Vinh’s eyes stayed on the fountain. “Is that what happened? All I feel are bruises.”
“Listen to him,” Li said. “Already he’s been out with Matt, throwing that thing he made us buy.”
“Frisbee,” Wil clarified; then to Vinh, “Did they tell you what Luc was using as a code?”
“Our word for brother, yes.” Shaking his head. “Who would have thought it? Not me.”
They sat.
“Some daughter you have there,” Wil said, nodding to her, half-expecting a comeback. “But I suppose you know that.”
Mia touched Vinh’s hand and he regarded her and smiled. “What I keep telling him,” she said.
“You show them what you copied off the disk?”
Mia nodded.
“Wen’s poems, her gift to us,” Vinh said, his words like the splash from a deep well, adding then, “Thank you. And for the plaque that went down with my son.”
“More tea?” Li Tien covered for him.
“Raincheck, thanks. I just stopped by to say congratulations.”
As Li set down the pot, she smiled slightly. “Raymond Ky phoned from Los Angeles. He wants to appear with us at a victory press conference.” Something in the way she said it.
“What did you tell him?”
They looked at Vinh, who said, “I told him he was fortunate he was not there when I was released.”
“That, I believe,” Wil said.
They sat.
“Well, then,” Vinh dropped casually. “I suppose you’ll be taking Matt with you when you go?”
Wil nodded. “He’s my friend and I miss him.” Noting the reaction from all three and thinking of a woman he knew at the animal shelter, of calling her on their behalf. “But not for a few days, if that’s all right with you.”
Nods all around. Li Tien head-gesturing to her husband.
“Ah,” he said, picking it up. “I can write your check now?”
“No need this minute. I’ll send a statement.” Taking the hand that was offered and shaking it.
Vinh Tien said, “Before you go, you must hear something I will say for all of us. We are grateful for what you did. We will never forget.” And, with greater emphasis, “I will never forget.”
A moment passed, a rustle of bamboo, a riff of water in the pond. “In the same spirit,” Wil said, “I sometimes wonder if what we need isn’t more forgetting, rather than less.”
Vinh Tien’s face darkened. “You say this after all that has happened? After what all of us have been through? What you have been through?”
Wil stood. “What else? You were right about the war, Vinh Tien, what you said about it killing the dead but once and swiftly. That was a gift then and it is a gift now.”
73
Wil left the Tiens, aching for sleep. Instead, he stopped for a late lunch at the al fresco grill in the old Cabrillo Pavilion Bathhouse. The building and its 1927 neo-Mediterranean architecture, the blue-and-white striped umbrella shading his table, the sailboats and beachgoers were like an impressionist painting you could lose yourself in. Or was that find yourself? he thought.
In a while, he bought two large ginger ales with lemon wedges and ice to go. Taking a chance she might be home before dark, he drove to Lisa’s, sat on the steps and watched a neighbor water his lawn, two ten-year-olds clack by on skateboards, a woman thinning out blooms as she cut fresh ones for the table.
Things normal people did without thought.
At a quarter to six, her Lexus pulled into the drive, and she got out with her briefcase. Burgundy skirt and lighter blouse with pearls, silver antelope pendant he remembered from a trip to Sedona a lifetime ago. She said, “Did I miss your call, or something?”
“Nope,” he said. Handing her a ginger ale.
Lisa set down the case, joined him on the steps.
“You and ginger ale,” she said.
“Hope it’s cold. I asked for extra ice.”
“You okay?” Holding her glance. “You look a little ragged.”
“I had to kill a man this morning. I’m trying to keep my mind off it. Soon as I figure out how.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that why you’re here?”
“In part, maybe.”
She looked across at the neighbor now dragging the hose around the side of his house. “But you saved her, right? Mia Tien? Bev had the TV on, What’s-her-name who did that magazine piece on you. I don’t think she likes you very much.”
“I’m an acquired taste,” he said. “Not to remind you.”
“Seriously, are you all right?”
“I came to thank you, Leese. She wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”
“And you?” After a pause.
“Fair chance of it.”
She drank from her straw. The kids walked back up the hill with their boards and had another go at it. Across the street, the woman cutting flowers waved to her and she waved back, let her hand settle on the other in her lap.
She said, “Wil, I’ve decided something. I’ve decided that there’s no future in trying to account for risks every minute of every day. It’s no way to live. The only thing you wind up with is your own fear.”
On the premise that listening was good, he said nothing.
“I’m going ahead with this baby, if you’re still interested. No, even if you’re not. I mean, what’s an extra chromosome, right?”
“Among friends?” he said. “Nothing, Leese. Nothing at all.”
