Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  They passed a scroll-barred window, Wil catching a glimpse of someone approximately Mia’s size in silhouette. Then they were beyond it and following Sonny through a doorway-filling gate to a walled patio hung with succulents. Sedum spilled from glazed pots while a mission-style fountain dripped water into a float of yellow blooms encircled by lilies of the Nile.

  Sonny removed a two-way from his belt and spoke into it. Within moments Luc Tien was stepping through the glass doors that led onto the flagstone, down slab steps to stand in front of his brother, glares met and returned with interest.

  For a second Wil was struck by the contrast: Vinh compact and angle-featured, drenched in sweat; Luc in cream pants and a navy silk overshirt, moccasins without socks, himself contrast to the Luc Tien Wil had seen working his garden. Wil was returning Sonny’s gaze, when the shouting started in Vietnamese, Mia’s name about the only thing he recognized.

  As if Vinh Tien were a supporting actor to whom the lead generously gave his moment, Luc merely looked at him. “Brother,” he said in English, “you won’t be here that long.” Snapping his fingers.

  Behind the glass there was movement, and Mia appeared: hesitant, as though auditioning for the part of the wanton. Short black skirt over stockinged legs and wrap sandals, black blouse with the buttons undone to her waist, gel-spiked hair where it curled at the ears.

  Wil wasn’t sure Vinh caught the glaze in her eyes, but the effect on him was the same either way. Mia’s glance lit on Wil and flitted past, a drugged-out butterfly.

  “Tell him,” Luc ordered her. “So I won’t have to.”

  “Go home, Dad,” Mia over-enunciated. “I’m here because it’s what I want.”

  Vinh found his voice. “Knowing how I feel about—”

  “I’m making money, Dad. That’s what you care about, isn’t it?”

  He looked stricken. “Looking like that? Like a—”

  “Like a what,” she said, “not your little girl anymore? Since when have I been a little girl, let alone yours? Go away.”

  “Mia, Your studies—”

  “My studies bore me. Is that plain enough?” Addressing what seemed to be a point over her father’s left shoulder.

  “Not to me, it isn’t. Not to your mother.”

  “What a fucking soap opera. I’m going back to work.”

  “No. You’re coming home with me.” Taking a step toward her that Luc blocked.

  Mia’s eyes found Wil again. “Is that why you brought him with you? To drag me off by the hair?”

  Vinh Tien turned to Wil. “Sometimes my adopted country’s rules are lost to me,” he said. “Can you not do something?”

  “Mia,” Wil said, “if your uncle has drugged or threatened you or us in any way, say it now. If you want to leave with us, say it now.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? Why is that?”

  “What I get is that you need to put an end to this,” he said. “Yes or no?”

  “No. If it hasn’t been plain enough.”

  “That’s it, then,” he said to Vinh Tien.

  The man looked as if the only thing holding him up was sheer force of will. “Just look at what he’s done to her, my own daughter,” he said. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

  Wil felt for him. “I’m sorry, but no, it isn’t. Not here.” Hating saying it, wanting to drive his fist into the smirk that had formed on Sonny’s face.

  “Then what good are we?” Vinh said from someplace far off. “What good?”

  Luc said, “Listen to him, brother, and learn something.” Starting inside after Mia without a look at Vinh. “Sonny, get them out of here before I—”

  But Vinh had his brother’s arm, had spun Luc into a right hand that staggered him, a follow-up kick that dropped him.

  Wil moved, but Sonny was there first, a hook to Vinh’s kidney that put him down groaning. Wil was timing a punch to Sonny’s neck when a Walther-style semi-automatic came up to within an inch of his nose.

  Sonny cocked it. “Who’s a hero, friend, you? No, I didn’t think so.”

  “Not now,” Wil said, backing off. “Not here.”

  Sonny lowered it, smirked again, turned his attention to Vinh Tien and at Luc Tien beside him, stunned but not quite out of it. Back up at Wil, then: “You might want to get your client out of here before I’m ordered to do something you really won’t like. Like right now.” And, as Wil was helping Vinh up, Mia’s face ghostlike in the doorway before vanishing again, “Us next time for sure, though. Be a shame not to.”

