T. Parker - Little Saigon

“You ought to be.”

Burke wiped his brow again, frowned at the water, then looked at Frye. “Benny keepin’ you busy looking for her?”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do to pitch in, just say the word. I’m busy, but I got time for friends. Benny has my number, and I live right down here in Laguna.”

“Thanks, Burke. It means a lot, all of you pulling for her.”

Burke nodded. “Fuckin’ gooks. Ought to just ship ’em back where they belong. Let ’em eat their dogs and grow their rice. Li and Hy can stay. They’re real Americans, if you ask me. But the rest don’t bring much to the party.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Me neither, Chuck. I’m just a little bit out of kilter about all this. But Li’s a great gal. See ya around. Call if I can help now, hear?”

He waited until evening to find the Dark Men.

Pho Dinh was a simple noodle shop on Bolsa, a block east of the plaza. From the outside he could see rows of tables filled with young Vietnamese, a big white panel behind the counter with words and prices on it, and a slender man behind the cash register. The young men were dressed well, as always — loose jackets and sharply tapered pants, collars turned up, thin neckties, pointed shoes. So were the women — tight jeans and pumps, short coats, their hair teased and sprayed. Music blared. A group of boys clustered around a video game, heads bowed, silent and intense.

Frye walked in, feeling about as out of place as one can get. Heads turned; a pane of quiet seemed to insert itself between the din of the music and the low hum of voices. The air was hot and heavy with a sweet, oily presence. Sesame, he thought, and mint. The locals are not overly friendly tonight. People stared. He started back, searching for Loc.

When he finally saw him — at a corner table with three other boys his age — Loc had already spotted Frye. He simply sat there and looked through him, then turned back to his friends. He had on a dark gray shirt, a black coat and tie. Frye stepped to the counter, ordered five beers for the table, paid up and walked over. He sat down. “I want my cigars back.”

Loc spoke to his friends in Vietnamese. No one had acknowledged Frye yet; he had the odd feeling that perhaps he wasn’t there, that he had become an invisible man. “Some people saw you go in. I’ve got sworn statements. I’ve got pictures of you. I’ll go to Minh if I have to,” he lied. “But I’d rather not.”

Loc stared at him. “Who are you?”

“I live in the house you wrecked yesterday afternoon.”

The four consulted quickly again in Vietnamese; Frye sensed a genuine puzzlement here. A waiter delivered the beers and five glasses filled with ice. When he left, Loc leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Do you know where they are? My brother, Duc, and my friend?”

“No. I just know you’ve got my box.”

Loc poured his beer into the glass without looking at it. The boy next to him, wearing a black leather necktie, lit a cigarette with fingers thin as fork tines. Loc leaned back. “What do you know about Duc?” he asked.

Frye reached into his pockets and dumped the bracelets that Stanley Smith had given him onto the table. “Not a thing. But maybe I can help.”

Loc studied them like a poker player with two pair would study a winning straight. Then he handled the bracelets lightly and looked at Frye. One of the other boys stopped his beer glass halfway to his lips, and stared. “We can’t talk here.”

Frye stood.

He trailed them out of the noodle shop, then across the parking lot to a beat-up station wagon. The lights of Saigon Plaza glowed in the near distance, and Frye could see the elaborate archway posed against the darkness. Loc ordered his three friends into the back seat of the car, then headed for the driver’s side. “We ride around and talk,” he said.

This looks like a real bad idea, thought Frye. “Just you and me,” he said, pointing to the back. “Get rid of them.”

Loc offered a wry smile. “You don’t trust us?”

“No.”

Loc brought out a cigarette and lit it. He hesitated, then spoke to the boys. They climbed back out, staring at Frye with insulted dignity. Loc said something; they mumbled apparent approval.

Frye walked to the driver’s side and stood in front of Loc. He could feel his chest thumping against his shirt. “Leave the gun.”

“I have no gun.” Loc held open his coat, then grasped each side pocket in a hand and squeezed the material together. “Clean.”

Frye got in.

Loc backed out of the lot while his two friends stood and watched. The big car heaved onto Bolsa, heading west. “Let me see the bracelets again,” he said.

Frye put them on the seat between them. Loc picked up one, rubbed it, set it down. “These belong to Duc. Where did you get them?”

“They belong to me. And I got them the same place Duc did. How long has he been missing?”

Loc glanced at him, his hands on the steering wheel. The big coat dwarfed him. “You’re from Lawrence. You try to trick me.”

Frye wondered who Lawrence was. It wasn’t the time to ask. Play along, he thought. “I’m not. I just need that box back, Loc. That’s the truth.”

Loc drove past Saigon Plaza. Frye looked out at the big lions guarding the entrance, the archway, the streetlamps. When he turned back, Loc was staring at him. “If you’re not from Lawrence, how do you know my name?”

Frye explained the photo in Eddie Vo’s room. “My name’s Chuck.”

Loc remembered. “I need my brother back, and that’s the truth. You’re from Eddie, aren’t you?”

“I told you, Loc. I’m not from anybody. You took my box and I need it back.” Even if they’ve made a copy of it, Frye thought, at least I’ll have something to give back to Bennett. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.”

Loc steered the wagon north on Beach Boulevard, running a red light on the turn. At a break in the traffic, he turned left into Westminster Memorial Park. Frye looked out at the trees, the gently sloping grounds, the picnic tables, and barbecue stands.

Loc pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. “Let’s walk,” he said, reaching for the door.

“Let’s stay right where we are,” said Frye.

Loc turned back to Frye with a huge revolver in his left hand. He cocked it — Frye could hear each part moving into place, followed by the definitive, lower click of the trigger locking — and placed the barrel against Frye’s ear. “You don’t understand anything,” said Loc. “Now we will walk.”

“A little fresh air might be nice.”

Loc followed him out the passenger door, the gun pushed hard into Frye’s side. “That way.”

They moved down a path, past the park’s restrooms. Frye’s legs felt like old wood. A young Vietnamese couple passed them, moving off the walkway when they recognized Loc. Frye could see a table and benches in the dim lights as they cut across the park toward the north end. When they got to the picnic area, Loc pushed him onto a bench. He stepped back and with one hand produced a cigarette and lighter. The other one stayed in the pocket of his coat. Frye watched the orange flame illuminate Loc’s thin, hard face.

“Where is he?”

“I told you, I don’t know. How long has he been gone?”

Loc puffed on the cigarette. “Since Sunday. Where did you get his bracelets?”

“They’re not his. Smith gave them to me.”

“You are a friend of Smith?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you are a friend of Eddie Vo.”

“No more than you are.”

Loc stepped forward, grabbed Frye’s hair, and jerked back his head. The gun barrel found his neck. “Why did you go to him then?”