Little Mountain

by Sanchez, Bob

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then you better hope someone else picks you up instead of me.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “No. But by the time I pick you up, someone might turn your face into pizza sauce the way you did Bin Chea.”

  “Didn’t do him,” he finally said.

  “Who did?”

  “I find out, I’ll call you up. I’ll say, ‘Officer Long Dick, sir? I know who done him, I’ll tell you for a price.’ ”

  “Try shaking down the neighbors again, you’ll pay a big price.”

  “Oh, you mean the twenty bucks that nice woman loaned me?”

  “Fifty. Unless you borrowed from someone else, too. Pay her back now and I won’t haul you in.” Not for this, anyway. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Not now, man. Not unless she can break a hundred.”

  “She won’t have to. Fifty is interest. And if you ever bother those people again, I will take a deep--” Sam’s fingers dug into Viseth’s shoulder.

  “Let the fuck go, man.”

  “personal--”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “--interest. I’ll watch while you thank her, and then you’ll never speak to her again. Let’s go.”

  Viseth went home and took a pair of fifties from where he knew his mother hid cash. Then he slipped out the back door of his apartment, where Fitchie was waiting for him with a smile. The three walked together to the next house, where Viseth wordlessly handed the cash to the woman he’d “borrowed” from.

  “You forgot something, Viseth,” Fitchie said.

  “No. This is too much,” the woman said. She tried to return one of the bills, but Sam looked into her eyes and shook his head.

  Fitchie pushed Viseth’s hand away. “Thank the woman, you fool,” he said.

  “Thank you. Can I go now?”

  A few minutes later, Viseth was home again, free from the asshole cops. He slumped on the living room couch and stared at a commercial on television. A woman was cleaning her kitchen floor, and a genie came out of a lamp to help her. What did the woman and the genie do when they were alone? Slip into the lamp and hump? When this lamp’s rockin’, don’t come knockin’? Viseth’s mother opened a TV tray in front of him, placed a beer on it, and left. “And something to eat, too,” he called out. The hundred was nothing, he’d just get it from somebody else. But how did Long Dick know about him and Bin Chea? Rocky must’ve shot off his mouth about the lights.

  His old lady set a plate of boiled squid under his nose. As a cook she was hopeless, eating her squid was like chewing on a rain slicker run over by a lawn mower. If it didn’t taste so good he’d kick her ass. And his old man spent all the time he could at work making boxes or whatever he did. Twelve hours of work, four hours of booze, eight hours of sleep. What a life. Viseth found the gin his old man had stashed in a cabinet, and poured himself three fingers.

  That Cambodian cop could never prove he killed Bin Chea. Impossible. But who knew how much trouble he and Rocky could cause?

  It was time to shut them up. Both of them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sam sat in the Athens Diner and waited for Callahan while Fitchie made a phone call. Cal had asked Sam to stop there for coffee, and Sam was five minutes early. He felt as different from his boss as he felt from Bin Chea, but didn’t think he’d given Wilkins cause for hating him. Of course, there had been the business about arresting the lieutenant’s brother last Christmas, but Pooey Wilkins never did time. If that was the problem, Wilkins should say so and get it over with.

  Sam opened his wallet and counted five wrinkled ones that looked like the value had been squeezed out. There wasn’t a lot of room in Sam and Julie’s budget. Money poured into groceries, rent, and a balky Ford, while it trickled into a mortgage fund, dance lessons for Trish, and treats like a once-a-month pizza and movie. The department vehicle he was supposed to use had been in the shop for days. If it ever got out, he could stop using his own car.

  The Athens was an old railroad car, its interior papered with images of Aegean islands that had brilliant blue coves filled with small boats. In each corner of the room was a wallpapered Greek column, apparently to give the illusion of holding up the diner. A half dozen maroon stools, some torn, lined the counter that separated the customers from the grill. Sam would have loved to loosen up a little, to sit at the counter and spin himself around, to act like the adolescent he’d never been.

