When I awoke at dawn, she rolled over and embraced me and apologized for everything that had happened. We made love in the gray light.
Afterward she wanted to describe the dream she had had that night. I braced for something terrible, for her to start crying as she recounted it. It turned out to be the one beautiful dream of hers that I know: of her living in a three-story house drifting on the ocean. You could reach outside the many windows and caress the waves that lapped the walls day and night. Her entire family from Vietnam lived there with her, even those who had died. Everyone had their own room, her mother and father, her aunts, her uncles, her sisters and cousins, and every room was colorful and unique and connected to the others so that you could walk through them all like you were walking through a garden of rooms. Only years later, thinking back on this dream, did I wonder if I had a room in this house, or if I was even there at all.
In the afternoon we went to the beach and swam in the ocean and ate a lunch of grilled fish and oysters. I took her shopping afterward and bought her a new dress, then we saw a matinee showing of Dances with Wolves, which moved us both to tears, and in the evening we had a delicious dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant downtown. We made love twice more that night, and she cried the final time.
Perhaps I made myself forget, but I never picked up the phone that day.
9
THE COTTAGE, which had white wooden shutters and a white chimney, stood facing the road, flanked by a strip mall of restaurants and a strip club called Paradise Palace. The tiny parking lot out front was empty, but I told Mai to park in back. We walked under a red awning and through a red door and stepped into a room cloaked in rusty light.
All the tables stood afternoon empty, snugged up against button-tufted leather booths that looked proudly worn. Wood paneling and crimson wallpaper surrounded us, above us a low canopy of ceiling fans spinning lazily. The place had a saloonish quality, a cowboy gruffness despite all the dolls encased in glass cabinets along the walls. They stood side by side, dozens in each cabinet, some a foot tall, decked in period dresses and garish hats and hairstyles: a showgirl, a cowgirl, a geisha, an English wench, a French lady. Mai stepped up close to one cabinet and glanced at me to see if I shared her bemusement.
A young couple were arguing quietly at the bar, their faces close, their lips moving swiftly. The girl was luxuriously blond and wore a green dress, and it took me a second to realize that the guy, who had on jeans and a T-shirt, was a girl too, her slender left arm covered in colorful tattoos as she gesticulated at the blond, their voices muted by Lee Hazlewood crooning “Some Velvet Morning” over the jukebox.
At the other end of the bar sat an old bearded guy sucking on a cigar beneath his Stetson, too engrossed in his video poker to care about the girls or us. He was the one who looked out of place.
Behind us, the front door opened and two men in suits and open-collared shirts walked in, both taking off their sunglasses to look around. They must’ve mistaken the bar for the strip club and promptly turned and walked back out. I couldn’t imagine Sonny setting foot in a place like this either, which explained why we were there.
“We should probably order something to drink,” I told Mai.
The bartender, a sturdy middle-aged woman, stood watching the TV on the wall, her short inky hair gleaming beneath the white Christmas lights strung above the bar. When she turned to greet us, her casual smile felt like the first genuine thing I’d seen in Vegas.
“Getting cold out there, huh?” she said, her voice cigarette raspy. “I should put on a sweater, but my tits like to breathe.” She grinned innocently at Mai. Her blouse was low-cut, her leathery bosom less sexual than a proud badge of all her years in the harsh desert sun. “What you having, baby?”
“A Coke,” Mai replied and turned to me.
“Whatever you got on tap,” I told the bartender. I asked Mai, “Too early in the day?”
“I don’t drink. Or do drugs. My cousin’s an idiot. Can’t do that stuff if you want to be good at cards.”
I went for my wallet, but she had already set a hundred on the bar.
“You play every day?”
“When I’m not sleeping.”
“Why poker?”
“The money,” she replied dryly.
“Bartender at the Coronado told me poker players are an honest lot. Very proud.”
“He just means we’re control freaks. It’s great to be lucky, but it’s better to be in control. When you’re good, you can control the luck.”
She tipped the bartender the price of both our drinks, and then she turned and noticed what I had not.
Nested in the far corner of the bar was a small stage with a black piano, above it an unlit neon sign: DON’T TELL MAMA. A few tables stood against the wall by the stage. The older brother was sitting at one with a pitcher of beer, staring at us patiently through his cigarette smoke.
“Don’t tell him your name,” I muttered to Mai.
We got our drinks and made our way to the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, but then I remembered that he must have known what her mother looked like.
As we sat down, he nodded at me and said “Hello, sister” to Mai in Vietnamese. On the wall above him was a cabinet of dolls dressed like old Hollywood starlets, their lipstick smiles made vulgar by the shadows.
There were three glasses on the table, though only his was filled. He intended for us to talk a bit. Beneath the table, I noticed, leaning against his leg, was a small black backpack.
“My name is Victor.” He pushed his cigarette pack toward me, the same one from this morning. Again he offered me a light. His name and a cigarette: gestures of goodwill. In the car this morning, he must have wondered what it took to earn the trust of a man like me.
“Has he called you yet?” he said.
“Your boss? Not if you’re the one who called me the last four times.”
“He probably won’t, then, unless I report something. And I haven’t.”
His voice had a cold, quiet edge to it that these young tough types cultivate nowadays, though I could see that it was shyness too that hardened his face. It was easy for him to intimidate. Much harder for him to look people in the eye and talk to them earnestly.
Mai was peering at him as I imagined she would another poker player. She had yet to touch her Coke.
I gestured at her. “They know about her?”
“I would’ve already visited her if they did.”
“Like you visited Happy?”
He went silent, then blinked a few times at Mai. “She came to see you, didn’t she?” To me he said, “Mr. Jonathan — the son you spoke to — he was there. I had to do my job. Don’t worry, she gave up nothing. That’s why we had to go visit you in Oakland.”
Mai said something in Vietnamese to him. His face crimsoned.
“What was that?” I said.
“I asked him if he liked hitting women.”
“Of course not,” Victor replied. He recovered his calm and added, “Not even when they deserve it.”
I jumped in, “So what are we doing now, Victor? You and your brother broke into my home yesterday and put a gun to my head and then drove me here to do something I don’t want to do. And now you say you want to help me.”
“I said I want to help Mrs. Nguyen.”
A glass shattered somewhere, and we all looked up. The bartender, her hands on her hips, was peering irritably at the floor behind the bar. Patsy Cline was playing now, and I noticed that the two girlfriends had stepped away to slow-dance by the jukebox, the blond with her head on the other girl’s shoulder, their argument doused. They had caught Victor’s attention too. I couldn’t tell if he was bothered or intrigued, but when Mai swiveled in her chair for her own glimpse, I saw him give her a lingering look.