by Maureen Tan
“But you were just a child!”
Vincent nodded.
“Unlike you, I didn’t need nurture and education to bring out my skills. I was young, male, Vietnamese, and a survivor. And I was willing to do whatever it took to maintain my perfect cover, to please Uncle Duran. Robbery. Rape. Beatings. Extortion. Murder. But, eventually, I gave the authorities the foothold they needed. I earned the bright future the senator promised me.”
Then he fell into a deep silence.
I watched the side of his face, saw the muscles working beneath his cheeks, saw the way he clenched the steering wheel.
I finished untying the last knot, but I left the rope around Tommy’s ankles. He hadn’t moved for almost fifteen minutes. I looked up at him, watched his chest rise and fall. Alive, at least, I thought. And then I felt his foot move, a quick tap against my fingers.
“There’s a place I know just up ahead,” Vincent said. “We’ll stop there.”
The truck jounced as we pulled off the road. I caught a look at a wrecked neon sign. It was covered in corrosion and the remnants of the long bulbs hung from bits of wire. I could make out the word “motel.”
“Lots of these places along I-90. Always for sale. Never selling.”
He drove back to a place where tall, moss-hung oaks crowded the sky.
Vincent took off his seat belt, reached over and hit Tommy’s face.
I flinched from the sound of the impact, but the boy only whimpered.
“He’s not going anywhere,” he said.
And then he leaned over, grabbed my ankles and attempted to drag me from the truck.
I kicked his hands away. Managed to roll up onto my knees and almost stand up. When Vincent grabbed for my ankles again, I fell backward against Tommy, scrabbled against his seat belt. Tommy slumped sideways, unresponsive.
Vincent pulled me from the truck.
He dropped me to the ground and kicked me onto my stomach. Then he picked me up, wrapped his arms around me so that my hands were trapped between my body and his, and carried me toward a cabin. Its roof was swayed, its door hung open and was supported by a single hinge.
I fought him all the way, kicking, screaming, twisting.
But it didn’t matter. He was stronger than I was.
There was no furniture in the room. Simply a floor that was wet with moss and rot. And a torn, badly stained mattress in a corner.
He threw me onto the mattress, leaned over me, breathing hard.
I sat there, trapped and gasping, but I tried to put a foot in his gut.
He shifted aside and laughed at me.
I’d never heard a more chilling sound.
As I glanced around, searching for escape, I saw the blood spatters on the wall. And knew that Vincent had killed here before.
I was undoubtedly next.
Then Vincent began shouting.
“You were the favorite, the brilliant one, the brave one. The one who could do no wrong. My family was wealthy and you were nothing but bui doi. Still I heard about you from the day I set foot in this country. But look at you now.”
Rage twisted his face as he slapped me. Unprepared for the stinging blow, I bit down hard on my tongue and tasted blood. Tears welled in my eyes.
He snapped his mouth shut, gave his head a quick shake, and then used his fingers to wipe away the warm trickle that escaped the corner of my mouth. He spent a moment looking at his reddened fingertips, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped them off, and dropped the hanky on the mattress.
“I’ve always been jealous of you,” he said.
Abruptly, his tone had become moderate again. At exactly the wrong time.
Past Vincent, through the broken door, I could see Tommy. He was wobbly on his feet, but he was moving, staggering toward the cabin. He’d been tough enough to take Vincent’s blow without reacting and smart enough to lay still during our fight in the truck.
I’d unclipped his seat belt as I was being dragged from the cab.
“Sibling rivalry is a bitch, isn’t it?” I said, trying to goad Vincent into another rage. “Especially when we’re not even related.”
I braced for another blow.
Instead, he stripped off his shirt.
His arms, golden-brown chest and flat stomach rippled with well-defined muscles. A complex, jewel-toned tattoo of a dragon wrapped itself around his left biceps. The crimson heart it held in its claws was torn in two. On his left breast, another tattoo. An American flag, consumed by flames. And from its center, a phoenix rose, undefeated. It, too, clutched a crimson heart in its claws. But this heart was intact and the droplets of blood that flowed from it seemed to be feeding the flames.
My God, I thought.
Tommy was almost to the cabin. But his hands were still bound behind his back. As were mine.
Vincent’s trousers remained on.
“Do you see this?” he said, pointing to the dragon, which was more faded than the other tattoo. “I earned it by pistol-whipping a shopkeeper. And raping his wife. Afterward, they took me to a tattoo parlor in Chinatown and told me I was one of them. A sai low—a little brother—in the Born To Kill gang.
He slapped his right hand over his heart, briefly covering the phoenix with the bloodstained beak.
“This tattoo, I chose for myself ten years ago. My work had helped destroy the BTKs. But it was their impatience, their greed, that brought them down. I began planning then, knowing that someday I would use the senator, just as he used me. And now it’s left only to tie up a loose end.”
He stared at me as he unbuckled his belt, slipped it smoothly from its loops and held it with the buckle end dangling. Suddenly, he snapped his wrist, swinging the belt at me.
I flinched aside and the buckle whipped past my cheek.