  37

  They drove in silence, ash blowing off the Bonneville’s hood and windshield, blue to the west reminding Wil what color the sky actually was. He accelerated around a backhoe trailing a reflector triangle, down into Montecito Village and through it.

  “You okay?” he asked Vinh Tien, who’d straightened in the seat beside him and was staring out the window.

  Vinh kept his eyes fixed ahead. Finally he said without inflection, “That the system for dealing with his kind is flawed is not your fault.”

  “I’m not sure the fault is with the law, Mr. Tien.”

  His eyes shifted to Wil. “You saw her as I did? The way she looked?”

  Wil said, “Which might prove a number of things. One, that she drank or otherwise fortified herself knowing Luc was going to let you in. Two, in defying you, she wanted to prove something to him.”

  Vinh snorted. “My daughter does not otherwise fortify herself. And defy me for what purpose?”

  “So you’d go away. So she could go back to work. Just that simple.” At the four-way before the Bird Refuge, Wil let a car pass, took his turn to go. Up ahead, the lagoon shone like wet slate in the umber light. To Vinh’s silence, he added, “Mia knows computers the way Jimmy did. She also happens to be the only one of us who can get that close.”

  He thought about that. “Which puts her in the same danger as my son, you’re telling me.”

  “Not necessarily. Despite what you’ve told me, I’m inclined to believe your brother about Jimmy.”

  “I do not believe I’m hearing this.”

  Wil said, “The old rule about fouling your own nest: If it went bad between them, all Luc had to do was turn him out. Given your history, he’d have known how you’d react. Why inflame matters?”

  “You’re suggesting my brother had too much to lose to jeopardize it on my son.”

  “No offense, and not that I like it that Mia is out there. But in danger? I doubt it. That would bring more heat than even Luc could stand.” Trying to at least sound encouraging.

  They were past the lagoon and the zoo now, into townhomes and the start of the hotels. Vinh Tien stared at the line of palms, tall thin soldiers. “How much is he paying you?” he said at length.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The American standard of value, and you can stop the pretense. Obviously my brother has bettered my offer.” The man’s tone expressing lifetimes more: advantage Luc, always advantage Luc.

  What to say and how to say it? “I understand your anger, Mr. Tien. But you’re mistaken.”

  “I think not. Stop the car.”

  “Look,” Wil said. “If you’ll just—”

  “Now.”

  Wil pulled over as far as possible and still drew horns, dirty looks from the bike-laners.

  “I am to blame for this,” Vinh Tien said, getting out stiffly. “I had no right expecting an outsider to solve my problems. If my adopted country does not understand them, why should you?” He shut the door, his face a mask through the open side window. “Is this clear?”

  “I think so,” Wil said. “You’re firing me.”

  “It was foolish on my part. That is apparent now.”

  “And there’s nothing I can say that will make a difference…”

  Vinh shook it off. “Send me a bill and I will pay it,” he said. “But this threat to my family is mine and mine alone.”

  “I see,” Wil said. “And Mia?”

  “Good-bye,
Mr. Hardesty.”

  38

  Leaving Vinh Tien on foot, glances back until he’d disappeared from view, Wil risked appearing on a federal wiretap by calling the number Vinh had for Luc. None of his messages to Mia was returned. Following strike three, he called Lisa’s work and asked the receptionist when her partner, Bev, would be back from lunch.

  Returning around three, he heard—with a client. One-thirty now.

  He decided to take a chance the meet was at a restaurant where he knew they had a trade deal, tax prep for food, and went there. Scanning, he saw her with a woman who listened closely as Bev made a point. Wil ordered club soda and watched fire coverage in the bar, suppression units retreating as orange-red flames jumped Paradise Road, the temperature not helping. He saw the two women rise and shake hands. As Bev followed the client out the door, he called her name.

  “Wil?” All stop: brown hair cut short, large-frame bifocals softening the familiar oval face. Pearl-drop earrings, navy skirt over navy pumps.