“Meaning you’re still in?”
“I’m still in.”
“Well…” Deep breath. “So what’s next? You want to find some glasses for the ginger ale? Properly toast this thing?”
“The question is, do you?”
She glanced at him. “It’d be a start.”
“Hard to ask for more than that,” Wil said, getting slowly to his feet. Yet as if by magic the pain in his ribs had abated, the fatigue was gone to a new feeling, a kind of silent rising chord.
“Shall we?” he said, giving her a hand up.
By way of answer she turned her key the lock and, without looking back, pushed open the door, which creaked on its hinges and crept back but stayed.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all who sheltered a grateful writer from the storm: Shelly Lowenkopf for his guidance, Son Van Nguyen for his translations and inspiration, Robert Bason for his faith, Frank Goad for his design and friendship, Harry Sims for his eagle eye, Audrey Moor for her boundless optimism, the Santa Barbara Library System for being there, and one very patient wife for more than words can express.
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OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS
Visit DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend (*)
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood (*)
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay (*)
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Reed Farrel Coleman
The Brooklyn Rules
By Don Herron
Willeford (*)
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
Warm Hands, Cold Heart (*)
By David Housewright & Renee Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
&nbs
p; Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
By Bob Truluck
Street Level
Saw Red
The Art of Redemption
Flat White (*)
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley's Lament
Wiley's Shuffle
Wiley's Refrain
Dark Paradise
(*) Coming in 2012
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Here is a preview of the first Wiley novel, Wiley’s Lament by Lono Waiwaiole…
ONE
THURSDAY NIGHT
I picked Seattle because you don’t piss in your own peonies, and because Seattle’s tendency to look down on the rest of us had always rubbed me a little raw.
That’s the problem with having the Space Needle for a nose—the thing sticks straight up in the air. But to me, Seattle was nothing but a safe-deposit box to which I had the matching keys. Every time I needed some money, I just drove three hours north and picked up a bag or two.
I got the idea from the evening news. You’ve probably seen the same story—a drug bust hits the airwaves, the first thing the cops do is flash the thousands of dollars they found. I could occasionally use thousands of dollars in those days, so I eventually decided to wage my own little war on drugs.
Ripping off a drug dealer sounds tougher than it actually is, mostly because I never met one who wanted his money more than his life. It makes perfect sense when you think about it, because money is easy to come by in the drug business and life isn’t.
I liked midlevel targets, which is why I’d been on the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket for almost five days without harming a hair on his cornrowed head. The kid was doing all right for himself that night, but he wasn’t doing well enough for me—that’s why I was waiting for his connection to arrive.
I’m better at waiting than most people, and waiting on the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket was a piece of cake because he looked right through me every time he glanced in my direction. You hear all the time that appearances can be deceiving, but I don’t know many people who really believe it. It’s amazing how invisible you can get when you mix two weeks without a shower or a shave with an overstuffed shopping cart and a bottle of Mad Dog in a brown paper bag. I was only half a block to the kid’s right, but I could have been on the far side of the moon for all the attention he gave me.
The Lexus was late that night, so the kid and I were both ready to move well before it appeared. The car rolled to a stop, the window on the passenger side slid down and the kid leaned inside. I pushed my cart in his direction while he did it, using my right hand for the cart and my left to lift the Mad Dog bottle to my mouth. I don’t drink alcohol, so the Mad Dog ran down my chin and collected in my grimy undershirt every time I tipped the bottle.
I could see the driver watching me idly as I approached, but my target was sitting next to him so I didn’t give the driver much of a look. One of the odd things I had learned about this kind of gig is that you don’t have to count the hired hands as long as you get your gun in the right guy’s ear.
The kid was trading cash for product, and he and my target were absorbed by the transaction until I was only four or five strides away. They both looked my way at the same time, but the kid was the one who spoke.
“Get lost, muthafuckah,” he said, but he was turning back to my target before the words were even out of his mouth. I staggered another step or two closer, hurled the bottle at the open window and then tried to beat it to the car. The bottle got there before I did, but not by much. My target saw it coming and ducked, but the kid was just beginning to turn back in my direction when it splattered against the door frame a few inches above his head.
The kid started to say something, but I hit him in the mouth with a forearm and knocked the words back down his throat.
He bounced off the door and fell to the pavement, but I kept my eyes on the prize.
“What the fuck?” someone shouted, but I’m not sure who. All I know for sure is that I grabbed the hand coming out of the window with a gun in it and cracked it against the door frame until the gun fell out. By that time, my .38 was in my left hand and I was jamming it into my target’s closest ear.
