Frye could picture Ronald Billingham hovering over his desk, tossing the copy back to him and saying, “You can’t accuse a man of murder when nobody saw him do it and he was halfway around the world when it happened.
This is America, Chuck, You’re a little too close to this one, buddy. I’ve got an art museum fundraiser tonight — cover it with a photog and don’t drink all the champagne.”
Besides, a story like that would expose Bennett.
Frye tossed the sheets to the lacerated couch.
Bennett called at quarter of four. “Wiggins just told me about Xuan, Chuck. I was out tonight or I’d have—”
“I know. You were at the Paradise.”
“Who told you that?”
“I watched. And so did Paul DeCord. With a camera.”
“It’s real important, Chuck, that you don’t say anything to anyone at this point. I can’t stress how—”
“I figured that.”
The silence seemed to go on forever before Frye spoke again. “Do you know about Colonel Thach?”
“You can’t spend much time in Little Saigon and not hear about Colonel Thach.”
“Did Wiggins tell you what they did to Xuan?”
“They shot him.”
“Wiggins made me swear I wouldn’t say anything, but Xuan wasn’t shot. He was beheaded.”
“Jesus, Chuck.”
“Thach could have engineered this, couldn’t he?”
“I’ve been praying since Sunday night that he didn’t.”
“You’ve suspected since then?”
“You saw what left the Paradiso tonight, Chuck. Colonel Thach and I have been making war on each other for ten years now. I never thought he’d bring it to me.”
Frye just stood there, part of him surprised at what his brother had been doing, part of him not even surprised a little. “What if he has?”
“Then we’ll never see Li again — alive. And more people in Little Saigon are going to die.”
“Who could stop him?”
Bennett waited. “Nobody has been able to yet.”
“What about the Feds?”
“They won’t even talk, not to me.”
“Dien?”
“He’s looking after his money and his reputation. I don’t think he could touch Thach’s people if he wanted to.”
“What about you?”
“I’m working on it. I have been for ten years. That’s all I can say.”
“I figured as much.”
“Chuck? Do one thing for me. Be careful, very careful, about where you go and what you do. I’ve asked you to stay out of this, now I’m ordering you.”
“I don’t work for you, Bennett.”
Bennett was silent. “No, I guess you don’t.”
Frye hung up. Who might know if Thach’s men had come here? Who knows all the comings and goings in Little Saigon? Who talks to the people, has his finger on things?
Who?
He is the most powerful man in Little Saigon.
Now I’ve got another reason to see the General.
More exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life, Frye fell into bed.
Chapter 14
General Dien’s house was a big two-story brick affair, half a mile from Saigon Plaza. It was American Colonial-suburban, with a black iron fence around it, a video camera at each end of the semicircular driveway, and two men in suits and sunglasses standing outside the gate.
Frye stepped from his car and walked toward the guards. They spread their feet and crossed their arms. Frye came up close enough to see his face reflected in the dark lenses. “I’d like to see the general. It’s important.”
One guard looked at the other, then shook his head. “General not home.”
“Where is he?”
“With his people.”
Frye introduced himself and offered his hand, but got no takers. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“What is your business?”
“I’m Li Frye’s brother-in-law. I want to talk to the general about... the case. And thank him for what he did that night at the Asian Wind.”
Again, the two conferred. The shorter one produced a telephone from under his coat and punched some buttons. A moment later, Frye heard the crackling report of a connection. The guard talked in Vietnamese, waited, said something else, then pushed down the antenna and replaced the unit on his belt. “The general is an extremely busy man, but he will see you now. He is in the Paris Cafe, in the back room, through the curtain.”
The Paris Cafe was lunchtime-crowded. Frye angled through the tables, led by a slender maître d’ in a tuxedo. Everybody stared at him. His guide held open the bead curtain for him. Two men in suits stood just inside. It was a small room, with four tables, a long lacquer painting on one wall and a stack of unused chairs by a service door.
General Dien sat at the corner table with three Vietnamese men. The general put down his bowl and looked at Frye. His face was leathery and dark, his mouth tight, his eyes brown and moist. The polo shirt was too big for him. It was buttoned at the top, but scarcely touched his thin, weathered neck. “One moment, please,” he said with absolutely no change of expression. His flat eyes beheld Frye a beat longer, then he looked to his men by the curtain. He motioned irritably with his chopsticks. One stepped forward and offered Frye a chair.
Here, thought Frye, is a man who wears power as comfortably as a pair of mucklucks.
The general’s guests excused themselves in humble voices, and disappeared through the rattling beads. When they were gone, except for the bodyguards, Dien offered a strong thin hand.
“Mr. Frye, finally.”
“My pleasure, sir. I know you’re busy.”
Dien nodded, pulled out a silver cigarette case, and offered Frye a smoke. The waiter approached quietly, lit the cigarettes, and disappeared again. “Your brother is a brave man, and his wife a courageous woman,” said Dien. “You have much to be proud of.”
“Thank you. And thank you for doing what you could to help that night. We’re grateful.”
Dien nodded slightly. “Old soldiers are never too old to shoot straight. Li is more than a woman to her people. She is symbol of everything we were, and hope to be again.”
Frye studied the flat dark face. “It was carefully planned, wasn’t it? The gunman on stage had a chance to shoot Benny and didn’t take it. They were in and out in less than two minutes.”
“In the confusion,” Dien said, “it seemed like hours.”
“Sir, I came to you for help. First, for something... general. Second, for something specific.”
“What can I do?”
“First, do you think that Colonel Thach could have planned it?”
Dien leaned back and looked toward the curtain. The waiter came through a moment later with tea for both of them. Dien drew on his cigarette, old cheeks hollowing. “That is a very sensitive question, Mr. Frye. You see, there is no act that happens alone in Little Saigon. We are a close community, so one thing inevitably touches others. You will find no people on earth as strongly anti-Communist as the Vietnamese refugee. They have seen the horror. So, everything is seen as political here. Every whisper and every breath. Last year, a newspaper publisher was burned to death for running an advertisement believed to be pro-Communist. Before that, a community leader was shot for what he said in an interview about recognizing Hanoi. His words were misinterpreted, but that didn’t prevent the bullets from entering his stomach. Not long ago, an editor in San Francisco and his wife were both killed because of the socialist leanings of their magazine. Things in Little Saigon, Mr. Frye, can be extremely volatile, when you mention the name Colonel Thach.”