“So you’re not going to let me see him?”
“I told you. He’s hardly ever here. Neither of them are.”
From the utter blankness on Shelly’s face, Frye could only conclude she was doing her job and that was that.
“You know, Chuck, I was in Mega looking for a board the other day. I looked all around. Gotcha has good boards but too expensive.”
“My stuff’s better. How much you want to spend?”
“Not much.”
“Shelly, we can work a deal. You let me see Mr. Mack and I’ll give you a board at cost.”
“Can’t do it, Chuck. I told you what the deal here is.”
“I’ll give it to you for free.”
Shelly’s eyes glittered. She laughed perfectly. “I’d love a Mega board.”
“Get me Rollie.”
“I’ll get you as close to him as I can. How’s that?” She stood up and opened the door behind her. Frye walked into the larger room. Two desks and chairs, two round wastebaskets, two blotters, a couple of lamps. The office was a mess. It looked like the Ledger newsroom. Piles of paper on each desk, trashcans full, notices and bulletins thumbtacked to the walls. The blotters were scribbled upon. The desk calendars were on the right day. He flipped through Mack’s, but found no hint as to where he might be. In fact, there was no hint as to where he’d ever been. Not a single note in eight months. His finger came away from the desk top with dust on it.
“Oops,” said Shelly. “I’m supposed to dust every morning before they get here, but I forgot.”
“Before they get here? I thought you said they don’t come in.”
“They don’t. You know, like, dust before they got here if they ever did. But they never do. That’s what I mean.”
He noted the pile of yellow message slips on each desk. Shelly said they never told her to put them there, but she did anyway just in case they came in, and to cover herself.
“Who’s your boss?”
“They both are.”
“But you’ve never seen them?”
“Well, I’ve seen Mr. Mack like a couple of times. He was here when I came to interview. He asked me what I wanted to do for a career and I told him be a model or be in advertising, then he said I was perfect and hired me. After that, he’s come in a couple times with little beat-up guys. I think they’re wrestlers or something, but they’re kind of small for that. He doesn’t show up much. He’s like independently wealthy, so why bother?”
“How do you know that?”
Shelly giggled. “Why else would you never show up at your job? And Mr. Becwith works nights.”
“Yeah. So when you take the messages, how do you pass them along?”
“Mr. Mack calls in at nine, one, and four. Every day.”
“From where?”
“Beats me. Why all the questions, Chuck? You must really need that job.”
“You have a number to get him, say for an emergency, or a real important call?”
Shelly looked at him for a long moment. “I really think what I’m doing here is, like, getting myself into trouble. Daddy got me this job, ya know. I don’t want to—”
“—Give me that number, Shel.”
“Gawd, Chuck. Be cool.”
“Sorry. I mean it, I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“You’ve been a real help, Shelly. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone about what you told me.” He looked around again at the empty office, then helped himself to a business card from a holder on each desk. Shelly eyed him from the doorway, a little red-faced now, a little fearful, a little like a girl who’s just been seduced. Frye felt bad.
“Thanks. One more thing, Shelly. Don’t tell Mr. Mack I’ve been here asking questions.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
For a brief moment Frye wanted to hug her and apologize. “You come to Mega any time you want and pick out a board. Take whatever you want, and a MegaSuit too. No charge. Bill gives you any trouble, just have him call me. I’m in the book.”
She brightened, started brushing her hair again. “Me too. Shelly Morris. Thanks for the board, Chuck! I always liked Mega the best, except you don’t have any girls’ stuff.”
“We’re working on that.” He gave her a couple of tickets to the Saturday movie. She took them in a smooth dark hand.
“Will you tell him I was here, about the Ledger advertising? Just the advertising, not all the questions.”
“I may be an airhead, but I’m not like completely stupid. I’ll write on that pad that you came by about ads. That’s all.”
“Come get that board sometime, now.”
“Thanks, Chuck. You really want to know if Mr. Mack comes in here, don’t you?”
“I really do.”
She deliberated. “I could maybe like sneak you a call when he’s back in the office or something.”
“Be careful.”
“See ya Saturday night. If you act like you know me, my friends will think I’m cool.”
“You’re a good friend, Shelly, Does Elite have a fighter on the Sherrington card tonight?”
“We have two.”
“Mr. Mack be there?”
“He always goes when one of his guys is fighting, Chuck.” She smiled and the phone rang. The wall clock said one o’clock. “You better go now.”
Frye nodded and headed down the stairs. At a gas station he called Dianne Resnick to see if she’d ever actually laid eyes on Mr. Mack of Elite Management. She hadn’t.
Neither had Ronald Billingham, who had taken Elite’s advertising cancellation over the phone.
CHAPTER 16
CRISTOBEL WAS STANDING ON FRYE’S PATIO when he drove up to the cave-house. She had an immense spray of flame-orange gladiolas in one hand and an envelope in the other. Her dress was short and her legs were lovely, and she stood like a woman who knew it. She had a purse slung over her shoulder. Frye’s heart surged.
She watched him come up the walk. “I’m busted,” she said. “These are for you. For bringing back Blaster.”
