Little Saigon

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “You got quiet after that walk with your dad,” said Cristobel.

  “You don’t have much leverage on the topic of quiet.”

  “That’s pretty romantic for a first date.”

  “You want a romance, buy one at the market.”

  “You can be a real prick, can’t you?”

  “It’s genetic. Come on, I want to see if Rollie Dean Mack is up in his suite now.”

  They took the elevator to the eighth floor. Frye led her around the corner and down the long hallway. He knocked, tried the door, and knocked again.

  “Not your night with this Mack guy,” Cristobel said.

  They had just started for the elevator when Frye heard Edison’s laughter booming up the stairwell behind them. He stopped and peered around the corner. Lucia Parsons climbed the last few steps, Edison behind her. They made their way to the Elite Management suite and Lucia opened the door with a key. She took Edison by the arm and led him in.

  “Not what you wanted to see, exactly?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s not what it looks like.”

  “Nothing much is these days.”

  “Let’s go home, Chuck.”

  They walked along the beach near Cristobel’s old blue apartment. The moon hovered through the palms of Heisler Park and the black water was smooth and glittery. Close to shore, waves dissipated into phosphorous-purple suds.

  Cristobel held his hand. “Is there another way to find this Mack character?” she asked.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “I know it’s none of my business, but maybe you ought to try something different. A different paper, maybe. Let that Mack guy have his way and just get yourself a better job. You know, like play in a bigger league.”

  “I got some résumés out, but it’s tough when all the publishers know what happened. He made me look bad.”

  “Is that the only place he works? I mean, doesn’t Elite Management have an office or something else somewhere?”

  “Newport. He’s never in. The girl who works there said she’d call me if he ever shows.”

  They walked north, toward Rockpile. Frye watched a steady stream of cars heading out of the city, climbing the grade on Coast Highway.

  “Let me know if I can help,” she said. “I’m good at résumés.”

  “It just really pisses me off.”

  “Your dad and Lucia?”

  “Not so much Lucia, just … the whole thing.”

  “I take it there’s some space between you.”

  “A whole lot of it. I guess it’s been getting wider the last few years. Talking to him—it’s like trying to yell across an ocean to someone.”

  “Have you done what you can to get through?”

  “I suppose I could have stayed closer. More involved. I just kind of spun out for a while, lost contact. I’ve never been interested in the family business. That’s all Bennett and Dad now. Maybe Pop took it a lot more personal than I did.”

  “Well, when a father works hard, he likes to share it. If you had better things to do, maybe he felt … like you didn’t need him.”

  They walked up the zigzag stairway to the park. The path was lined with rosebushes and the grass was trimmed neatly around them. Frye led her to the gazebo that looks to the west. “I got married here,” he said.

  “That’s nice.”

  He looked down the ragged cliff to the rocks below, shining with ocean spray. The water hissed up the sand toward them, stopped just short, then receded.

  “Miss her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Going to patch it up?”

  “I don’t think it’s patchable.”

  “Things end. Things start.”

  “There was a lot of damage. I wonder why we beat up on the people we love so much.”

  “Our cages are too small.”

  They sat on a bench by a cypress tree. Cristobel lay her head on Frye’s shoulder. For a while he thought she was dozing.

  “It was a little over a year ago when it happened,” she said quietly. “Went to a party, had a fight with a man, and stormed out. I was a little drunk. Three blocks to walk in Long Beach—that was all. Next thing I knew, it was four men, a gun, and a car.”

  Frye heard the waves crashing below.

  “They took me out to a field. When it was over, I remember lying there and looking up at this big oil thing going up and down. One of those giant grasshoppers. It smelled bad. I hurt and I was freezing cold. I got my things back on and started walking, I found this workman in a shed. Big fat guy, smoking a cigar. He wrapped me up in some big towels and put me on a cot. The cops came and did their thing.”

  “And they caught them?”

