by Andrew Lanh
“What’s up, Dustin?”
“You went to Uncle Binh’s house.” The declarative words were too loud, laced with question. “Everybody is unhappy.”
“They invited me there.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Yeah, I know.” A hint of a smile. “The on-going troubles with Anh Ky Trang, boy blunder.”
I raised my voice. “Stop that, Dustin. For Christ’s sake, don’t put yourself down like that.”
His eyes fluttered. “They think because you’re investigating things—for me, I guess—they think it causes more problems. More TV crap. You know, more…”
“They want this all to go away.”
He spoke quickly. “So do I.”
“But it won’t until Ben’s murderer is arrested.”
Dustin flinched as he looked back to the doorway as if someone were there, eavesdropping. “I didn’t do it.”
“I know that. But I also know you’re holding back information.” I counted a heartbeat. “Are you protecting someone, Dustin?”
He sat up, startled. “That’s…like nonsense.”
“Is it?”
He stood up, pulled his overcoat around his chest, though immediately it fell back open. “They’re angry.”
“Uncle Binh and Aunt Suong?”
He nodded. “They said you won’t listen to reason. I had to go there last night and talk to them.”
“I met Timmy again. Even Hollis.”
A grunt. “Yeah, the ex-con.”
“They’re not nice folks.”
A harsh giggle escaped his throat. “Yeah, like understatement of the year. I avoid them. Or they avoid me. Hollis was in jail for…like five or six years. Now he’s back. Jackass of all trades. Low-rent heroin dealer in the shadow of Bristol Mall.”
“Then he’s gonna go back to jail again.”
He made an invisible check mark in the air. “The sooner the better.”
“And Timmy?”
“He’s all right. Just dumb. The only thing that makes him happy is the all-you-can-eat buffet at Tokyo Szechuan, him and his fat wife. Two Buddha look-alikes gnawing at the crab legs.”
I laughed. “He could be doing worse things.”
He was through talking. “Whatever.”
He backed up, bumped into the doorframe.
“Dustin, your family wants me to stop investigating. Me and Hank. Do you want me to stop?”
His tongue rolled over his lower lip. “No.”
“Then I won’t.”
“I like Hank,” he said flatly. “He listens to me.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“I never knew a cop before. I was always afraid of them.”
“Is that a problem?”
He didn’t answer at first. Then, mumbled words, “And, you know, that…Liz. Your like…she was your wife. She’s funny.”
But suddenly he smiled, seemingly embarrassed by his sputtered words. Quick footsteps shuffled down the hallway.
***
David Laramie materialized, his hand on the doorjamb but his face peering down the hallway, doubtless tracking Dustin’s departure. He wore a scowl on his face and seemed out of breath.
“He showed up for his final.”
“And that’s a problem, Professor? I heard he was enrolled in your class, no?”
Another quick glance down the hallway. A student passed behind him, and he started, flinched. “Don’t you think he should be suspended?”
I stared into the petulant face. Haggard, a pale face not uncommon with instructors at the end of finals. But Laramie was squirrely, his hair sticking out in a brushy clump at the back, as though he’d napped in his office beforehand and neglected to look into a mirror. Idly, he brushed his hair back with his fingertips, a gesture that simply made other parts of his hair stand on end.
My fingers tapped my pile of exams. “He’s not been arrested.”
“But he will be.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know anything. Frankly, when he walked into my exams, some students gasped. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did you do?”
“I let him take the exam. I’m not a fool.” He checked the hallway again, his head flicking nervously back and forth.
“What do you want from me?”
Another glance into the hallway. “I’m scared of him.”
“There’s no reason to be.”
His voice boomed. “I saw him watching me once or twice during the exam. I swear, I got chills. That face. Those eyes. Like…like he was thinking of what I told the cops.”
“And to the press. Don’t forget that interview. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut.” I looked down at my pile of exams.