  He sighed and twirled the seat with his finger.

  Cal was right on time. His burns looked mostly healed. Nearly a year had passed since Sam had pulled Cal out of a burning wreck. They took a booth at the end of the diner, where Cal could look out the window and see whoever came in the door.

  “You’re looking good, Cal,” Sam said. “Glad you’re back.”

  Cal looked sheepish. “I never thanked you for what you did. You’re one brave son of a bitch.”

  “You thanked me four or five times.”

  Sam didn’t like thinking about the incident, because fire ignited his worst memories like a spark in dry grass.

  The soldier was a boy even younger than Sambath. He inhaled deeply on the stub of his cigarette, and tossed it into the embers underneath the prisoner. “I am going now, Comrade,” he told Sambath. “If your father disappears while I am gone, there will be nothing I can do about it.”

  Sambath frantically scattered the coals even before the guard had left. His friends Boreth and Vacheran appeared from the forest, where the full moon reflected light across the fringes. Father was unconscious as they stepped barefoot into the embers and carried him away.

  The memories were a scab on Sam’s brain.

  “No way I can pay you back--”

  Sam shifted in the warm plastic seat, more comfortable with Wilkins’ abuse than with Cal’s praise. Not that he didn’t prefer compliments, but he was used to hearing about his shortcomings for about as long as he could remember. Even his father had never expected him to amount to anything, and the old man had often said so.

  Flakes of baklava stuck to Cal’s lips. “Look, you gotta watch your back. Wilkins is going to stick it in you and core your guts out.”

  “He’s just a lot of words, Cal. I’ve seen worse.” Sam only half believed his own words. What lengths would Wilkins take to keep Sam in his place?

  “You got stainless steel balls, arresting Pooey Wilkins last winter. Rumor is that the Lieutenant’s setting you up. Son of a bitch is out to get you any way he can.”

  “Pooey isn’t the Lieutenant’s fault. Anyway, the guy was dealing.”

  “Just be real careful who you trust. Especially watch what you say at the station.”

  Sam shrugged. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a problem tracking down Khem,” he said. “What do I call this guy, this Khem-without-a-last-name?”

  “Call him Khem Doe.”

  “Chea’s neighbors claim they hardly know Khem at all, so how come they hear him talking so much? How many people have heard him or met him? And how many are parrots just repeating what they’ve heard?”

  “What do you need Khem for?” asked Cal. “Why aren’t you after the killer, who’s supposed to be a Battboy?”

  “I think Khem may be tied in with the killing, but I don’t see how. If anything, I expect he’d want to kill Chea himself.”

  “So what’s he been saying?”

  “With a wave of Bin Chea’s finger whole families died.” Sam cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s what he told Chea’s neighbor Li Chang. Apparently gave the bloody details, but Mrs. Chang wouldn’t repeat them to me. She told Khem he must be thinking of someone else, that Chea was not that kind of guy.”

  “And now we’ll never know.”

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it? Khem also told her he killed his best friend.”

  “Wait. Who--?” Cal seemed confused.

  “Khem killed his own best friend. He said Chea made him do it in front of a group.”

  “The devil made hi
m do it? Wait, that’s bullshit. Khem holds the gun, right? So why not turn it on this Chea guy instead?”

  “No, he was in front of his comrades. Some were soldiers with AK-47’s, and all Khem had was a club.”

  “So what if you find this Khem and it turns out he did Chea? And it turns out Chea’s who you think he was?”

  “Who he might’ve been,” Sam corrected.

  “Yeah. Do you let this Khem go, or what?”

  “I’d cuff him and read him his rights.”

  “You’d arrest him? Khem kills a prick like that, he deserves a medal,” Cal said.

  “Anyway, I don’t know if Chea was the guy at Little Mountain.”

  “How common’s his last name?”

  “How common is Smith?”

  “Oh. So you caught the same shit Khem did over there?”

  “Everybody did.”

  “Maybe Khem hired some Battboys to do the deed.”

