This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 86 (Friday, July 14, 1967)

Luckily, I'd already douched before Jules and I had finally gone to sleep, since bright and early, Gerry was in our bed. Didn't know, maybe he'd been sleep wandering. Still more or less asleep, I moved into the middle, closer to Jules with Gerry now on the far left of the bed.

Three naked grown men on a mattress of only 50 inches in width, early on a muggy morning, sort of redefined hot and sweaty. I think that what got me started was the milky aroma of Gerry's feet, which were in my face, since he'd gotten into bed head-to-toe.

First, it was his big tow. Then Jules' thickly veined dương vật, amazing how Linh was able to teach me some words with no effort at all, started to work its way into my chute. He was taking it slowly, spreading his lubrication evenly as he went. Gerry's hand was drawing circles on my lower back, when he'd arrived at Jules' dương and sat up to get a good look.

Not losing a beat, Jules lifted my knees to my chest, exposing our union, inviting Gerry, who was already producing profuse amounts of viscous liquid, to enter. He propped himself over us in the front-leaning-rest position, and I aimed his drooling dick at my hole right above Jules' cock and tried to relax. Jules broke a capsule under my nose, causing a rush to my head and my smooth muscles to relax. He pulled out somewhat and seemed to draw Gerry in with him as he returned.

At first, it was just a little snug, but I was amazed at how quickly I was able to adapt. Both of my lovers were taking their time, since it was much too muggy to work up a head of steam without collapsing. Besides Jules and Gerry were enjoying exchanging spit by licking my left ear. And I was enjoying their sweat, being sandwiched between them.

No one paid any attention to the soft knock at the door. Linh wanted to announce breakfast but seemed more intrigued by what was going on, atop the bed. He approached us cautiously, as if he were stalking prey. He knelt at the foot of the bed and stared at the two cocks pumping my hole. His outstretched hands were lightly, tentatively touching our three sets of balls, although mine were partly covered by Gerry's belly; he could only reach them from the side.

We heard Gerry sigh as Linh's touch teased his anus. When he got to mine, he gathered the slippery substance on a finger and put it to his nose. He tried to get into Jules' ass between his muscled globes, but Jules' hand was quicker, stopping him. That region must have been off limits.

Linh gathered more goo from my stretched asshole and applied it to Gerry's pucker, which Gerry verified with a low, primal growl. When Linh inserted his finger, Gerry threw his head back, picked up speed a notch and shot his sloppy load into me. The heat, the smell, the vibrations set off a chain reaction in the rest of us. Jules and I came in place, but Linh stood to spray us with huge amounts of cum, before collapsing on our heap of flesh.

He finished panting and took a deep breath. "Gentil-men, breek-fast is servi."

***

By the time we got cleaned up, cleaned out and dressed, Yvette was already at the table, drinking coffee and nibbling on a croissant. She didn't look to have slept very well. Since she'd taken her $30 grand last night, only four stacks remained on the coffee table, at which she kept glancing. "What if we get caught?" She nibbled again on the corner of the croissant, which must have already gone soggy.

I shrugged. "Who, do you think, is going to catch us?" I took a bite of my fresh, warm croissant. "Who outside of us five, the unfortunate and supposed CIA asset, and the agent, who left the box, what was his name?"

"Lucien Conein." Yvette contributed the name softly. "Why would he leave the money, and not take it with him?"

"H'm, good question." I thought about it, and for some reason everyone was looking at me questioningly. "What? Why do you think that I'd know?"

Gerry snorted. "You're the one with the PhD."

***

My first idea was that the serial numbers were in a certain sequence and, therefore, probably registered. But they weren't. And we checked three times.

My second thought was that they could have been marked. They could have used some invisible ink, which would only show up under ultraviolet light. And Jules told us that he had an ultraviolet lamp in his office.

Yvette's suggested that Jules and I go to his shop and check the money, while she started Gerry's French lessons. Of course, that gave Linh ample opportunity to do the shopping and get lunch started.

***

As we came out onto the street, I took Jules to Lê Loi Circle, directly below our bay windows and asked what that deteriorating, ornate building at the end of Nguyen Hue Boulevard was. "That's something to be fearful of." Of course, I was thinking secret police and must have given him a startled look. He chuckled. "It's City Hall."

"Sounds like that's a universal problem. It's the same in New York." I smirked and then changed the subject. "And what's that metal sculpture in the park in front?"

"Horrible." His grin was devilish, his chuckles sarcastic.

"You know, Jules, it's sometimes hard to tell when you're joking."

"Who's joking?"