As if on cue, the dog nosed around a corner, pissed on Frye’s mailbox stand, and looked at him with absolutely no recognition whatsoever.
“Your dog’s a moron. I love him.”
“Careful, He’s my main man.”
“Wish I had one just like him. Thanks. Beautiful flowers.”
Frye opened his door and let them in. When she walked past him he could smell the alcohol.
Cristobel sat on his couch while Frye put the flowers in a vase. He watched her while he trimmed the stalks. “You’ve got a choice between tea and straight vodka.”
“Tea.”
They sat in the living room. She took off her sunglasses. She looked at Frye, then at the flowers, then outside for the dog, then at the coffee table in front of her. “So, this is it.”
“You nervous?”
“Not a bit. Why?”
“Your eyes are. Don’t worry, I’m done with bad opening lines.”
“I’d prefer to stay off that topic just now.”
“Can do.”
She drank off half the tea and checked her watch. “How’s the case progressing? Any news about Li?”
Frye shook his head. “Just a lot of strings that don’t make a rope.”
“Like what?”
“Stuff that she and my brother were into. Things that … don’t look good on a résumé.”
“Cops have a way of Ending out.”
Frye wondered what kind of bureaucratic rack the cops had stretched Cristobel on. Four men. Inside, Frye shuddered. “I hear the cure’s worse than the disease, sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Frye looked at her, wondering just how you handle a case like this. “All I feel qualified to say is the wrong thing.”
“How about saying nothing?”
“Is that best?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What if at some point, just say for
the sake of argument, that I wanted to get to know you better?”
“Skate over the silences. They’re hard as ice.”
Frye nodded. “I found this bird once that blew out of a tree in Santa Ana. I couldn’t find the nest, so I kept the bird. Little fleshy guy with no feathers and big eyes, like something from outer space. Anyway, I kept him in a tissue box and fed him with an eyedropper every two hours.”
“What happened?”
“He died after the third feeding.”
“What’s the moral?”
“I’m not sure. It’s been a bad couple of days.”
Cristobel smiled, but it wasn’t happy and she didn’t seem amused. “I’ll go now. I just wanted to say thanks.”
Frye walked her to the door. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed and her sunglasses back on. “This isn’t easy for me. I’ve never been in this position before. I hate it.”
“You know where I live.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Yes.”
She reached out and touched his face, then brought her mouth to his. Frye felt her purse fall off her shoulder and tug down on her arm. It was one of those kisses that seal off the outside world and make a better one, just between the two of you. His brain rang. His ears got hot. She was there, but tentative, willing but controlled. She sighed into him, then stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
She touched his face again. “You don’t understand.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“It’s quite a way from point A to point B,” she said. “But I like long, straight lines.”
Frye smiled. “I’m going to the fights tonight. Want to come?”
She looked at him uneasily. “I was going to see Steve Martin’s new one. But, well, okay.”
“Pick you up at seven.”
Cristobel nodded. Blaster bounded to her side and led her down the driveway toward her Volkswagen.
He sat at his kitchen counter and opened the card. It had a picture of a wave on the outside, and Frye could readily imagine himself tubed in the thing. It looked African—Durban, he thought, or Cape St. Francis. Inside it said: “Thanks. You asked me on the beach what I wanted. I want a reason to believe in anything. Best—Cristobel.”
He sat on the patio with Stanley Smith’s manuscript in front of him. He checked his watch. Two hours until fight time at the Sherrington. I’ll explain to Mr. Mack that I can retract the article, print an apology, anything he wants. A man needs work. And I could use a press pass, a WATS line, and some movie passes.
He found his place in Li’s story and began reading.
Huong Lam, Lt. Frye and I began to meet once a week in the courtyard by the plantation. Often, Private Crawley would attend. Sometimes Tony, Lam’s liaison officer, would be present. The lieutenant always brought a notebook but rarely wrote anything in it. He always seemed pleased by my information. Sometimes it was specific, such as the names of Viet Cong leaders, the places they could be found, the exact location of new tunnel entrances, which were always being built. Sometimes all I had was a feeling that something was about to happen. More than once I was correct. I would sense from the nervousness of the fighters I entertained that something large was to happen.
At the end of our fourth meeting, while Lam was walking ahead of us to the jeep, Lt. Frye put a piece of paper from his notebook into my hand. When I read it later that night by my candle, it said: “Li—You are beautiful to me.”
I thought of him as I lay on my plank bed that night. I could see his eyes, blue as the feathers of a chai bird.
About this time, Lam began to make advances toward me. On our walks to meet the jeep, he would attempt to take my hand. He would often arrive at my hut before the scheduled time. He looked at me in certain ways. A woman knows. He brought me a bunch of lilies once and they were quite lovely, but I took them under a feeling of obligation. My feelings toward him were good, but not of love.
Soon, we began to bring food to our meetings. I would bring red yams, tender bamboo, and eggplant. Lam would always bring French champagne—two bottles—and he never would say where he got it. I know he spent a lot of money for it on the black market. It gave him pride to provide such a luxury. Lt. Frye brought fresh bread and often a meat of some kind I know was expensive. Then Lam started bringing three bottles. He saw this as a competition with Lt. Frye. We would spread a canvas tarp on the ground if the weather was good, and if it was raining we would go into the cottage.
