlfriends," was stretched tightly over her heart- shaped skull; and Gil could see the sharp edge of one collarbone as she fingered the high silken collar.

In fifteen months he hadn't seen one fat dink whore.

Hell, he hadn't seen one fat dink anything.

"I be your girlfriend Vietnam," she said, and gave one case closed, end of discussion nod.

The Regulation Hustle: as STANDARD as the two tags hanging around his neck; and as obvious as the NONSTANDARD tag.

Gil shook his head, usually all the discouragement they needed, and checked the Seiko he'd picked up his first week in country. Frowned. The dubbing/screw 'em if you can «party» wouldn't start until the evening's torrential rainstorm, around seven.

That left him twelve full hours before he had to become Gil the Geek — master deejay and part-time voyeur.

watching

Twelve hours to kill.

Gil could feel her eyes on him. Leeches. But hungrier than the rest.

"I be your girlfriend Vietnam." Stepping closer, she laced one blue-draped arm though his and began pulling him away from the still-babbling fruit seller. "You buy me tea, then I suckee you good."

Gil put a stranglehold on the bag containing the imaginary devil while he followed the real one, the one wearing the blue dress, through Centertown's semicir cular heart toward the «bars» on Plantation Road.

And kept following her even as they began passing the plywood-and-pressed-beer-can establishments. When an even thinner whore in a bright red miniskirt and UCLA T-shirt darted out of the San Francisco and made a snatch at Gil's hat, the Blue Devil at his side made her own snatch and came back with a tiny fist full of greasy black hair.

"I know beddah place," the Blue Devil said, ignoring the screeching, scalped whore behind them. "More beddah this place, for sure. No worry. We go."

Gil knew the «place» wasn't any «beddah» than any of the other prefab bars they were passing, but he went — following after her like a dog after a bitch, listening to her jabber away in a fast-forward version of pidgin English Vietnamese and trying to negotiate cobblestones thick with liquified human waste.

"You see," she said, turning to look into his eyes as she stopped and began pulling him through a doorway hung with blue and crystal plastic beads. "Much beddah place. You see."

you see

But he hadn't. Didn't see the door until the beads clicker-clacked behind him. And by then he was too late.

The verbal horseshoe ambush caught him from all sides as floor-to-ceiling curtains were pulled aside, bamboo rings chattering, and the tiny «outer» room was suddenly filled with smiling, ao dai-clad whores.

But his was the only one wearing blue, Gil noticed. He had the only blue devil.

Four pair of dark eyes locked onto his as lips smiled and heads nodded. Gil felt his balls pucker up into his belly. Felt their stares latch on to his flesh and start feeding.

felt Charlie watching

When the mammasan in black pajamas shuffled out from behind a painted bamboo screen, his little Blue Devil raced forward, arms outstretched, jibbering like a monkey.

One of the curtains fluttered in her wake, exposing the cramped interior. An American GI, his sweat-slick Afro pressing into the filigreed back of a bamboo papasan chair, eyes rolling white, groaned while a half-naked woman kneeled between his spread legs, her shining black head nodding slowly.

Gil could still see their images, in reverse color — the man white, the woman's silken pants dull green — superimposed on the curtain as it fell back into place.

could still see

It wasn't much different than the (few) parties he had attended his last year in high school. back when free love was, and Vietnam was just something you heard your parents talk about in hushed tones and Canada was still just a plane ticket away.

Back when he thought he'd live forever.

Gil looked down at the soggy bundle in his hand. One plastic-sheathed corner had worked its way through the rice paper. Beads of condensation, like sweat, gathered and disappeared beneath the matted paper. He could almost feel the LP getting softer in his hands. If he didn't get back to base and start transferring Mitch Ryder to cassette tapes, he might lose the «Devil» for another God-knows-how-long.

Except that there wasn't any real danger of that happening. Not now. Not really. Not in real time.

Gil looked up as the living Devil rushed back toward him, the ancient mammasan in tow. Smiling, nodding,

watching

"This be numbah one GI, Ba," the girl said as she laid a surprisingly cool hand against Gil's chest. He shivered under its pressure. "I be his girlfriend Vietnam."

The old woman nodded her sparsely covered head and smiled. Worn, betel-stained teeth gleamed at Gil in the murky half-light.

"You like, you like," she hissed at him, "you see, she numbah one suckee girl. How old you, GI? How old you?"

"What?" Was there an AGE requirement? "Nineteen. And a half."

The mammasan hooked a gnarled finger under the whore's chin and lifted the perfectly heart-shaped face.

"She eighteen, GI. an' half, like you, GI. She no do this so much like other girls. I keep her special for you, GI. I keep her clean. Just for you, GI."

