Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  He got a closer look at what she’d been reading in the library and had brought along. For a moment he watched the surfers, then, “How about I tell you about your uncle if you tell me about the book.”

  “God, are you always this way?” Gripping it even tighter.

  “Which way is that?”

  “Just into everything.”

  “Kind of looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  She sighed, held up The Tale of Kieu, the epic poem Vinh had cited to him, the Vietnamese girl trying to cope with hardship and displacement in alien surroundings.

  “Trying to better understand my parents, okay?” she said, laying it title-down beside her. Defensive.

  “Fine by me,” Wil said.

  “Now what about my uncle?”

  One of the surfers tried a cutback move, hesitated coming out and got rolled, his board spat upward on its leash. Wil thought about the meeting with Luc Tien and focused on impressions.

  “Your uncle, let’s see,” he said. “Not a great forthcomer, not much regard for your old man, not one to get on the wrong side of. Beyond that, a genuine success story. The dream in every shade.”

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “Not quite. He probably won’t be going back to Vietnam anytime soon.”

  Mia shaded her eyes against the glare, her gesture reminiscent of Vinh Tien’s on the beach. She said, “You got squat, didn’t you?”

  “He didn’t confess, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Even though you gave him every opportunity, I suppose. The great private eye.”

  Wil regarded a forming swell, the surfers buzzing and pointing that way. “What can I say? Some days are better than others.”

  “It wouldn’t be you, or anything. Oh, no.”

  He said, “This is the way it works, Mia. Assuming what we suspect is even what happened, there’s a reason things are the way they are. You want accountability, I’m for it. But it might help if you included yourself in there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For openers? Your shuck and jive when I asked what Wen did at your uncle’s place. You said she worked there after ‘something.’ What, I’m left to wonder.”

  Her gaze left him, settled on the surfers. The first wave in the set arrived, two of the four going for it only to stall and get flipped by the second. As the ones who’d waited caught the best wave in the set and rode it around the point, she said, “You know how to do that?”

  “What? You’re a UCSB and you’ve never surfed?”

  “Right. Like I’ve had the time.”

  “Next time I go out, I’ll let you know—Dick Dale, zinc oxide, the works. You’d look good out there.”

  “You must be kidding.” Her look trying to find the answer in his face.

  “Nope. Give you a break from Derek.”

  “What is this thing you have with him?”

  “I might ask you the same. Do you even own a bathing suit?”

  “That’s hardly the issue.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t,” he said. “But if you want me to get up to speed here, Mia, give me a push.”

  A beat passed until she said, “I told you, it’s nobody’s business.”

  “Your father doesn’t feel that way.”

  “His thing,” she said. “Not mine.”

  “Then have a nice day.”

  He stood up to go, started walking away, heard, “If I say something, are you going to run and tell him?”

  “Depends on what it is,” he answered, coming back. “Not unless I have to.”

  She took a breath, rubbed her forehead, kept her eyes on a lone seagull riding a draft. “All right,” she said. “Wen and her mom came ashore unregistered. They had forged papers. Some people got onto her. They were going to throw her in jail, use it against my uncle, I don’t know. There’s still a chance they could deport Wen’s mom if she doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Came ashore how?” Wil asked. “Cooperate with whom?”

  “The government, who else? Whoever handles their dirty work.” Reaching for some stones she began to lob toward the cliff. “The rest I have no idea about.”

  “Did your brother?”

  “He never said, but I think so. Anytime I brought it up, Jimmy would get all bothered.”

  Wil went quiet. Suddenly it made sense what had turned Jimmy into Lorenz and Maccafee’s informant, giving Luc Tien a possible motive to kill his own nephew if he’d found out.

  Assuming Lorenz’s appraisal was accurate.

  “What are you thinking,” she asked him.

  “Just trying to connect some dots.”

  “Back to that.” Rubbing her palms on her jeans.

  “Mia, did you ever think of sharing things like this with your old man? That he might be more than you give him credit for?”

  “You think that’s what we do? Share things?”

  “Nah,” he said, shoving off. Up to here with the back and forth. “What would be the point when you’re doing so well by yourself?”

