Little Mountain

by Sanchez, Bob

  A blue glow reflected off the lid, which left half the Dumpster covered. Radio static. A voice on the radio squawked like a guy with a mouth full of fish. A car door thumped shut. Footsteps, then quiet. Viseth reached for a shell. One left. He could barely slide it into the chamber, he was shaking so much. Had to get out of this stinking hole. Should have put something on that cigarette burn on his chest--shit, that hurt! Was the cop going to look in? Any cop who looked in would get to be part of the stink in there.

  Viseth sat completely still.

  Then the same noises in reverse. Footsteps. Thump. Squawk. Hiss. Viseth buried the shotgun in the garbage, then climbed out and tried to brush himself off. A pair of red lights flashed as though the devil were staring back at him, then the cruiser moved through the intersection. He scraped off his slimy shoes on a storm drain.

  What would the Man think when he heard what Viseth had done? The Man was old, too old to fight his own battles. He needed young men like Viseth to blast his enemies. Viseth pictured himself as the Man’s lieutenant as they grabbed control over businesses like the Pailin Jewel. The Battboys would all take orders from Viseth--all except Huon, of course, who would get a bullet between the eyes no matter what.

  A few minutes passed, and the street was still. He walked up the street to the shopping plaza. Out in front of the K-Mart was a pay phone sheltered from the rain by an overhang. He slipped a quarter in the slot and dialed.

  The old bastard sounded weird. “Yes,” he said, his voice so soft Viseth could barely hear it above the rain behind him. “Yes, I see that you taught him a lesson.”

  “Look, I need a place to stay tonight. I can’t go home.” The line was quiet for a minute. Was the connection broken? “Did you hear me? I need a fucking place to get dry.”

  “You needn’t swear at me. I’m thinking how I can help you. Police are driving up and down my street, so you can’t come here. Meet me down by the Westford Street canal at two o’clock. I’ll have a hundred dollars and some dry clothes for you.”

  “Only a hundred?”

  “Don’t whine. I didn’t ask you to do this. Besides, you didn’t do the job very well.”

  “I got his wife.”

  “You got no one. The woman will probably recognize you. We need to get you out of town.”

  “There was blood all over his place. I know I got her.”

  “Your target was Sambath Long.”

  “I want him as much as you, but he’s scared now. He’s out of our lives.”

  “No. He’ll track you down, then you’ll lead him to me.”

  “He’s worried that I’ll find him. Look, bring me a pack of cigarettes. I’m all out. I need some place to go, too.” Viseth shuddered.

  “You didn’t think this through at all, did you? I’ll take you to meet Angka, my organization. They’ll explain things better than I can, and they’ll give you all the cigarettes you need. Then I’ll drive you to Bangor tonight. Angka will give you a place to stay. The detective will never hurt you. I promise.” There was another pause on the line. “Do you still have your gun?”

  “No, I got rid of it.”

  “Very good. You are smart to throw it away. I’ll bring another weapon for you tonight.”

  “What organization? And who’s in it besides me?” Viseth asked, but the Man hung up. Sure, he wanted to meet Angka. But why tonight?

  The dial glowed on Viseth’s watch. It was nearly one o’clock, and he didn’t want to walk in a straight path to the canal because of the occasional pair of headlights that came down Mill Street. A block from the canal, he found an unlocked car and climbed in to wait until it was time to go and meet his ride to Maine.

  What kind of weapon would the Man bring? He lay on the back seat, shivering, and lit his last cigarette. He cupped his hand over the lighter’s flame, as though anybody might be looking at this time of night. It flickered and warmed his palm. Ky was just about ready to have that baby. She was starting to feel the pain last night before the Battboys came over to steal all his money. He should have gone to see her instead, the way she’d begged.

  When the Man brought the weapon, maybe Viseth should blow him away and take off to Maine by himself. The police were looking for him, but at least Long was going to be out of the way. Who in his right mind wouldn’t wet his pants with fear when his family’s brains are almost blown out, and he knows it could have been him? And that left the rest of the cops nowhere. None of them knew one Asian from another, he was sure of that.

