by Susan Fleet
_____
At school all the Mexican kids hang out together, chattering in Spanish, which I don't understand. I can speak French, though. Mom taught me. She learned it from my father, who spoke French fluently. Mom and I used to speak French when we went for walks in the French Quarter.
Another fun thing we’d never do again.
All the girls in my class listen to country music. I'm into rock. At night in my room I listen to a radio station that plays Guns N Roses and Elton John. The boys are into playing football and ignoring girls. But my fifth grade teacher likes me. I always do my homework. In New Orleans, I got A’s in English, French and social studies, B’s in math and science. In Pecos, the work seems easier. I get A’s in everything.
Sometimes Randy calls me names like slant eyes and gook. Not when Faye or Jerry are around. One time I told him to shut up, and he grabbed my hand and bent back my wrist. It hurt a lot, but I didn’t cry so he finally let go.
After supper Randy and Ellen and I watch TV in the living room. Randy picks the shows. He loves America’s Most Wanted. I think he'll grow up to be a criminal someday. He's already sneaky and mean. Sometimes I wondered what it must be like to commit a horrible crime and have to hide for the rest of your life. I love John Walsh. He's handsome. Sometimes I fantasized that he was my father. Except I knew he wasn’t. He's not half Vietnamese.
I think Faye's an alcoholic. One time I saw her stuff a Smirnoff bottle in a garbage bag and throw it in the trash before Jerry got home from work. Faye doesn't have a job. She watches soaps on TV every day, chugging OJ and vodka. When we get home from school, she yells us at to go outside. Like she's angry. I'm angry too. Mom's gone, and living with Uncle Jerry and Aunt Faye in Pecos is way worse than staying home alone at night in New Orleans.
Now Christmas is coming. Another Christmas without Mom.
_____
After Easter, Faye and Jerry started arguing in the kitchen after dinner. Jerry said, "I'm sick of eating hot dogs and hamburger." Faye said, "Get over it. I don't have the money to buy steak."
And I thought: If you didn’t buy so much vodka, you would.
One night she screamed at Jerry and accused him of having an affair. It was sort of like Dallas, except I couldn’t turn it off. I didn’t know if Jerry was having an affair or not but it wouldn’t have surprised me. Faye never read newspapers or books. What did they talk about?
I thought about telling Jerry about Faye’s vodka problem but I decided that would be a mistake. In October 1990, Jerry told me the New Orleans policewoman had called. By then Mom had been gone two years. I got excited, thinking she’d found Mom’s killer. No such luck. Jerry said she’d called to say she was still working the case. I wanted to ask her why she couldn’t find the killer, but when I asked Jerry if I could, he said No.
I should have asked him for her phone number and called her myself. Maybe I will someday. Except I can’t remember her name.
Then the most wonderful thing happened. One morning after breakfast I went outside and found a kitten outside the back door, mewing like he was hungry and scared. He was all black except for two white paws and the white muff under his chin. When I picked him up he started purring.
I named him Muffy and I loved him with all my heart.
Muffy was an orphan, like me.
When I asked Faye if I could keep him, she said, "No. Cats are smelly."
But I squeezed out some tears and told her I’d keep the litter box in my room and clean it every day. So Faye let me keep him. I loved the way Muffy lapped up milk with his little pink tongue. The best part was the way he purred when I held him and petted his fluffy black fur.
Whenever Randy tried to pick him up, Muffy hissed and scratched him. I was glad. Randy's mean. He's fourteen now, almost as big as Jerry. He plays on the high school football team. I think Faye's afraid of him.
In September I started eighth grade. The boys are still into football, but now they make smart-ass remarks to the girls in the cafeteria. Not to me. I'm twelve, but I haven't filled out like most of the girls. My bra size is 32 AA.
One day I went to the school library to research my father's heritage. I thought it might help me figure out who I was and who I was supposed to be.
I found a great article about Vietnamese culture in an encyclopedia. Reading it made me feel good, like I finally belonged to something. The parts I liked best were Veneration of Ancestors, Devotion to Study, and the belief that certain animals and parts of nature protect people.
