“All the above plus a fresh twelve-pack of beer,” she says and hands me the tumbler, watching my every move as I take a healthy dose—my thought being, Ummm, yeah, nice burn—her expression serious, concerned. Her words are measured and spoken louder than usual so I can hear them. “Babe, tell me what happened to your hearing?”
“I will, but not yet. What I am thinking now is that it is time to sell this house. The dump has been in my so-called family since my father was ten, and it is time for me to move on….Indianapolis is an option, but I am thinking San Diego.” I pause to let that sink in, meet her eyes. “Would you like to move with me?”
She cocks her head at that, the afternoon light from the picture window glistening off the sweat trickling down the side of her cheek, down her neck, and underneath her halter top. “That came out of nowhere.”
“Is that a no?”
Without hesitation she grabs the point of my chin to gradually pull my face closer to hers. “Honey, if you want to move to San Diego, I’ll move there with you. If you prefer Indianapolis, I’ll move there.” Now we’re nose to nose, so close I smell the mint on her breath, the butterscotch scent of her hair, her sweat. “If you want to move to fucking hell, I’ll move there with you, too.”
“No, moving to Detroit would be asking far too much of anyone.”
She smiles, brushes her lips across mine, strokes my cheek. “The only reason I hesitated was I thought you have to go on the run. You know, because of what happened today?”
I put my left hand behind my head, nod to the ceiling. “Today has something to do with it, yeah, but not in the way you fear.” I turn to her, note the anxiety watering her eyes, and decide to tell her as much about today as I can; she resides, after all, in my zone of danger. “Listen, shots were fired today, a hell of a lot more shots than I had planned on.” Her hand is in my right one, and though she is outwardly calm, I feel her pulse race. “It was the closest call I ever had without getting tossed in the can.”
Now her hand is flat on my chest and the expression on her face relaxes, as if my steady heartbeat calms her. After a quick glance out the picture window, she says, “Could they be coming for you?”
I shake my head. “Somehow, some way, we got away clean, of that I am virtually certain. Otherwise, me and you would not be together now. That is the reason I came back here as soon as I could. To be with you, you know, one last time, in case the cops had a bead on me.”
This is a true statement.
This brings a suggestion of tears to her eyes, brings her head down softly to my chest, her ear over my heart now. She turns her head to me to make sure I see her lips, and after a small sniffle, she says, “You were so calm when you walked in earlier, so nice to me; if you weren’t almost deaf, I would never have suspected a thing. And all the while you thought the police could show up any second to take you away.” She scoots closer. “And you did all that for me so I wouldn’t worry, so I could have some final moments with you in peace. I love you for doing that for me, Babe. I’ll love you forever for that,” she says and she scissors her right bare leg over my bare legs to leverage herself on top of me, her damp body sensual, musky, and gives me a deep kiss.
When we finally break it off, I say, “All the things I said to you were from the heart…”
…which is a true statement…
“…and I did not expect you to fuck me in return…”
…which is not a true statement.
—
After brief, intense lovemaking, I reach for her pack of cigarettes on the coffee table—an ultraskinny, ultralight menthol brand—and light one for her, one for me. The cigarette tastes like burnt peppermint and delivers just as much punch. We sit up in bed and Maggie bunches pillows behind our shoulders and backs, places the ashtray between us on the bedsheet. The day is catching up with me, my head numb from sleep deprivation and stress, but Maggie makes sleep both impossible and unwanted. Amped by our sex and by our pending move, she accelerates quickly into full nesting mode, chattering away about our new home, which she has just decided should be located in San Diego:
“Rent or buy? Buy, definitely buy,” she says when I remain quiet. “Why give up the tax write-off on the interest on a mortgage payment when—”
My dead-eyed expression stops her cold.