  Arms around herself as though chilled, she said, “Bitter, bitchy Mia, the girl with no shadow.” Calling after him down the trail. “Hey, just for grins, which part of this did you want me to share with him? The part about me not knowing anything or the part about you coming up with nothing.”

  22

  Before Wil left the university, he put in a call to Frank Lin at the Sheriff’s Department, caught him as he was leaving for lunch, opening with, “I don’t believe it. You’re even able to think about food?”

  “Hey, in this business, you’re either ready or you’re not.”

  “Nobody could ever say you weren’t, Frank.”

  “Taken in the spirit it was intended,” Lin said. “What’s up?”

  Something present in Lin’s tone, an underlay. “Just wondering if I could persuade you to check out what Luc Tien said about Wen’s employment there. That is, assuming it was asked.”

  There was a pause, Lin saying then, “Suppose I could, will you be home in a couple of hours?”

  “Blackened snapper in it if you’ll check before then.”

  It was meant to be lighthearted, but Lin’s reaction was immediate. “Son of a bitch. Play volleyball with a guy, hang with him and his wife, and you’re on his pad? I don’t think so.”

  Wil gave it a second, then, “Mea culpa, Frank, my big mouth. But you can’t believe I meant it like that.”

  Deep breath. “No, I suppose not. You ever had to send five kids off to a foster home after mom’s new boyfriend beat her face in? One held on to me so hard I still have the marks on my arm. Gets you in the lychees, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can only imagine.” Wil catching Lin’s early lunch in full context: body and workout bags coming up, some rope to loosen the kids’ hold on him. “Later on the request,” he said.

  “Well, hell,” Lin came back. “Hang on a second.”

  Wil could hear the sound of pages being flipped, papers shuffled, then: “The jacket was still out, but I found it. Dah, dah, dah—okay: housekeeper, part-time. T’s crossed and I’s dotted.”

  “Tax forms?”

  “Uncle offered to produce them, unusual with these types. Mostly it’s under the table. What keeps them rich, I suppose.”

  “Anything in her status?”

  “As in illegal?”

  “As in anything.” Knowing it sounded transparent, but having to ask; waiting out the pause that followed.

  Lin said, “Why am I getting this nagging feeling relative to full and enthusiastic reciprocity?”

  “Thinking out loud is all,” Wil answered. “Grasping at straws.”

  Another pause, Lin obviously processing it. “Like I said before, some things actually are what they seem. Wouldn’t be the first boat that bought it out there.”

  “If that’s what happened.”

  “Run that by me again?…”

  “Nothing, Frank, mumbling to myself. Have a better afternoon, will you, and thanks
.”

  Wil thinking as he hung up that Maccafee and Lorenz hadn’t let the locals into the loop after all. Assuming Mia had it right about Wen’s status. Interesting…

  ***

  Luc Tien replaced the white Odontoglossum he’d just repotted between the red and the deep purple Cattleyas, thinking great flag colors here—why didn’t somebody just step up at the U.N., rename some of those worthless countries continually changing for the worse, half the populace turned to bone meal by the other.

  The Orchid Republic—now there was an idea.

  Grabbing another pot and a handful of osmunda, he tamped in the hapuu-loam-ground-bark mix plus a pinch of his secret ingredient. Setting the Lady’s Slipper in on top—yellow with a maroon pouch, according to the catalog—he tamped in more mix, was starting on another when Sonny opened the greenhouse door and let himself in.

  “Can’t it wait, Sonny?,” Luc said to him. “You know why I come out here.”

  “I do, Anh hai. But we thought it best.”

  “We…”

  “Dao Hong and myself. He’s here.”

  Luc glanced beyond him and caught a dark shape smoking with its back to the frosted glass. Dao Hong, one of the Bay Area dai lows and a comer: ambitious, ruthless, loyal. And, unlike many of them, efficient.

  Most recent and obvious example: three old-line tong inheritors, two bodyguards and a cop. Bloody Sunday the San Francisco papers were calling it. Give him a hundred like Dao and he’d have whole countries sending peace emissaries.

  Luc checked his watch. “What about our friends outside the gate?”