  “Two hours later. They put one away and the others walked. The trial was bad. I felt unclean, and that made it worse. I got up to four showers a day, but they didn’t help. You can’t wash your mind with soap and water. Not a day goes by, not an hour, when I don’t think about lying there with the oil machine pumping away over me. I wake up and the first thing I wonder is: Am I going to make it through this day without re-living that night again? Funny, because as soon as you ask that, you’ve already failed. And I swear, Chuck, I swear I’ve seen those other three. They’re in the same car—an old Chevy—and they cruise Coast Highway in front of my apartment. I’ve seen them three times in the last month. I’m sure of it.”

  “You tell the cops?”

  “They say there’s no law against driving Coast Highway. They think I’m paranoid. The funny part is, I am.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “So if I’m weird, please bear with me a little. If you don’t want to, I don’t blame you. But if you buy the ticket, you ought to know what the ride’s like.”

  They stood for a while on the sand below her apartment. Frye held her close and could feel her heart beating against his chest. Her hair smelled like rain. Her mouth found his, and she was more assured now, eager. She put both her hands on his face and locked him in. She sucked out his breath. Frye gave her all he had. A moment later she was walking up the stairs toward her door. Frye stood and waited, but she never looked back.

  Bennett was sitting on his couch when Frye walked in. Donnell Crawley stood in the corner, looking at one of Frye’s surfboards. “Your security stinks, little brother. No wonder my tape got stolen.”

  “I told you I’m sorry about that—”

  “Forget the tape, Chuck. We’ve got bigger problems now. I played a hunch on the black hood the gunman was wearing. I checked the yardgoods stores in town and found a lady who’d sold a piece of black cotton to a man, eight days ago. She was terrified. Donnell leaned on her a little. She’d seen the guy before. Twenty years before, near Nha Trang. He was Dac Cong—Communist Special Forces.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Pop got Wiggins to let her view the body. Bingo. It was the same guy who bought the fabric.”

  “From Vietnam to San Francisco to Little Saigon. One of Thach’s men?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. The FBI’s doing a background check on him but it will take a while. They’re not in any goddamned hurry to share with us.”

  Crawley sat down with Bennett. Frye went to the window and looked out. The traffic on Laguna Canyon Road hissed along, tourists heading inland with genuine Laguna art. “I talked to Wiggins about Thach. The colonel’s a prisoner in his own apartment right now. His bosses don’t trust him.”

  “I got the same intelligence.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “No. But my sources need a few days to look into it.”

  “Wiggins talked down the whole Hanoi angle anyway.”

  “No one in the government will listen to that, Chuck. Not with Lucia Parsons getting Hanoi friendly enough to talk about POWs. Not with a city full of refugees ready to panic at the mention of his name. They want to be real sure before that can of worms gets opened.”

  “Do you really think he’s behind it?”

  �
��I don’t have any proof either. It’s easy for people to make it look that way.”

  “Why do that?”

  “Terror is a tool. I learned that well enough.”

  Frye considered this. “Has she called again, Benny?”

  “No word. Nothing, The FBI ran the voice print yesterday and it was definitely Li on the phone.”

  “What about the other voice?”

  “Male Oriental, middle-age. Not a native speaker. That’s all they could say.”

  “Benny, I read the story that Li told Smith. About Lam and you and her. Three bottles of French champagne on your … picnics. And three bottles of champagne on her stand in the dressing room.”

  Bennett heaved off the couch and swung over to Frye. “Get down here, Chuck. Get down to my level.”

  “No way.”

  Bennett glared up at him. “I’m going to tell you something. These stumps I’m standing on aren’t the worst thing I brought home from Nam. The worst is up in my head, and that’s just where I’m going to keep it. You can’t pry into me. Don’t even try. The war is nobody’s business but my own. Not yours, not Pop’s … nobody’s. Someone’s fucking with my head, Chuck, Don’t you start, too.”

  “They’re trying to make you remember Lam, aren’t they?”

