But Nabo’s eyes kill off the impulse to imitate her mentor and Hannah simply says, “You wanted to see me?”
He nods and starts to move forward, dragging the girl along like a pull toy. When he’s opposite Hannah, he positions the girl on a turned-over washing machine but stays standing.
“My father sends his regards,” he says, and gives a small head-nod without breaking eye contact. The kid has more of an accent than his old man and Hannah finds this unsettling for some reason.
She matches his formality, but it makes her feel out of balance. “Tell your father I’m grateful for any help he can offer me.”
Another nod, then he motions to the girl. “This is Mina. She works down Goulden. Out of Bedoya’s stable.”
Hannah dips her head toward Mina, but the girl looks away.
“Mina has some information for me?”
Nabo inhales and moves his hands up to his hips. “She has a story,” he says softly. “It may or may not be of use. My father said you should decide for yourself.”
Hannah looks to the girl, not sure how to play this. She doesn’t want to insult Iguaran by offering Mina cash or connections. At the same time, she doesn’t want to stray into rudeness, fail to acknowledge the gesture. What’s frustrating about this situation is how common it’s becoming, the ever-increasing subtlety of customs and traditions. It’s like the ways of the Park are changing weekly. What’s ironic is that she should feel like a native, but she never has. She works on the streets in the city where she was born and yet, since Lenore disappeared, at some point every day she feels like she’s the most obtuse tourist in the most volatile foreign land on the planet.
She turns her head and tries to study Nabo’s face for tips, but there’s nothing there. The kid isn’t vacant, it’s just the opposite — he’s so savvy at such a young age that he could already be a player. He’s not like Loke or any of the other junior lieutenants who all wear their ambition like fat gold jewelry. If she had to bet today, she’d put money on the Iguaran family to fill the power void in Bangkok. And she realizes it’s not the king who’s convinced her of this. It’s the prince.
Hannah clears her throat and says, “Let me hear the story and then we’ll talk.”
Nabo and Mina speak in Spanish for a minute, a hushed, clipped exchange. Then Nabo starts to tell about the bad john, the basement apartment, the handcuffs, the make-believe name, the history lesson. And finally, the awful baptism with la gasolina. Now and then, Mina breaks in with some clarification or additional information. She speaks in English, but only to Nabo.
Hannah stays calm and attentive, but stares at the girl through Nabo’s whole spiel. When he finishes, she asks, “Could you describe the man?”
Mina nods her head rapidly.
“Could she find the apartment? Does she remember where it was?”
This time the girl squints her eyes and gives a slow, moody shrug. Without waiting for Hannah to comment, Nabo turns to Mina and says, “Espérame en el carro,” and the girl immediately slides off the washer and runs away, disappearing behind a mountain of half-demolished TV sets.
There’s a full quiet minute as they stare at each other, then Nabo says, “It could be nothing.”
Hannah decides to be direct. “You know it isn’t.”
Nabo mimics Mina’s shrug.
“Okay,” Hannah says, “what do we do now?”
“My father would like to cement our relationship.”
“What happened to taking our time? Getting to know each other a little better?”
Nabo folds his arms across his chest. He’s more comfortable staring than talking, but he’s confident and he’s completely clear about his old man’s objectives. “My father wants to make a deal now. Tomorrow could be too late—”
“For who?” Hannah interrupts.
“We have information, Detective. We have people who …” He lowers his voice, starts again. “Bangkok is about to explode, Detective Shaw.” His voice is completely polite, almost rehearsed. “Every day that passes is crucial. You need to make sure your alliances are in place before the explosion happens.”
She doesn’t want to say it, but something forces it out.
“I’m aligned,” overemphasizing the word, “with Dr. Cheng.”
Nabo clams up at the name, looks from side to side as if surveying the value of the debris all around him, as if there were a way to get wealthy off the discarded mess of Quinsigamond’s biggest dumping ground.
Finally, he looks back to Hannah and allows what almost looks like a smile to spread on his dark lips.
“My father said you were too smart to be foolish.”
Hannah just shrugs, already regretting the mention of Cheng.
“My father said to tell you, you are smarter than your predecessor.”
She keeps her voice even and says, “Your father never knew Lenore Thomas.”
In the distance, a hundred yards away at the biodegradable mountains of rotted food, Vern Gomi’s beat old bulldozer starts making its way over the hill and begins to push multicolored piles of garbage into one large, steaming heap. Nabo and Hannah both watch in silence as Gomi grinds back and forth, sinking now and then into the muck, mashing gears as he extricates himself.
Without looking away from the hill, Nabo says, “What’s it going to be, Detective?”
Hannah gets up off the Frigidaire and rolls her head around her neck. She blocks Lenore’s voice from her head and says, “Let’s go talk to Mina about that address.”
36
Wallace moves down Paterson Ave, fiddling with the keys to Flynn’s office and trying to remember the code to shut down the alarm. Flynn gave him the keys over a month ago, but until now, Wallace has always considered this more a gesture than an invitation, a way of signifying allegiance to the surrogate father.
The keys are attached to what looks like a small suction cup, a round, slightly curved and ribbed piece of green rubber with the words
G.T. Flynn
Financial Services
You Are Protected
stamped in white lettering on the surface. When he first saw the key chain, Wallace asked what it was supposed to be. Flynn looked disappointed and told him to guess. Wallace stared at the circle of rubber and asked if it was a drink coaster and Flynn shook his head and said, “You’ve got to think symbolically. It’s a safety net. You know, like the firemen catch people in. A safety net. Get it?”
Wallace runs his fingers over the rubber “net” and shakes his head. He doesn’t like “thinking symbolically.” It doesn’t come naturally. He wishes it did, because ideas and signs and symbols seem to mean so much to all the new people. And the fact that he finds them so bothersome and, frankly, unimportant is one more unwanted hint that his era is fading out.
He stops in front of the Victorian and looks up at it for a second. Then he climbs up the stairs and across the front porch and up to the huge front door. He unlocks the three dead bolts and steps into the darkness of the office. He brings his hand to the wall, feels for the light switch, and flips it, but the room remains dark. He steps over to the alarm box and sees the red “armed” light is off, the system is down.
Wallace closes the ‘door behind him and relocks a single dead bolt, then starts to feel his way through the outer reception room toward Flynn’s office. He’ll sack out on the couch till G.T. gets home and they can talk. Flynn was raised a Catholic and he’ll understand the need for confession. He’ll feel compelled to forgive the sins of a fallen dwarf, fall into the role he plays so well — the gracious benefactor. Wallace doesn’t like this kind of cold analysis, but he’s spent a lifetime sizing people up in this way, looking for the telling inflection in the voice, the pattern in small, unimportant behaviors. There’s a way to find hidden motivations. It’s a method Wallace has honed for so long that now it’s simply reflex. He couldn’t shut it down if he wanted to. Who needs who more? Does the father require the son or is it the other way around? And suddenly he flashes on that image of Flynn as the runaway orphan, fifteen years old and gobbling down Olga’s meatballs like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, like he was some skeletal refugee, a displaced person from a vague and distant borderland, desperate not only for the spatzle and the rye bread but for the words of the deformed missionary, the dwarf in the cardigan, this mutated mirror image of the shining television dad dispensing the words of a new religion called jamming.