  “No sign,” Sonny answered. “Hong came in with the groceries.”

  “And now?”

  “He wants to pay his respects. Let you know the loose ends have been attended to.”

  “The shooters, Sonny. I’ll generate the drama around here.”

  “Yes, Anh hai.”

  Luc sighed, removed his gloves. “Show him in,” he said. “Have what’s-her-name, the new girl, bring tea.”

  Sonny backed away and left the greenhouse, returning with a painfully thin man in his late twenties: ink-black pompadour, pocked skin, sunken cheeks, wispy Fu Manchu mustache. Black silk tee over black drape pants, sunglasses dangling from hands clasped in front of him, the cigarette respectfully gone.

  Killer’s heat behind his drooped lids.

  “Look at me,” Luc said to him in Vietnamese.

  The eyes raised, blinked, slid off, came back.

  “Man to man because you did a man’s work,” Luc went on. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “For you, Anh hai.”

  Luc bowed, playing to him in a way no acting coach would indulge. “Dao Hong, your legacy is already being written. Hundreds will become dragons because of yesterday.”

  As he’d expected, Dao Hong could say nothing.

  “Today our people know the dragon has teeth. Today they walk in the valley of their enemies. Sit with me, I wish to hear more.” Gesturing at one of the chairs he kept in the greenhouse for such occasions, taking the other himself. Saying nothing for a bit, so that the young man would get a sense of who he was with and where. Almost hearing Dao recount the honor to rapt lieutenants back home.

  There was a tap at the door and a girl about seventeen entered: long hair worn up and wisping, low halter-top over painted-on shorts. She smiled at Dao, set down the tea and poured it, smiled again and bowed to him, then the others, and eased out. Thinking Dao might explode on the spot, Luc said, “You like that one? She’s yours for as long as you’re here. Sonny?…”

  “It is done, Anh hai.”

  “Good. And now to business.” Folding his hands under his chin and looking Dao Hong straight in the eyes, comrades in arms, he said, “Sonny tells me you have information regarding disposition of the Thai gunmen you so wisely hired.”

  Dao found his voice. “The Delta Mendota, Anh hai.”

  The canal that brought water to Southern California; water with a newly Thai flavor, it would seem. “Go on,” Luc said, pleased.

  “Heavy chain, split body cavities, no chance anyone saw it. The catfish eat well this day.”

  Luc raised a finger to his lips. “Be careful, my fine young dragon, you’ll make my orchids jealous.”

  Sonny’s face broke a smile.

  Nothing from Dao Hong.

  “A joke,” Luc told him. “Something you will understand in time.”

  Dao made an attempt, but his smile was more that of a deaf-mute thrust on stage and told to light up the place.

  Luc sighed. “Never mind. Have you everything you need for the moment?”

  “Yes, Anh hai. Thanks to you.”

  “Then be welcome here. Sonny will give you spending money for later. You’ll be leaving us when?”

  Their guest looked at Sonny, who said, “We thought tomorrow, Anh hai.”

  Luc thought a moment. “I disagree: a few days to let our people do their work. And I’m certain our esteemed dai low will find things to do here.” Giving the kid a knowing wink, which was wasted because he wasn’t even looking.

  After Sonny led Dao Hong out bowing, Luc returned to his bench, the work almost secondary as he conjured ways to use the young man’s talents. Regional, at least; the kid was a slasher. Which brought to mind his own brush with the tay son vo si, the martial arts mandated by his Chinese tutors after he’d left village life for Saigon. The sand and blood in his mouth as the gongs signaled the mostly predictable ends to his matches—that is, until he’d learned to exploit weaknesses and bend rules, lay on his own pain, which at least got him tossed victorious.

  Forever ago.

  Reliving the fat faces pressing in on him, their muted squeals as the city pulsed outside, Luc had stopped work altogether, was gripping a bamboo stake so hard he’d snapped it, when Sonny poked his head back in.

  “Sorry to bother you again, Anh hai.”

  Luc covered by pretending he’d taken a piece in the thumb. “What is it now?” Shaking the thumb as if it pained him.