And it's not even my birthday.

"An' she virgin. just like all girls here. She suckee you good, GI, but no fuckee. She virgin."

That must have been a major problem, Gil thought, considering that every woman he'd met in Nam was — by her own admissions or those of her pimp — a virgin. Gil wondered if Uncle Sam knew he was waging a war against immaculately conceived VC.

Still nodding, the mammasan grabbed Gil's arm just above the elbow and began leading {dragging) him toward one of the closed curtains. The exposed corner of the record bumped against the dog tags hanging at his throat. Rattling them. Reminding him.

The mammasan heard the noise and turned without stopping, fingered the bright red one and smiled.

"Pretty, pretty. you like, for sure. Virgin girl know how to make GI plenty happy."

Gil felt the blue-dressed «virgin» brush past him and push the curtain open. Another bamboo chair, identical to the one he'd seen holding the black grunt, sat in the middle of the tiny room. Although room was too big a word for the space he was looking at.

There was just enough room for the chair and a woman kneeling in front. Watching.

Gil took a deep breath and watched the girl bend down and fluff the thin pillow in front of the chair. As she straightened, she began slipping the tiny covered buttons on her shirt through the silken loops. In less than a minute she shrugged out of the knee-length top and draped it over the fanned back of the chair. Her tiny, rose-nippled breasts trembled with the motion. begging for his tongue… his fingers. his.

"A. virgin?" Gil whispered without benefit of spit. Every drop of moisture in his body, except for that oozing out through his pores, was currently filling the Full Military Erection jutting out the front of his pants.

"Sure she virgin," the old woman growled, "what you think? She some goddamned bar girl? She virgin. like all others virgin."

"Why?" Gil heard himself ask.

"Must eat," mammasan said, "and war not last fo'eber. When war end I sell real virgins for beaucoup bucks to good family. Make plenty money. She suckee only, no open legs… no fuckee. She virgin."

Gil suddenly felt like he was back in high school, about to go out on his last {first time) date; standing with his hands clasped over the pathetic throbbing in his jeans while he listened to the girl's father explain the facts of life (everlasting) to him — that his daughter was a virgin and he expected for her to come home in the same condition.

Which she hadn't.

Neither of them had.

Gil pulled his arm out of the old woman's grasp and laced both over the record.

"So how much are virgins going for these days?" he asked.

Twin smiles beamed at him.

"Five dollah American."

"Five — "

For that amount he could probably buy Ho Chin Minh's daughter. Or a water buffalo. And still get change back.

Gil shifted the record to one side and shook his head, waving away the offer with his free hand. "Too beaucoup much. I'll give you. " Pause."… twenty-five piastres. That's more than most bar girls get."

The mammasan's black eyes disappeared beneath wrinkled flaps of skin as she puckered up and deposited a wad of cocoa brown phlegm an inch from the toe of Gil's right boot.

"You wan spend twenty-five p, you go get god damned bar girl. This numbah one virgin girl give you good suckee, no disease. No nothing bad. She be worth five dollah American. Worth more, for sure."

Gil shook his head in time with the throbbing in his groin {please, Daddy? Please?). Five dollars American could buy a whole hell of a lot of things more important than a quick blow job..

but for the life of him, he couldn't think of any at the moment.

Grumbling under his breath to let the mammasan think her lie about the "virgin whore" had caught yet another oversexed grunt, Gil reached into his back pocket and pulled out the thick wad of MPCs. Kept on grumbling while he peeled off the military scrip. Stopped when he reached five and held them out.

The old woman spit again.

"No wan Mickey Mouse money. that not good for nothing." She held out a scarred palm and slapped it with the fingers of her other hand. "Five dollah American. Real money."

"It's worth it, man," a husky voice said.

Gil turned to watch the black grunt, chest glistening with sweat beneath his web gear, arm tossed casually over the bamboo curtain rod less than a foot above his flattened Afro. His eyes were half-closed beneath chocolate brown lids, thick lips hanging open in a loose smile.

He looked more stoned than fucked over.

"Five dollars worth?" Gil asked.

"Fuckin'-A, man." Tipping forward at the waist, the grunt planted a sloppy, openmouthed kiss on his whore's puffy lips. "An' I was even in Vung Tau. Shit, these ladies could suck the eye out of a needle. Damn!"

"Five dollars."

The black grunt shot Gil a thumb's-up, then staggered to and out the beaded doorway. The flat rattling sound continued as Gil flipped back the pay certifi cates to the real stuff. He, like every other grunt who'd passed the Turtle Test, and lived to see his dark OD fatigues fade, always kept at least a cool hundred in U.S. currency.