  Cal paid the check, and they headed back into the heat. Cal was a decent fellow, but Sam had probably wasted his time. Fitchie followed.

  “By the way,” Cal said. “You know that DOA the other night?”

  “The guy who hit the pickup?”

  “And the girl goes ass over teakettle through the windshield with her panties down her kneecaps?”

  Sam nodded. At the same time, Julie’s panties had been sliding down past her kneecaps. Then the phone rang, and they slid back up.

  “Why do you think they were driving like that?” Cal asked.

  “Someone caught them in the act, I suppose. Ask Carmela Diaz.”

  “Tried. Sight of a cop gives her lockjaw. You’re good at talking to people, though. Maybe you could speak to her. They were three blocks down from your man’s house. A straight line.”

  “They might have seen the shooter?”

  “Must’ve seen something to break their concentration,” Cal said.

  “I have to make a call, then I’ll go see her. Thanks, Cal.” Sam went to a pay phone and called the funeral home where Chea’s body had been taken after its release.

  Sam talked to Paddy McDermaid, the funeral director. “I need to know what Mister Chea looked like,” Sam said. “Will you show a picture of him at the wake?”

  “I believe we will,” McDermaid said. “We encourage it with closed caskets.”

  The wake was scheduled for six. After that, he should have time for a trip to Cochran’s Gym, which he’d skipped the last couple of nights.

  “Gentleman here to see you,” the nurse announced. Sam followed her into Carmela Diaz’s hospital room. A large bouquet of flowers sat on a small table. The other bed was empty. The television had a game show on. Carmela’s face was covered with bandages, her eyes framed in purple skin.

  “Who’s he?” she asked, but the nurse was already gone. Sam introduced himself and showed his badge.

  “How are you feeling, Miss Diaz?”

  “How do I look?”

  “Like you’re in pain.”

  “You’re very smart. I’m what, nine shades of blue? Cut from head to toe? Head big as a watermelon, didn’t bust open, only feels like it? Concussion, broken bones in my face, broken elbow, torn cartilage? Name a bone, I think it’s broke?” Her eyes filled up like a dam about to burst. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “I’m sorry about your accident.”

  She sniffled. “What time is it?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Change the channel for me? Seven? No, just turn it off.” Sam flicked the power button on the remote, and the picture collapsed into a point.

  “Were you parked on Eleventh Street the other night?” he said.

  “Justo’s dead.” Tears rolled down purple spillways and soaked into the dressing on her face.

  Sam waited. Tried to stay detached. Tried not to think of his father’s agony. Finally she calmed down a little. Why were you and Justo driving like that? was the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask. How humiliated she must be. “What did you see at the top of Eleventh Street?” he finally said.

  “I seen this guy.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “He was like staring at us.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He had a rifle.”

  She had seen the killer. “Was it pointed at you?”

  Carmela shook her head and winced.

  “Maybe you should keep your head still. Do you know who he was?”

  “Justo must of knew him. He thought the guy was like totally gonna kill us.”

  “Did Justo mention his name?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “He was in shadows. The street light was out. I think he was an Asian kid with hair in his eyes.”

  “But your boyfriend recognized him?”

  “Justo wasn’t really my boyfriend.”

  Oh, I’m sorry. I jump to conclusions. He kept his voice gentle. “Justo could see him in the dark, but you couldn’t?”

  “Look, don’t you think I suffered enough? He blew a guy away. I don’t want him coming after me.”

  “I understand how you feel. But if he knows you, you’ll be safer when he’s behind bars.”

  She turned her head away from Sam. “Get out of here,” she said softly. “Just leave me alone.”

  On his way home, Sam drove by an old wooden building. When he’d first moved to the area, the place had been a small bookstore. After a year or two it became a thrift shop. Now it was the perfect target for a firebug: the window in the door was shuttered, the CLOSED sign hadn’t been flipped in months, and the second floor windows were covered with plywood. He slowed to notice the broken number on the door. One-seven-five, the last digit a shadow where the hardware had been. One of the places on Fitchie’s Paradise list. Hmph. Was probably scheduled for the torch until Bin Chea died.

