Absolute Rage (29 page)

Lucy steered onto Route 25 and took it a few miles north to the Reservoir Road exit. A few more turns found them in a leafy neighborhood of middle-class homes set back from the street behind tree-shaded lawns. She spotted the right number and pulled into a long driveway.

“Don't get out,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Zak, his hand on the door handle.

“It's good manners to wait,” she said, a fib. In fact, she knew, weapons were probably pointing at them right now. She waited. Within three minutes, she heard a door open, steps on the brick walk; a handsome Vietnamese man of saturnine mien appeared at the driver's side window.

“Good morning, Freddy,” she said in Vietnamese.

Freddy Phat smiled politely. He was always polite, but never friendly. Lucy imagined it was because he resented his employer's relationship with her as something that made that employer vulnerable. Which it did. “He's engaged, just now. Come into the house. Mrs. Diem will give you tea.”

That person, gray-haired and severe, all in black, did so, at a wrought-iron table under an umbrella on the brick terrace behind the house. With the tea were croissants and sliced mangoes arranged in elegant spirals. The boys were not interested in the tea, but remained subdued under their sister's eye, and under the spell of the mysterious Tran, whom they had not seen since their infancy, but who was a legend in the family circle. They knew that he was a gangster, and since they had never met an actual gangster (aside from Mom), they were keen with anticipation. Giancarlo hoped to see a suitcase full of $100 bills. Zak wished to see a machine-gun in full blast. Both longed, without much realistic expectation, to watch a vehicle explode.

As if to pique them, a young Vietnamese man dressed entirely in black emerged onto the patio from the house, nodded to them, and walked past through the gate that led to the driveway. When he raised his arm to lift the latch, Zak said, “Wow, he's got an Uzi under his coat.”

“Don't stare,” said Lucy. “It could be a Skorpion. They use those more.”

She watched the man depart. In her experience, Tran employed two sorts of people: either quiet, sad, hard men in their forties and fifties, veterans of the American war, old comrades and alumni of the regime's reeducation camps, like Tran himself; or people like the man in black, younger brothers and cousins of the former type, whose childhood the war had consumed, gangsters from the cradle.

“What should we do when he comes?” Giancarlo asked his sister in a subdued voice. “Do we have to bow or something?”

“A bow is always appropriate when meeting an Asian gentleman,” said Lucy. “He doesn't speak much English. If you want to know something, ask me and I'll translate.”

The boys had finished the last of the food and were, despite themselves, growing restless, when Tran stepped out on the terrace. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark slacks, with woven leather sandals on his feet. Lucy immediately arose and embraced him, receiving the canonical three kisses on her cheeks.

“My dear, I am so happy to see you,” he said, holding her at arm's length and studying her. “You have become a young woman overnight. As I have become an old man.” This in French, in a peculiar colonial accent spiced with antique Parisian slang. He had been a student there and a Left Bank busboy, before he returned to the long war.

“You never age, Uncle,” she replied, but she was surprised to observe many signs that he had. She had never thought much about it before, but she imagined that he must now be in his midsixties, or perhaps even older. Just slightly taller than she, he was still erect and sinewy, but his eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets and the skin was pulling away from the bones of his face. Their eyes met, and he smiled slightly, turning away. She felt a blush; he always knew what she was thinking.

The boys had risen. Tran said in slow English, “I hope you're not in danger, Lucy. You travel with such tough bodyguards.”

She said, in the same language, “My brothers, Giancarlo and Zak. Boys, our uncle Tran.”

At this Zak bobbed his head uncomfortably, but Giancarlo delivered a bow that would not have insulted the emperor of China. No one laughed. Tran nodded gravely and showed them around the garden, which was formal in the French manner: paths of white gravel between geometrically clipped hedges, neat flower beds, miniature fruit trees, and exotic tropical flowers in large wooden or ceramic pots. A small greenhouse held orchids, hibiscus, and cyclamen. A large fishpond, fed by a waterfall, contained huge carp, each of whom had a name. Tran showed them how to feed them by hand. Giancarlo found a paper bag and made an origami boat. Zak built a raft from twigs. They amused themselves and waited patiently for the gangster stuff to begin. Lucy and Tran sat on a stone bench in the russet shade of a Japanese maple.

