by Sanchez, Bob
“Out of a thousand?”
There were low whistles and more laughing. Viseth’s face burned with embarrassment. They enjoyed screwing him. The back door slammed. His old man must be home early.
“Choi mai!” Viseth said.
“Still going to California tomorrow?”
“What with? You got all my money.”
“Whew. Close call for the Long Beach girls.”
“No shit,” Huon said. “Same for the boys.”
“What do you mean by that?” Viseth said.
“I hear you give rides to little boys.”
Viseth tried to smile, but the corner of his mouth quivered. “Sorry to disappoint you, little boy. You’ll have to ask someone else.” His hand shook as he emptied his bottle of Tsing-Tao beer. The muscles tightened in his chest, and he pictured that asshole Huon lying in a pool of blood. The others would drag the corpse away as he called his mother to clean up the mess. But that was only a wish; a 9-mm Beretta lay inside the diamond of Huon’s crossed legs.
“I need to get out of here,” Viseth said. “Cops are getting too close.”
Huon looked down at the space between his knees. “They got that Cambodian cop on you, and you’re just running away. Stick around, you coward. Cambodian stupid enough to be a cop needs to hear from the Battboys.”
“You call me a coward? I’ve already decided to kill him.”
“Now you sound like a man. He’s dead he can’t bother us, right?”
“What you mean, us? You ought to help me kill him.”
Viseth’s father stomped up the back stairs and slammed the outside door the way he always did when he’d been out drinking. He went into the bathroom and pissed with the door open.
“No. Do it yourself,” Huon said. “Blow his face off, like you did that guy last week. I wish somebody gave me a thousand bucks for something that easy. Why’d they want him dead, anyway?” Huon said.
“Some Khmer Rouge shit. Who cares?”
Huon’s voice was friendlier now. “You should find out where the cop lives. Still have the shotgun?”
“No, I got rid of it.” Why tell the truth now? The gun was back on the shelf under Miss April.
“Can get you one for--um, $75.” Huon smirked like he was in on a joke.
“You prick. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Tough. You need that cop. What’s his name again?”
“Sambath Long.”
“Probably in the phone book. Guy who hired you, he’d say thanks, maybe you’d get a bonus.”
Viseth’s father stood in the entrance to the living room. The blood was gone from his face. “Huon! Vanney! Nak! Get out of my house!” His finger trembled as he pointed to the front door. Viseth had never seen him this way before.
Huon dangled his Beretta by the trigger guard. “Relax, old man. Put some Valium in your gin. We’re just having fun here.”
“No, everyone get out! All of you except my son. You will not plan your crimes in my home. And you will not bring your guns here.”
Huon tucked his Beretta under his shirt and walked out behind Vanney and Nak. “Get ready to be whipped,” he said to Viseth. “Your old man found his spine. You want another shotgun, see me later.”
Viseth’s blood boiled, and his fists clenched and unclenched. How could the old man do this to him? He deserved a good--
His father was in the center of the living room now. “Viseth, what are you planning to do? Are you planning to hurt someone? Who did you hurt last week? Did you kill our landlord?”
“Just stay out of this, you old fart. It’s none of your business.”
The old man slapped Viseth across the face. The father’s whole body shook, but Viseth saw anger and not fear.
“You have no respect for anyone,” his father said. “When you were a boy, we brought you through the jungle to freedom. We brought you to America so you could go to school and have a good life. Now you call me names, but your mother and I bring home a paycheck. You bring your mother and me nothing but shame.”
His mother came down slowly from her upstairs bedroom, gripping the banister to steady herself. His father was on his knees, and his hands were clasped together. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “If you killed Bin Chea, I beg you to go to the police.”
“Someone is going to kill you, son.” Mother’s voice was soft and controlled, as though she had practiced her words. “We saw too much killing in Cambodia. That is why we came here. These boys are not your friends. I think that Huon boy would kill you for nothing and smile at the memory of it. Please listen to your father and go to the police.”