  “I thought that was you,” he said. “You on your way somewhere?”

  “Just heading back.”

  “Late lunch myself. Can I buy you a drink—coffee or something?”

  She hesitated, shrugged, waved to the client who smiled knowingly before walking on. Wil had seated her at his table, ordered for them, when she said, “This isn’t a coincidence is it?”

  “Suspicious mind. What makes you say that?”

  She said, “I know what you do, remember? It does not embrace coincidence.”

  “Not that well, evidently,” he said.

  “You were waiting for me.” A statement, not a question.

  “What can I say?” After their coffees came and the waiter had left. “I was, actually.”

  “Lust in your heart, a cheap motel.” Sotto voce, for his benefit.

  “A cheap motel in this town?”

  Bev took a sip and made a face. “Okay, end of bullshit. Why are we here?”

  “Lisa,” Wil admitted, stirring half-and-half into his.

  “Behind her back…”

  “Where sometimes friends do their best work. Or are forced to.”

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

  “Look, I know she’s pregnant,” Wil said, after a pause, “Brandon, all that. I just want to know if there’s more at stake, because that’s the sense I’m getting.”

  “Getting from her…”

  “That’s right, getting from her.”

  “And now her ex wants me to share things with him she maybe doesn’t want shared. I don’t believe it.”

  “She’s alone,” he said. “I’m worried about her.”

  Bev stirred sweetener into her coffee. “Believe me, alone without Brandon is the best news any of us has had in a while. Lisa’s just behind the curve.” Sipping and finding it more acceptable. “Love will do that to you.”

  “She loves this guy?” As if you had some right to it.

  “Did I say that? It’s just that anybody’s better than nobody, sometimes. And then you wake up.”

  He let it go.

  “All right, look,” Bev said. “I don’t know why but I’m going to write something in my planner. Then I’m going to the ladies room to catch up on some reading. You never saw it, and you can leave the planner with Charlie behind the bar. Under the circumstances it’s the best I can do.”

  Wil touched her hand. “Thanks, Bev. Any time I can—”

  “Maybe you’d better wait to decide.”

  He sat there as she opened the planner but made no move to write in it. She said, “Who am I kidding? She’ll know where it came from the minute she sees your face.”

  “It,” he said, hearing restaurant sounds yield to his pulse.

  She drew a breath, let it out. “What I was able to pry out of her over a botched tax return and two boxes of Kleenex. They’ve done tests,” she said. “It’s a Down’s baby.”

  Wil felt the room move, a grinding as the walls closed in. From far off, he heard Bev say, “She’s been thinking of not having it. Her gynecologist’s for it. So am I, if you want the truth. I mean, why make nature’s screw-up into a life sentence for both? After all, adoption isn’t exactly an option here. And aren’t you glad you asked?”

  39

  One shot of Maker’s Mark—that’s all it was going to be, he was sure, something to de-spike the post-Bev zig-zags. It was so apparent, the construct: prodigal Wil (Present and accounted for); the bar with its rows of amber, clear, and green bottles (Looking at you, kid); frost on the draft he had Charlie pour to chase it (Ready when you are). Here and now, fate decreed: like the gongs in the Hue temple where Wil had stopped to pray for his lost friends…searching for meaning where there was none and could never be, things nonetheless coming together in the metallic resonance. That which now said Welcome back, to a counterpoint of Nobody beats the house. What in hell were you thinking?

  Wil raised his head, the bourbon’s heat conjuring images of the firefall at Yosemite when he was a boy camping out with his father. Anticipation, the long river of sparks, cheers erupting across the Valley as it tumbled down the sheer rock face and burned itself into memory. For the moment, all else fading into background.

  “Get you another round?” Charlie asked. Fragrance of the limes he was slicing wafting across the bar.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Wil answered, the fire spreading through his nervous system like a sputtering fuse. “It’s way too light in here for what I have in mind.”

  “You okay?”

  “Never better, never worse.”

  “Just take it easy, all right?”

