T. Parker - Little Saigon

He smiled, poured more wine for them, laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re not married to Jim, are you.”

“I never said I was. It’s kind of an IQ test, how long it takes a man to figure it out.”

“How’d I do?”

“A little above average.”

“What’s the point?”

She looked at him a little placidly, but he sensed the wall just behind her. “He cuts down the flak from jerks, and I deter some of the ladies. He doesn’t care for them, in general. Jim likes men, and I like to be left alone. The last name’s a coincidence, and an occasional source of fun.”

“It was really a gas.”

“I could have strung you along.”

He looked at her and realized she was right. This puts things in a new light. Just what light is it? “True. I must be wearing a little thin on mysteries these days.”

“Well, you figured out this one and no one hit you in the face with a pistol.”

Frye listened to Lucia Parsons describing her rapport with the Vietnamese people. The MIA Committee not only had their support, but had enlisted thousands of Vietnamese as members. “Day after tomorrow, we will be able to provide positive proof that American soldiers are still alive in Vietnam. What we need now is to meet Goal Three — our third and largest fundraising plateau. When the days come to negotiate for our men, we will need money to finance our travel, to support our volunteers, and perhaps to deal with the people of Vietnam. The day is coming soon when we will hear the good news,” she said. “On that day, we must be ready to start bringing those men home!”

“Lucia Parsons is doing good things,” Cristobel said. “If I had someone over there — a husband, or a brother, or a son — I’d do anything in the world to get him back. Anything. She’s great.”

He smiled, touched her glass with his. She told him about growing up in the wine country of Mendocino, a hundred acres of Cabernet and Zinfandel; college at Berkeley, masters in art at UCLA; a stint at fashion design that didn’t work out; ditching L.A. for Laguna Beach and a chance to design on her own again. Almost married once but changed her mind. She looked at Frye, then out to the water. “I’m waiting tables at the Towers mornings for money. It’s a good restaurant, gives me time to myself.”

“Ever think about designing for a company again?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Anyway, I guess I’m in a holding pattern right now. L.A. ended bad.”

He waited for some clarification but she offered none, choosing instead to wrap herself tightly in the light coat she’d worn, tugging the collar up close, then shaking back her hair in a riot of golden waves that struck Frye as feloniously lovely. Call nine-one-one, he thought. In his mind she shed her clothing and wrapped him in a splendid coital knot right there on the patio while outraged drinkers ran for the exits, all sweat and golden hair stuck to her shoulders and breasts, mutual shrieks of love challenging the surging surf below. But he saw as she gazed out to the bright ocean that her eyes held an entirely different vision — anger maybe, or a disappointment too major to air, or some deep and unitemized sorrow, or perhaps nothing at all he could understand. A group of young Mexicans took a table next to them, restaurant workers done with the lunch shift. Cristobel looked at them, then at Frye, an odd confusion on her face. “Well,” she said, standing. “Time for this one to go home.”

“What about lunch?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She led him down the steps to the sand and headed toward the blue apartments, a disheveled outline to the south. He checked the waves again, gazing down to Brooks Street, water splashing the boulders with a faintly purple tint. The color of Li’s ao dai, he thought. Where is she now?

... Good people, there are only three things we need to make this happen. You — each and every one of you — and your money. And you’ve got to write your representatives in this government and get them to support our House Bill eight-eight-two-three-one, which will establish a modest relief fund for the people of Vietnam.

Cristobel looked toward the Rockpile, a silent seascape of rock and foam in the distance. “Going to surf that place tomorrow?”

“Maybe. You going to be out with your dog?”

“Maybe. I usually am.”

“I’m glad you were there that morning, Cristobel.”

“I’m in the pageant this year. Susanna and the Elders. I’ll leave you a ticket at ‘will-call’ if you want to come see me Thursday night.”

“I’d like that.”

“Be there by eight or they’ll sell it to someone else.” She stopped, looked up to her apartment, crossed her arms against the breeze.

Frye moved a stray strand of hair from her face and thought seriously about kissing her. Something mannered, he thought, a skosh formal. The hell?

She stopped his hand with hers. There was a struggle in her eyes as she regarded him. He sensed some contest being fought. Fear versus something he couldn’t quite identify, and fear seemed to be winning. “The last guy to do that’s in the slammer now. His three friends are too. You should know that about me. They kind of show up at bad times, you know?”

Frye looked at her, the sundry data falling into place like a ton of cold bricks. It had been a while since he’d felt like such an ass. Several hours, in fact. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.” For a moment, she looked a thousand years old. “There’s just a whole lot of bad precedent staring you in the face.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“That’s one thing I don’t want from you right now.” She looked long at him.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“One thing you ought to understand up front is I’m not like anybody else. I’ve got some territory there aren’t maps to.”

“You’re not the first one who got lost.”

“I suppose not. But I’d feel a little better if I could call you.”

Frye thought this one through. “As in, don’t call you?”

“It’s got something to do with control.”

“Suit yourself.”

“See you at the pageant, maybe.” She turned and disappeared up the rickety stairway, shoes thudding against old wood as she climbed.

The MIA rally was breaking up by the time Frye got there. He was just in time to see Lucia Parsons getting into a limousine double-parked on Coast Highway, and to pick up a flyer that listed private and corporate supporters, along with a form for joining and giving money.

Edison and Hyla were donors. So was Bennett. So was the Frye Ranch Company.

Frye looked up to see Burke Parsons, hat in hand, slogging through the sand in his cowboy boots.

“Haw, Chuck.”

“Burke.”

Parsons wiped his brow, and looked out to the water. “Seems like everybody I know’s trying to get somebody back.”

Frye nodded, assessing Parsons. He was tall as Frye, thicker, ten years older. Same curly black hair as Lucia, just shorter. Something about the eyes seemed slow. They focused lazily, then bore in.

“Any news on Li?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Well, I did what I could to help Benny, but he ain’t much in the mood for help these days. Kinda like told me to take a hike, is what he did.”

“The pressure’s getting to him.”

“I guess. Any luck on a new job? I miss your boxin’ stuff in the Ledger.”

“I’m working on it.”

Parsons turned to watch the limousine roll up Coast Highway. “I go to these rallies when I get time off work. I like to sit back with the crowd and just listen. You know, this’ll sound dumb, but being proud of your own blood is just about the best — well, second-best — feelin’ there is. My goddamn twin sister. She gets another ten grand raised for her and her assistants, and it’s back over to Hanoi next week. She’s just real sure the government’s about to break down and admit they’ve got some of our boys. Admit they’ve found some of our boys, is what they’ll do. And if she gets Congress to pass that aid package for Hanoi, that’ll make the dealings go real smooth-like. They want those dollars, same as anyone else. That’s why she was telling everyone to write their reps. I don’t know where she gets the energy, Chuck. I really don’t. I’m just proud as all getout.”