Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“He didn’t make the mission.” “You’re saying he’s what, he’s—” “Tagged and bagged. He fucked the monkey.” With his free hand Storm hit Sands with an uppercut deep to the so

lar plexus. His lungs emptied, his diaphragm seized, nausea blinded him. He collapsed forward onto his knees, and then the side of his head smacked down onto the tiled floor.

He came to some form of consciousness, breathing again, as Storm

prodded his ear with the toe of his canvas boot. “I could kick my foot through your head now, you know?” “I know,” Sands managed to say. He tossed things down one at a time into Skip’s face, first reading

each one: “Here’s your Newsweek. Here’s your Time. What’s this?—

fucking Sports Illustrated.” “Storm-” “You’ve got us in a skinny little crack. You’ve got us in a real tight lit

tle fuck.” “Storm-let’s talk.” “What makes you think I’d talk to you? What makes you think I’d dis

cuss the game with a pogue rolled up on the floor in a fetal ball? —Is that what they taught you in unarmed combat school?”

As a matter of fact, the student was advised when tackled by a gang to curl the skeleton around the vital organs and “pray for the cavalry.” Not, however, when downed by a lone attacker. A man solidly on the ground could find an advantage over a man balanced on one leg while kicking, so went the wisdom. Sands didn’t care to test it.

“And don’t say you did what you had to do. That’s bullshit. Just say

you did what you did, man. Just say you did it.” “I haven’t said anything,” Skip said, “about doing anything.” “You and me have to talk on some other level, man, because you

won’t get down. You won’t get down. This is what’s happening. So fuck.”

He was kicking Sands in the head as he spoke. “Are you done? I’d like you to be done.” “Yeah. I’m done. No, I’m not done.” He kicked Sands twice in the ribs. He turned to leave, got as far as the door, and came back. “Do you think I really give a fuck? So we lose this war, so what? Will

the little kiddies of America be going to Uncle Ho High School and memorizing the Gettysburg Address of fucking Lenin? Will Charlie be raping our women in the streets? Fuck no. The whole thing’s bullshit, man. Win or lose, we’re gonna be fine. But we’re here. You and me and these other assholes. It’s our shit to deal with. So why the fuck not? The all-important underlying reason is, ‘Fuck it, let’s just do it.’ Either you understand that or you don’t.”

“Yeah. That was more or less my uncle’s theory.” “The colonel’s alive.” “He is?” “Isn’t he?” “No.” ‘Tes, fucker.” “That’s just bullshit.” “Yeah, it is. But you don’t get it. That’s exactly what runs the reactors.

The fragrance of bullshit.” “Are you going to let me get up?” Storm sat on the divan, breathing hard. “Fine, I’ll just lie here. I’m tired.” “You put down what we’re doing. To you, Psy Ops is baby food. I’m

telling you, man, this is where it’s won or lost. In the realm of bullshit. It doesn’t matter how bad we kick their asses on the battlefield or vice fucking versa.”

“The colonel’s dead.” Storm said, “Yeah. You are a pogue. You just stay here all curled up like a piece of popcorn in your little womb. Your traitor-incubator.” By painful stages Sands got himself standing and made his way to a

chair and collapsed again. “How are you feeling, Skipper? Like shit, I hope.” “Jimmy.” “Yeah.” “Is Rick Voss dead?” “Very very much so.” “Did you … You killed Rick Voss?” “No, fucker. The VC killed Rick Voss. Somebody shot down his heli

copter. They think. Anyway, it went down.” “Rick Voss is dead?” “Everybody aboard. Poof.”

“What was he doing in a helicopter?” “Diddling around like a dick, like always.” “Jesus Christ. He had a wife and kids.” “Well, he don’t no more, Jack. Pretty soon some other guy’ll have

‘em. That’s how the shit goes.”

Voss had a little girl, Skip remembered. He leaned forward and retrieved his coconut drink from the table and held the cold glass against his pounding cheekbone.

“So, little Skippy. Where were you last Thursday?” “Saigon.” “Where else?” “Taking a polygraph.” “Yeah. You sure were.” Sands leaned forward in his chair. He kept his.25caliber Beretta in a

dresser drawer upstairs and had an impulse, momentary but almost irresistible, to go up and get it and shoot Jimmy Storm in his face. When the wave had washed over he felt weak to the point of paralysis. He put his face in his hands. “Listen. Are you leaving, or not?”

“Yeah, I’m going. I just came to let you know karma turned your good

buddy to soup.” “Jesus Christ. Poor Voss.” “Yeah, Poor Voss. I wish I could be the one to tell his wife. I hope he

had beautiful little kiddies. I hope he thought about them while he was going down.”

Suddenly Sands clutched up some ice cubes from his drink and flung them at his face. “Aah, shit,” Jimmy said. “I’m sorry. Come on, throw some more.” His eyes cried out for it, for punishment. “The first time I saw you I thought, This guy is looking fucking sketchy. Sifting through ashtrays for a snipe. He’s got that how-do-I-get-your-wallet look. He’s here on a kiddie-cruise. He’s here to play Spooks and Gooks. You came here to troll the drag and show off your fucking hot rod.”

“If you’re all done stomping me, I’d like you to leave.” “Stomping? Fuck you. Right now the colonel is being tortured. Right

now they’re breaking every one of his bones.” “Jimmy. Goddamn. Come on.” “You remember how he ditched the Japs in World War Two, man?—

he played fucking dead.”

“Good for you. Keep the legend alive.”

“I’m not the motherfucking voice of r< ason. I soak shit up, I process it, I feel the facts. It’s visceral. There’s no’ enough of that going on around here.”

“Jimmy, the colonel died. And everything fell apart.”

“What did he say? What did he say a thousand times? ‘How do we get bogus product credibly into the hands of the enemy? Specifically into Uncle Ho’s hands?’ Scenario one: through a double who so-called steals phony documents. Number two: use a real live American, a plant who gets himself captured. But his favorite idea was using both. Coming from separate sources, you enhance the credibility level.”

“Jimmy. Focus.”

“No, man, this makes too much sense. It’s just too lined up and laid out. He faked this shit, and he didn’t tell us. He’s on a mission, and we’re fucked. We can’t help him. Something cold is happening, extremely cold. And we’re the niggers.”

“Why would he pull a ruse without letting us in on it?” “Why? Because you’re a fink. And a pogue. And a queer. I should

screw you in the ass.” “Focus, will you focus? Who told you they picked me up?” “I know things.” “Hao told you.” “Fuck you.” “Storm-it’s Hao. It’s Hao.” “What about him?” “The rat. The fink. It’s Hao.” “Fuck you. Nice try.” “Jimmy, it’s Hao.” “Watch your karma. Behold your karma. Observe while it eats you

slow-motion from the toes up, fucker.” “They polyed me at the Language School. Hao was there.” “Bull—shit.” Storm took a second to consider the assertion. “Right at

the party?” “No, but I saw him in the hallway.” “Maybe he’s taking classes.” “They’ve got a store in the basement. RSC or somebody. Hao walked

past the door while I was sitting there. They wanted me to see him.”

Storm regarded him for some seconds. The human polygraph. “What did I tell you? This is a rocknroll war. Motherfuckers do not understand that shit.” He stood up and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, exposing the reddish legs and green skirt of a hula dancer tattooed on his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”