I stood up, dropped the exams into a folder, and gathered my laptop, my briefcase, dropping a book inside. I snapped it shut. He was waiting for me to say something. “What?”
“We have to see that he is removed from campus.”
“I’ll protest.”
“You’re adjunct.” A nervous smile. “You got no vote.”
“I still have a mouth.” I reached for my coat. “Look, David. You stoked the fires with your hatred of Ben Winslow.”
“That has nothing to do with what happened.”
“I wonder how much you baited Dustin, dragged information out of him, stroked his insecurities, played a game with his life—just to get ammo to attack Ben Winslow.” I walked past him. “What measure of guilt should you have in Ben’s death, Professor Laramie? Think about it.”
I brushed by him, our shoulders touching. He pulled back against the doorframe. I could smell his breath: hot, raw. A face filled suddenly with fear—of me.
“Maybe you should move.” I looked back over my shoulder. “You’re standing in the draft.”
***
Rattled, I walked into the College Union for a cup of coffee. Nearly empty at that hour, a few students drifting in and out, most in their dorms or finishing exams, two students loudly arguing over some terrorist incident, one electric-haired boy jabbing the other’s chest to make his point. The other, an ex-marine I recognized from one of my classes, recently returned from a third go-round in Iraq, kept grunting in the other’s face. Both were enjoying themselves, given the escalating heat of the argument.
I sat on a couch near the rec lounge and spotted Dustin knocking balls on a billiards table. Three pool tables, only Dustin in the room, slamming balls into pockets with exacting concentration, his small body leaning over the table, a careful assessment of a shot, then the whack of ball against ball. The clack clack sound of balls dropping into a pocket. He moved around the table slowly, occasionally pushing up the bulky sleeves of his sweater, though the sleeves kept slipping back down. He set up another rack, stood watching the table, and then broke.
“Lone wolf.” A voice from behind me. Brandon Thanh Vinh, looking into the rec room over my shoulder. “Portrait of a killer at large.”
I bristled. “All right, Brandon, cool it.”
“A celebrity, that loser. On TV. An Internet meme nobody needs.”
“Leave him alone.”
Emboldened, he swaggered into the room and waited while Dustin, glancing up for a moment, ignored him, aiming his house cue at a ball and sending it into a pocket.
“Bam,” Dustin said too loudly. He sneered at Brandon.
Brandon cleared his throat, glanced back at me, the unwanted Greek chorus witnessing this standoff. He reached for a cue on the wall, waved it grandly in the air, barely missing Dustin’s head, and announced, “Eight ball. You and me. Now.”
Dustin hesitated. “No.”
“Coward. Mama’s boy.”
“You’re on, Brandon.”
“You a
betting boy? Betting you won’t be charged for murder? Maybe? One game. I’ll play you for what you got in your pocket. If you’re betting, you gotta post up your money.”
Dustin reached into his jeans pockets and pulled out loose bills. A few nickels and dimes fell onto the floor. Slowly he counted out money, mostly dollar bills, wrinkled and wadded. He straightened them out with his palm.
“I only got nineteen.”
Brandon threw a sidelong glance at me, and crowed, “Like I tell the world. Some people go through life a dollar short.” He flashed a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on a side table.
Dustin placed his bills on top of Brandon’s crisp twenty, evening out the edges. “Yes or no?”
“Play.”
Dustin caught my eye—a sliver of a smile as he flicked his head toward Brandon. “Asshole,” he muttered. He gathered the balls, feeding them into the rack and positioning it on the foot spot. He deliberated, adjusted the rack, squinted at it. He stood back, one hand gripping the cue stick, the other scratching his shoulder nervously. An antsy glance at the money on the nearby table.
Brandon circled the table, his eyes never leaving Dustin, a cruel smile on his face. “I’ll spot you the break, killer boy.”
Dustin breathed in, shot a glance at me. Again that quirky smile. His fingers trembled on the pool cue. He made a couple practice strokes, then threw his body into the break, a clean follow-through. The cue ball exploded the rack. He stood back, back arched, watching them spin chaotically across the green felt. A ten ball careened off the rails, lazily sailed back across the table, and dropped into a pocket.
