by Teri White
He perched on the edge of the desk to light a cigarette, hoping that a shot of nicotine would soothe his jangled nerves. More than just the upcoming show was bothering him and he knew what it was. He couldn’t stand this hanging around in one place so long, being totally consumed with the past. With pictures of a time and place that almost seemed to belong to another man’s memory. It was all beginning to rub against him. His hands itched to hold a camera again. As it was now, he felt like the unwilling subject of his own lens, a figure frozen in time and space.
There was soft, unexpected knock on the door that startled him. Addison wasn’t supposed to be back; he’d given Devlin the key with which to lock up. Devlin hesitated, then went to peer out into the gathering night. When he recognized who was standing there, he paused for another beat, before unlocking and opening the door.
Lars charged in. “How’s it going?” he asked breezily.
“All right. Considering. I was wondering when you’d show up. Or even if.”
He looked offended. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“You told me.”
“So have a little faith, mate,” Lars chided. He saw his picture hanging on the wall, frowned a little, then moved slowly around the room, looking at the other photos. “This is good shit, you know.”
“I know. I’m a damned good photographer.”
They grinned at one another.
“So what about it, Lars? What’s happening?”
“Big things, big things. Tobias is in. It’s starting to move. Like a damned snowball rolling downhill.”
Devlin wished that Lars could somehow manage to sound less like a carnival barker promoting the glories of the freak show. “And what am I supposed to do? Besides try to stay out of the avalanche?”
“Nothing for the moment.”
“That sounds too easy.”
Lars, still looking at the pictures, stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “When I need you, you’ll be available. To cover my back. That’s what matters.”
“And just for that, I get a rather large fortune.”
“Sure.” Lars walked over to him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Right.” Devlin began to stack some papers on the desk. “Let me ask you a question. And I’d like a straight answer, please.”
Lars looked injured. “I always give you straight answers.”
“Maybe I just don’t ask the right questions then.”
“Maybe. So what’s this question?”
“Just how dangerous is this thing we’re into?”
“Oh, pretty dangerous.”
“You seem to take that fact rather lightly.”
Lars smiled. “People have been shooting at me for a very long time. Nobody’s hit me yet.”
Devlin cast him a skeptical look. “Ha. I remember differently.”
Lars rubbed his left side ruefully. “Well, not fatally, at least. Not yet.”
“Funny man.”
He shrugged and seemed to dismiss the subject. “You know, Dev, come to think of it, I do have an errand to run later. Maybe you’d like to come along.”
Although he spoke offhandedly, Devlin got the idea that this was the true purpose of his visit. “To cover your ass, right?”
“Oh, maybe. But mostly just for the fun of it. I don’t expect any flak tonight. Just some conversation.”
Devlin considered his options, then nodded. “All right. I’ve done all the damage I can here for right now anyway.”
“Great,” Lars said, obviously pleased. “We’ll go grab some chow first. It’ll be just like old times, buddy.”
That, in Devlin’s view at least, was a tempered joy, but as usual, he was caught up by the other man’s enthusiasm. He turned off the lights and paused only long enough to lock the door as he followed Lars out.
16
It had been a long day, and not until the very end of it did Blue point out that they hadn’t yet searched Hua’s apartment, which was being kept under police seal, pending just such a visit. Spaceman was ready to quit for the night, past ready, but he tossed the file aside and stood. “We might as well get that out of the way,” he said wearily.
Blue nodded agreement, just managing to catch the keys that Spaceman pitched toward him suddenly.
“You drive.”
Hua had lived alone in an apartment not far from his restaurant. They got a key from the Hispanic manager, who explained in rapid-fire Spanish that he had no idea who might have wanted to kill that poor bastard Hua, it was very, very tragic, and when would he be able to rent the apartment again, because he was losing money every day, and as a poor refugee (poor, but legal, he added quickly) trying to make his way in this wonderful country, he needed every cent.
Blue didn’t bother translating all of that to Spaceman, who was lost after the first ten words spewed out. “We’ll be done as quickly as possible,” he said in much slower, but excellent, Spanish. “Then it’s yours.”
The man bowed and expressed his undying gratitude.
“You know what I think,” Spaceman said as they climbed the stairs to 2B.
“What’s that?”
“I think that pretty soon there aren’t going to be any real, English-speaking Americans left in this city at all.”
“Like us, you mean?”
“Damned right, like us.”
“Well,” Blue said, removing the police seal and unlocking the door, “you may be right.”
“Count on it,” Spaceman said glumly.
“Then maybe you better brush up on your Spanish. Just in case I’m not around to interpret.”
“You better be around. But, anyway, fuck ’em if they can’t speak the right language.” They stepped into the apartment. “Shit.”
The room was very clean and almost empty. A few straw mats on the linoleum floor and a small statue of Buddha in one corner were the only furnishings, other than a small television and a low, black lacquer table.
“Mr. Hua was evidently a man of simple tastes,” Blue said.