Frye saw the three bottles of French champagne sitting on Li’s dressing room table. He wondered.
There was always a time when they would ask me to sing. I wrote songs for these occasions. They were the sentimental love songs that the Viet Cong no longer allowed me to perform. These songs, at the beginning, were written to no man in particular, but I could see they brought great pleasure to both Lam and the lieutenant. That brought me pleasure too. Sometimes I could see a very quiet but deep love pass between these men. They each seemed to be aware of the thin string from which life dangles in war. They were far apart in many ways, but the war, just as it tore so many apart, brought some together. I’ll always remember the way that, after we drank all our champagne one afternoon, Lt. Frye put his silver-wave necklace around Lam’s neck and hugged him. They were alike in one important way. Each man was silent and deep and would never tolerate even a tiny betrayal. They were like oceans. With Lt. Frye and Huong Lam, you were either an enemy or a friend. You either floated on their calm surface, or you sank under terrible waves.
Entertaining the Communists became easier. They responded well to me. The “theaters” were always makeshift and often underground. The caverns were small and poorly lit, and I was limited to three-minute songs so that the ventilation shafts could be opened in silence to give us air. Sometimes the sound of artillery or bombs would drown out the music. One time I remember the famous American, Bob Hope, was performing for the troops above ground, while I sang underground, not a half mile from him. There was great glee in the tunnels at this situation. But life was hard and dirty there, and my audiences could never applaud or sing with me. I resented being given material to sing, but the longer the war went on, the more I was forced to perform songs that would rally the Communists to victory. The good thing about being an entertainer was that I was moved from tunnel to tunnel, from camp to camp, from crater to crater to perform. I was always able to gather new information. I never worried that I would be found out, because by the time the Americans could take action on my intelligence, I was gone and not suspected.
One day Lam did not come to my hut. I set off alone through the jungle and came to the road to wait. When Lt. Frye came, he was alone, too. Private Crawley, he said, had another task at the base.
We went to the plantation courtyard and ate our food. Then the rain came and we ran inside. I sang over the rain and Lt. Frye lay on a cot and smoked. Then, for a long time, we talked of our families and our past, our hopes and our fears about the war. For the first time I saw a gentle spirit in the lieutenant that he never showed before. He touched my cheek and I wanted to run, but I knew there was no place to go. He seemed ashamed to have frightened me. We rode back to the turnout point very quietly.
Lam was waiting there when I got home. He was obviously drunk, leaning against my hut like a palm in monsoon. His eyes were fierce and heavy from the drink. He said he loved me. He accused me of terrible things I will not repeat. He grabbed my arms, and I hit him very hard. Finally he let go and stumbled off into the rain.
In the morning there was a bough of holly and some lilies outside my door. Lam had written a note that expressed his deep sorrow and apology for his behavior, and said he wished only to be forgiven. That day in the marketplace he stood while I spun cloth, and I told him I forgave him. He was happy and ashamed still, but he walked away with his head up and I felt good.
Even Lam had his woman problems, thought Frye. He could still taste Cristo
bel; still smell the faint dark perfume she wore; still feel her cool, hesitant fingers on the backs of his arms.
There’s so much inside her that wants to come out.
Skate over the silences. They’re hard as ice …
It was two months after our first meeting that things began to go wrong for Lt. Frye’s operations. First, he and his men were ambushed by Viet Cong in Hien Phu, which they believed was friendly. Later, when they had fought off the attack, they found several of the villagers dead nearby, and the rest they never found. How had the Viet Cong known they were coming? Then a tunnel entrance that I had told them about—a new one—was found just where it was supposed to be. It was booby-trapped, and one of Bennett’s men lost his eyes. Then a trip wire was found by Lam, who was walking the trail first. There were other incidents.
As we sat in the courtyard of the plantation one day, he told us that information was leaking from his men to the Viet Cong. Lam agreed. For a brief moment I felt Lt. Frye’s suspicion hover in the air around me like a silent bird. Then I saw Lam looking down to the ground, and I knew that he felt it too.
For two weeks nothing happened. Then, on a night patrol near the Michelin Plantation, Lam became lost and the men were ambushed again. Two of them died, and Lam became separated from the platoon. It was an hour later that he found them, still lost, and managed to lead them back to the base. Later, Lt. Frye told me that this was the point he became sure that Lam was the traitor.
It was while we sat in the courtyard one day, and Lt. Frye told me of his suspicions, that I fell in love with him. It had been growing inside me like a seed, but this was the first green sprout reaching above the earth. I said nothing. But I knew then that I would do anything for him and that in some small way I would show him my affections. When I look back on that moment now, I can only remember what a warm, large feeling it was. Love has its own mind, and sometimes the lover cannot read it. I did not question.
I wrote for him the best songs I could. My heart was so full and pure that my music was beautiful. I wrote simple songs in English to please him. A few of them were too strongly worded for Lam to hear, because I knew of his affections for me. These I wrote onto small sheets of paper and passed them to Lt. Frye in secret. I know now that my young girl’s eyes were filled with love for him, although I believed I was being very secret.
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