Frye pulled into the driveway, got out, and followed Eddie to the door. Vo looked again at the Chevrolet parked down the street but said nothing.
The living room was furnished with thrift-shop stuff — nothing matched, or was less than a decade old. But Vo’s stereo was state-of-the-art: big flat speakers, a CD player, and a reel-to-reel. A poster of Eddie Van Halen hung crookedly on one wall.
Vo stood for a moment, as if beholding his own home for the first time. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
Frye looked into Eddie’s bedroom: a lamp, a pile of Vietnamese magazines and papers, a mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag tossed over it — one of the old thick ones with pheasants flying over red flannel.
Eddie walked in, fingered some items on his dresser. “Someone’s been here,” he said. He shot back into the living room and peered through the drapes, then checked his door lock. “Loc, probably. I hate the Dark Men, no matter what Stanley Smith says.”
Eddie went to the kitchen, produced a pistol from one of the cabinets, and waved Frye into the other bedroom.
Frye’s face went cold. “Be careful with that thing, Eddie.”
“I’m a great shot. You’re lucky you’re with me. Look at this.”
Vo flipped on the light. The room was a temple of Li. Signed posters, an ao dai on a hanger nailed to the wall, about thirty snapshots crowded in a big frame, clippings from magazines, a collection of covers for albums Frye had never even seen, a blurred blowup of a photograph of Li and Eddie at the Asian Wind. There was a microphone with a card leaning against it that said “Li Frye’s microphone — 4/7/88.”
“This shit’s all hers,” Eddie said quietly. “I collected it over the last seven years. I got more in the closet.” He looked through the window and drew the drapes tightly closed.
An icy little wave rippled down Frye’s back. “Nice.”
“Beer?” Eddie tossed the gun on his bed.
“Sure.”
He went to the kitchen and came back with two cans. Frye watched Eddie contemplate the ao dai. Beneath the hardness of Vo’s face, he could see the worry.
Frye noted a framed photo next to the snapshots, the only picture in the room that didn’t have Li in it. It was Eddie with his arm around another young man. Same height, same age. Eddie’s hair was gelled to perfection. The other’s was cut into a flat-top that must have been two inches high. They were the two happiest haircuts Frye had seen in years. They were made for each other. The boys smiled at the camera.
“Loc,” said Eddie, staring at the picture.
“So you were friends once.”
“In the camps we survived. I came over first and formed Ground Zero. He came over later and joined me. Later, he split to form the Dark Men. He betrayed me. I will take down the picture when I feel like it.”
“Is that who’s out there in the white Chevy?”
“No.”
“Who is?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be nervous, man.”
They went to the living room and Eddie put on a Li Frye tape. “You’ve never heard this,” said Vo. “I made it myself.”
Eddie went to the bedroom while Frye listened. A moment later he came back wearing fresh clothes, his hair carefully sculpted. He had the gun again. “I want you to take me to my store before we go to the cops. I want to lock up this piece, turn on my burglar alarm, and get some money to bribe my way out of jail. Man, you can’t trust nobody anymore. Not even the gang you used to be in.”
As Frye steered the Cyclone down Eddie’s street, he watched in his rearview mirror as the Chevy pulled from the curb and followed. One block down, another car fell in between them. “Dark Men behind us, Eddie?”
“I told you, Frye. I don’t know.”
Saigon Plaza was Monday-night quiet. The rows of street lamps sent their glow over the parking lot, the marble lions at the entrance, the big archway. As always, colored flyers lay scattered across the asphalt.
But as soon as Frye turned in, he saw the fire units outside Ground Zero Records, the police cars, the little crowd huddled to one side. Two men in yellow, legs spread, supported a hose heaving white rapids of water into Eddie’s burning store.
Chapter 6
The fire was a bright, vascular thing, big flames roaring behind the windows. Frye skidded the Cyclone to a stop, and they jumped out. Eddie dodged two patrolmen and ran for his shop.
Detective John Minh materialized from the white Chevy that had followed them from Vo’s house. He drew his revolver, took a long look at Frye, then pointed the officers after Eddie. The firemen lifted the hose, sending a bright arc of water over the lamps and into the darkness.
The cops caught Eddie at the door of the store, then hustled back with the slender kid pinned between them. They were all soaked. Vo glared at Frye, then at Minh. “Dark Men,” he said.
As soon as they got a cuff on one of Eddie’s wrists, he broke away, and ran a zigzag pattern down the sidewalk. One cop drew down. One slipped in the water and fell.
Minh leveled his revolver and yelled for Eddie to stop.
Frye could see Vo look back over his shoulder, eyes big, legs pumping, the silver handcuff shining as it trailed and snapped behind him.
Before he was aware of deciding to, Frye took two steps forward and shoved Minh hard. To his left someone opened up, six shots in a frightful instant. Minh pistol-whipped Frye, sending him to his knees. Through his blaring vision, he saw Eddie make the corner and disappear.
When Frye finally caught up, Eddie was out of sight. The row of shops sat neatly, odd customers lifting themselves from the sidewalk, peeking from behind doors, scrambling for their cars. The cops were already dodging in and out of the stores, under the frantic direction of Minh, whose high-pitched shouting echoed through the plaza. The smell of gunpowder blew past Frye, then gave way to the hot stink of fire. He stood there, ears ringing, dizzy, waiting for them to drag Vo out, dead or alive.
Minh ran back and handcuffed Frye to a street lamp. He cinched the cuffs tight. “If you happen to get loose, I’ll shoot you.”
Frye watched them search. Echoes of last night, he thought: into one shop where nobody tells you anything, then onto the next where they tell you it again. His head throbbed where Minh’s pistol had hit him. A few drops of blood hit the sidewalk below. Minh sent three officers to the back of the building. Two more units skidded up, sirens on, lights whirling.
Five minutes dragged by. Frye watched. Like kids on an Easter egg hunt, he thought, but nobody’s finding anything. The cops went in, only to emerge moments later with grim expressions of wonder and defeat. When they’d tried every place that Eddie could possibly have gone, they gathered outside the jewelry store with an air of communal bewilderment, making notes, hypothesizing.
Minh finally marched from the Dream Reader’s door and waved his men back to their units. Frye watched him approach: short and slender, a perfectly cut suit, face pale and angry. He stopped a few feet away. “Simple answers. Why?”
“Why? How can you blow away a half-crazy kid who’s just had his store burned out? How the hell can you—”
“Shut up!” Minh backhanded him, quite hard. Drops of red flecked the lamp post. He told Frye his Miranda rights. “You’re under arrest for obstruction, aiding and abetting a fugitive, interfering with an investigation, tampering with a crime scene.”
Minh unfastened Frye from the light pole, then cinched the cuffs even tighter. He dragged Frye into the parking lot while a crowd of Vietnamese looked on. The flames in Eddie’s store were dying down.
They stopped at the white Chevy and Minh unlocked the trunk. He found a flashlight and flipped the top off a shallow cardboard box beside the spare tire. Li’s purple ao dai lay inside, covered by a dry-cleaning bag. Beside it were her silk trousers and one shoe. There were dark drops of something on the blouse, and it was torn. “We found an earring, too, and underwear.”