“I guess. Hell, it looks like a monk or something lived here.” Spaceman walked over to another door and pushed it open. The bedroom, apparently. More mats, a dresser, and an old desk. “He must’ve slept on the damned floor.”
“Quite an ascetic.”
“Quite a nut,” Spaceman muttered. He sat down in front of the desk and opened a drawer.
Blue started on the dresser. It didn’t take him long to go through the meager supply of clean, if threadbare, underwear and socks.
“According to these papers,” Spaceman said, “Hua was some kind of minor big shot in Saigon.”
Blue finished with the dresser and went to the closet. “That was one thing there was never a shortage of over there. Minor big shots.”
“True. Most of this I can’t understand.” Spaceman looked up. “I don’t suppose that reading Vietnamese is among your many talents?”
“Unfortunately not. I could toss off a few choice obscenities from the guards in the Hanoi Hilton, but they probably wouldn’t help much.” His voice was muffled, coming from the back of the closet. “This looks interesting.”
“What?”
Blue emerged, holding a small wooden box in both hands. “It was on the shelf, behind some books.” He brought the box to the desk and set it down.
Spaceman raised the lid, then gave a soft whistle. “Nice piece.”
Blue lifted the shiny, French-made pistol carefully and checked it. “Loaded, too.” He sniffed the barrel. “Hasn’t been fired lately.”
While Blue unloaded the gun, Spaceman searched through the other things in the box. “More papers. Some military insignia. Immigration documents. And this.” He held up a snapshot, holding it between two fingers.
The picture showed a younger Hua and an American Marine grinning into the camera. They were flanking a third man who wore the black pajamas of the Viet Cong. The third man wasn’t smiling, because he was quite dead. Hua was holding a pistol that looked like the one they’d jus
t found, while the American made a V-for-victory sign. Or maybe it was V-for-peace.
The photo made Blue feel a little sick. Still, he took it from Spaceman for a closer look. The American was slender and fair-haired, with a grin that went no further than his lips. His eyes, seemingly untouched by humor or any other emotion, stared not really at the camera itself, but at the invisible photographer. Blue turned the picture over and studied the Viet writing on the back. “We’ll have to find somebody to translate this.”
“I guess. A waste of time, probably.”
“Maybe. But I’d be interested in knowing more about this guy here.”
Spaceman took the picture back and stared at the face. “Hell, I’d lay odds that anybody as whacked out as that turkey never made it back to the world.”
Blue shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“But not tonight, my boy. As Scarlett O’Hara said, tomorrow is another day. Let’s get all this shit packed up and get the hell out of here.”
Blue nodded, still studying the face in the picture as Spaceman started gathering the papers.
17
Lars parked around the corner from the building on Olympic. He reached for a Gitane and then offered the pack to Devlin, who took one as well.
“Just what are we about to do here?” Devlin asked after two puffs.
“Nothing much. Just talk.”
“To whom?”
“If my dope is the straight stuff, to Phillipe Tran.”
“Phillipe?” Devlin thought back. “The general’s son, right? He’s in this country?”
Lars pointed at a black notebook on the backseat. “The book never lies.” He opened the car door. “Time to start earning your cut, Mr. Conway,” he said with a grin.
Devlin, still not quite sure about this, hesitated, then got out of the car and followed him.
The ground floor of the building they approached housed a fresh vegetable and fruit store, which was closed up for the night by now. They walked past the store entrance, to a side door. A quick check of the mailboxes in the cramped entrance hall netted them one with the name Tran scribbled on it in magic marker. “Bingo,” Lars said with satisfaction.
They climbed one flight and he knocked softly on the door of apartment B. Devlin stood just behind him, off a little to one side. He wondered for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t have a gun or something. It was a thought that startled him. Was Lars armed? No doubt; Devlin didn’t think that he’d ever seen the other man without a gun. Usually more than one. Whether that fact should have reassured or frightened him, he didn’t know.
After a minute, a young man opened the door. He wore jeans and a teeshirt and held a can of Coke in one hand. “Yeah? What you want?”
“You Phillipe Tran?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Who wants to know?”
“We do.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Don’t you remember us? We were friends of your father, in Saigon.” Lars leaned against the wall.
“Saigon? I don’t remember nothing about Saigon.”
“Sure you can.”
He lifted the can for a quick gulp. “I didn’t say I can’t remember. I just don’t.”
Devlin moved forward a little. “You can certainly remember us, Phillipe. We spent a lot of time at your family’s home.”
“Yeah. You’re the photographer.” He glanced at Lars. “And you’re Wolf. I knew it the minute I opened the door.”
“Good boy,” Lars said.
“I remember that you’re the ones who were going to help make my father a rich man and then bring us all to America. Instead, he got dead and my mother, sister, and I were forgotten.”
Lars tapped the wall impatiently with his hand. “It was your old man who came to us with the plan,” he said. “Not the other way around.”
Tran shrugged.
“Anyway, you made it here after all, right?”
“Oh, yes, sure. We came on a boat with two hundred people stuffed into a space made for half that number. My mother died on the trip and they threw her body into the water as breakfast for the fish.”
