Chapter 5
Frye took the San Diego freeway south. He watched clouds coloring above the tan hills, a herd of cattle raising silent dust, a magnificent smog-charged day atmospherically impossible in another age.
He got off at El Toro Road and wound through the south county pastureland. Islands of new homes floated on the dry hills. Half of these are Edison’s, he thought: Rancho Cay, The Oaks, Club Niguel. Nickel and dime stuff for the Frye Ranch — under two hundred grand apiece.
Off La Paz Road, the Ziggurat loomed into view, a Mesopotamian extravagance built by Rockwell, then never used. The offices were now let to various organizations: IRS, Federal Records, the university. The lofty pyramidal structure stood out against the hillocks with a hallucinogenic air, a temple waiting for worshippers.
The parking lot was a continent of asphalt, with a few cars clustered near the entrance. Frye parked and went in, heading for the elevator.
A wall plaque outside 341 read DR. STANLEY SMITH — DIRECTOR — CENTER FOR ASIAN COOPERATION. The reception room was cluttered with bookshelves, but no receptionist was in sight. Behind the closed door to the office came the muffled sound of a woman’s voice.
Frye opened the door and stepped in. A man at a desk was nodding to a woman who sat across from him. She was talking fast, in Vietnamese. A tape recorder sat between them, reels moving. Smith was fifty-ish, plump, balding. He wore a pink polo shirt and a gold chain. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes a pale, sad blue. Frye sensed an unsuccessful boyhood here. Smith raised a finger to the woman, drove it downward to punch off the tape recorder, then smiled. “You must be Chuck Frye?”
Frye nodded.
Smith spoke to the woman in Vietnamese. She turned to Frye and smiled. She was gaunt, early seventies, he guessed, her long gray hair trailing over a dark leather face, her teeth stained dark from betel juice. He sat down. Smith introduced her as Bakh.
“You know where Li Frye is?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said.
Frye surveyed the office: big messy desk, file cabinets, an old wooden wardrobe, a poster of Li on one wall, a gruesome photographic blowup of a man’s face beside it. There was another door beside the wardrobe, closed and plastered with fifties travel posters of Vietnam.
“Last night’s event is absolutely ominous,” said Smith. “There are no other words. The police told me nothing this morning, except that they want Eddie Vo. Have they any substantial leads, anything to go on except that poor frightened boy?”
“I’d be the last to know.”
“Ah... I understand.”
Frye looked again at the horrible portrait, noting that its subject wore sunglasses. “What do you do here, Doctor?”
Smith looked around with an air of pride. “I’m a professor, and Little Saigon is my area of expertise. My current project is for the Vietnamese archive — collecting oral stories and translating them for publication.” He went on for a moment about his work-in-progress. It dealt with the “acculturation process” of the refugees, the “impact of cinema and television on the youth,” and the “problems of village culture meeting mass culture in this crazy melting pot we call America.” The book would be called By War Displaced: A Modern Narrative of the Vietnamese Refugee.
“Sounds good. What I’d really like to talk to you about is Li’s kidnapping, Dr. Smith.”
“I imagine.” He rose and politely guided Bakh from the room, chatting all the time in Vietnamese. A moment later he returned and sat down again.
“This kidnapping has tragic proportions... may I call you Chuck? Li Frye has done so much for her people. She deals with the Thais, getting refugees out of the camps and into the States. Her music, of course, is a great inspiration. In some circles, as I’m sure you know, she is called the Voice of Freedom.”
“Who would want to take her?”
Smith pursed his lips. “That’s just it, Chuck. No one I can think of in the Vietnamese community would do that. The young respect her. The old adore her. In my opinion, we are looking at economics here, not politics. Your brother is rich. The kidnappers will want money.”
“What about the gangs? They might respect her, but they’d love to get their hands on ransom money.”
Smith shook his head. “The youth gangs of Little Saigon are much exaggerated by the press. They are a loose structure, with no formal organization or ‘turf,’ as we see in the Hispanic and black gangs. They form, extort money or sometimes commit robbery, then break up, disappear, and form again. By all indications, Chuck, this could hardly be a gang crime. Automatic weapons? The organization and planning that went into it? The target itself? No. The police are on the wrong track, in my opinion.”
“What about organized crime?”
“Gậy Trúc? The Bamboo Cane? Now they are a possibility. Several of the top leaders have been seen in Little Saigon in the last six months. I’ve personally identified two of them.”
“How good are they at kidnapping?”
Smith glanced casually to the closed door, then looked at Frye. “With organized, professional criminals, seeing the leaves on top always implies the roots below. In my opinion, it’s conceivable that Gậy Trúc knew about the kidnapping, perhaps was involved.”
“Where can I find them?”
Smith shook his head, pressed his lips tight, and leaned forward in his chair. Again, he looked at the door, then back to Frye. “I certainly wouldn’t tell you where, Chuck. They wouldn’t be there now, for one thing. And for another, these are very dangerous men. Besides, I’m not making accusations, I’m outlining possibilities.”
“Minh says that you’re... popular with the refugee boys.”
Smith blushed a little. “I take that as a compliment. I have an affinity with them. They are a gentle race, so misunderstood and so confused in this new country. I myself feel misunderstood at times, feel... outside the mainstream. Many of them had no childhood. In some sense, we are kindred souls.”
“When’s the last time you saw Eddie Vo?”
Smith adjusted himself behind the desk and looked at Frye. “Three days ago. Are you looking for him, too? like the police?”
“No. I know he didn’t do the job on Li. He was in the parking lot.”
Smith looked at Frye incredulously, blushing again, his eyes widening. “You saw him outside the cabaret?”
“That’s right.”
Dr. Smith smiled. “Ah... then the police have no solid reason to suspect him. Chuck, this makes me very happy. Eddie Vo is such a... mixed-up kid. He’s terrified.”
“How do you know, if you haven’t seen him in three days?”
Smith swallowed hard, pursed his lips again. “I know him well enough to understand what he’s going through. He disappeared, right? He knows the police are after him. He is afraid. That’s all I meant. But if you saw him outside the Asian Wind... it means he’s innocent.”
Frye looked at Smith, who looked down at his desk.
“Where is he?”
Smith looked up again, feigning surprise. “I... are you willing to tell the police he was outside?”
“I already have.”
“Then Eddie really has nothing to fear?”
“They want to question him.”
Smith sighed, then cast Frye a furtive glance. “This is an impossible situation. I really... don’t have the disposition to do this.”
“Do what?”
Smith stood, blushing again, brows furrowed. “This is stupid. He must talk to the police and clear himself.” He walked to the door, unlocked it with a key, and swung it open.