“Stripes,” he announced.
“Like the one down your back.” Brandon bowed, happy with his line.
“Asshole.”
Dustin eyed the table and squinted at a twelve ball, maybe three feet from a corner pocket. A clear shot. Easy. Straight line. With his slightly warped house cue, he named the pocket and, leaning in, he made the effortless shot. A lightning shot, the ball moving fast, banging into the pocket.
“Bingo.”
“That’s a different game,” Brandon chortled. “That’s for little old ladies.”
Dustin tuned him out. “Thirteen.” Dustin pointed to a pocket. A difficult shot, Brandon’s solid five in the way, but Dustin’s shot was calculated—the cue ball slammed the opposite side of the table, careened back dangerously, but nipped the right side of the thirteen, which wobbled, slowly inched, but miraculously fell into a pocket.
“Lucky stiff.” Brandon had a little wonder in his expression.
“Fourteen.” Dustin pointed.
But he deliberated, stiffening his back, walking around the table, watching, calculating, his arm extended as he gauged the direction, the speed. A mathematician’s careful and logical estimation. Dustin, the orderly boy. Again the calculation.
Brandon erupted. “Shit, move it.” Then in Vietnamese. “Mau di.”
I jumped up, angry.
Dustin twitched and carelessly slammed the cue ball. It ricocheted, narrowly missed the eight ball, and crashed against the rails and drifted to a stop.
“The way it goes,” Brandon announced. “Now I’ll show you the ropes.”
He glanced at me. I’d stood up, leaning against the doorway, watching, feeling protective of Dustin but keeping my mouth shut. Slowly, as though he were being filmed—I expected him to whip out his cell and snap a selfie and post it on Instagram—Brandon leaned his cue against the table. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head. He was wearing a white wife-beater undershirt more commonly associated, at least by me, with Mafia movies. Tight, it accented his defined abs. He smiled a look-at-me expression and picked up his stick.
“These cues are cheap shit,” he announced. “I got me a Southwest at home. Ten times better than this shit. And this table sucks.”
“Shoot.” Dustin’s voice sounded tinny and faraway.
“Don’t rush the master.” He took his time. “Hey, Anh Ky, little boy, did your mama wear combat boots to the rice paddy?”
Color rose in Dustin’s neck. His knuckles gripped his stick. From where I stood I could see a vein on his neck pop.
Brandon laughed loudly.
“Six in that pocket. Watch and learn.”
He leaned over the table.
“Gotta keep at least one foot on the floor.” Dustin’s voice made him stop.
“What kind of shit is that?”
“There are rules, creep.” Dustin stood back, head arched.
“Don’t tell me how to play the fucking game.”
“Shoot.”
Brandon’s ball landed in the pocket. He beamed.
“Seven.”
But he miscalculated. The seven was wide of the mark, hitting the back rail and rolling forward, stopping inches from where Brandon stood.
“Fuck.”
Slowly, mimicking Brandon’s preening behavior, Dustin paused, setting his cue down and taking off his ratty sweater. Underneath was a baggy undershirt with a gigantic hole under one sleeve. It draped over his skinny body. Watching, Brandon burst out laughing. Dustin, watching him, purposely made a bicep that, to be sure, was nonexistent. His rail-thin upper arm was a matchstick. “Captain America.” Dustin’s voice was ragged. He repeated. “Captain Vietnamese-American.”
Brandon stared, befuddled. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” he bellowed. “You must have slapped a Cong woman in a previous life. Reincarnated as a…a stick figure.”
Dustin named his ball. The nine in a pocket. But he seemed distracted now and his cue slid off the side of the ball. The ball moved two or three inches, stopped.
Brandon crowed. “Show you how it’s done.”