“They seem to be fine boys. Exactly alike to look at, but very different as people.”

“Yes. Totally different. It's a wonder to science.”

“Remarkable! And you? Your studies progress well?”

“I'm not flunking out, another wonder. I spend most of my time on the languages and being a lab rat. Studying holds little interest, I'm afraid. It seems like a delay before I do what I'm meant to. The other students seem like children; that, or worried old people in young bodies. Of course, I don't expect to fit in anywhere.”

“Oh, you poor child. Pardon me while I weep bitter tears.”

“Well, it's true.”

“Yes,” he said after a pause, “but you should be used to your fate by now. Has anything vocational presented itself?”

“Rather an embarrassment of riches, Uncle. Offers from banks, from the UN. Also there are people who come to watch my demonstrations who are definitely not from the scientific community.”

“Well, yes. You would be God's gift to any intelligence service. Are you interested in that sort of work?”

“Not at all, or rather not for a government. I might want to do something for the Church, though.”

“You are still religious, I take it.”

“Yes. Did you think it would fade?”

He looked at her consideringly. “Perhaps not. And what of love? Do you lie on riverbanks under blossoming trees with beautiful young men?”

“Oh, yes. I have a little machine, like in the butcher's. There are so many they have to take numbers.”

“I am glad to hear of it. It should serve to distract you from an excess of piety.”

“I am joking, Uncle, as you must know.”

“Why must I? You seem fascinating to me, and delicious: slim, elegant, and graceful, when you are not distracted by self-consciousness. Very like our women, I think. Most Western women seem like cows to me. In fact, were we in a civilized land, like France or Vietnam, and were I only a little younger, I would certainly try to seduce you myself. I see I have succeeded in shocking you. This will only serve to confirm my reputation as an evil man.”

Lucy was flustered, rather than shocked, since it had never occurred to her that
anyone
could find her delicious. Broaching the subject, however, brought thoughts of Dan Heeney to her mind, which had brought the color to her cheeks. Did Dan find her delicious? He had certainly not made a pass at her, although since no one had ever done so, perhaps she had missed it. It was just a phrase, after all. There may have been a whole series of obvious openings that had slipped by. The movies made it seem simple, but the movies also made shooting people seem simple, and from what she had observed of her mother's life, it was not at all thus. Maybe they lied about sex, too. She had an impulse to tell Tran all about Dan Heeney, but suppressed it. Why? She couldn't have said.

“Speaking of which,” she said, to change the subject, “how is the gangster business?”

“Flourishing, although the Indians at Foxwood are cutting into the gambling somewhat. I have some more restaurants, and a restaurant supply business, and some other businesses. I have dispensed with the girls.”

“Why?”

“It became annoying. One finds an unpleasant type of person in that business. I still extend protection to some ladies of a superior class, but no more happy-beer places. Then there are the loans, and protection for the Vietnamese community. If they did not pay me, they would have to pay someone else, who would undoubtedly be greedier than I am.” He sighed. “I'll tell you what it is, my dear. I am used up and cranky
[grillé et grogné].
I was not meant for this life, and the life I was meant for no longer exists. I don't even wear my own name anymore. I smoke more pipes than is good for me. My associates are perhaps getting nervous. From time to time, I must eliminate an overly ambitious young man, and what for? Even Freddy sometimes looks at me in a way he should not. I would despair to have to eliminate Freddy. Sometimes I think, ‘Oh, Tran, drive to the airport, board a plane for Vietnam, and sit at a café in Saigon, smelling the air and drinking little cups of coffee until someone finds you and puts you out of your misery.' ” A tiny pause. “Tell me, how is your mother?”

*  *  *

She was bored and irritated at the same time. She had not had a decent cup of coffee in ten days, since McCullensburg appeared to be in the vast Bad Coffee Zone of the United States, and she was drinking a little more wine than was good for her. Given the situation, she really had nothing to do. Her husband would soon come, and she suspected that one of his first acts would be to spring Mose Welch, which made her continued presence here otiose. And it was hot. And there were gnats.