Viseth stared down at the brown carpet. One of his friends had spilled beer, and his father was kneeling in it. “Police are the only ones I have to worry about,” he said. “I’ve never hurt anybody.”
“Stop lying to me,” Father said. “Did you kill Mister Chea? Look at me and tell me you didn’t kill him.”
Viseth met his father’s eyes. “I didn’t kill him,” he said. “This policeman just made up his mind I’m guilty.” And that policeman was going to pay.
His parents stood together now, Father’s eyes glistening in the light. Mother’s eyes were dry, hard, unbelieving.
“Pick up the telephone, son,” Mother said. “Call the police.”
“You’re asking me to kill myself, Mother.”
“No. We are asking you to save yourself. You are caught in a cycle of evil. We will stand with you, but you must accept punishment--”
“Where is the telephone book?”
Mother picked up the book and handed it to him. Punishment? Fuck that. I won’t be anybody’s victim. He flipped the pages in the telephone directory--Long, Sambath. There it was. He circled the name, address and telephone number, tore out the page and folded it, and stuffed the paper in his pocket. Maybe that cop Long would like some 2 a.m. phone calls, or would they just put him on his guard? No, better to catch the motherfucker by surprise. And if he wasn’t home, maybe his old lady would get her face rearranged.
He headed for the front door, and heard his mother swallow a cry.
“Please make the phone call,” Father said.
Viseth slammed the door behind him and walked out back to the bulkhead. He picked up the shotgun and drove to Boston. There was a broad he could stay with for the night.
Back at the station, Sam jammed a sheet of paper into his Selectric and typed up his notes using two fingers. Was Angka--the Organization--here in Lowell? His heart pounded, his fingers raced. Who cared about spelling at a time like this?
“Officer Long, may I speak with you?” Sam looked up, and there was Li Chang with her daughter Sopheary in tow. She spoke to him in halting English.
“Of course, Mrs. Chang,” he said. He gestured to a side chair, and she sat down with Sopheary on her knee. The little girl waved, and he managed only a half smile in reply. Li Chang pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. Sopheary reached for a pen on Sam’s desk, and Li Chang slapped her hand.
“I am afraid for my neighbor’s boy, Ravy Lac,” Li Chang said. “He lives upstairs from us. Yesterday someone picked up him on the other side of the park and drove away.”
“I remember him. Have his parents reported him missing?”
“He’s not missing. He’s back home.”
“Then what is the problem, Mrs. Chang?”
“That man frighten him so bad.”
“Do you know the man?”
She shook her head. “He is Asian. I have seen him a few times on Eleventh Street. He drinks beer and has a filthy tongue.”
Viseth’s name came to Sam’s mind. “What happened to the Ravy Lac boy?” Sam motioned for Fitchie to listen. “Can you tell us in English, Mrs. Chang?”
“Okay, I try. I was already worry about him. Then Peary and I coming back from park and we meet him run up sidewalk. He could not speak from screaming, and his pants soak with--” She struggled to find the right word.
“Urine
?”
“Urine, that’s right. I took him in my apartmen’--”
“Why didn’t you take him home?”
“His father sleeping, and I afraid he punish his boy for be so dirty. Nawath Lac not reason--” Mrs. Chang was stumped for the right word.
“Not a reasonable man?” Sam said.
“Yes, not reasonable man.”
Sam remembered Sichan Lac’s bruises. “So what did the boy tell you?”
“At first, nothing. He smell terrible, and he mess in his underwear.” Sopheary wrinkled her nose while her mother spoke. “I let him take a bath. I notice his mouth cut, and a tiny metal on his lip. He beg me leave it alone, and not to tell his paren’ about any of this. I gave him towel to wear and I take his clothes to laundry around corner.”
“When I came back, he was feel a little better. He say something about a cellar, and about a gun in his mouth, and he cry again. ‘Please don’t tell my paren,’ he say. ‘Please don’t tell my paren.’ ”
“Did you speak to his parents?”