  He walked down to the canal, wishing for another cigarette. Without thinking, he put his knuckle in his mouth--Phew! The garbage was all over his skin, and it clung like snot. He spat on the ground.

  A steel tubular railing sat atop the stone retaining wall at the edge of the water, and it was visible mainly by the glimmer of a street light on its wet surface. In the shadows, three park benches sat in a carpet of grass along a path of asphalt; he would have sat and watched the black water if the weather were a little better. A hundred yards away, the road was still. No cars had passed by for at least ten minutes, and it was a couple of minutes past two now.

  A police cruiser approached quickly with its lights flashing as it slowed for a turn. Was the cop coming here? The Man hadn’t set Viseth up for a fall, had he? How could he do that without hurting himself?

  Something seemed to move along the walkway and disappear into the darkness. That was stupid, of course, like seeing an ink blot in a closet. Over the railing, he looked down at water the color of motor oil. The trees were dark shapes silhouetted against the faint glow of the shopping center lights that stayed on all night. There were low-branched maples that he sensed more than saw.

  Where the hell was the Man? It was quarter past two now, and Viseth hugged himself. Where did that cop go? The night was a mixture of sounds, soft sounds mixed with silence: the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, a dog barking constantly somewhere in the distance, the swallow of saliva inside his throat, the dull rush of blood between his temples when he yawned, the faint tapping of raindrops on the leaves. And from behind him, the snap of a stick. He looked around and saw nothing. Too bad he wasn’t home in a dry warm bed, but there was no going back home. His old man and old lady were on their own now.

  Then he heard a voice, muffled by the rain until the two sounds blended together. S-s-s-s-s. So tired and freaked out tonight. Must have been talking to himself. Only idiots get spooked by the dark.

  He walked over to the railing and unzipped his fly to take a leak. Twelve inches, he’d told the broad. What a laugh.

  Now it was two-thirty. What was he going to do if the Man didn’t show up? That settled it: this time the Man was really dead.

  Suddenly, Viseth felt a sharp pain in his foot, and heard a soft pop. Shit, that hurt! It almost felt like stupid Rocky had winged him in the ankle with a sharp piece of granite from the curbstone. No, it was even worse than that, almost like--. Next to him, he heard a clang against the railing as the pain in his foot began to blaze. Was someone shooting at him? Who the hell would shoot at him? He clung to the railing to steady himself. Did he hear a whoosh in the air? Was that a bullet that flew past his ear? He looked around, his eyes wide and frantic, but nothing seemed to move in the darkness. Maybe there was safety behind the maple tree. Or was that where the shots were coming from? How deep was the canal? Maybe he could hide in there. Was Long shooting at him?

  Find a shadow. Get out of the light. His only hope was the Man now. He grasped the railing and started to pull himself away from the light. The next sting bit into the calf of his leg as though he’d stepped into a nest of yellow jackets. The pain roared up his leg and out of his mouth.

  The canal leaned on its end, the street lights swirled in jagged patterns, and his head seemed slow to turn at the flap-flap-flap of footsteps. He screamed once as the butt of a pistol crashed onto his right hand. His grip loosened, and the ground rushed up to meet him. The back of his hand was shattered, a white-hot pain that sent a lightning storm acr
oss his eyes, brilliant yellows and reds and blues. He couldn’t tell if he was screaming for help or not. Now he felt cold metal inside his mouth, hard against his chattering teeth, and his tears and snot began to flow. A dark figure held a small black box in his left hand. Behind him, the Man held a palm leaf and scratched his balls.

  The Man’s voice was soft. “Would you like to beg for your life? Angka would enjoy that.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A rookie patrolman stayed in the hallway outside Julie’s room in case her attacker returned to finish what he had started. Already the hospital had received a call about her: How was Julia Long? What room was she in? They gave the caller no information, the hospital said.

  “Who did this to you, Julia?” Her father’s voice was low and deliberate, every syllable sharp and distinct.

  “Someone looking for me,” Sam said.

  “If I want any shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your head, Mister Long.”

  Julie closed her eyes and turned her face away.

