“It’s got something to do with control.”
“Suit yourself.”
“See you at the pageant, maybe.” She turned and disappeared up the rickety stairway, shoes thudding against old wood as she climbed.
The MIA rally was breaking up by the time Frye got there. He was just in time to see Lucia Parsons getting into a limousine double-parked on Coast Highway, and to pick up a flyer that listed private and corporate supporters, along with a form for joining and giving money.
Edison and Hyla were donors. So was Bennett. So was the Frye Ranch Company.
Frye looked up to see Burke Parsons, hat in hand, slogging through the sand in his cowboy boots.
“Haw, Chuck.”
“Burke.”
Parsons wiped his brow, and looked out to the water. “Seems like everybody I know’s trying to get somebody back.”
Frye nodded, assessing Parsons. He was tall as Frye, thicker, ten years older. Same curly black hair as Lucia, just shorter. Something about the eyes seemed slow. They focused lazily, then bore in.
“Any news on Li?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Well, I did what I could to help Benny, but he ain’t much in the mood for help these days. Kinda like told me to take a hike, is what he did.”
“The pressure’s getting to him.”
“I guess. Any luck on a new job? I miss your boxin’ stuff in the Ledger.”
“I’m working on it.”
Parsons turned to watch the limousine roll up Coast Highway. “I go to these rallies when I get time off work. I like to sit back with the crowd and just listen. You know, this’ll sound dumb, but being proud of your own blood is just about the best — well, second-best — feelin’ there is. My goddamn twin sister. She gets another ten grand raised for her and her assistants, and it’s back over to Hanoi next week. She’s just real sure the government’s about to break down and admit they’ve got some of our boys. Admit they’ve found some of our boys, is what they’ll do. And if she gets Congress to pass that aid package for Hanoi, that’ll make the dealings go real smooth-like. They want those dollars, same as anyone else. That’s why she was telling everyone to write their reps. I don’t know where she gets the energy, Chuck. I really don’t. I’m just proud as all getout.”
“You ought to be.”
Burke wiped his brow again, frowned at the water, then looked at Frye. “Benny keepin’ you busy looking for her?”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do to pitch in, just say the word. I’m busy, but I got time for friends. Benny has my number, and I live right down here in Laguna.”
“Thanks, Burke. It means a lot, all of you pulling for her.”
Burke nodded. “Fuckin’ gooks. Ought to just ship ’em back where they belong. Let ’em eat their dogs and grow their rice. Li and Hy can stay. They’re real Americans, if you ask me. But the rest don’t bring much to the party.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Me neither, Chuck. I’m just a little bit out of kilter about all this. But Li’s a great gal. See ya around. Call if I can help now, hear?”
Chapter 11
He waited until evening to find the Dark Men.
Pho Dinh was a simple noodle shop on Bolsa, a block east of the plaza. From the outside he could see rows of tables filled with young Vietnamese, a big white panel behind the counter with words and prices on it, and a slender man behind the cash register. The young men were dressed well, as always — loose jackets and sharply tapered pants, collars turned up, thin neckties, pointed shoes. So were the women — tight jeans and pumps, short coats, their hair teased and sprayed. Music blared. A group of boys clustered around a video game, heads bowed, silent and intense.
Frye walked in, feeling about as out of place as one can get. Heads turned; a pane of quiet seemed to insert itself between the din of the music and the low hum of voices. The air was hot and heavy with a sweet, oily presence. Sesame, he thought, and mint. The locals are not overly friendly tonight. People stared. He started back, searching for Loc.
When he finally saw him — at a corner table with three other boys his age — Loc had already spotted Frye. He simply sat there and looked through him, then turned back to his friends. He had on a dark gray shirt, a black coat and tie. Frye stepped to the counter, ordered five beers for the table, paid up and walked over. He sat down. “I want my cigars back.”
Loc spoke to his friends in Vietnamese. No one had acknowledged Frye yet; he had the odd feeling that perhaps he wasn’t there, that he had become an invisible man. “Some people saw you go in. I’ve got sworn statements. I’ve got pictures of you. I’ll go to Minh if I have to,” he lied. “But I’d rather not.”
Loc stared at him. “Who are you?”
“I live in the house you wrecked yesterday afternoon.”
The four consulted quickly again in Vietnamese; Frye sensed a genuine puzzlement here. A waiter delivered the beers and five glasses filled with ice. When he left, Loc leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Do you know where they are? My brother, Duc, and my friend?”
“No. I just know you’ve got my box.”
Loc poured his beer into the glass without looking at it. The boy next to him, wearing a black leather necktie, lit a cigarette with fingers thin as fork tines. Loc leaned back. “What do you know about Duc?” he asked.
Frye reached into his pockets and dumped the bracelets that Stanley Smith had given him onto the table. “Not a thing. But maybe I can help.”
Loc studied them like a poker player with two pair would study a winning straight. Then he handled the bracelets lightly and looked at Frye. One of the other boys stopped his beer glass halfway to his lips, and stared. “We can’t talk here.”
Frye stood.
He trailed them out of the noodle shop, then across the parking lot to a beat-up station wagon. The lights of Saigon Plaza glowed in the near distance, and Frye could see the elaborate archway posed against the darkness. Loc ordered his three friends into the back seat of the car, then headed for the driver’s side. “We ride around and talk,” he said.
This looks like a real bad idea, thought Frye. “Just you and me,” he said, pointing to the back. “Get rid of them.”
Loc offered a wry smile. “You don’t trust us?”
“No.”
Loc brought out a cigarette and lit it. He hesitated, then spoke to the boys. They climbed back out, staring at Frye with insulted dignity. Loc said something; they mumbled apparent approval.
Frye walked to the driver’s side and stood in front of Loc. He could feel his chest thumping against his shirt. “Leave the gun.”
“I have no gun.” Loc held open his coat, then grasped each side pocket in a hand and squeezed the material together. “Clean.”
Frye got in.
Loc backed out of the lot while his two friends stood and watched. The big car heaved onto Bolsa, heading west. “Let me see the bracelets again,” he said.
Frye put them on the seat between them. Loc picked up one, rubbed it, set it down. “These belong to Duc. Where did you get them?”
“They belong to me. And I got them the same place Duc did. How long has he been missing?”
Loc glanced at him, his hands on the steering wheel. The big coat dwarfed him. “You’re from Lawrence. You try to trick me.”
Frye wondered who Lawrence was. It wasn’t the time to ask. Play along, he thought. “I’m not. I just need that box back, Loc. That’s the truth.”
Loc drove past Saigon Plaza. Frye looked out at the big lions guarding the entrance, the archway, the streetlamps. When he turned back, Loc was staring at him. “If you’re not from Lawrence, how do you know my name?”