T. Parker - Little Saigon

Frye could sense Bennett, navigating his own fury now. Bennett stepped back and stared up. He spoke softly. “That’s exactly what they’re trying to do. What they don’t know is that I remember him all the time, every day of my life. I don’t forget traitors: Ever.”

Bennett lurched over to Crawley, who produced a Colt .45. Bennett brought it over to Frye and held it out. “If Thach is behind this, you might need a friend. I got Donnell and more FBI than I can stomach hanging around my house. Now you’ve got this. The clip’s full, no round in the chamber, and the safety’s on. You know how to use it?”

“Pop showed me a long time ago.”

“Well, the Colt .45 hasn’t changed in fifty years. It shoots straight and slow, and hits like an elephant. Keep it close, watch your back and don’t spend any more time in Little Saigon than you have to.”

Frye took the heavy weapon. What mass has more finality? he thought. A tumor? A gravestone? “Thanks, I guess.”

Bennett swung toward the door, stopped, then exhaled long and slow. He turned back to Frye with a curious look of pain and disappointment. “Wiggins finally caught up with Eddie Vo. About an hour ago.”

“Where’d they find him?”

“Trying to get into his house. He pulled a gun, and they shot him six times on his front porch.”

Frye leaned against his broken stereo speaker. “Eddie Vo was just a mixed-up kid.”

“Wiggins talks like he just got Joe Bonanno. The FBI’s happy now — they’ve got their prime suspect. Be careful, Chuck.”

Crawley waited for Bennett to pivot past him. “Good night, Chuck. Anything not right, you call me. I be here fast as I can.”

Frye got a flashlight and went into the cave. He dug through some old boxes and finally found the little pair of stereo speakers that he’d outgrown years ago but couldn’t bring himself to toss.

In the living room, he hooked them up to his receiver and put on Li’s Lost Mothers.

The sound wasn’t great, but the music came through anyway. He read the translation of “Tunnel Song.”

Frye looked at the fresh traces of mud on the floor, on his shoes. From the cave, he thought. From the cave.

Suddenly, obviously, like a shade being removed from his eyes, he knew where they had taken her.

And he knew where Eddie had gone.

And he knew where Duc had gone.

Mud in the middle of August.

He called information and got her number. The Dream Reader answered on the ninth ring. She sounded sleepy. Frye said he’d just had a bad nightmare and demanded an emergency reading. She said it would cost twice as much this late. They agreed on midnight.

The Westminster police wouldn’t give him Minh’s home number. After pleading with the watch commander, Frye left his own, then hung up and waited on a callback.

It took less than a minute. Minh was calling from Eddie Vo’s house.

“Detective, I know you’d rather see me in jail than talk to me on the phone, but I know where they took Li. And I know where Eddie Vo went after I let him get away.”

“Tell me where, exactly.”

“I can’t. It might take some finding. But I’ll take you there if I can. You game?”

“Yes, I’m game.”

“Meet me at the Dream Reader’s in twenty minutes.”

He rang off, dialed the prefix to Bennett’s number, then hesitated. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m right and it doesn’t amount to jack? Okay, brother, I’ll stay out of your head. I’ll do it your way.

He locked up and walked outside to the Cyclone, tapping the flashlight against his leg.

Little Saigon was deserted until he came to St. Bartholomew’s Church, where cars were still jamming into the overfilled parking lot. Caught in the stalled lane of traffic, Frye could see through the open parish doors hundreds of Vietnamese packed into the small church, more in the vestibule, more trailing across the lawn from the lot. The marquee said MIDNIGHT MASS FOR TUY XUAN — MONSIGNOR DINH HO HANH. There were two cop cars parked in front, an NBC News van, a station wagon from KOCE TV in Huntington Beach. A photog that Frye recognized as a Times staffer stood near the church steps, composing a shot of parents and two tiny boys in suits. The strobe raked them; the photographer waved them inside.

Another block down Bolsa he turned left under the archway of Saigon Plaza and passed the two snarling lions guarding the entrance. Both were plastered with posters of Li’s face — announcements of a CFV “Freedom Rally” set for Friday. He slowed, pulled one off, and put it on his seat.

The parking lot was almost empty. A few small sedans were huddled near the noodle shop. The owner of Ban Le Cafe hosed off the walkway in front, where the outdoor tables were pushed against the wall and stacked with chairs. Frye parked in front of Siêu Thi Mỹ-Hoa Supermarket. The lights were still bright, and a few shoppers came and went.

Frye got the flashlight, stuffed it in his belt, pulled his shirt down, and locked up the Cyclone. He could feel the sticky sweat on his back and smell the high, thin stink of fear on his body

Minh was waiting for him.

The Dream Reader’s light still glowed over the sidewalk in a purple-pink wash. He pushed on the door but it was locked. Inside it was dark. He cupped his hands, looked through the glass and saw the wide old woman making her way toward him. She opened the door and regarded him with a suspicious, tired expression. “Bad visions?” she asked.

“Uncertain visions,” he said.

She looked at Minh. “I am not open for business.”

“You are now.” Frye pushed past her and into the front room. The smell of incense hit him. Minh and the Dream Reader conversed in Vietnamese while Frye scanned the carpet. She took her seat and opened her box.

“Fifty dollar.”

Frye counted out the money and handed it to her.

“Tell me of your dream.”

“Mind if I walk while I talk? I’m nervous.”

She eyed him, then Minh, who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. She nodded.

“I have this dream over and over that I’m in a small dark place and I can’t get out. I wake up sweating, and my heart’s ready to blow up.”

“Small dark places frighten us all.”

Frye continued to walk the room, testing the floor for consistency, sound feel. I know it’s here somewhere, he thought. “Sometimes I dream I’m in the ocean.”

“The ocean can be a dark place when you’re under the water.”

“Exactly.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“I see helplessness in your dream. You are dreaming of death.”

How true, thought Frye. He tapped the floor with his foot.

“What are you doing?”

Minh spoke sharply to her, then to Frye. “What in hell are you doing?”

“Lighten up. I could have called the FBI. You’ll see.”

The Dream Reader fidgeted on her chair. “Have you lost a loved one to death?”

Frye looked at her. A chill rippled up his back. He felt the Dream Reader, sucking out his thoughts. “My sister.”

“In the water?”

“Yes.”

“You relive her death. You wish to join her.”

He stopped, knelt down and rapped his knuckles on the floor. Nothing.

Where?

Frye moved to the wall, feeling along with his hands now, tapping, listening. He had covered every foot. Every foot of floor except...