  “The phone,” Sonny said. “Your niece.”

  “What about her?”

  Sonny looked chastised, as if he had asked for money and been rebuffed.

  “She said you’d know, Anh hai.”

  23

  Nothing: the hollow resonance of a slug slipped into a vending machine.

  Nada: what Wil had come up with by dropping in on the harbormaster after Mia Tien. Chatting with the Coasties aboard the eighty-two boat snugged to the pier, his old Point-class amazingly still in service. Reminding him of gray paint and Mekong heat, spent casings and red-streaked decks.

  Nowhere: exactly where he stood with Jimmy Tien, Mia’s final salvo the truth, Wil comprehending that all too well.

  It felt no better to lay it off on Vinh Tien.

  “But you’re going to stay with it?” Vinh had said, following a pause in which fish market sounds came through the earpiece.

  “I told you I would, and I will,” he came back. “I just wanted you to be part of the decision.”

  “You’re concerned about the money.”

  “Your money—you knowing how it’s being spent.”

  Vinh Tien paused, as if he were working up to it. “Do you know what it’s like just to function, Mr. Hardesty? Getting up in the morning, bantering with customers, ringing up purchases? Losing track because I’m wondering, always wondering.” Muted voices; echo-y hum. “This is my life now.”

  Which made Wil feel even shittier.

  After hanging up, he ran water over his face, changed clothes for the trail; while he and Matt snacked, he re-read the postcard Kari Thayer had sent from Ephram, Wisconsin, a picture of a sailboat on Green Bay:

  Wil—

  Great weather, pretty islands and coves, Brian’s lapping it up. He’s in LOVE with the girl next door. They go sailing all day while I swat mosquitos with the paperbacks you gave me. Do I know how to vacation or what?

  Kari.

  He got out the field gl
asses and a sweatshirt, put them in his backpack with a bottle of water, a flashlight, Power Bars and Milk Bones, his notebook and the small frame Colt, then locked up. Five o’clock when he and Matt backed out and headed for the foothills.

  The trail was one he knew from college days, when he and Lisa trekked the ridges up behind Mountain Drive. To thermal pools where they’d skinny-dip and drink Zin, enjoy a little pot when it wasn’t fire season. Halcyon days. Not that time and dwindling county budgets had improved the trail. Little more than a deer path then, it had been widened into firebreak duty, then let go. Green light to the chaparral.

  It’s main advantage, Wil reaffirmed when they’d set out, was that few saw it as an easy walk, weaving and twisting as it did through toyon and ceonothus, red willow interwoven with poison oak and elderberry. Plus it offered a spot where he could overlook Luc’s property and Mountain Drive below.

  As he settled them under scrub oak, a throw of dead leaves beneath, Matt seemed puzzled, whining as if to say, What?…After a bit, he trooped off to case the surroundings, reappearing then to see if Wil had regained his senses. Six-twenty now, an hour till dark. Pulling out the field glasses, Wil scanned for blue-gray, the locale good for a mile in either direction before he lost the road.

  Nothing—a positive nothing, for once—Lorenz and Maccafee’s surveillance either sporadic, shut down for the day, or called off, the least likely scenario. He took a breath, filled up on still-warm oak, hay-dry ground cover, damp shadows deepening in the crevices and higher canyons. In his notebook, he made columns for various data and observances: time, who-what, comments. Through the glasses he could see Luc’s lit-perimeter walkers; corner of the pool and waterfall, empty now of loungers; Robb tooling around in the golf cart. But after an hour, he’d seen nothing of substance and little traffic on Mountain Drive.

  Typical stakeout, he thought—forget anything happening when you first arrived. Only when your attention wandered, your guard slipped or it welcomed distraction, that’s when things happened.

  Bringing down the glasses but maintaining visual contact, he got out the sweatshirt and put it on, gave Matt a Milk-Bone. Which made him hungry. Headlights were appearing now, but none even slowed by Sand-Painting House. A Power Bar later, at seven-fifteen, casually dressed figures appeared on the upper patio, workers in white. Smoke rose in the barbecue pit in the lower area, the garden Luc was tending the day Wil was there.