I chose birds and mountains to protect me.
But one part scared me. The Vietnamese believe that people who die a violent death become angry spirits who bring misfortune to family members if they don't avenge their death. That made me think of Mom. Murdered in a hotel room. Was Mom waiting for me to avenge her?
If I didn't, would her angry spirits bring me misfortune?
Sometimes I thought about this late at night in my room.
I still didn't have any friends but I wasn’t alone. I had Muffy. He'd snuggle against me and purr while I did my homework or listened to music on the radio. But one day when I went up to my room after school, Muffy didn’t chirp and come running to me like always. He was lying on my bed. His body was limp and his eyes were open and I knew he was dead.
A terrible pain burned my stomach. First Mom, now Muffy.
Then Randy barged into my room. "How’s your precious kitten, slant-eyes? Fuckin cat scratched me once too often so I wrung its neck."
I wanted to kill him. For a long time after Mom died I felt like something had eaten away my insides and left a big gaping hole. When I felt lonely and sad, I could go up to my room and cuddle Muffy.
But now my adorable kitten with the little pink tongue was gone too.
Somewhere deep inside me an iceberg formed, cold and hard. I didn't know if I would ever be able to love anyone again. But I knew one thing. Someday I would make Randy pay for what he'd done to Muffy.
"Get out of my room," I said. "I hate you."
"Shut up you little gook pussy."
That night at dinner I couldn’t eat. When Jerry asked if something was wrong, I shook my head. Faye just sipped her OJ cocktail. Ellen said nothing. Randy bragged about the great play he’d made at football practice.
The next day at sunrise I buried Muffy behind the garage.
_____
We still watched TV every night after supper. Now Randy was into Star Trek reruns. One night we watched an episode from 1968 called Elaan of Troyius. France Nuyen played Elaan. She was so beautiful I thought my heart would stop. The next day in the library I read her biography and found out France Nuyen was half Vietnamese and half French, like me. It didn’t make up for losing Muffy, but it made me proud to know that someone like me could be an important actress on a hit TV show.
I made sure not to let Randy know how much I loved her. He couldn’t kill France Nuyen like he’d killed Muffy, but he could stop watching Star Trek.
That turned out to be the least of my problems.
Right before Christmas I woke up one night and Randy was sitting on my bed, smelling the way boys do when they’re hot and sweaty.
"We’re kissing cousins," he said, "so kiss me."
The cold hard iceberg formed in my stomach. "Get out of my room, Randy. Get out or I’ll scream and wake up Uncle Jerry and he’ll smack you."
He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me closer and I bit him.
He jerked away and rubbed his arm. "You bit me, you slant-eyed gook."
He left, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be back, and my door had no lock. That Sunday after church I asked Jerry to put a lock on my bedroom door. I was afraid to tell him Randy had killed Muffy and tried to kiss me. Later that day Jerry bought a lock at the hardware store and put it on my door.
That made me feel safer.
But it didn't stop me from wanting to kill Randy.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday, 26 July
Frank peered through the
windshield at the traffic on Chartres Street. A mule-drawn tour buggy was four cars ahead of them, the mule clip-clopping along slow as a turtle, the tourists ogling the French Quarter sights. Even with the A/C cranked full blast Miller's car felt like an oven thanks to the brutal noonday sun beating down on them.
"We'd have made better time walking," he said.
"What," Miller said, "you in a hurry to talk to the mobster?"
"Kenyon, if the Conroy hit is connected to the Peterson case, we're in trouble. A high-profile murder in the French Quarter? The politicians are already leaning on Vobitch to solve that case. Be hell to pay if they find out we got another one. His job is on the line."
"Morgan can handle it, he's been through this shit before," Miller said. “How's Kelly? Did I interrupt something last night when I called? Seemed like you were in a big rush to leave once you took a peek at Tex.”
Miller was fishing. His partner was the only one that knew he was seeing Kelly. Or maybe the rest of the squad knew and pretended they didn’t. He didn’t care. He suppressed a smile, recalling Kelly’s outfit when he’d returned to her house, a pair of lacy black panties and nothing else.