  Frye could sense Bennett, navigating his own fury now. Bennett stepped back and stared up. He spoke softly. “That’s exactly what they’re trying to do. What they don’t know is that I remember him all the time, every day of my life. I don’t forget traitors: Ever.”

  Bennett lurched over to Crawley, who produced a Colt .45. Bennett brought it over to Frye and held it out. “If Thach is behind this, you might need a friend. I got Donnell and more FBI than I can stomach hanging around my house. Now you’ve got this. The clip’s full, no round in the chamber, and the safety’s on. You know how to use it?”

  “Pop showed me a long time ago.”

  “Well, the Colt .45 hasn’t changed in fifty years. It shoots straight and slow, and hits like an elephant. Keep it close, watch your back and don’t spend any more time in Little Saigon than you have to.”

  Frye took the heavy weapon. What mass has more finality? he thought. A tumor? A gravestone? “Thanks, I guess.”

  Bennett swung toward the door, stopped, then exhaled long and slow. He turned back to Frye with a curious look of pain and disappointment. “Wiggins finally caught up with Eddie Vo. About an hour ago.”

  “Where’d they find him?”

  “Trying to get into his house. He pulled a gun, and they shot him six times on his front porch.”

  Frye leaned against his broken stereo speaker. “Eddie Vo was just a mixed-up kid.”

  “Wiggins talks like he just got Joe Bonanno. The FBI’s happy now—they’ve got their prime suspect. Be careful, Chuck.”

  Crawley waited for Bennett to pivot past him. “Good night, Chuck. Anything not right, you call me. I be here fast as I can.”

  Frye got a flashlight and went into the cave. He dug through some old boxes and finally found the little pair of stereo speakers that he’d outgrown years ago but couldn’t bring himself to toss.

  In the living room, he hooked them up to his receiver and put on Li’s Lost Mothers.

  The sound wasn’t great, but the music came through anyway. He read the translation of “Tunnel Song.”

  Deep in this earth I sang to you

  You were many miles away

  I went to the enemy for you

  You were waiting for the truth I’d bring

  With the morning I’d leave the hell of earth

  And return myself to the sun

  And put in your hands the plans of death

  So you could plant flowers of freedom

  In the earth that held me down.

  Frye looked at the fresh traces of mud on the floor, on his shoes. From the cave, he thought. From the cave.

  Suddenly, obviously, like a shade being removed from his eyes, he knew where they had taken her.

  And he knew where Eddie had gone.

  And he knew where Duc had gone.

  Mud in the middle of August.

  He called information and got her number. The Dream Reader answered on the ninth ring. She sounded sleepy. Frye said he’d just had a bad nightmare and demanded an emergency reading. She said it would cost twice as much this late. They agreed on midnight.

  The Westminster police wouldn’t give him Minh’s home number. After pleading with the watch commander, Frye left his own, then hung up and waited on a callback.

  It took less than a minute. Minh was calling from Eddie Vo’s house.

  “Detective, I know you’d rather see me in jail than talk to me on the phone, but I know where they took Li. And I know where Eddie Vo went after I let him get away.”

  “Tell me where, exactly.”

  “I can’t. It might take some finding. But I’ll take you there if I can. You game?”

  “Yes, I’m game.”

  “Meet me at the Dream Reader’s in twenty minutes.”

  He rang off, dialed the prefix to Bennett’s number, then hesitated. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m right and it doesn’t amount to jack? Okay, brother, I’ll stay out of your head. I’ll do it your way.

  He locked up and walked outside to the Cyclone, tapping the flashlight against his leg.