We walked in silence, retracing our steps back along Lê Loi toward the Caravelle Hotel, where we turned toward the river down Tu-Do, according to the sign, but Jules had just told me that we were on rue Catinat. I gave that some thought. "Do you mind my asking why you call this street, rue Catinat and the sign says Duong Tu-Do? I had more or less puzzled together why people had two names for virtually every street in town, but I wanted verification.

"Because Diem and his band of merry fascists had nothing better to do than to change all the street names and then introduce a totalitarian regime, which made colonialism look like a picnic." I was going to have to get used to his brand of dry humor.

I shook my head, still a little confused. "So, the French called it rue Catinat?"

He stopped in front of a small park with waist-high cut-stone retaining walls. The trees on both sides of the street were serving their purpose of providing shade; a gentle breeze was coming off the river, two blocks away. He took hold of my shoulders. I expected him to shake me, but he didn't. "Even the Japanese called it rue Catinat, during their occupation, and that's been its name from the start, since it was built.

"And I don't see why I should bend to whims of a fascist mob, when the only politically significant accomplishment they have managed since 1955 has been to change the names of all the streets and outlaw playing cards and dancing the Twist." Jules thought for a second and grinned. "Well, that is with the exception of instituting an inflationary economy, turning the country over to Americans, and celebrating a series of coups and crises in rapid succession, since the Americans are paying." He nodded to the American war ships, docked three deep at the wharf in front of his property.

***

We got to Jules' tobacco shop in time for Monique, his shop assistant, a pleasant, middle-aged Caucasian woman, to close for siesta. Closing up shop, as they do in France, from noon to three, will take a little time to get used to, again. He introduced us and told her to put two Montecristo No 2 on his private account.

The smell coming off the old, Chinese rosewood shop fittings and woodwork was that of bee's wax furniture polish and un-smoked, raw and cured tobacco. The air was almost chilly at 20°C with a slight whiff of cedar. Then, I saw the walk-in humidor cabinet, which was the size of a small room and would account for the tinge of cedar.

As we passed the humidor on our way back to his office, he opened the door. The smell was nirvana: cedar wood, honey, cream, and all the spices imaginable. He extracted two torpedo-shaped cigars. He offered me one, then pulled it back. "As I understand, Americans are not allowed to smoke Cuban cigars."

"Who told you that?" I was talking to him but keeping my gaze on the cigars.

"Yankee Navy and Army officers, some of my best patrons for Cuban tobacco goods." He was beaming with his grin, obviously enjoying being a tease.

"No. I mean, who told you that I'm American?" I happily related what the State Department had done.

Entering his office with the same interior as the shop, Jules let go of his facial expression of disbelief and chuckled. "Well then, it's time to smoke an utterly enjoyable but, for others, a highly treasonous cigar."

He closely inspected the tobacco-leaf wrapper, clipped off the cap with what looked like a hand-held guillotine and handed it to me. Then, he repeated the process on the second one. Holding up a miniature flame thrower to the packed foot of my cigar, he smirked. "Can you explain to me why, monsieur le docteur, breaking governmental dictates is always so enjoyable?"

***

We'd inspected the American banknotes for invisible markings, any detectable serial number combination, forgery, etc, and we came up with nothing. The only pattern was that all of the notes were $500 bills. That in itself could be the trigger that someone, probably the CIA or even the FBI, was looking for.

"We'll have to call in the Corsicans." Jules puffed on the last of his Montecristo No 2.

"Okay, so where do we find Corsicans?" I really didn't have any idea.

Jules sat up straight, coughed on his own cigar smoke, and laughed. "That's a good one."

"I'm serious, Jules." I took one last puff and put the cigar butt into the large ashtray to burn out.

"Across the street to the East, Hotel Majestic, is owned by Mathieu Franchini and operated by his son, Philippe. They also own and operate the Continental up on Theater Square." Jules placed his cigar butt next to mine in the ashtray. "And directly north of where we are right now, the Saigon Palace, was once owned by the Lucianis, before it became a private residence for functionaries." He emptied the rest of his grand crème and stood. "But it was the first Grand Hotel." He put the cover over the ashtray to smother the cigar butts. "Let's go across to the Majestic, since they have a foreign-exchange license."

"Do Corsicans own the Caravelle?" I was still getting my bearings in our new neighborhood.

"No. " Monique let us out of the door and relocked it. "And you can tell, because the Caravelle has bullet-proof glass." Jules chuckled. "Anyway, the air-conditioning is turned down far too low for Mediterraneans or Vietnamese."

"So, who does own it?" I was still confused, until it dawned on me that the Corsican drug cartel, working out of Marseille, wouldn't want bullet-proof windows, getting in the way of business.

"Air France." He snickered, opening the door to the Majestic. Apparently, the doorman only came to life for full-blooded Caucasians. "Their emblem of a ship is fantasy; it's named after the airplane."