He was smiling now. His hand was poised for another blow.
“You’d be worth more undamaged, but I think I deserve this….”
I widened my eyes, stretched my mouth, allowed my face to reflect my fear. I used my feet to push myself away from him, cowering….
Tommy was almost to the doorway.
Vincent swung his belt.
I turned, deflecting the blow with my shoulder, and screamed in pain.
Vincent stepped in closer, enjoying himself.
“No, please,” I begged.
He swung again as Tommy came into the room.
I flattened myself onto the mattress and kicked upward with all my strength. Vincent clutched his crotch as he dropped to his knees. The belt still dangled from one of his hands.
“You bitch,” he whispered as the blood drained from his face.
Tommy took advantage of the moment and landed a kick squarely on the back of Vincent’s neck.
I rolled aside as Vincent fell forward onto the mattress. He lay beside me, momentarily stunned.
This was our chance. Our only chance. If Vincent recovered, Tommy and I would undoubtedly die slow deaths at his hand. And the women in the truck would be sold into slavery.
“Put a knee between his shoulder blades,” I cried to Tommy. “Use your weight to hold him down.”
I turned and grabbed Vincent’s belt with my bound hands. Worked frantically, clumsily to loop it around his neck.
He groaned, began moving.
I grasped the ends of the belt tightly in my hands, gave them a half twist and threw all of my weight away from Vincent.
He fought us.
He struck out with his fists and bucked his body, tried to work his fingers between his neck and the belt, tried to reach me, to dislodge Tommy. But we held on, fighting for our lives as desperately as he fought for his.
The loop tightened around his neck.
Vincent choked, gasped for breath, then was silent.
We held on until he wasn’t moving anymore.
Later, I walked along the highway until I found a gas station. Dialed a familiar number. And asked Anthony to please come get us.
Chapter 25
Uncle
Tinh and I sat opposite each other at a table on his balcony. The day was sunny and the morning light cast a heavenly glow on the trio of alabaster statues on the lawn below us. Appropriate, I supposed, for the saintly Ursulines. Our conversation had more to do with manmade hells.
We had finished breakfast and were both sipping a second cup of coffee.
After a few minutes Uncle Tinh put his cup down, straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, and began providing long overdue explanations.
“I don’t believe in slavery,” he began. “So when some…contacts…who own ships that dock in New Orleans asked me to…organize…counterfeit documents for them, I sent them away. My mistake, though I did not know it at the time. I opened the door for the gang who invaded our community.”
He spent a moment looking at some gulls wheeling overhead, then met my eyes again.
“After that visit, I began thinking about the people who would be coming here. Who would end up as slaves. As you know, information is the commodity I trade in. I asked a few questions, paid a little money, talked to some trusted friends. And soon the hijacking of tea shipments began. Selective hijackings, only of cargoes that originated in Vietnam. To save our people from bondage. As for the rest—” He shook his head slowly. “Even my resources are limited.
“I didn’t know until you almost met your death that Vincent was the anh hai of the gang that invaded Little Vietnam. For a time, they were content to profit from the many other shipments moving inland from the Port of New Orleans. Our illegal activities suited them. They built their protection racket on our reluctance to go to the police.
“Then a message was given to Mr. Yang. The hijackings could continue, but the forged documents were to be purchased from the Young Vietnamese Businessmen’s Association. For a short time, we thought we could ignore them. Then came the killings. The deaths of people I knew and cared about.”
He stopped speaking, picked up his cup of coffee with a shaking hand, and took a sip. Then another.
I sipped my own coffee, idly watched a group of tourists walking through the convent’s grounds, and considered the NOPD’s findings as I gave my uncle the time he needed to control his emotions.
The police were now convinced that Vincent had murdered all three residents of Little Vietnam as part of his gang’s intimidation of the community. His name now cleared, the unfortunate husband of the second murder victim had been released from prison. The NOPD also concluded that Vincent and his gang were solely responsible for trafficking the tea shipment—the warehouse of the souvenir shop had been used against the owner’s will and the butcher had been killed because he had unwittingly stumbled onto the scene. Nothing that Beauprix or I said contradicted any of their conclusions.
Even Remy had acknowledged Beauprix’s persistence.
“Maybe Anthony is not so crazy after all,” he had said to me.
Uncle Tinh put the cup down with a steadier hand.
“And so, now, you know everything.”
Almost, I thought. But one question still weighed on my mind.
“After three murders, why didn’t you just quit hijacking the tea shipments? Why rescue this last group?”
He shook his head, his lips tightening with frustration.
“Mr. Yang learned secondhand of a shipment that supposedly contained a cousin among the women. Fearing that I would not approve the venture, he convinced the others to help him without my knowledge. Maybe, under those circumstances, I would have done the same. But, as it turned out, there was no cousin. I wonder, even now, if the shippers set up the situation, hoping to eliminate those who had stolen their shipments in the past. But they underestimated the skill and determination of the Benevolent Society.”
We sat silently for a few minutes, enjoying the warm day and the peaceful surroundings, each entertaining our own thoughts.
“You should have gone to the police,” I said finally.