  Wil nodded to him. “A day like today? Any way I can get it.”

  ***

  At the old haunts, it was as if he’d never left. Some bartenders even remembered him, the frenzied way he used to try to staunch the bleeding after Devin’s flatline. Buck’s on Haley for a pair of doubles; Milpas Street, then, one haunt shuttered but The Mecca still pouring; last stop, Al’s Cove in Carpinteria. Black holes: empty beer bottles placed to mark the way back, each freeway exit bringing the night that much closer to their boozy interiors. Finally a fuck-all sprint along the curve of ocean, and home.

  For a while, he sat on his deck kaleidoscoping images: black pajamas merging into dripping jungle, gunfire at river’s edge and in the tunnel in front of his house, Lisa’s moans giving birth. Sonny’s gun in his face, Mia’s eyeshadowed glare, spinning oil rigs and headlights.

  Upwards, backwards, sideways, down.

  Time in a mulcher.

  Unable to just sit, Wil leashed a curious Matt and headed for the access tunnel, stumbling distance to the pointside restaurant where a black ex-con named Nelson he’d gotten to know tended bar weeknights. Leaving Matt outside where he could see in, lights shining down on the surge, broken waves boiling around the rocks, Wil leaned on the bartop and ordered a Sunrise, double on the Sauza.

  Nelson shied as if he’d just inhaled methane fumes.

  Stopped polishing the glass he was holding.

  “Vitamin C?” Wil followed up with. “Good for what ails you?”

  Nelson regarded him. “You’re joshing me, right?”

  “Look close. You see josh here?”

  “The hell are you doing?” Nelson said with a peek at the dining room. “You don’t touch that stuff.”

  “Guess I fooled you again.”

  “Smells like you been fooling people all day,” Nelson low-keyed.

  “So—you going to serve me, or what?” The few remaining diners casting glances in Wil’s direction now.

  Nelson said, “Not if you got wheels outside, I ain’t.”

  “Wheels nothing. You saying I can’t handle it?”

  “Look, man,” Nelson said, one more try for calm. “Do us both a favor and check the restroom mirror, see how you comin’ across to people. Then check your breath. You still want one, I make it. Deal?”

  “Here’s a better one,” Wil lurched at him. “How about I
come back there and make it myself, fuck you very much”

  “Hey now, don’t be doin’ that,” Nelson said. “I mean it. Hey!”

  But Wil already had one hand on the Sauza bottle, another on the glass he thought was empty. Slipping on the remains that slopped onto the floor and taking bottles down with him as he flailed for purchase; landing in a welter of glass, Kahlua, peppermint schnapps, peach brandy, and Creme de Menthe. Among the identifiable substances.

  “Shit,” he said into the freeze.

  “About says it all,” Nelson threw in.

  ***

  What saved him from an irate assistant manager ready to have him arrested was his credit card—bar and bottle replacement, comp dinners for the remaining patrons, Nelson vouching that he was a local—and Matt, on whom the manager took pity. Walking back barefoot in the cold surf helped. But the horizon still was tilted and the stars looked like time-lapse photography, that smeared pinwheel effect every time he looked up. What sense that still clung to him also insisted that he was being followed. Not followed á lá Maccafee and Lorenz, he told himself, more like eyes—something out of place among the revetment boulders, what moon there was painted over by the smoke, everything in deep shadow.

  “Come out, come out, whoever you are,” he called at one point, cracking up at his own cleverness. “Get it while it’s hot.”

  Wave-rush over the ringing in his ears.

  Star-filter-effect lights on the houses clinging to Mussel Shoals.

  Truck-rumble up on the highway.

  “Ha! I didn’t think so.” Kicking sand in the direction of whatever-whomever without falling down, still managing to get some in his mouth. Spitting out, “My dog’s no lightweight either—are you, Matty?”

  But after Matt’s inactivity and with the way his master smelled, the Aussie was in full-dash mode: circling, flushing night birds, fetching driftwood to drop the stick no closer to Wil than about five feet. At which point Wil ceased caring: