T. Parker - Little Saigon

The black man was Private Crawley. He said nothing during that entire first meeting, but he listened very intently to everything that was said.

Lam was strange at this first meeting. He attempted a level of familiarity with me that he had never shown before. He sat a little closer to me on that stone bench than he had sat at any time. He interrupted me often, explaining to Lt. Frye my loyalty and intelligence. He seemed proud of me.

It was agreed that we would meet here once a week to pass the information I was to collect. If Lam was not able to join me, I should wait for Lt. Frye alone in the clump of trees by the highway. His jeep would always have a blue silk scarf tied to the antenna. At this first meeting, Lt. Frye told me of several things the Americans were very interested in. These involved enemy strength in the village of Ben Cat, and any specific information I might get on a suspected Viet Cong headquarters in the Bo Ho Woods.

Once, when he interrupted Lam, I saw a moment of anger in Lam’s dark eyes. It was then I understood that Lt. Frye did not trust Lam in all things, as I did not. Huong Lam had once been a Viet Cong himself. Could anyone fully trust a man who had once been the enemy?

It was obvious by the way that Lt. Frye looked at me, that I was not trusted either. I had not expected to be. But when you trust yourself, no suspicion from another even matters. At one point, as his doubting eyes bore into mine, I returned his gaze with the arrogance that only the innocent can have. Many weeks later, I learned from him that I had won his respect that day, if not his trust.

We drove back to the place in the jungle where he had picked us up. Before we left, Lt. Frye flattered me immensely by saying he would like to hear me play and sing, if I would be willing. You can imagine how inflated by vanity I was — a seventeen-year-old girl with an important American as a potential audience! He was a very handsome man.

For a moment, Frye imagined them sitting there in the plantation courtyard, that first meeting between a man and a woman who would eventually fall in love and marry. Did either of them have an idea, a feeling? Much later, Li had told him that she did. Bennett had told him that his affection for Li developed slowly. When he described those early days with her, it was always with an intelligence officer’s air of detachment. Just the facts. Still, Frye could sense the passion in his brother’s calm voice, sense the heat beneath the cool when he spoke of Kieu Li.

He closed the manuscript and found an old tape of Li’s songs. He tried to play it, but his smashed speakers just hissed and crackled. He fetched a small tape recorder he’d used for interviews and slipped in the tape. The dog cocked his head at the commotion, then walked outside to the patio. Frye read the English translation:

He addressed and stamped two more résumés. He called Rollie Dean Mack of Elite Management, but Rollie Dean was out. He got through to Nguyen Hy, who feigned ignorance as to where the Dark Men congregated.

“There is no reason for you to see the Dark Men, Chuck. Unless there is something you haven’t told us.”

Frye mumbled about something Minh had said — just following up a lead. “What’s the progress on Li?”

Nguyen hesitated. “The FBI examined Eddie’s place after he got away last night. We are not supposed to know this, but now they don’t believe she was actually inside his house or garage.”

“But what about her clothes?”

“He... removed her clothing somewhere else. The agent who talked to Benny found that her blouse had muddy earth on it. Her shoe, too, but the earth was found on top of the shoe as well as on the bottom. Even her earring had mud on it. It was as if she was stripped in a yard or a lot of some kind. But there was not a single print or smudge or hair to indicate that she was inside the house. Chuck — we are not supposed to have this information. Your father managed to... get it out of Senator Lansdale. The FBI still regards Eddie Vo as their prime suspect.”

“If Li was never at Eddie’s, then that stuff could have been planted there. Eddie could have been framed.”

“That is exactly what your brother and I thought, too. Keep this information to yourself, Chuck.”

He called Julie at the Asian Wind, who told him that the Dark Men gathered at Pho Dinh Restaurant on Bolsa, a block east of the plaza. The leader, of course, was Loc — the tall thin boy with the high flat-top, Eddie Vo’s former friend and gang mate. Julie said that he was known to carry a gun. When Frye asked her about seeing Eddie Vo that night, just before the shooting started, Julie sounded angry.

“The police say he was involved in the kidnapping. They say that I must be mistaken. I’m sure I saw him out there, in a car, but I don’t remember when. Not exactly. It must have been before the shooting, but how much before? And could it have been a boy who only looks like Eddie? I don’t know. I wish Minh would leave me alone. I hate the way he tries to trick me into agreeing with him. Now the city threatens to take away my entertainment license. I get the feeling that the more I say what Minh wants to hear, the easier the city will be on me. I am being manipulated.”

Everybody, Frye thought, wants to lean on Eddie.

“Tell them the truth, Julie. Let them worry about it.”

“Thank you, Chuck. Be careful with the Dark Men. They are very unpredictable people.”

Dunce bounced back into the room with that look of hopeful expectancy found in only dogs and children. This was clearly an animal with a mission in mind. Any mission.

“To the doctor,” Frye announced, picking up his résumés. “To check on my condition. And after that, we’ll mail these and try to get you home.”

He took one more look around his semi-demolished home, locked the door, and headed downtown on foot.

He climbed onto Dr. Redken’s examination table, aiming for the sanitized tissue runway. The doctor — of ears, nose, and throat fame — affixed a rubberoid gadget to the end of a light and drove it deep into Frye’s ear. The doctor moaned. “Interesting,” he said finally. “Your spells of imbalance persist?”

“Only when I’m in the water. Or sometimes in a dark, closed-up place. I get them then, too.”

Redken moaned again, probing afresh from a new angle. “And you’ve been taking it easy?”

“Yeah.”

“No superhuman efforts out there in the waves?”

“No. I’m just scared shitless, Doc.”

Redken retracted his light with an air of finality, clicking it off and sliding it into a coat pocket. Frye shifted on the table, tissue clinging noisily to his legs. Redken brought a set of X rays from a folder, then a collection of gray, unfocused photos of some kind.

“These, of course, are the X rays from two months ago, when the injury took place. They show now what they showed then — no damage to the inner ear bones.” Redken consulted the murky film. “And the CAT-scan done two months ago shows the ruptured tympanum. I’m still surprised that the surfboard didn’t break bone. Now, the scan we did last week shows no fluid build-up at all, no indications of labyrinthitis or Ménière’s syndrome.” The doctor fixed Frye with an oddly pat stare. “In other words, Chuck, you’re healed. A recovered patient of nature’s own slow therapy.”

Frye watched his feet crossing and uncrossing below him. The truth was that he had been hoping for mildly tragic news to justify his dread of the water, not some toast to mother nature’s skill as a doctor. This, he thought, is a whole new ballgame. “Then how come I get the spells?”