He pondered his family instead. Bennett Mark Frye, ex-second lieutenant, 3d platoon, C Company, 1st Battalion, 3d Marines. Bennett had made his bones and spilled his blood in Dong Zu, just north of Saigon, suffered the instant havoc of a Bouncing Betty, and returned to the States shortened and decorated. At thirty-eight, he was five years older than Chuck, to the day. Sometimes this shared birthday seemed all they had in common. Bennett, in his full complement, was shortish and thick; Chuck was taller, by far, and lean. Bennett was dark; Chuck light. Bennett was popular, a leader; Chuck was private and often even had trouble leading himself. Bennett was better at just about everything. Their father, Edison, took an almost sociological interest in the differences between his sons, which he concluded were generational and not genetic. As a decorated World War II hero, Edison believed military discipline had made Bennett what he was today, and that Chuck’s lack of any discipline at all had made him what he was — and wasn’t. Then there was Hyla, the peacemaker and source of whatever grace her sons had come to possess.
He got off on Bolsa, made a U-turn, and headed into the city of Westminster. The street signs were done in Old English lettering and the buildings sported hints of the Tudor — a grafting of English hamlet onto Southern California suburb.
Drinking coffee, he sped down Bolsa past the Brothers of Patrick Novitiate, which hovered quietly behind a stand of olive trees; past the Colony Funeral Home and its high stained-glass windows; past the subdivisions and trailer parks, the fast food stands, and auto shops. Everything closed at eight.
Westminster, he thought, just forty miles south of L.A. and fifteen north of Laguna, but a world apart. A suburb straining for identity, thus the Briticisms. The words “bedroom community” might apply, but always made Frye think of one huge mattress shared by people who did nothing but sleep, snack in bed, and mate. When the Indo-Chinese refugees arrived in the late seventies, Westminster got the identity it never had: it became capital of the largest population of Vietnamese outside of Southeast Asia. The numbers kept changing, as numbers do. Last Frye had heard, there were three hundred thousand Vietnamese in California, and half of them lived in the south. Eighty thousand alone lived in Orange County — most of those lived right here.
Another block down Bolsa, and the suburban landscape suddenly changed. East of the Asian Culture Center, all the signs were in bright Vietnamese. Crenulated tile rooftops with ornate extrados winged off into the darkness. Storefronts and parking lots were cluttered with flyers. The shop windows were alive with hand-scrawled paint: Siêu Thị Mỹ-Hoa Supermarket, Thò’i Trang Fabrics, Bảo Ngọc Jewelry and Gifts, Ba Lẹ Café, Tuyết Hổng Service Center, Ngân Đình Sandwich. The warm inland air no longer smelled of citrus, but of cooked fish and frying vegetables and exotic, unidentified spice. Frye breathed it all in. Little Saigon, he thought, and a few years ago hardly a Vietnamese in the state.
He watched the cars bustling in and out of the lots, and the refugees — dark people with dark eyes and black hair and solemn faces — gathered by the storefronts, glancing about as if expecting the worst. The South Vietnamese flag — yellow and red — waved outside a fish market, and beneath it hung a banner proclaiming these to be City of Westminster “Saigon Days.” An old man at the corner leaned on a cane and stared at the crosswalk. His wife stared too. A cultural pastime for some, Frye thought: waiting to leave. Three young girls skipped past the couple and weaved through the traffic.
He slowed and passed Washington Street, the first of the next half-dozen streets that — in a county called Orange but having few oranges, in a city called Westminster but having few English, in a place called Little Saigon but as far away from Vietnam as one might get — bear the names of the first six American presidents.
There seemed to be some lesson for the republic, but what was it?
He made a right at Brookhurst and kept his eye out for the nightclub, tucked in a corner and easy to miss. Then he spotted the neon green and orange with its bent palm tree, glowing against the summer night. ASIAN WIND CABARET — DANCING & DINING. The marquee said: CELEBRATE SAIGON DAYS... LI FRYE IN CONCERT... HAPPY BIRTHDAY BENNETT AND BOTHER. Second billing again, he thought, and they spelled me wrong. Certain individuals would not protest that call. Looks like a sellout too — parking lot buried in cars and a crowd at the door.
Julie, the club owner, was working the ticket window. She looked up, smiled, and waved him in. Frye stuffed his wad of bills back into a pocket: six hundred and thirty-seven dollars, his total lifetime savings to date, not including a business account that had next month’s lease payment for the MegaShop.
He stepped through the bead curtains and into the club.
It was jammed with refugees, all wanting to see their living legend. People were already looking for places to stand along the walls. Paper lamps cast an easy glow over lacquered tables and chairs, potted palms, and bow-tied waiters. The dance floor and stage were bathed in red light that glinted brightly off the microphone stand and guitars. The bass drum had LI FRYE emblazoned on it. Another banner over the stage announced SAIGON DAYS. A layer of smoke wavered in the beams from the spotlights. Frye scanned the ocean of Asian faces, all chopped into rotating bevels of shadow and light by a glitter ball hanging from the ceiling. The room seemed to be caught in some gentle, subaquatic swirl. Mirrored walls multiplied ever-diminishing replicas of it all.
He could see Bennett at a table near the back of the room, with Donnell Crawley and Nguyen Hy and a woman he didn’t recognize. Burke Parsons was partially obscured, as always, by a cowboy hat. Bennett was holding forth: arms outstretched, head forward and canted to one side as he talked. Frye waved and headed backstage. Benny, always at the center of things.
Li was locking a silver Halliburton case when Frye walked into her dressing room. She glanced quickly to the mirror in front of her, then hopped up and came toward him. Full lovely face, waves of black hair, eyes dark and lustrous as obsidian. Her ao dai was purple, with black silk trousers. “I didn’t hear you come in, Chuck. Happy birthday!” She tiptoed up, pecked his cheek, then wiped it with a pale finger.
He smiled. Something about Li always reduced him to appreciative idiocy, always made him smile. Maybe it was everything she’d been through. He had the feeling when he touched her that a fragile, priceless object was momentarily in his care. A smile was the least you could offer her. “Just wanted my kiss while Benny wasn’t looking. And to wish you luck for the show.”
She stood away and looked at him. “You are a sweet man, Chuck. My chú, my number one.”
“You look great, Li. Break a leg.” He kissed her. He watched her watch him. “What are these ‘Saigon Days’ all about?”
“That’s the city, showing us off. Proud of what good citizens we’ve become.” She smiled. “Have you heard anything from Linda?”
“Yes. We’re history.”
She put her arms around him and pressed close. Her perfume smelled good. Then she stepped back and took his hands. “Perhaps it was simply meant to be.”
“Whatever.”
“No one can kill your heart, Chuck.” She looked at the Halliburton on her table. “Enjoy the show, chú. I have to finish my makeup.”
“Sing up a storm, Li.”
“I will. So many important people tonight. Lucia Parsons from the MIA Committee had to cancel, but she sent Burke instead. We can talk after the show, Chuck. There are a cake and presents at the house. I’ve written the most lovely song for Benny.”
Frye picked his way back across the crowded room and sat down next to his brother. Bennett’s face swam in the light of the glitter ball. His hand was dry and strong. “Happy birthday, Chuck. You’re not even late.”