  “For God’s sake, Eric,” Mother said. “Just stop. Sam, I want you and Trish to stay with us tonight. You stay as long as you need.”

  Eric Nordstrom’s eyes drilled a hole deep into Sam: You! You! they seemed to say, like the skull in the lake.

  Her parents stayed for half an hour and offered to take Trish with them. “Thanks, I’ll get the key you gave Julie,” Sam said. “I’ll stay a while longer and let myself in.”

  On his way out, Julie’s father spoke to Sam, his voice in a barely controlled whisper. “You bastard. When you get to my house tonight I want a full accounting from you. You fucked up protecting my daughter and grandchild.”

  Sam stayed with Julie in the hospital well after her parents had left with Trish, who’d fallen back to sleep in her grandmother’s arms.

  “Please forgive me,” Sam said.

  “Forgive you for what? This isn’t your fault.”

  “You needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

  “What would you have done? If you had been at home, I might be a widow now. Just be glad we’re all safe.” Julie stroked his hand. On the other side of a curtain, an old woman groaned--a terminal cancer patient, the nurse had said.

  The nurse came in and gave Julie a plastic cup of water and two Tylenol with codeine. Julie fell asleep shortly after the nurse left, and Sam turned out the room lights and sat next to her bed. He held his tears back for as long as her eyes stayed open, and then he let them flow. Julie, I can’t lose you, he thought as he held her limp hand. I won’t let them take you. But the painful truth was that he almost had. First Sarapon, then Mother and Father, and now he had turned his back on Julie and Trish. He hadn’t stopped Viseth. He hadn’t done his job as husband, father or cop, and now Julie was trying to make him feel better.

  In the hallway, Cletus Gower spoke quietly with Higgins. Cletus drove Sam back to his apartment so that Sam could pick up his car keys and a change of clothes from the bedroom dresser. The keys were on the floor in the middle of a spray of splinters. A river of dried blood led across several library books and into the corner where Julie and Trish had hidden.

  He drove to his in-laws’ house where Dottie had promised to make up a bed for him. But there was no way that sleep would come for Sam tonight, and no way that he wanted to face the dreams that awaited him. Sam had never thought he’d need a key to his in-laws’ house, but now he let himself in, removed his shoes, and set them neatly to one side. The light from the foyer shone into the living room onto the baby grand piano. This was the room where he had seen his first--and probably last--Persian rug, Ravel score, and Chagall painting.

  Upstairs he checked on Trish, her face faintly yellow from the nightlight. His fingertips brushed a hair from her cheek, then gently touched her eyelids. They were still now, and her breath was cool against his palms. Maybe the terror of that night wouldn’t leave her with bad dreams, but how could it not?

  “Sam.” He turned and saw his mother-in-law silhouetted against the hallway light. Her voice was soft, and she sounded as though she’d been sobbing and might start again. “Your bed is in the next room.” She put her arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Sam said. “Was Trish any trouble?”

  “Heavens, no. Patricia was as good as gold.” She was silent for a moment, then let out a deep sigh. “God’s honest truth? She screamed for half an hour. Did Julie finally get to sleep?”

  Sam nodded. They walked downstairs to the kitchen, and she turned on a light. The window air conditioner clicked off, and she pulled her terry cloth robe closer to her. She pulled a Kleenex out of a flowered box and dabbed at her puffy eyes, then wiped her nose. A bottle of vodka sat on the counter, its cap askew. As far as he knew from Julie, Dottie Nordstrom’s worst vice was an occasional Dunhill cigarette. Her husband was a different story.

  “How about you and Dad?” “Mom” and “Dad” sounded awkward, but he never knew what to call else to call his in-laws. “Mr. Nordstrom” sounded too formal, “Eric” too familiar, and “Dad” implied a bond that didn’t exist. But right now it didn’t matter.

  “He can just take a pill to go to sleep. I wanted to wait up for you. Have you eaten?”

  Smirnoff’s and Sominex? How could Julie’s father treat himself this way? “No, I’d planned to eat after I got home from the gym.”

  “Then let me get you something.”

