Through the picture window, Frye could see the people gathering on Main Beach. Bleachers and a stage had been set up, banners proclaiming the MIA Committee rally.
Cristobel fiddled with her anklet. The sun lit up her hair from behind. She has eyes that seem to see a lot, Frye decided. She picked up a framed picture from the coffee table: a young man in a flight suit, and his F-4. “I lost my brother Mike over there,” she said quietly. “Somewhere over Quang Tri.” She handed him the photograph.
“I’m sorry.”
Cristobel nodded, drank from her glass, shook back her hair and looked toward Jim’s room. “You got a job besides that surf shop?”
“I was a reporter for a while. Got fired.”
“Looking for another one?”
“Kind of. I’m trying to help Benny right now. I’m trying to find Li. The cops and FBI are all over the place, but nothing’s happening.”
“Sometimes when nothing seems to be happening, that’s when everything really is.” She looked straight through Frye with a curious air of resignation, as if he were a window and she a passenger gone one stop past her destination.
“I’m done with my work for the day,” she said. “Like to walk over to the hotel, have lunch?”
Frye listened to the music still throbbing from Jim’s workout room. This woman can turn on a dime, he thought. It makes me a little nervous. “Sounds like a good way to get my face really creamed.”
She smiled. “We have an understanding.”
“I’ve got the sore face.”
“Don’t worry.”
They found a table at the far end of the patio, pads on the chairs, great view. Cristobel wanted a bottle of Cabernet and Frye could find little wrong with the idea. He looked down at the Whitewater easing toward shore, a few kids splashing around, a couple standing in the surf for a kiss that lasted until the wine arrived. A hundred yards up the beach he could see the MIA Committee banner and a huge American flag. The public address system squawked over the hissing waves. They touched glasses. “To the safe return of your sister-in-law,” she said.
Frye nodded and drank. “Good wine.” He drank more and leaned back, letting the sun and the alcohol mix, using the privacy of his sunglasses to study the person across from him. The wine loosened him a little and he babbled: surfing, the MegaShop, contests, growing up on Frye Island, college failures and his several years of aimlessness that ended in his first real job as a reporter for the Ledger. His words seemed to come out under their own power, and as he listened to his voice he wondered about this woman. There’s something oddly real in her, he thought, or something really odd. But which?
He pondered this, poured more wine, and glanced again at the water. A little west swell at Rockpile, not much shape, cool water. Hurricane surf due soon, according to the papers. A big round of applause eased its way through the breeze. Frye looked to the rally stage. He could see Lucia Parsons, positioning herself behind the podium. The applause got louder. She thanked her audience. Her voice was clear, if a little faint. It’s always good to be here in Laguna. It should be. Its my home.
Frye looked at Cristobel and whipped up a quick theory. The facts were thin, but that had never stopped him before, Cristobel Strauss. My age. Skin isn’t wrecked by now, so she probably grew up somewhere else. A few major secrets, none good. No surprise at that, though: beauty always gets the worst offers, and who can say no to all of them? Aware of her effect on the male. How to use it, how to enjoy it, both in moderation. Prone to misgivings about God, country and family, but has the good sense to change what she can, shine what she can’t and know the difference between the two. Level-headed in all respects except the really big ones, but who can brag that? Still, something is not quite right about this. Something doesn’t fit.
I’m here today to tell you I want our soldiers back from the jungles. I want them back on home soil I want them here, with me and you. And I’m here today to tell you there’s a way to do it.
He smiled, poured more wine for them, laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re not married to Jim, are you.”
“I never said I was. It’s kind of an IQ test, how long it takes a man to figure it out.”
“How’d I do?”
“A little above average.”
“What’s the point?”
She looked at him a little placidly, but he sensed the wall just behind her. “He cuts down the flak from jerks, and I deter some of the ladies. He doesn’t care for them, in general. Jim likes men, and I like to be left alone. The last name’s a coincidence, and an occasional source of fun.”
“It was really a gas.”
“I could have strung you along.”
He looked at her and realized she was right. This puts things in a new light. Just what light is it? “True. I must be wearing a little thin on mysteries these days.”
“Well, you figured out this one and no one hit you in the face with a pistol.”
Frye listened to Lucia Parsons describing her rapport with the Vietnamese people. The MIA Committee not only had their support, but had enlisted thousands of Vietnamese as members. “Day after tomorrow, we will be able to provide positive proof that American soldiers are still alive in Vietnam. What we need now is to meet Goal Three—our third and largest fundraising plateau. When the days come to negotiate for our men, we will need money to finance our travel, to support our volunteers, and perhaps to deal with the people of Vietnam. The day is coming soon when we will hear the good news,” she said. “On that day, we must be ready to start bringing those men home!”
“Lucia Parsons is doing good things,” Cristobel said. “If I had someone over there—a husband, or a brother, or a son—I’d do anything in the world to get him back. Anything. She’s great.”
He smiled, touched her glass with his. She told him about growing up in the wine country of Mendocino, a hundred acres of Cabernet and Zinfandel; college at Berkeley, masters in art at UCLA; a stint at fashion design that didn’t work out; ditching L.A. for Laguna Beach and a chance to design on her own again. Almost married once but changed her mind. She looked at Frye, then out to the water. “I’m waiting tables at the Towers mornings for money. It’s a good restaurant, gives me time to myself.”