Cursing without energy, she went into the house, took her second shower of the day, dressed carefully, and drove to town. Her only remaining useful activity was visiting her client once each day, to bring him a pint of chocolate ice cream and play a game of Chinese checkers with him. She had purchased the Chinese checkers herself in the Bi-Lo and taught him the game, and she did not let him win. Mose was getting better at it, though, either that, thought Marlene, or I am losing my marbles, so to speak. Or maybe playing Chinese checkers with a moron in a county jail is about my speed.

They had spectators, too. The cops came by to kibitz, and Sheriff Swett often found time in his busy schedule to stop by for a chat, as now.

“How're you doin', Mose?” called the sheriff heartily. “That pretty good ice cream?”

“It's pretty good ice cream, Sheriff,” said Mose happily. “It's chocolate.”

“Well, I can see that, Mose. You got it up to your eyes. I would say you look half like a nigger, but Ms. Ciampi here would report me for racial insensitivity.”

“I would not, Sheriff,” said Marlene. “I would give you a pass on that. I would report you for incompetence and corruption, maybe.”

The sheriff laughed. “Well, then it's a good thing for me you'll be leaving soon.”

“Yes, it is. Did you check out that pistol I took off Bo Cade?”

“Yes, I did. But I'm so incompetent, you probably don't even want to know what the state lab found out. I probably can't even read the report with my tiny little brain.”

She moved a marble and gave him a considering look. “I take it back, then. You're not incompetent. You're competently corrupt. What did it say?”

“Wasn't the .38 that killed Lizzie Heeney, is what.”

Marlene was somewhat let down by this news, but took care to disguise it. “Well, then, I'm sure you'll redouble your search for the actual murder weapon.”

“Oh, hell, you know he could've pitched it anywhere in the county, down some mine probably. This is an easy part of the country to lose things in. Is that what you done, Mose? Pitched it down a mine?”

“Uh-huh,” said Mose cheerfully, nodding his head and studying the board like Boris Spassky contemplating a tricky endgame.

“See?” said the sheriff.

“What can I say, Sheriff? It's just like
Perry Mason.
You've totally outsmarted my client.” She moved another marble, hardly looking at the board. “Just between us, now, who do you think really killed the Heeneys? I kind of like Earl and Bo Cade for it, although it's hard to believe that they're organized enough to actually pull it off. There must have been someone else involved.”

“I wouldn't know about that.” Sheriff Swett grinned around his big teeth and rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand. “And it ain't my job to speculate. I will tell you one thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“I think your client just outsmarted you.” He gestured to the board, where Mose was just placing a blue marble. He looked up, his mouth an
O,
and bounced on his bunk like a four-year-old. “I win! I win!” he crowed.

The sheriff and the cops and the other inmates roared. After a while, Marlene did, too.

“It must be something in your water,” she said, and thought, grinning up at Swett, you just gave me an idea, Sheriff.

“W
HY DON
'
T WE
,” M
ARLENE SAID
, “find that gun?”

“What gun is that?” asked Poole without much interest. They were dining at Rosie's in the courthouse square, McCullensburg. Rosie's served what Marlene always thought of as mom food, although Marlene's actual mom had not served the sort of food Rosie served, or rather Gus served, Gus being the current Rosie. Gus's meat loaf on Thursday was famous throughout the county, as was the fried chicken on Wednesday and the batter-dipped catfish on Friday. Sugar was the major condiment in Gus's cuisine, and grease the prevailing flavor. The food was, however, always served very hot, and in large quantities, which seemed to meet the needs of the locale, and Marlene's needs, too, as it was a welcome relief from the food
fascismo
prevalent at the time in lower-Manhattan upper-bourgeois circles. The place was friendly, the service was swift, the atmosphere was full of the good-natured joshing that passes for wit in the provinces, where everyone knows all the jokes and everyone else's foibles. Tonight, Marlene was going with the chicken-fried steak and mashed pot., w/peas; her partner had the open roast-beef sandwich, w/fries.