T. Parker - Little Saigon

“Chuck Frye.”

“Find our dog?”

“He kinda found me.”

Frye stepped in, aware of the commotion at the far end of the room — woman and dog in a homecoming scene. Dunce barked at him. Cristobel turned. Same face, he thought — full, pale skin, good mouth. Dark eyes, light hair. Off the charts. She gave him a contraceptive glare.

“Well, hello, Mr. Frye.”

“Hello, Miss...”

“Strauss.”

He forced a smile at both of them. “Oh, you two are... great, super.”

Jim smiled at him without mirth.

“Cristobel will do,” she said. “Blaster latch onto you?”

“He did.”

“He’s like that. A social animal.” She looked at Frye, shaking back her hair, hands on her hips and fingers spread against her jeans.

“Good to meet you,” said Jim. “Thanks for bringing back our dog.” Frye watched him disappear into a hallway. A door closed, music started up.

“He’s not rude,” she said. “He’s just working out.”

“Olympics?”

“Model. Everything has to be perfect.”

“Looks like he’s getting there.” Blaster’s head slipped under his hand. “I was putting a note on your dog’s scarf last night and he followed me to my car. I was in a hurry and he just sorta jumped in. The note said I was sorry for a bad opening line and wanted a proper introduction. Anyway, I apologize for what I said, and I’m sorry I kidnapped your dog.”

“That was a crappy thing to say to a girl you don’t even know.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t really expect me to say yes, did you?”

“No.”

“You Southern California guys are so damned arrogant sometimes. You think it’s cool. Some women must like that, but it just makes me think you’re a bunch of narcissistic queebs.”

“If you’ve got a blindfold and rifle, I’ll shoot myself.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Okay. Truce. Beer?”

“Sure.” He watched her go to the kitchen with an adulterous guilt, very much tuned in to the way she filled her jeans. Full-bodied but light on her feet, a gold chain around her ankle. He glanced toward Jim’s room, from which a series of odd huffing noises came, timed roughly to the music. When she came back, he was looking at the material she’d been cutting. It was a light blue background with yellow slices of moon on it. “Nice.”

“Kind of a sun dress,” she said. She held up a swatch of cloth. “Good silk. I liked those little moons.”

Frye sat on the couch and Cristobel took a chair. He looked out to the sand, the sun, the ocean glittering like a tossed handful of diamonds. “Nice place here.”

“Thanks. We rented it a year ago. Cheap and a good view. Hard to find in Laguna. What happened to your head?”

“A cop hit me with his gun.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’ve been following the story about Li. She’s been missing since Sunday, right? Any suspects?”

“There’s a suspect but I’m not so sure he’s solid. The cops think so.”

“My experience with cops is you get good treatment if you’re high-priority, and bad treatment if you’re not. I’d think that Li Frye is pretty high.”

Frye wondered just what this experience with the cops was, but it didn’t seem time to press it. He looked at Cristobel, feeling a sour regret that she was married, that he was married — technically, at least — that he had put his worst foot forward, kidnapped her dog, and now sat here with his pecker coming up like a garden gopher while he drank her beer.

“Don’t get discouraged,” she said. “They’ll find her.”

Through the picture window, Frye could see the people gathering on Main Beach. Bleachers and a stage had been set up, banners proclaiming the MIA Committee rally.

Cristobel fiddled with her anklet. The sun lit up her hair from behind. She has eyes that seem to see a lot, Frye decided. She picked up a framed picture from the coffee table: a young man in a flight suit, and his F-4. “I lost my brother Mike over there,” she said quietly. “Somewhere over Quang Tri.” She handed him the photograph.

“I’m sorry.”

Cristobel nodded, drank from her glass, shook back her hair and looked toward Jim’s room. “You got a job besides that surf shop?”

“I was a reporter for a while. Got fired.”

“Looking for another one?”

“Kind of. I’m trying to help Benny right now. I’m trying to find Li. The cops and FBI are all over the place, but nothing’s happening.”

“Sometimes when nothing seems to be happening, that’s when everything really is.” She looked straight through Frye with a curious air of resignation, as if he were a window and she a passenger gone one stop past her destination.

“I’m done with my work for the day,” she said. “Like to walk over to the hotel, have lunch?”

Frye listened to the music still throbbing from Jim’s workout room. This woman can turn on a dime, he thought. It makes me a little nervous. “Sounds like a good way to get my face really creamed.”

She smiled. “We have an understanding.”

“I’ve got the sore face.”

“Don’t worry.”

They found a table at the far end of the patio, pads on the chairs, great view. Cristobel wanted a bottle of Cabernet and Frye could find little wrong with the idea. He looked down at the Whitewater easing toward shore, a few kids splashing around, a couple standing in the surf for a kiss that lasted until the wine arrived. A hundred yards up the beach he could see the MIA Committee banner and a huge American flag. The public address system squawked over the hissing waves. They touched glasses. “To the safe return of your sister-in-law,” she said.

Frye nodded and drank. “Good wine.” He drank more and leaned back, letting the sun and the alcohol mix, using the privacy of his sunglasses to study the person across from him. The wine loosened him a little and he babbled: surfing, the MegaShop, contests, growing up on Frye Island, college failures and his several years of aimlessness that ended in his first real job as a reporter for the Ledger. His words seemed to come out under their own power, and as he listened to his voice he wondered about this woman. There’s something oddly real in her, he thought, or something really odd. But which?

He pondered this, poured more wine, and glanced again at the water. A little west swell at Rockpile, not much shape, cool water. Hurricane surf due soon, according to the papers. A big round of applause eased its way through the breeze. Frye looked to the rally stage. He could see Lucia Parsons, positioning herself behind the podium. The applause got louder. She thanked her audience. Her voice was clear, if a little faint. It’s always good to be here in Laguna. It should be. Its my home.

Frye looked at Cristobel and whipped up a quick theory. The facts were thin, but that had never stopped him before, Cristobel Strauss. My age. Skin isn’t wrecked by now, so she probably grew up somewhere else. A few major secrets, none good. No surprise at that, though: beauty always gets the worst offers, and who can say no to all of them? Aware of her effect on the male. How to use it, how to enjoy it, both in moderation. Prone to misgivings about God, country and family, but has the good sense to change what she can, shine what she can’t and know the difference between the two. Level-headed in all respects except the really big ones, but who can brag that? Still, something is not quite right about this. Something doesn’t fit.

I’m here today to tell you I want our soldiers back from the jungles. I want them back on home soil I want them here, with me and you. And I’m here today to tell you there’s a way to do it.