“And said what? We carry guns. Steal shipments of human beings. Provide forged documents. And then we say to the police, please make those bad men leave us alone? I did not think I could trust any policeman—not even Anthony—to ignore our activities. And this same secret—shared by many honorable people in Little Vietnam—meant that I could give you very little guidance. I judged it necessary to distance myself from my friends so that you would not suspect them.”
I looked back out at the statues. They looked peaceful, I thought. Satisfied that they’d done their job, opened their schools and hospitals in the backward, fever-ridden bayou.
I was still a long way from feeling like that.
“So Mr. Yang and the Benevolent Society hijacked another shipment without your permission and collected money to buy documents from Vincent. But then the price went up and Mr. Yang went to you for the money he needed.”
“I could not abandon my friends,” he said simply. “Or those women.”
I sighed.
“Perhaps not. It was a generous gesture. But you realize that there were few good outcomes. More people died. Tommy was badly hurt. Anthony doubts that we’ll ever find Vincent’s accomplices. The INS is returning the women to their countries of origin. And the money you paid is gone. I don’t think you want to tell the FBI that the money they seized from the Ryder truck was yours.”
Uncle Tinh shook his head slowly.
“I grieve for the women. And I am so sorry, chère, for what I put you through. Had I known how badly it was to go wrong…”
I looked at my uncle, whose face was also lit by the sun and whose eyes were sad. He was less than saintly. But I loved him. He was my family.
“It’s done,” I said. “And forgotten.”
He smiled, looked relieved.
“But Uncle Tinh?”
“Yes, Lacie?”
“The hijacked shipments—no matter whose people—must stop. Do I have your word on this?”
He wouldn’t lie to me. So he answered my question by not answering it.
“Everyone deserves a chance to live in America,” he said.
It took me almost six weeks to do what I needed to do in Washington, D.C. But I had a flight booked for later that evening and had only one stop to make before I returned to New Orleans.
It was the first time since I’d returned to Washington that I’d visited the Right Honorable Senator Duran Reed. An hour had passed since I’d walked through the door into his suite of offices. And now, just as I had when I first left my adopted uncle’s office to go to New Orleans, I found myself standing behind the tall back of a visitor’s chair and digging my fingers into its expensive tapestry upholstery. This time, there was a briefcase at my feet.
Once again, my uncle’s expansive desk was just in front of me. And the emotions I felt as I looked at him across the desk were the same as they had been. Anger. Frustration. Disappointment. Pain. But a report, written by me, now lay stacked neatly in the middle of his desk. It was what I had come to talk about.
The report followed the format of dozens of other reports I’d turned in to him over the years and contained a similar level of detail. A description of the operation. What I knew going in. What I’d encountered. The people I’d met. The mistakes I’d made. Relevant conversations. Outcome and conclusions. Irrefutable evidence and unsupported conjecture. And the official positions and unofficial accommodations made by any agencies I’d interacted with.
I’d come into his office complex without an appointment and asked his secretary to carry an envelope containing the report and a short note from me into his private office. I waited in his reception area and tried not to think too closely about what I was going to say when I saw him. Or what I was going to do.
The secretary showed me into his office within sixty minutes. Enough time, I thought, for him to read, reread and digest the report’s contents. Enough time for him to become furious.
The report was facedown on his desk. Beside it, in his expensive crystal ashtray, his inevitable Cuban cigar was not just chewed. It had been broken in two. A
nd, as I’d walked in, Uncle Duran had swung his leather-bound chair around so that he could study what remained of the postcard view outside his picture window.
Winter had come to the capitol city. Beyond the expansive sheet of glass, the fall colors were long faded. Rain had stripped the leaves from the cherry trees and cast them, brown and rotting, to the ground.
“Corruption can crop up anywhere,” the senator said without looking at me.
I stared at his aristocratic profile, his impeccably groomed hair, at the perfectly tailored suit jacket that lay across his broad shoulders.
“And in anyone,” I murmured softly enough that he didn’t hear me.
He swung his chair around to face me and narrowed his cold, gray eyes.
“Who has seen this?” he asked.
“You. Me.”
“That’s all?”
I nodded.
“For now. But there are sealed copies in safe places, held by reliable people. If something should happen to me—”
Outraged, he slammed his hand down on the sheaf of papers, and his rich, baritone voice echoed off the office walls.
“Read your own report, damn it. I’m not a criminal. Or a murderer. There’s nothing that connects me to Vincent Ngo or his investigation. Except for your speculation and what you say a dead man told you.”
“There are people well placed in the INS who could testify about your involvement in Operation Wounded Dragon. A rather melodramatic title, by the way. Your idea?”
The senator scowled at me, an expression I’d seen before.
“You can’t hold me responsible for what he did.”
I smiled, and found within myself a certain surprising malice.
“I am holding you responsible for what he was. For what you made him. For what you forced him to become.”
He shook his head, retreated behind a wall of righteousness.
“I did nothing illegal. I found homes for dozens of children. War orphans. Street urchins. Half-breed throwaways. Bui doi.”
He spat out the old insult, intending it to hurt me.