For emergencies.

like this one

"She'd better be worth this," Gil snarled, taking a relatively crisp five-dollar bill and dangling it before the mammasan's jaundiced eyes like a baited hook. Her stares were more like grubs than leeches. "If she's not, there's going to be beaucoup hell to pay. You understand?"

"Yes, yes, understand good. She berry, berry good, GI, you see. If no think so, you can beat. Beat, just no fuck. She virgin, worth more than five dollah American when war finished."

Gil could almost feel the steam rising as she pulled the bill from his fingers.

"You see, she numbah one girlfriend. If you like, I no let her give suckee any other GI but you. You see, you like whole hell'a lot. Come, you sit. she suckee you good."

Gil let himself be steered toward the chair and sat down, the woven bamboo squeaking beneath his ass in protest.

"You wan me take that? Keep it plenty safe, for sure."

Gil followed the mammasan's hand to the record clutched to his chest and shook his head.

"No. I'll keep it. Here. With me."

"No worry, GI," the old woman said as her fingers closed over the record and pulled it from his grasp. "This be plenty respectable place. We no steal. Oh. record. You like me play?"

Gil watched the old woman slice the plastic cover with a ragged nail and slide the real virgin out of its tissue paper protector.

"Have plenty good record player, GI. You like play?"

She turned without waiting for him to answer, shuffling away from the curtained cocoon as fast as her bandy little legs would carry her. Gil stood up and took a step forward when he saw that the plenty good record player was one of those claw-lidded things he'd had as a kid. The kind that left scratches the size of the Grand Canyon.

oh shit

Gil took another step when Mitch Ryder's voice (sounding a little like Donald Duck) filled the room, singing about the Devil with a Blue Dress. The mammasan looked up from the phonograph and nodded as the other whores clapped happily.

shit shit shit

"You wan suckee now, GI?"

Gil glanced back over his shoulder. She was standing next to the chair, the blue pants bunched around her ankles.

"You come back, GI. I no bite."

The curtain swooshed closed as he sat back down. Gil thought he heard a soft chuckle as she kneeled in front of him but wasn't sure. Couldn't be sure of anything but her cool fingers moving swiftly to his belt buckle… to the buttons of his fly.

"I be your numbah one girlfriend Vietnam, okay?" She was watching his face as her hands parted the heavy cotton and lifted him out. "You see, I give good suckee. make you forget. You not want me do this with other GIs, I not do.

"Just you, GI.

"I be just for you. You see."

you see

Her lips went taunt as she slipped down over his engorged prick. Every muscle in Gil's body tightened. It was unbelievable… a feeling like cold fire sweeping upward from his cock and engulfing him.

swallowing him.

eating him.

watching

Gil felt his pubic hairs twitch as he opened his eyes.

She was staring back at him — black-almond eyes wide and locked on to his face. Studying him. Filled with hate. A wave of heat raced down his spine, meeting the cold fire somewhere near his belly.

And turning it to steam.

"You like to watch, don't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, Gil arched his back and forced more of himself into her waiting mouth — digging his fingers into her thick black hair, rubbing his thumbs against her sweating temples. She grabbed his wrists and pulled away, exposing the purple heart-shaped tip of his cock.

"No do. too beaucoup big. you choke me. Too big."

"Liar," Gil whispered, and moved his thumbs closer to the epicanthic folds that shaped her eyes. "I'm not any beaucoup bigger than any other grunt, am I?"

She smiled up at him and ran her tongue slowly over her lips. How many other grunts had she smiled at like that? How many others had she watched. Like that?

Like they were the enemy?

Like she was watching him right now.

Gil felt the steam inside his gut reach his brain. He'd fucking had enough.

Scooting forward, he grabbed her chin, wrenched it to one side, and thrust himself back into her mouth.

She gagged and pulled back, her black hair shimmering as she began to shake her head — back and forth, back and forth. Gil felt her teeth rake the tender flesh of his cock.

"You trying to bite me, bitch?" he screamed, grabbing and jerking her chin down toward her quivering breasts. "You said you wouldn't bite!

"What are you lookin' at, cunt?"

Her eyes widened an instant before Gil raised his free hand and jammed two fingers into them, popping them while Mitch Ryder howled in the background about a blue-dressed devil.

Setting the beat.

"Yeah. you ain't gonna bite and you ain't gonna watch. Your whole fucking country likes to watch, don't it, cunt? You gonna watch me now, dink?" Gil hissed as he tightened his grip and scooted to the edge of the chair. "That's what you people like to do, isn't it? Watch GIs until you think we don't see you anymore and that's when you get us, isn't it?