  Come to think of it, he was hungry. She warmed a plate of veal cordon bleu in the microwave and served it with a glass of milk.

  “Skim,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “No, that’s fine.” He hated milk. “That’s perfect, thanks. Really, nothing else. Really. Please go to bed, Mom.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Ever since eight o’clock, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Folded in two and left lying in the mud. “Sure, I’m sure.”

  “Do you think Julia...Is she safe in the hospital? Is somebody--” Her lips quivered and her eyes welled up, slate grey, like monsoon clouds.

  “She’s perfectly safe. We have an officer outside her room all night long.”

  As safe as they knew how to make her until her discharge, probably in five or six days. Viseth Kim might have been content to think he scared Sam off the case.

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “You be sure to bring Patricia here tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  “You two stay as long as you wish.”

  “Thanks, we will.”

  “I will stay home tomorrow and take care of Patricia.”

  Sam clenched his teeth. Did they think he was incapable? “I’ll do it myself, thank you.”

  “Y-yes, of course.”

  What was he talking about? Julie’s mother could stay home from work if she wanted to. But his tone seemed to jar tears loose from the rims of her eyes. Water over the dam. She turned and went upstairs to bed.

  This house made him uncomfortable. Everything about it was strange to Sam, from its paintings to its leftovers. Julie had left it all behind her the day she left Richard--her father would be damned if he would help her at all if she was going to be such a fool. The sooner Sam and Trish could move back home, the better.

  Maybe watching TV would settle his nerves, so he headed to the den. He flipped on the light, stepped quietly downstairs, then stopped and turned around. The sole of his foot pressed into the carpeted tread on the bottom step. That wasn’t how the footprint had looked on Bin Chea’s front stoop. The heel had been in the middle of the tread, and the toe disappeared into a riser.

  Sam had been mistaken. It couldn’t be a footprint, because the next step got in the way.

  It had to be a foot.

  In the den, he picked up the remote and turned on the television. He didn’t bother to take off his leather jacket. Five minutes later he turned off the TV and went down to the cellar to find a ball-peen hammer. He flexed his fingers around the handle, and the hammer felt like an exten
sion of his fist. He tucked the hammer inside his belt, then picked up a flashlight and tested it.

  “What are you doing with my tools, Sam?” Eric Nordstrom stood in his bathrobe at the top of the stairs. He held a paper cup in one hand and two pills in the other. His question sounded more like simple curiosity than a challenge.

  “A project,” Sam said as he zipped up his jacket.

  Eric looked at his wrist, but he wasn’t wearing a watch. “At this time of night? What time is it?”

  “One-something. I’ll bring them right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Walking,” Sam said. Eric said something else as Sam stepped outside, but Sam let the door close between them. An image of a crushed skull refused to leave his mind. Maybe the rain would wash it away.

  Sam had the freedom to grieve now, which he’d never had when the rest of his family had been snatched from him in Cambodia. This time it was not grief so much as rage and shame.

  What right do they have to take our mothers and fathers from us? Our wives, our sisters, our children? And why can’t I protect them? Sam’s fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to squeeze the tension out of his muscles and the hatred out of his bones, like a poison that had to be purged from his body. He strode quickly along the sidewalk as the mist angled across the street lights in waves and trickled down his neck. The quiet solitude helped him focus on his guilt as he headed down Westford Street. Damn it, he should have nailed Kim. He should have seen how dangerous the scum was. The way people crossed the street to avoid him. The look of contempt he’d given Sam. I’m guilty and you can’t prove it, Kim’s eyes had said.

  And he should have saved his father. Should have seen it coming, what they did to him. Should have snuck him into the jungle and taken a chance with the snares and land mines.

  Sam headed up the hill to Bin Chea’s house. A couple of cars passed by, their tires hissing on the wet pavement. Then the street became still as Sam squatted in front of the stoop and took out his father-in-law’s hammer.

  Which step was it? He shone the flashlight on the steps. In the rain and the poor light, all the steps looked the same. He tapped on the third step, just to the right of center, and the veneer of new cement shattered. When he brushed away the thin shards, there it was, much clearer than before.