“Tax write off, ye-aaah,” she says, “which pretty much requires you to get a bank loan and file tax returns…soooo renting will be fine, just fine, as long as the landlord takes cash, and we’ll find one that will…” And off she goes ticking off other home-shopping issues, resolving them all herself.: “House or condo? Who cares, as long as it’s by the beach…Oh, Babe, we just have to look on Coronado Island first. I was at the Hotel del Coronado about a year ago for…well, never mind why I was there”—she clears her throat—“but the island was beautiful, little restaurants and shops and a little theater and…”
…she goes on and on until finally getting around to the monthly budget for our new abode, sneaking up to it, stepping lightly, but definitely wanting an estimate of what we can afford: “Just a number,” she says, “nothing firm, but we should have some idea, you know, just a ballpark number so we can…”
I sip watery vodka from a sweaty tumbler, smiling smugly, waiting for her to run out of gas, waiting until her suspense becomes palpable before I finally drop the ballpark number on her—the upper end of realistic, but realistic nonetheless.
Her eyes widen, turn up and away from mine as if, in fact, watching a ball flying out of the ballpark. She looks at me. “Did I hear you right?”
“Yes.”
She clutches my arm. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’d live with you in a hovel, you know.”
“I know you would, because you practically do now. But there is no need for you to live like this anymore. We can afford a nice bungalow on Coronado Island.” I look around. “About this size, maybe a little bigger.” I smile at her. “Close to the beach, but probably not on it, and have enough left over so I can get out of the Life for a while. A long while if the market gets even better. And when I do have to go back to work, there is a friend of mine in Dago who says he can set me up in a job that is more or less legitimate—corporate security, or something resembling it.”
This is a lot for her to absorb.
It is difficult for me to absorb, too, for my long-term financial security is no longer a goal, a vision; it is a fact.
Still stunned, Maggie says, “Babe, do you mean you’ll never have another crazy day like today, ever?”
“Not for a long while, if ever, yeah, that is exactly what I mean.”
She embraces me, rests her head on my shoulder and remains very still, quiet. She finally says, “Did you make all that money today?”
I shake my head while stubbing out my smoke. “A chunk of it, but by no means most of it.” My mind flashes briefly to the hundred grand we left at the bank today in order to put the final touch on the illusion of a foiled robbery. It would be nice to have added that cash to my kitty but, shit, I let the thought go as quickly as it arrived; this thought makes me even angrier at my son—if that is possible. “I was set well financially when I went to prison the last time. Not what you would call wealthy, but I had a decent nest egg that my advisor in the Caymans was handling conservatively. It sat there untouched for eight years, and when I got out I asked him if it was enough to generate a certain amount of income for ten years. Not to live high, understand, but well. Just enough to maintain a decent house, to eat out when I want to, to go to ball games when I want to, to travel modestly when I want to.” I shrug. “Anyway, he said there was not enough to do that, and told me how much more I needed. I have hustled my ass off the last three days.” I wink at her. “Baby, today I exceeded that number—not by much, but it is more than I need.”
“Time to celebrate,” she says, laughing, and swings her legs off the bed and pads naked from the bedroom to fetch us fresh drinks. She returns with a bottle of Miller for me and tequila on the r
ocks for her, and we clink glasses in a silent toast.
Sitting on her haunches, after a follow-up sip of tequila she says, “What about Leo?”
A good moment ruined, shit. I gulp beer, swallow. “Yeah, what about Leo.”
Puzzled and disappointed, she lightly slaps my thigh. “Babe, how can you say that?”
My words come out in a growl. “That is the best thing I can say about my son right now.”
“What’s happened? All you’ve talked about since the night we met has been—”
I show her a palm. “I know, I know, but now I—”
Count to ten.
I get to four before I say, “The little fucker could have helped me out today and instead he left me hanging in the wind. Shit, I could have got my ass shot to hell for all he cared.”
“Babe,” she says, straightening her spine. “You mean you expected him to help you today?”
“I was in a jam, Maggie. All he had to do was flash his tin badge at some guys and hold ’em up a few minutes.”