"Well, watch this." Gil shoved himself still deeper and felt the tip of his cock slide down into her throat. "Watch it all, bitch. Watch it! WATCH IT!"

Forgetting, for the moment, that she had nothing left to watch him with. But that was okay. that was fine. that was fuckin'-A, man!

Because she wasn't nothin' but a dink, anyway.

Blood-tinted goo dripped down the sides of Gil's hands as the Devil pummeled his thighs, his belly, his chest, with her fists; losing the music's beat as pink foam bubbled around the inch of his shaft that still protruded from her mouth.

As Gil worked on her. still shouting watch me, you goddamned whore, watch me NOW! until he felt her body go limp.

one less gook to watch

"What you do?" someone yelled. "You dinki dau GI? Crazy? You stop — dung ltd. No do this."

The fire continued to build, destroying the fear that had been building in his belly since the moment he'd felt the first stares burrowing under his skin.

"I call MP! They come quick, shoot you dead! Dung lui, you summa beech!"

The orgasm tightened, pulling him forward, driving him down to the hilt. Gil felt the sides of his cock scrape against her back teeth. Felt her body match his shudders as the cold fire exploded like a Claymore.

This side toward enemy.

Panting, sweat burning his eyes, Gil scooted back in the chair and let the dead whore collapse backward onto the mud-streaked floor. At his feet. As flaccid as his spent cock.

"That really was great," he said, nodding to the gaping mammasan as he reached for the side arm and licked his lips. His mouth tasted like the whorehouse smelled.

"Really numbah one." Gil nudged the virgin's naked thigh and watched her head loll back over her shoulder. Empty, blood black holes staring up at him.

Still watching him.

Gil tried to stand and felt the chair slide backwards under the weight of his frantic shuffling until it collided with the wall. And propelled him up and out.

Toward the dead woman on the floor.

watching him

The Wheels broke into another driving piece, but Gil didn't notice it any more than he did the whimpering screams from the other virgin whores or the mammasan's threats.

"You crazy man," the old woman screamed at him, clawing at the front of his fatigues. "You dinki dau! Dinki dau! I call MPs… I call MPs make plenty trouble. You wait, you dinki dau crazy American GI, you wait and they come, make plenty beaucoup trouble. For sure!"

Gil stuffed himself back into his pants with one hand as the other pulled out the money clip. Began pulling off the real bills until the old woman stopped screaming.

The going price for a dead numbah one suckee girl was twenty-six dollars.

American.

Gil left Mitch Ryder to the purgatory of a cheap turntable and 98 percent humidity. knowing that in a few weeks both the musical version of the "Devil with a Blue Dress" and its human counterpart would be unrecognizable lumps of melting goo.

Knew it.

But could still hear the song playing over and over and over in his ears.

The way he could still feel her empty eyes staring at him

in the reflection of cool San Francisco glass.

Come Back to Vietnam

Come back.

Gil watched the dead whore slide her hand into the crook of his arm, trembling when the cold seeped through the layers of textured fabric and years.

"You wan me suckee you good, GI?"

Her voice suddenly had a soft, mushy quality to it. like fruit that had been left out in the sun too long.

"I be you numbah one girlfriend Vietnam. Come back, GI. I no bite."

She smiled at him from the glass — the empty eye sockets deep shadows in the reflected streetlight. receding gums black against strong, white teeth.

Gil heard them clicking together as she tightened her grip on his arm.

"I not finish last time, GI.»

She smiled and twin blue flames, like misplaced gaslights, suddenly glowed from the depths of her empty sockets.

This time be more beddah, GI. this time I suckee you good.

You watch, GI. This time gonna be more beddah, for sure!

The sound of tires hissing against damp asphalt snapped Gil's attention to the street. A three-wheeled, surrey-fringed Lambretta «taxi» whispered past, the American-made transistor radio hanging from the motorcycle handlebars bouncing against the driver's bare knees as it played something soft.

Something familiar.

Something about a devil in a blue dress.

And he ran to it.

Gil saw the driver's eyes through the windshield an instant before the cab's right bumper crushed his rib cage. heard the "What the FUCK?" a moment before he slipped beneath the good Detroit wheel.

He came outta nowhere, someone was shouting over him. Just run right out in front of me like he was crazy or something.

Musta been drunk, another voice said.

Or high.

Anyone know who he is?

Seen 'm come out o' that fat-assed restaurant — guy was a real pervert, y'know.

The last voice was familiar and Gil wished he could open his eyes to make sure. But it really didn't matter because he knew she was still there.

They were all still there.

Watching him die.

watching

forever