  After supper, Julie excused Trish from the table, and she sat alone with Sam and two glasses of iced tea. Perspiration formed a light sheen on her forehead, and Sam brushed her face with his fingers. “Sometimes I feel a little crazy,” Julie said.

  “I do that to you?” He still couldn’t believe his luck in marrying her.

  “No. I mean yes, but--but I kept seeing the same car today, some old rattle-trap. It’s stupid, I just saw it three or four times.”

  Sam sat up straight. “What kind of car?”

  “It was old and blue, and had four wheels. You know me and cars.”

  “Did anyone bother you?”

  “No one even looked at me, that’s how silly I feel.”

  “You see what the person looked like?”

  Julie squeezed the lemon into her tea, then shrugged.

  “Man? Woman? White? Black?”

  “Yes sir, Detective Long, sir. Subject was an Asian male, of whom there are approximately ten thousand in the area. Subject was ascertained to have been minding his own business.”

  “If he keeps showing up, try to get a plate number and a make on the car, okay?” Julie’s seeing the car didn’t seem to mean much. The tea chilled his throat going down. “Someone’s trying to buy me off,” he said. “Left a wad of bills in my car this morning.”

  Julie didn’t ask whether Sam turned it in; to her, there was no other possibility. Maybe that came from knowing that her family would never let their daughter and grand-daughter become poor. No, that wasn’t it. Sam struggled to do the right thing; Julie could be penniless and stumble on a million dollars, and she’d still say “it isn’t mine.”

  After supper, Sam drove across the city, past mill buildings and renovated store fronts. He pulled his Ford in front of the funeral home, a decorous-looking white house with gables, black shutters, and a bright green lawn with perfect grass that glistened from a light spray. The lowering sunlight broke apart in the mist above the lawn and re-formed into a rainbow. A discreet sign outside identified the business. It was nothing like the other small businesses across the street with their garish s
igns and catchy names. There were no Triple-A’s in the funeral business, no Speedee’s, no golden arches, no slogans, no neon. Just quiet dignity and a curbside full of cars that brought the friends of the dead from all over town.

  Sam hated funeral homes.

  Sambath, Vacheran, and Boreth helped carry Father into the forest, where they placed him on a soft pile of leaves. Sambath agonized that he could not do more. How could they care for him? No one knew what to do, or what to do it with. Sambath held Father’s hand gently, hoping that Father’s next life would be better.

  Father squeezed his son’s hand. “Take care of your mother,” he said. “And Sarapon.”

  “Yes, Father. I will take good care of them.” But Sambath could not bear to tell the truth: Mother and Sister were already gone.

  Then Father’s hand fell limp; he was gone as well.

  In the foyer, several knots of people chatted quietly. Many were young high-school age boys looking glum and awkward in their sport coats and ties. Girls wore dresses and runny mascara, and paid their last respects to Justo, a classmate who had died the same night that Chea was killed. The man Justo and Carmela saw must have scared Justo badly. That would make Justo and Chea victims of the same killer. Ironically, both were here tonight, same funeral home but different worlds. Vastly different cultures, but mourned in the same building on the same summer night. It doesn’t matter where we’re from. Strip away the habits and the customs, and we all feel the hurt when a friend dies.

  Across the foyer, McDermaid nodded discreetly. He had a complexion the color of rosé wine. Sam walked over to meet him. They shook hands; McDermaid smelled faintly of Old Spice and breath mints.

  “I need to speak to someone who knew the victim well,” Sam said.

  “One moment,” McDermaid said, and he walked over to a cluster of teenage boys. He whispered into the ear of the tallest one, and nodded back toward Sam.

  “This is Justo’s brother Jesus,” McDermaid said. Jesus wore a light blue jacket and a red tie. A charcoal fuzz grew above his upper lip. Sam felt a dozen pairs of eyes looking at them.