Rapping her knuckle against my noggin, she says, “Babe, hello, your son’s a cop. You can’t hold that against him. And you got away from whatever the problem was. So what’s the harm?”
Other than three dead men and an abandoned hundred grand, none. “The boy inconvenienced me.”
She rolls her eyes, sighs, fogging the inside of her tumbler as she drinks. “Men,” she says after swallowing, shaking her head in disgust. “Listen, Babe, get over it. He had reasons for not doing whatever it is you wanted him to, good reasons. You two are…well, different.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m not saying he’s a better person than you. You know I love you and don’t think you’re bad. But”—a shrug—“you two are in different lines of work.”
This statement stirs the air for a long moment. “You are right,” I finally say, throwing up my free hand to emphasize the fact. “As much as I hate to admit it, it has been my fault for not realizing our differences from day one.” I look at her. “He did call later to apologize.”
“And you didn’t accept his apology, did you?”
“No, I was steamed then and am steamed now. I will call him tomorrow.”
“Men,” she says, shaking her head.
Leo
The Asian receptionist seated in the lobby of KN Imports is about as enthused at my appearance in her bright white-and-gray domain as she was yesterday. She’s just as attractive today, but is dressed and coiffed differently, her shoulder-length hair now pulled back into a ponytail, her sleeveless gray business suit of yesterday replaced with a maroon one of similar cut—the small “KN” script logo emblazoned on her right breast is gray today. I say, “Well, hello again,” badge her, and ask to speak with Mr. Khang Nhou.
From her slack expression you’d think I was a medieval peasant asking for an audience with the Emperor of China.
Before she has time to kick me out, I say, “I know he’s here. His Lamborghini’s parked outside. Tell him there could be something of great value in it for him if he meets with me. All I need is a couple of minutes, tops.”
Making it clear by her mechanical movements she has no other choice, she picks up her desk phone and punches a button. She speaks in a language I recognize as Khmer from listening to the interpreter talk to Mrs. Khemra the night before last. She pauses to hear the response, then signs off, blinking and shaking her head as if unable to believe her ears. “Mister Khang Nhou will see you. Please be seated,” she says and nods to my left at a section of gray and maroon, interlocked, chrome-frame seats that comprise the waiting area.
My hunch is I’m in for your standard twenty-minute executive wait; I’m seated for about only one, though, when Khang appears through the shiny gray door to the right of the reception desk. He’s dressed more formally today in a gray silk suit and maroon tie, and has a pleasant enough expression on his face when he sees me. He confidently strolls up to me, shakes my outstretched hand, and bows his head slightly as if cautiously greeting a tough but respected business competitor. “Detective Crucci.”
For privacy’s sake, I take a few steps toward the warehouse door at the end of the lobby opposite the reception desk. Khang follows at my side, his hands clasped behind him. “Assure your lawyer,” I say, “that as far as I’m concerned everything that’s said between you and me today is off the record. You, of course, can repeat what I say to anyone you want.”
He doesn’t overtly respond, but there’s agreement in the gleam of his eyes, the single slow shuttering of his eyelids.
“I’ve had a tough day,” I say, “and want to get to the bottom of who killed Sonita as quickly and easily as I can”—I concentrate on his eyes—“with as little bloodshed as possible. So, I have a deal to offer you. You tell me who you think killed Sonita. You don’t have to tell me how you know it. Just tell me who you suspect. Then I’ll take it from there and never mention to anyone what you told me. In return, I promise you a favor in the future. As an LAPD detective, there are a lot of things I could do for you that would protect your business interests.”