  CHAPTER 18

  LITTLE SAIGON WAS DESERTED UNTIL HE CAME to St. Bartholomew’s Church, where cars were still jamming into the overfilled parking lot. Caught in the stalled lane of traffic, Frye could see through the open parish doors hundreds of Vietnamese packed into the small church, more in the vestibule, more trailing across the lawn from the lot. The marquee said MIDNIGHT MASS FOR TUY XUAN—MONSIGNOR DINH HO HANH. There were two cop cars parked in front, an NBC News van, a station wagon from KOCE TV in Huntington Beach. A photog that Frye recognized as a Times staffer stood near the church steps, composing a shot of parents and two tiny boys in suits. The strobe raked them; the photographer waved them inside.

  Another block down Bolsa he turned left under the archway of Saigon Plaza and passed the two snarling lions guarding the entrance. Both were plastered with posters of Li’s face—announcements of a CFV “Freedom Rally” set for Friday. He slowed, pulled one off, and put it on his seat.

  The parking lot was almost empty. A few small sedans were huddled near the noodle shop. The owner of Ban Le Cafe hosed off the walkway in front, where the outdoor tables were pushed against the wall and stacked with chairs. Frye parked in front of Siêu Thi Mỹ-Hoa Supermarket. The lights were still bright, and a few shoppers came and went.

  Frye got the flashlight, stuffed it in his belt, pulled his shirt down, and locked up the Cyclone. He could feel the sticky sweat on his back and smell the high, thin stink of fear on his body

  Minh was waiting for him.

  The Dream Reader’s light still glowed over the sidewalk in a purple-pink wash. He pushed on the door but it was locked. Inside it was dark. He cupped his hands, looked through the glass and saw the wide old woman making her way toward him. She opened the door and regarded him with a suspicious, tired expression. “Bad visions?” she asked.

  “Uncertain visions,” he said.

  She looked at Minh. “I am not open for business.”

  “You are now.” Frye pushed past her and into the front room. The smell of incense hit him. Minh and the Dream Reader conversed in Vietnamese while Frye scanned the carpet. She took her seat and opened her box.

  “Fifty dollar.”

  Frye counted out the money and handed it to her.

  “Tell me of your dream.”

  “Mind if I walk while I talk? I’m nervous.”

  She eyed him, then Minh, who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. She nodded.

  “I have this dream over and over that I’m in a small dark place and I can’t get out. I wake up sweating, and my heart’s ready to blow up.”

  “Small dark places frighten us all.”

  Frye
continued to walk the room, testing the floor for consistency, sound feel. I know it’s here somewhere, he thought. “Sometimes I dream I’m in the ocean.”

  “The ocean can be a dark place when you’re under the water.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “I see helplessness in your dream. You are dreaming of death.”

  How true, thought Frye. He tapped the floor with his foot.

  “What are you doing?”

  Minh spoke sharply to her, then to Frye. “What in hell are you doing?”

  “Lighten up. I could have called the FBI. You’ll see.”

  The Dream Reader fidgeted on her chair. “Have you lost a loved one to death?”

  Frye looked at her. A chill rippled up his back. He felt the Dream Reader, sucking out his thoughts. “My sister.”

  “In the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “You relive her death. You wish to join her.”

  He stopped, knelt down and rapped his knuckles on the floor. Nothing.

  Where?

  Frye moved to the wall, feeling along with his hands now, tapping, listening. He had covered every foot. Every foot of floor except …

  He stood over the woman. She looked up at him with contempt. Her thick hands were folded on the table, her huge bosom tight within the ao dai.

  “You may leave now,” she said.

  “Get up, please.”

  “I stay.”

  “Up, doll.”

  She sat back and glared at him.

  He stepped around her, took the back of her chair and towed it away with her in it. She grasped the arms like a frightened airline passenger and cursed him in Vietnamese. Then he pushed the table aside and ran his hands over the carpet. Nothing but a scrap of string.

  A loop.

  He slid his flashlight through it and pulled.

  The trapdoor rose. It was roughly square, the same size as the Dream Reader’s table. The smell of earth wafted up. Minh jumped to his side. When Frye shined his light down he could see the rounded sides of the tunnel and a ladder made of rope. “I knew I’d get my fifty-bucks’ worth,” he said.