“I wait for his father Nawath go to work, then I tell Sichan--that his mother. I think I must do this. She say ‘Okay, no problem. My son okay now, don’t worry.’ I say ‘You must tell police,’ but she say no, not problem for police. Cannot trust, cannot trust.”
“What do you think she meant by that?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know, but I am very worry.”
Fitchie looked at Sam. “What does she mean by metal on his lip?”
“Maybe from the gun.”
“You mean a steel sliver?”
“Right. A steel burr.”
“We’ll pick up your buddy Viseth. See what you can find out from the boy’s mother.”
Li Chang hugged her daughter. “You don’t say I come tell you this, please. Nawath find out, he very angry with me.”
“Are you afraid he would hurt you, Mrs. Chang?”
“Not sure what he do if he is angry. I want mind my business, but this boy--” She bit her lower lip and stared past Sam as though she were watching dust motes in the air.
What could have happened to Ravy Lac? Someone had seriously messed with the boy; that he lived in Chea’s building seemed like too much of a coincidence.
Had Ravy Lac gone off with a stranger? If he did, then he would probably run away screaming if Sam stopped him in the street to ask him questions. But Fitchie had a way with kids, of reassuring them, calming them down. His two boys were about Ravy’s age. They were no strangers to pain themselves, too young to bear the long goodbye to their mother.
“You think this ties into the Bin Chea shooting?” Fitchie asked.
“The boy lives in the same house. We have to look.”
“I vote we talk to his parents.”
They drove to the Highlands and parked up the street from where the murder had taken place. As they got out of the car, Ravy walked around the corner and up the hill toward them. When he finally noticed them, Ravy stopped short. His lower lip was puffed and blue, and he had a pair of contusions the size of quarters on his left cheek.
“What happened to you?” Sam asked, trying not to seem too concerned.
Ravy’s eyes filled with fear. “Nothing,” he said, shrinking back as though Sam were about to strike him. Sam took a step back and held out his hands, palms open, no offense, kid.
Fitchie walked up the front steps slowly, as though he didn’t know he was in Ravy’s way. “Someone beat you up?” he asked over his shoulder. If Ravy answered, it was no more than a squeal.
Fitchie opened the front door and held it for the boy. “We’re not stopping you,” he said. “We just wanna talk for a minute.”
Ravy turned and ran into the house, followed by Fitchie and Sam, who took their time. Nawath Lac looked down from the second-floor landing. His flowered shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, and a gold medallion hung around his neck. The boy looked up, then down, then up again. He was trapped. Nawath grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into their apartment.
Sam explained the situation in English, and Nawath’s eyes filled with concern. Oh my God, what happened? They did that to my son? My only child? Sam had seen the look before--it was one of calculated sincerity, of a person who could give you a friendly smile and then cut out your liver. “Thank you for worrying about my son,” he said. “But I will find out what is bothering him, and I will call you if I need you.”
“You need the police now,” Sam said. “We want to keep this person away from your son.”
“Thank you. My son will be fine. We don’t want to waste your time.”
“Please allow me to speak with him--Ravy, isn’t that his name?” As though Sam didn’t know. Maybe he and Fitchie could get inside the apartment again, for whatever that might accomplish. Nawath seemed oddly unaffected by Bin Chea’s death. Was there a link between this man and the shooting? Nawath lit a cigarette, and the flame from the lighter flickered in his eyes. The light seemed to come from a furnace inside him.
“Sir, this is my family. My life,” Nawath said. “I know you tried to turn my wife against me. Perhaps you can find my landlord’s killer instead.”
“We’re doing that, sir,” Fitchie said. “But you can’t hit your wife, sir. It can land you in jail.”
“You don’t understand. It’s a Cambodian custom. Men must discipline their wives.”
Fitchie’s mouth puckered as though he’d swallowed a lemon. He shot a quick glance at Sam, who shook his head. Family violence happened, but--
“No!” Sam said in Khmer. “Take off your shoes in the house, that’s a custom. Give your wife a black eye, that’s a crime.”