He named his ball, tapped the table with a finger, and slammed the ball in. Then he proceeded to run the table, banking balls, skirting by Dustin’s remaining balls, each move more chance than skill, it seemed to me. But effective.
At each strike Dustin’s body tensed. I sensed the anger building in him, though he kept himself under control. Each time Brandon landed a ball, he let out a yelp, almost involuntarily. At one point Brandon, moving to the other side of the table for a shot, brushed against Dustin, a purposeful move that knocked Dustin off balance for a second. Dustin said nothing, but I could tell by his posture that he was battling his anger. He gripped his cue so tightly it twisted in his hand, banging the edge of the table.
“Foul,” Brandon cried out. “Ball in hand.”
“Shoot the fucking ball,” Dustin yelled.
Brandon, winning now, focused his eyes. “Sore loser, killer boy.”
“Shoot.” Dustin’s voice roared.
“Ah, the money ball.” Brandon took his time contemplating the eight ball, positioned a foot from a pocket. An easy shot, but he was not going to rush it. Dustin bristled.
Brandon rocked on his heels.
“Shoot.” Both boys jumped because that word came out of my mouth. I hadn’t taken my eyes off Dustin, concerned with his purple face, that throbbing vein in his neck.
“Yes, sir.” Smiling at me, Brandon cavalierly struck the cue ball and the eight ball smoothly landed in a pocket.
“And that’s how we do it in downtown Saigon.” He bowed.
He reached for the cash on the side table, waved the bills in the air.
Without saying a word, avoiding eye contact with me, Dustin quietly placed his house cue against the table and grabbed his coat, sweater, and book bag. I started to say something but decided against it. He strode out of the room, stepping by me, headed through the College Union.
Brandon and I watched each other.
“I dislike wimps.” He waved his hands in the air.
Suddenly Dustin flew back into the room, speeding past me and grabbing the stick he’d used. Brandon, startled, backed up into a wall, and put up his hands.
Dusti
n held the pool cue in front of him, then pulled up his knee. He crashed the stick down hard on his kneecap, snapping it into two jagged pieces.
Smiling, he held out the two pieces to Brandon.
“Hey, you fuckin’ muscle freak, I think you know where to shove these.”
Chapter Sixteen
Late afternoon, lost in paper work on a troublesome Aetna fraud investigation, staring at the garish pizza parlor neon light flickering across the street, I drifted off. My cell phone buzzed, Liz calling from Ben’s apartment. “You sound groggy.” In the background another woman’s voice muttered, “Tell him to get over here. Now.”
“Sophia?” I asked Liz.
“Yes. You free to stop in?”
“What’s going on?”
A quick exchange of muffled voices, then she said into the phone: “Game changer.”
“I’m in Hartford. At the office. I’ll be right there.”
“Ben’s kids might be here, so don’t ask questions of me.”
Liz had volunteered to help Sophia break down Ben’s apartment. Living upstairs, she could drop in and out, but the emotional journey, Liz told me, was treacherous. Still grieving, Sophia wept upstairs, dragging herself to campus for finals, but otherwise avoiding the doorway she passed whenever she left her building. Police evidence teams had torn the place apart—never a comforting sight—and Sophia, panicked, had spent nights putting it back together, obsessed with removing the stain and pain of their presence.
I also knew, by way of Liz’s grapevine and our late-night chatter, that Ben had left his bank account—a paltry few grand, his equally scant life insurance, his retirement benefits, and the other smaller bits and pieces of his academic life—to his children, Martin and Melody. Yet he’d added a recent codicil that Sophia handle his estate in the event of his death. A simple bequest: his books to the school library. His manuscripts to the school’s archives. A few token requests to old friends—like an early signed edition of All the King’s Men to a college frat buddy in Manhattan. A few pieces of art he’d bought with Sophia on vacations. Sentimental depictions of the White Mountains where they’d summered, often with Marcie and Vinnie, at their rustic cabin. A gold-link chain she’d bought him that he never wore because he said it made him look like a Mexican drug lord.