Actually, I’d help him immediately if he tells me what he knows. To get my mind off squabbling with the old thug on the phone, I drove back to the Karma, had lunch, and thought a lot about the “old man” who hired Sonita. The obvious question was why he was willing to pay Sonita for her tip that Khang had a big haul of heroin coming in soon. I don’t buy Monique’s story that the old man’s a retired cop. The fucker has too much money to blow to be a cop, retired or otherwise. My hunch is he’s involved in the drug trade, either directly or through a connection. Or, he could be a paid snitch, an ex-con, maybe, who was once in the Life. Or, he could be under indictment and is using the information for a reduced sentence. Or, hell, he could be a retired cop who hit the lottery and was looking to turn on his old buddies to a hot tip. Whatever he is, the only reason he’d get jazzed over Khang’s shipment is that it represents a nice target, either to him or to whomever he’d pass the info along to. The point is I’m more than willing to tell Khang that somebody is onto his shipment if he tells me what his boys learned from torturing Vannak. Sure, there’s a chance Khang had nothing to do with Vannak, but the odds of that are so slim in my estimation that I’d slap my money down on them every time.
Khang says, “Yesterday you offered to eliminate the man responsible for Sonita’s death and tie him up in a bow for me—figuratively, of course.”
“That promise is still in play. My most recent one is in addition to that.”
Khang thinks about it, then stiff-arms me, smiling politely and saying, “I spoke with my sister early this afternoon. She has gained her discharge from the hospital and is well enough to speak with you. Her cousin will be at her side around the clock, and will act as an interpreter.”
Disappointed, but not surprised, I sigh before saying, “I’ll run by after leaving here. Thanks.”
“And thank you for working so diligently for us.” He withdraws a card from his breast pocket and hands it to me. “After Sonita’s case is resolved, please call me. Or stop by my club again. I promise you will be treated very well, and respectfully.” With another brisk little bow of his head, he turns toward the way he came.
“One more thing, Khang, please.”
He halts. “Yes.”
“There’s a kid I talked to today. His name is Vann Phan, a Cambodian boy.”
He gives no indication he recognizes the name. “Yes?”
“Should you or your guys ever run across him”—I shrug—“don’t hurt him. I gave him a tough time and he’s paid enough of a price for what he did.”
The silence that passes between us is not the least awkward, and it’s as if we’ve reached a complete understanding before he says a word. “This Vann Phan you speak of,” he says, “has no reason to fear me,” and there’s something about the way he says this—the tone of his voice, the cant of his eyes—that says to me, Not anymore.
Babe
Maggie and I are enjoying the wani
ng sun on my patio when Chief lopes around the corner of my house through the side gate, his battle-scarred Coleman cooler swinging from his hand like a grade-school lunch box. He is as relaxed as ever until he sees Maggie sitting in the chair very close to me and stops dead in his tracks, entranced.
“Chief,” I say. “What a pleasant surprise.”
This is a true statement.
“Come on over and meet my girl Maggie. I have told her many nice things about you.”
This is also a true statement.
Chief swipes his paw down the length of his face, which is flushed, twists his neck, gulps, and shuffles toward us the way a schoolboy would approach his new teacher. “Nice to meet ya, Maggie,” he says.
Stunning in a tranquil, postcoital way, Maggie still wears her short-short cutoffs and my ragged, oversized, wifebeater tee, and is damp with perspiration. “Nice to meet you, too, Mister Chief,” she says. “That’s, um, a nice outfit you have on there.”
This is not a true statement.
Chief wears a Hawaiian shirt and identically matching shorts, predominantly bright blue, brown dress shoes, and black socks.
“Thanks,” he says, casting his eyes shyly downward, toeing the pavement. “Hey,” he says suddenly, extending the cooler at her. “You wanna beer?”
She throws back her head in laughter. “Mister Chief, I think I’ll share at least a dozen beers with you before the night’s over.” She pushes herself up. “But, first, I’m going to shower and get decent. You’re staying for dinner, okay? I’m grilling turkey burgers, mixed veggies, and potato wedges, and we have plenty.”
In a trance, he says, “Sure. I love turkey burgers.”
Right, I think. Maggie could be grilling pit-bull burgers and you would say the same fucking thing.
Maggie pinches his cheek, winks at me, and walks inside.
After a few seconds, I raise my hand in the air and snap my fingers in front of his face.
“What?” he says, startled.
Deadly Lullaby Page 29