"Don't see her much since she left Homicide. How's she doing with that jewelry business she was fixin to set up?"
"Still making the jewelry. I don't know about selling it. She does it for fun, says it relaxes her after a hard day at work." The logjam of stalled cars ahead of them moved forward. About time.
"Reason I ask, Tanya just started a business."
"Good for her. I like multi-talented women. Good looking ... sexy."
Miller grinned. "Cut the jive. What it is, Jason's only twelve but he's already six feet tall, gotta buy him men's size clothes."
"Takes after his dad."
"Yeah. But he's got no interest in football, doesn't wanna be a cop either. He wants to be an astronaut. Tanya 'bout flipped when she heard that, knew enough to keep quiet. Next week, he'll be into something else."
"Sure," he said, deadpan. "Racecar driver."
Miller gave him The Look. "Yeah. Lotta black racecar drivers out there."
Traffic stalled again, waiting for the mule to make an aromatic deposit. Irritated, he focused on what to ask the owner of Tequila Sunrise. Conroy's employer, until Conroy took a slug in the head.
"Tanya got this idea to make hip T-shirts for oversized teens, you know, slap a decal of the computer-game hero-du-jour on the front 'stead of having the shirt be plain, or" Miller looked over, grinning now. "Some dorky saying might appeal to a senior citizen."
He burst out laughing. "Like, anybody over twenty-five?"
"Twenty be more like it."
"Sounds like a good idea. Just for boys? Or girls, too?"
The traffic jam broke and Miller put the car in gear. "Boys mostly. Tina's fourteen, almost as tall as Jason, but she's into being an-oh-rex-ic like her girlfriends, won't put a stick of gum in her mouth, it's got sugar in it. Jason, he eats everything in sight."
"So how's it going?"
"Not bad. Some of my LSU football bros got kids with the same problem. Tanya found a store on the Internet sells a dozen T-shirts for twenty bucks. Kids tell her which hero they want, she buys the decals and irons 'em on the front. But she needs a hip name for the business. Got any ideas?"
He had no idea about hip business names, plenty of ideas about what would happen if they found out the Conroy hit was related to Peterson's.
"How about Hip Duds for Teens, something like that?"
"I dunno, Frank. Duds sounds like spuds. These kids don't need any reminders about food, get enough of that watching food commercials on TV."
Miller didn't need any either. He was in good shape for a guy six-six and two-forty. But when they worked out together at the gym, Miller constantly complained about his weight. As a middle-linebacker for the LSU Tigers, he'd eaten whatever he wanted. Now that he'd hit forty it was different.
Miller wheeled onto Decatur Street, parked the unmarked car in a loading zone, plopped an NOPD official-business sign on the dashboard and said, "Let's go see the mini-mobster."
They hustled into the Tequila Sunrise. After the sizzling heat outside, the lounge felt like a freezer. The long narrow room stank of beer, and neon beer signs on the walls provided the only illumination. At the bar, six men were sucking up bottles of Corona, eyes glued to a baseball game on the TV above the bar. Someone got a hit and they let out a cheer.
Frank flashed his ID at the bartender and said they needed to talk to the owner. The barman gestured to a hall at the far end of the bar.
“Nicky’s in his office. He’s expecting you.”
It hadn’t taken long to ID the body in City Park. This morning a clerk opening a convenience store saw a car parked in the lot. A posted sign said No Overnight Parking so the kid called the manager to see if he wanted it towed. But when he described the cara powder blue Cadillacthe manager said, “No, that’s Tex’s car,” called Tequila Sunrise and found out Tex never showed up for work last night. Having seen a bulletin on the late news about an unidentified man found dead in City Park, the manager called NOPD. An hour later they had a name: Lawrence Conroy.
They walked past the bar and entered a dark hallway. A door at the end of the hall was open. Inside the office a paunchy man in a green-and-white-striped shirt sat behind a messy metal desk. His pink scalp showed beneath wispy-gray strands of a comb-over. He glowered at them, owl-eyed.