“I’m sorry,” Devlin said.
Tran glanced at him. “Why? Did you kill my father?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, then?”
Devlin shook his head helplessly.
Lars sighed. “Look, enough old times. We’re here to talk about the diamonds.”
“Diamonds?” Tran smiled. “Do I look like a man who has diamonds? I work in the market downstairs.”
“You don’t have the rocks, but I think you might know something about them.”
“Not me. All I know about is peddling vegetables. Sorry.”
Before either of the other two knew what was happening, Lars reached out with one hand to grab Tran around the neck, lifting and pinning him against the door. The smaller man’s feet dangled off the floor.
Devlin, startled, took two steps backward. Damn, he thought, I should have my bloody camera. The harsh backlighting from the apartment, the palatable violence, the tableau of the two men against the unpainted wooden door would make a great shot.
“Now listen up, you gook bastard. You know me. You know I mean business, right?”
Lars’ voice jolted Devlin back to the moment. The words were said in a tone he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Tran, gasping, managed to nod.
“Because we’re such old friends, I’m going to give you a little time to think this over. But when we come back, you better be ready to talk. You get what I’m saying?”
Another nod.
“Terrific.” Lars suddenly released his hold and Tran nearly fell to the floor in a heap. He caught himself, just managing to stay on his feet. “Come on, Dev,” Lars said. He walked away without looking back.
After a moment, Devlin followed.
18
Spaceman was glad and more than a little surprised to see that the garage had actually delivered his car as promised. Instead of getting behind the wheel of the clunker right after leaving the office, though, he walked across the street to the Lock-up. Skirting the other just-off-duty cops, a group which did not include his partner, he sat alone at the far end of the bar.
He thought his way through a bottle of beer.
When the last of the Coors was gone, instead of ordering another and settling in for the evening, Spaceman slid from the barstool and went to the phone in the corner. After his coins had been deposited, he was treated to a cacophony of strange clankings and clunkings along the line. It seemed to him that things had gone downhill with telephones ever since the frigging breakup of good old Ma Bell. That lady might have been a bitch who delighted in holding the ordinary slob over a barrel, but at least she knew how to run a phone company. Spaceman had very little faith in amateurs.
It was his hope that Robbie would answer the call, but no such luck. “Yes?” came the crisp voice.
The woman could never say hello like everybody else. “Karen? It’s me.”
“What?”
“Well, merry Christmas to you, too.”
She sighed. “Sorry, but it’s been a very long day.”
“Yeah, well, tell me about it.” He paused, reading the various obscenities scrawled on the wall next to the phone. If you stopped to consider that almost all the patrons of this place were either cops or lawyers, with an occasional judge thrown in for good measure, the blatant and mostly perverted messages might be considered a little scary. “Robbie there?”
“Yes, why?” she said suspiciously.
“Because I’m coming out to see him.”
“What’s the matter?” Now she sounded a little scared.
If she didn’t aggravate him so damned much, he might have felt sorry for her. “Nothing’s the matter, for Chrissake, I just want to talk to him. Is there something wrong with that?”
Although he was sure that she would have loved to come up with something, apparently nothing came to mind, so she just told him to drive on out
if he wanted to, and hung up.
Spaceman went back to toss some money onto the bar and left.
So far, the meeting between father and son hadn’t been a smashing success. It just seemed to be following the same old pattern. Robbie came out of the house when Spaceman sounded the horn and joined him in the car. They exchanged polite greetings and at that point, conversation lagged.
Finally, out of desperation and also because he hadn’t had any dinner and was hungry, Spaceman drove to the nearby McDonald’s, and they went inside. Now, with cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes on the table between them, he was determined to get said whatever it was that had to be said. Even if he still didn’t know what the hell that was.
“I hear you paid a visit to my partner last night,” he said, sprinkling too much salt on his fries.
“Yeah, the famous Blue Maguire. What the hell kind of name is that, anyway?”
Spaceman shrugged. “He once told me that his father named him after an old hunting dog.”
“You believe that?”
“Maybe.”
Robbie put extra catsup on his cheeseburger. “A genuine creep.”
“You think so?” Spaceman said mildly. “That’s funny, most people sort of like him.”
The boy seemed a little embarrassed. “He was okay, I guess. Just not what I was expecting. You two don’t seem real, what’s the word, compatible.”
“We’re not planning on getting married. Blue is okay. A good partner.”
“Well, terrific,” Robbie said with unexpected sharpness.
Spaceman ate some cheeseburger. “Why’d you go to his place?”
Robbie shrugged. “He probably gave you a blow-by-blow account of the whole thing, so why ask me?”
“All he told me was that you were there. Nothing else.”
A light flickered in the brown eyes. “Really? Maguire is a man with honor. Hell, better still, a cop with honor.”
Spaceman just waited.
Robbie pulled the plastic lid from his Coke and took a gulp. He chewed on small pieces of ice for a moment. “I guess mostly I went there because I wanted to see what kind of guy he is. Because I know he’s your friend and I wanted to understand why.”
