Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

He leaned back and lit another cigarette, although the air in the van held so much smoke that it was hardly necessary. He looked out the window. The van had turned left after leaving the Cross Bay Bridge and was now heading down a wide road, moving slowly in the heavy traffic. It was some sort of holiday, it seemed, which might be helpful in the event an escape became necessary. Another bridge and a smaller road, this one leading through a beach community, low houses and one-story shops. Park Street, Leung read on a sign. Vo had a map spread out, and he was barking directions in bad Cantonese at the boy driving, a White Dragon named Lau, the sole American-born Chinese in the group. Presently, after several wrong turns, they came to a large white house with a pillared porch. Vo was about to jump from the van as soon as it stopped, but Leung placed a restraining hand on his shoulder from behind.

“Wait. We don’t know who is at home. There are no cars in the driveway. Perhaps they have already left.” Leung felt a faint surge of relief. If they had gone back to their residence, if they had picked up their normal routine again, taking the child would be vastly simpler. They waited. In the house nothing stirred, no sounds of occupation came through the open windows.

“They’ve left,” said Leung. “Let’s go.”

Lau said, “That doesn’t make sense. Why would they leave? It’s the Fourth of July weekend. They’re probably just down at the beach.”

“That’s right,” said Vo. “We should wait.”

“But not here, in front of the house,” said Leung. “Drive on, and turn left at the corner.”

As they turned past that junction, another Dodge van approached from the direction of Park Street. It could have been the twin of theirs, except that it had tinted windows and was black, where theirs was gray. The vans passed each other slowly, their speed suited to the narrow, sand-dusted residential street.

Freddie Phat, at the wheel of the black van, made a startled movement and craned his neck to look at the other vehicle as it passed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tran, who sat beside him in the front seat.

“Strange. It looked like Kenny Vo sitting in the passenger seat of that van.”

“Stop!” cried Tran. “Turn around and follow it!”

Phat hit the gas pedal, shot forward to the next intersection, and spun the van skidding around. The three hard faces in the back rocked, and their automatic rifles clattered on the floor.

“That’s their car,” Leung shouted.

“Where? Where?” Lau saw nothing ahead but empty roadway.

“An orange Volvo,” said Leung excitedly. “It just passed the next intersection, going to the left.”

Lau accelerated, turned, and soon they had the square orange car in view. “Stay back,” Leung ordered. “I don’t want them to see us. That’s good, let a car get between us. They are heading for the shops. Good, they’re slowing, they’re turning into that parking lot. Follow them! No, no, not right next to their car! Idiot! Park over there, right next to the exit. Good.”

They parked. The lot was crowded with shoppers and their cars, as were the narrow sidewalks of the shopping strip, which was anchored by the Beach Bazaar and a large Grand Union super-market. Those in the back crowded forward so they could see out the windshield, from which they had an excellent view of the Volvo. As they watched, its passengers left, the two girls running into the Beach Bazaar, a substantial emporium whose striped steel awnings dripped with beach chairs, inflated animal-shaped swimming toys, large beach balls, air mattresses.

“Who is that black woman?” Vo asked.

“A nursemaid, no doubt,” said Leung. “She is not significant. Our luck has changed, it appears. I am going to examine the situation in the store. All of you, wait here and do nothing!”

He was gone ten minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two yellow smock shirts, embroidered with the logo of the Beach Bazaar and the names of two employees. Back in his seat, he said, “It is perfect. They are scattered throughout the store, and the girls are isolated in the swimming costume area. This is what we will do. Lau and Eng will stay with the car. I and Vo and Cowboy will enter the store. Cowboy and I will wear these shirts. Cai and Yang will take up a position outside the store. The girl knows Cowboy; that will put her off her guard. He will lead her to the back of the store. I will join him there, and together we will take her through the stockroom, to the rear exit. There is an alley there, and a loading dock. When Vo has seen us enter, he will signal to Lau, and he will take the car around to the alley, get us and the girl, and then come around and pick up the three others.”

“What about the other girl?” asked Vo.

“If she sees anything, we will take her, too,” said Leung. “Does everyone understand what he is to do? Cowboy?”

The youth nodded sullenly. Leung asked each of the others and, where there was doubt or confusion, gave crisp instruction. They were nothing like a Hong Kong triad team, he thought, but far better than Red Guards, and it should be a simple operation. In and out.

There was an odd smell in the store, an old-fashioned place with circulating ceiling fans, wooden floor, a high, stamped tin ceiling, long counters, and bins. Cowboy thought it must be some sort of confection; it was sweet and heavy, and to him as exotic as five-spice powder would have been to nearly all of the store’s clientele. It was crowded with these, and getting more crowded as people came in to pick up the various necessities they had forgotten to pack in their rush to leave the heat of the city for the big weekend.

Cowboy walked quickly to the place Leung had indicated, where swimsuits hung on chromed racks and headless, armless models showed them off. He could not see Lucy, and felt a sudden and surprising sense of relief. Perhaps they had suspected something and fled. But no, he now saw a short Asian girl selecting suits with intense concentration, reading the price tags and the labels as if they were oracles. She did not notice Cowboy.

Then the curtain that led to the changing room was thrust briskly aside, and there she was right in front of him, swimsuits draped over her arm. She saw him.

“Cowboy? What are you doing here?” she asked in Vietnamese, looking curiously at his shirt, which bore the name iris embroidered in red thread.

“I have to see, I mean, to talk to you. It’s very important.”

Lucy looked over at Mary, who was utterly absorbed in the mathematics of assessing clothing value, and nodded to Cowboy. She tossed her suits over the top of a rack and followed Cowboy toward the back of the store.

“In here,” said Cowboy, pushing open the swinging door to the stockroom. Lucy went through, and Leung grabbed her, clapping his hand over her mouth and pressing a pistol muzzle into her back. He pulled her into a dark alcove formed by large cardbord crates containing plastic swimming pools. In Cantonese he said, “Is it true that you can speak Cantonese?”

She nodded. He said, “Are you going to scream or do anything foolish?”

She shook her head, and he removed his hand from her mouth. She looked at Cowboy and said, in Vietnamese, “With Heaven rest all matters here below: harm people and they’ll harm you in their turn. Perfidious humans who do fiendish deeds shall suffer, and cry mercy in vain.” Cowboy reacted as if slapped. He looked away from her, his jaw quivering. Every Vietnamese knows the scene where Kieu and her lover, Tu, the rebel chieftain, take revenge on all who have abused her.

“What did she say?” Leung demanded.

“Nothing,” Cowboy mumbled. “Just some poetry.”

Leung snapped, “Go out to the loading dock and see if they are there.” Cowboy trotted off.