Frank didn’t take it personally. Pissed-off was probably Nicky’s usual demeanor. He'd dealt with plenty of Italian lowlifes in Boston. Not that Italians had a corner on the scumbag market.
He did the introductions, then said, “What can you tell us about Lawrence Conroy?”
“I can tell you he didn’t show up for his shift last night.”
“How long did he work here?”
“A year, maybe. I’d have to look it up. We get a lotta turnover.”
“Was he a good worker?” Miller asked.
“He wasn’t stealing from the till, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?” Frank asked.
“I got no idea. You’d have to ask the other bartenders.”
“We’ll need names.”
Nicky opened a drawer and held out a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of my current employees.”
Miller took the list and began copying names into a small spiral notepad.
“Did Conroy have any enemies?” Frank asked.
Nicky gave him a dead-eyed look. “Hey, everybody’s got enemies. The kid was a bartender, not a priest. I think he's from Texas, but I don’t ask for life stories when guys come in looking for a job. You wanna see his application?”
“Yes.” Nicky needed a dope-slap. And a better hair stylist. Frank scanned the application. “No next of kin listed.”
“I guess that means I don’t gotta send his last paycheck to anybody.”
He glanced at Miller. “You set with the names, Kenyon?”
“Yes, but we need a way to contact them.”
Nicky held out another sheet of paper. “Here’s their phone numbers.”
“You got a copy machine?” Miller asked.
Nicky made a show of looking around the office. “Gee, I don’t see one, do you?”
Frank wanted to ram a fist down his throat. Nicky wasn’t going to give them squat. At this point they didn’t know if the slug that killed Conroy came from the same gun that killed Peterson, but he'd been in law enforcement long enough to know that whatever could go wrong usually did. Vobitch had put a rush on the ballistics tests, no telling when they'd get the results.
“In that case," he said, "I guess we’ll have to take this one with us.”
“Hey," Nicky said, outrage written large on his jowly face. “I need it. One of ‘em doesn’t show—”
“We’ll return it after we make a copy. Thanks for your time, Mr. Abate.”
As they returned to the bar, Miller muttered, "Asshole."
They took seats at the bar and Miller waved the bartender over. “What can you tell us about Lawrence Conroy?”
The barman, a twenty-something guy with a droopy ginger-colored moustache and a ring in one nostril, frowned. “You mean Tex?”
“Is that what you call him?” Frank said.
“Yup. He’s a good ol’ boy from Texas, wears a cowboy hat all the time, even when he's working.”
Frank glanced at Miller, got back a tiny nod. After hearing about the body in City Park, the uniform that patrolled the park that day reported seeing someone in a cowboy hat in a powder-blue Cadillac parked near where Tex Conroy's body was found. According to the patrol officer only one person was in the car, but other than the cowboy hat he couldn't give a description.
“Were you and Tex friends?” Miller asked.
“Not really.” Looking anxious, he said, “Is he okay?”
“Someone found him in City Park last night," Frank said. "Shot dead.”
The barman didn’t seem too upset, didn’t seem surprised, either. Maybe he’d seen the late news last night and put two and two together.
“Did Tex have a girlfriend?” Miller asked.
“Yeah. She came in a few times. Quiet little gal. I don’t know her name.”
“How about the other bartenders?” Frank asked. “Did anyone know him well?”
The guy sucked the end of his mustache into his mouth and screwed up his face. At last he said, “Ask Benita. She knew him better than anyone.”
Miller checked his notepad. “Benita Gonzales. And your name is?”
“Arthur Miller.” The bartender grinned. “Not the guy that wrote plays. If I was a bigshot writer like Arthur Miller I wouldn’t be working in this dump. And don’t be thinking Tex’s girlfriend shot him. That little gal’s too mousy, wouldn’t kill a cockroach if it was crawling up her arm.”
Nice image. They left and got in the car quick to escape the brutal heat.
“Wouldn’t kill a cockroach,” Miller said. "Hell, it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for.”