“Ever think about designing for a company again?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Anyway, I guess I’m in a holding pattern right now. L.A. ended bad.”
He waited for some clarification but she offered none, choosing instead to wrap herself tightly in the light coat she’d worn, tugging the collar up close, then shaking back her hair in a riot of golden waves that struck Frye as feloniously lovely. Call nine-one-one, he thought. In his mind she shed her clothing and wrapped him in a splendid coital knot right there on the patio while outraged drinkers ran for the exits, all sweat and golden hair stuck to her shoulders and breasts, mutual shrieks of love challenging the surging surf below. But he saw as she gazed out to the bright ocean that her eyes held an entirely different vision—anger maybe, or a disappointment too major to air, or some deep and unitemized sorrow, or perhaps nothing at all he could understand. A group of young Mexicans took a table next to them, restaurant workers done with the lunch shift. Cristobel looked at them, then at Frye, an odd confusion on her face. “Well,” she said, standing. “Time for this one to go home.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
She led him down the steps to the sand and headed toward the blue apartments, a disheveled outline to the south. He checked the waves again, gazing down to Brooks Street, water splashing the boulders with a faintly purple tint. The color of Li’s ao dai, he thought. Where is she now?
… Good people, there are only three things we need to make this happen. You—each and every one of you—and your money. And you’ve got to write your representatives in this government and get them to support our House Bill eight-eight-two-three-one, whi
ch will establish a modest relief fund for the people of Vietnam.
Cristobel looked toward the Rockpile, a silent seascape of rock and foam in the distance. “Going to surf that place tomorrow?”
“Maybe. You going to be out with your dog?”
“Maybe. I usually am.”
“I’m glad you were there that morning, Cristobel.”
“I’m in the pageant this year. Susanna and the Elders. I’ll leave you a ticket at ‘will-call’ if you want to come see me Thursday night.”
“I’d like that.”
“Be there by eight or they’ll sell it to someone else.” She stopped, looked up to her apartment, crossed her arms against the breeze.
Frye moved a stray strand of hair from her face and thought seriously about kissing her. Something mannered, he thought, a skosh formal. The hell?
She stopped his hand with hers. There was a struggle in her eyes as she regarded him. He sensed some contest being fought. Fear versus something he couldn’t quite identify, and fear seemed to be winning. “The last guy to do that’s in the slammer now. His three friends are too. You should know that about me. They kind of show up at bad times, you know?”
Frye looked at her, the sundry data falling into place like a ton of cold bricks. It had been a while since he’d felt like such an ass. Several hours, in fact. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.” For a moment, she looked a thousand years old. “There’s just a whole lot of bad precedent staring you in the face.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“That’s one thing I don’t want from you right now.” She looked long at him.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“One thing you ought to understand up front is I’m not like anybody else. I’ve got some territory there aren’t maps to.”
“You’re not the first one who got lost.”
“I suppose not. But I’d feel a little better if I could call you.”
Frye thought this one through. “As in, don’t call you?”
“It’s got something to do with control.”
“Suit yourself.”
“See you at the pageant, maybe.” She turned and disappeared up the rickety stairway, shoes thudding against old wood as she climbed.
The MIA rally was breaking up by the time Frye got there. He was just in time to see Lucia Parsons getting into a limousine double-parked on Coast Highway, and to pick up a flyer that listed private and corporate supporters, along with a form for joining and giving money.
Edison and Hyla were donors. So was Bennett. So was the Frye Ranch Company.
Frye looked up to see Burke Parsons, hat in hand, slogging through the sand in his cowboy boots.
“Haw, Chuck.”
“Burke.”
Parsons wiped his brow, and looked out to the water. “Seems like everybody I know’s trying to get somebody back.”
Frye nodded, assessing Parsons. He was tall as Frye, thicker, ten years older. Same curly black hair as Lucia, just shorter. Something about the eyes seemed slow. They focused lazily, then bore in.
“Any news on Li?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Well, I did what I could to help Benny, but he ain’t much in the mood for help these days. Kinda like told me to take a hike, is what he did.”
“The pressure’s getting to him.”
“I guess. Any luck on a new job? I miss your boxin’ stuff in the Ledger.”
“I’m working on it.”
Parsons turned to watch the limousine roll up Coast Highway. “I go to these rallies when I get time off work. I like to sit back with the crowd and just listen. You know, this’ll sound dumb, but being proud of your own blood is just about the best—well, second-best—feelin’ there is. My goddamn twin sister. She gets another ten grand raised for her and her assistants, and it’s back over to Hanoi next week. She’s just real sure the government’s about to break down and admit they’ve got some of our boys. Admit they’ve found some of our boys, is what they’ll do. And if she gets Congress to pass that aid package for Hanoi, that’ll make the dealings go real smooth-like. They want those dollars, same as anyone else. That’s why she was telling everyone to write their reps. I don’t know where she gets the energy, Chuck. I really don’t. I’m just proud as all getout.”
“You ought to be.”