“Everybody chill,” I said quietly.
I looked at the driver and the kid on the pavement to my left, and they both showed me the palms of their hands. They didn’t look afraid, exactly—the expression in their eyes more closely resembled curiosity than anything else—but they didn’t look ominous, either.
“Get up,” I said to the kid in the Seahawks jacket. “Bring the gym bag on top of the shopping cart over here.” The kid got up and did as he was told.
“Get in the backseat,” I said, and that’s what the kid did next.
“Now put fifteen grand in that bag and throw it out on the sidewalk.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” said the guy wearing my gun in his ear. “Why fifteen grand?”
“Why not?” I asked, mostly because that answer was shorter than explaining the actual reason. I liked to give the victims something specific to do while I was setting up my departure from the scene.
“What makes you think we have fifteen grand in here, you fucking idiot?”
“I don’t much care if you do or you don’t,” I said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You live if you have it, you don’t if you don’t. It makes a lot more difference to you than to me.”
“You think you can cap all three of us and walk away from it?”
“I think I can cap you, and I think I don’t give a fuck what happens after that.”
“You’re fuckin’ insane,” he said.
“Possibly,” I said, “but I don’t see how that improves your situation.”
“This is a fuckin’ public street—you can’t stand here and do this kind of shit!”
“Do you see anything stopping me so far?”
“How long do you think it’s gonna be before someone calls the cops?”
“About sixty seconds,” I said. “The cops are the reason you’re gonna drive off and leave me standing here.”
My target swiveled his head slightly to improve his view of me, and I swiveled my .38 right with him. His eyes were cold and lifeless, just like mine, but he smelled a lot better than I did.
“You are so fuckin’ dead it’s not even funny,” he said finally.
“I know,” I said. “The only question here is how dead you want to be.”
“Give it to him,” he said, his frigid eyes still locked on mine.
The kid reached down behind the driver’s seat and picked up a dark brown satchel. The satchel was open, and I could see the cash inside it from my vantage point outside the door.
“What am I supposed to do?” the kid asked. “Count this shit?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Think you can tell by the weight?”
“What?”
“Start with the hundreds,” I said. “Then you only have to count to ten fifteen times.”
The kid looked at my target for directions, but my target was still looking at me. “Tell the kid to get started,” I said.
“Do it,” my target said, and the kid started shuffling through the satchel.
“Now pick up your phone,” I said to my target, adding a little pressure to the gun in his ear for emphasis. “And make sure it’s the phone—you don’t wanna come this far and still not make it.”
My target reached carefully between the front seats and produced a phone.
“Dial nine-one-one,” I said.
“What?”
“Dial nine-one-one.”
He punched the buttons and slowly extended the phone in my direction. I took it with my right hand and sent another little reminder into his ear with my left.
“I need to report a shooting across from that museum on First,” I said into the phone. “Send an ambulance—it looks like there’s at least one man down.”
“I can
’t see the cross street,” I said when the operator asked for that information. “How many museums do you have on this fuckin’ street? It’s the one with that piece of shit tin man out in front.”
I cut the connection and tossed the phone into my shopping cart. “Do you think they’ll find us?” I asked.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” my target asked.
“Why? Does it make a difference somehow?”
“There ain’t enough hundreds in here,” the kid said from the backseat at about the same time as the sound of the first siren reached us.
“How many were there?” I asked.
“Seventy-six,” he said.
“And a big parade,” I said.
“What?”
“‘The Music Man,’” I said as the second siren horned in on the first. “We’ve got the seventy-six trombones, and here comes the big parade.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” the kid said.
“Never mind,” I said. “You folks better be going. Just dump the rest of the cash into my bag and toss it out here.”
The kid followed my instructions, so I tried my luck with his boss. “You can drive away from this gun in your ear whenever you’re ready,” I said. “If you don’t get stupid on the way, you won’t lose anything but money tonight.”
“Let’s go,” he said to his driver, but his eyes were still fixed on mine. The driver did as he was told, even though he had to cut off a taxi to do it. My target finally turned away from me as the Lexus moved to the left lane, and after a block it turned uphill and out of sight.
I picked up my gym bag, dropped the .38 inside and closed the zipper. By the time the ambulance and the cops hit First, I was through the door of The Lusty Lady. I had paid Gladys in advance, so she led me past all the naked girls in the fantasy booths and let me out on the fire escape.
It was five minutes from the back of the building to my old Subaru, and a shade over three hours from the Subaru to my front room in Portland. I was almost through with the count the skinny kid in the Seahawks jacket had begun when the phone rang and I found out I didn’t need money anymore.
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