Nawath stepped back as though Sam had punched him in the eye, but the hell with Nawath and his false politeness. Nawath clenched his fists but kept them by his side. Now his eyes told the truth as they aimed a death wish at Sam. Sam was a pebble in Nawath’s shoe, and he was going to get dumped out.
Nawath pushed past the half-open apartment door and slammed it behind him.
Fitchie slid into Sam’s car on the passenger side. “There was a little heat in your voice,” he said. “We lost him back there.”
“It’s not a Cambodian custom,” Sam said.
“Okay.”
“Cambodian men don’t do that, hit their wives.”
Fitchie looked Sam in the eye. Fitchie’s eyes were slate blue, his skin light from days spent indoors at Ellen’s bedside. “Oh, cut it out. This is me you’re talking to, Sam. You’re not talking to a school kid, or some dumb bastard from Neptune. This is me. Fitchie. I’ve hauled Cambodian jaw-breakers off to jail.”
“But they’re criminals.”
“You bet your ass they’re criminals.”
“It’s not a Cambodian custom.”
Fitchie clapped his hands on his chest. “I never said it was.”
“No, you didn’t. Sorry. Let’s forget it. We should see what Viseth has to say.”
They stopped at a convenience store, where Fitchie bought a roll of Tums. He opened the package and offered the first one to Sam, who shook his head.
“Can I ask you something personal? Your parents passed away, right Sam?”
Sam nodded.
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You have pictures of them?”
“Only in my head.”
“Every day I go and see Ellen at the hospital,” Fitchie said. “Plus I must open my wallet twenty times a day just to look at her picture. I’m terrified I’ll forget what she looked like.”
“You’re not the type to forget.”
Fitchie looked out the car window. A young couple walked hand in hand, laughing. “What am I going to do when she’s gone?” he mumbled.
“Your boys need you,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” he said, straightening his posture. “For now, let’s go see Viseth.”
Viseth’s neighbors were enjoying the late afternoon. People were coming home from work, taking off their work shirts, cracking o
pen beers, sitting on car hoods, kissing their wives, opening windows, turning on their radios and fans, sticking their heads out of whichever apartment windows didn’t have fans. A lady was out for a walk, holding a stroller in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She had a stomach out to here. Down the street, someone was washing his car with a garden hose. “Your mother’s a whore” came a voice from across the street. When Sam and Fitchie turned, two boys giggled and ran down an alley. A red Trans Am drove slowly down the street, the thump-thump-thump of bass notes rattling windows until the damned car turned a corner and peeled rubber. It was too late to notice the plate number.
Sam rang the buzzer under the name that said “Kim.” In a minute, Viseth’s father appeared at the door. He had thin white hair on his head, and small tufts of hair grew out of his ears. He was holding his abdomen, like a man trying to recover from a punch in the gut. His glasses were held together by a piece of tape. It wasn’t so much that he looked old; he looked like a middle-aged man whose son was destroying him.
Sam flashed his badge, and Kim shook his head. “Viseth not here,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“Where can we find him, sir?”
“I not know. He have trouble?”
“We have a lot of questions for your son. When did he leave here?”
Kim looked down at his bare feet. “I not see him today.”
“Tell us the truth,” Fitchie said. “You’re protecting him, aren’t you?”
“Viseth is my son,” Kim said, and he seemed ready to burst into tears. “Of course I protect my son.”
Of course. That’s what Sam’s father would have done for him. “He could be in a lot of trouble,” Sam said. “If you want to help him, tell us where he is.”
Kim looked as though his heart would break. “If he guilty of crime, you arrest him, okay. Just not hurt. Please not hurt.”
Sam and Fitchie headed back to the station. On the way, they drove past an old wooden building with peeling gray paint. “That place was on your Paradise list,” Sam said.
“No kidding?” Fitchie said. “Looks like a placeholder for a parking lot.” Sam frowned, so Fitchie explained. “A dump,” he said.