Burke wiped his brow again, frowned at the water, then looked at Frye. “Benny keepin’ you busy looking for her?”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do to pitch in, just say the word. I’m busy, but I got time for friends. Benny has my number, and I live right down here in Laguna.”
“Thanks, Burke. It means a lot, all of you pulling for her.”
Burke nodded. “Fuckin’ gooks. Ought to just ship ’em back where they belong. Let ’em eat their dogs and grow their rice. Li and Hy can stay. They’re real Americans, if you ask me. But the rest don’t bring much to the party.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Me neither, Chuck. I’m just a little bit out of kilter about all this. But Li’s a great gal. See ya around. Call if I can help now, hear?”
CHAPTER 11
HE WAITED UNTIL EVENING TO FIND THE DARK Men.
Pho Dinh was a simple noodle shop on Bolsa, a block east of the plaza. From the outside he could see rows of tables filled with young Vietnamese, a big white panel behind the counter with words and prices on it, and a slender man behind the cash register. The young men were dressed well, as always—loose jackets and sharply tapered pants, collars turned up, thin neckties, pointed shoes. So were the women—tight jeans and pumps, short coats, their hair teased and sprayed. Music blared. A group of boys clustered around a video game, heads bowed, silent and intense.
Frye walked in, feeling about as out of place as one can get. Heads turned; a pane of quiet seemed to insert itself between the din of the music and the low hum of voices. The air was hot and heavy with a sweet, oily presence. Sesame, he thought, and mint. The locals are not overly friendly tonight. People stared. He started back, searching for Loc.
When he finally saw him—at a corner table with three other boys his age—Loc had already spotted Frye. He simply sat there and looked through him, then turned back to his friends. He had on a dark gray shirt, a black coat and tie. Frye stepped to the counter, ordered five beers for the table, paid up and walked over. He sat down. “I want my cigars back.”
Loc spoke to his friends in Vietnamese. No one had acknowledged Frye yet; he had the odd feeling that perhaps he wasn’t there, that he had become an invisible man. “Some people saw you go in. I’ve got sworn statements. I’ve got pictures of you. I’ll go to Minh if I have to,” he lied. “But I’d rather not.”
Loc stared at him. “Who are you?”
“I live in the house you wrecked yesterday afternoon.”
The four consulted quickly again in Vietnamese; Frye sensed a genuine puzzlement here. A waiter delivered the beers and five glasses filled with ice. When he left, Loc leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Do you know where they are? My brother, Duc, and my friend?”
“No. I just know you’ve got my box.”
Loc poured his beer into the glass without looking at it. The boy next to him, wearing a black leather necktie, lit a cigarette with fingers thin as fork tines. Loc leaned back. “What do you know about Duc?” he asked.
Frye reached into his pockets and dumped the bracelets that Stanley Smith had given him onto the table. “Not a thing. But maybe I can help.”
Loc studied them like a poker player with two pair would study a winning straight. Then he handled the bracelets lightly and looked at Frye. One of the other boys stopped his beer glass halfway to his lips, and stared. “We can’t talk here.”
Frye stood.
He trailed them out of the noodle shop, then across the parking lot to a beat-up station wagon.
The lights of Saigon Plaza glowed in the near distance, and Frye could see the elaborate archway posed against the darkness. Loc ordered his three friends into the back seat of the car, then headed for the driver’s side. “We ride around and talk,” he said.
This looks like a real bad idea, thought Frye. “Just you and me,” he said, pointing to the back. “Get rid of them.”
Loc offered a wry smile. “You don’t trust us?”
“No.”
Loc brought out a cigarette and lit it. He hesitated, then spoke to the boys. They climbed back out, staring at Frye with insulted dignity. Loc said something; they mumbled apparent approval.
Frye walked to the driver’s side and stood in front of Loc. He could feel his chest thumping against his shirt. “Leave the gun.”
“I have no gun.” Loc held open his coat, then grasped each side pocket in a hand and squeezed the material together. “Clean.”
Frye got in.
Loc backed out of the lot while his two friends stood and watched. The big car heaved onto Bolsa, heading west. “Let me see the bracelets again,” he said.
Frye put them on the seat between them. Loc picked up one, rubbed it, set it down. “These belong to Duc. Where did you get them?”
“They belong to me. And I got them the same place Duc did. How long has he been missing?”
Loc glanced at him, his hands on the steering wheel. The big coat dwarfed him. “You’re from Lawrence. You try to trick me.”
Frye wondered who Lawrence was. It wasn’t the time to ask. Play along, he thought. “I’m not. I just need that box back, Loc. That’s the truth.”
Loc drove past Saigon Plaza. Frye looked out at the big lions guarding the entrance, the archway, the streetlamps. When he turned back, Loc was staring at him. “If you’re not from Lawrence, how do you know my name?”
Frye explained the photo in Eddie Vo’s room. “My name’s Chuck.”
Loc remembered. “I need my brother back, and that’s the truth. You’re from Eddie, aren’t you?”
“I told you, Loc. I’m not from anybody. You took my box and I need it back.” Even if they’ve made a copy of it, Frye thought, at least I’ll have something to give back to Bennett. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.”
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