Little Mountain (15 page)

The memories were a scab on Sam’s brain.

         “No way
I can
pay you back--”

         Sam shifted in the warm plastic seat, more comfortable with Wilkins’ abuse than with Cal’s praise.
Not that he didn’t prefer compliments,
but he was used to hearing about his shortcomings for about as long as he could remember. Even his father had never expected him to amount to anything, and the old man had often said so.

         Flakes of baklava stuck to Cal’s lips. “Look, you gotta watch your back. Wilkins is going to stick it in you and core your guts out.”

         “He’s just a lot of words, Cal. I’ve seen worse.” Sam only half believed his own words. What lengths would Wilkins take to keep Sam in his place?

         “You got stainless steel balls, arresting Pooey Wilkins last winter. Rumor is that the Lieutenant’s setting you up. Son of a bitch is out to get you any way he can.”

         “Pooey isn’t the Lieutenant’s fault. Anyway, the guy was dealing.”

         “Just be real careful who you trust. Especially watch what you say at the station.”

         Sam shrugged. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a problem tracking down Khem,” he said. “What do I call this guy, this Khem-without-a-last-name?”

         “Call him Khem Doe.”

         “Chea’s neighbors claim they hardly know Khem at all, so how come they hear him talking so much? How many people have heard him or met him? And how many are parrots just repeating what they’ve heard?”

         “What do you need Khem for?” asked Cal. “Why aren’t you after the killer, who’s supposed to be a Battboy?”

         “I think Khem may be tied in with the killing, but I don’t see how. If anything, I expect he’d want to kill Chea himself.”

         “So what’s he been saying?”

         “With a wave of Bin Chea’s finger whole families died.” Sam cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s what he told Chea’s neighbor Li Chang. Apparently gave the bloody details, but Mrs. Chang wouldn’t repeat them to me. She told Khem he must be thinking of someone else, that Chea was not that kind of guy.”

         “And now we’ll never know.”

         “Seems that way, doesn’t it? Khem also told her he killed his best friend.”

         “Wait.
Who--?”
Cal seemed confused.

         “Khem killed his own best friend. He said Chea made him do it in front of a group.”

         “The devil made him do it? Wait, that’s bullshit. Khem holds the gun, right? So why not turn it on this Chea guy instead?”

         “No, he was in front of his comrades. Some were soldiers with AK-47’s, and all Khem had
was
a club.”

         “So what if you find this Khem and it turns out he did Chea? And it turns out Chea’s who you think he was?”

         “Who he might’ve been,” Sam corrected.

        
“Yeah.
Do you let this Khem go, or what?”

         “I’d cuff him and read him his rights.”

         “You’d arrest him? Khem kills a prick like that, he deserves a medal,” Cal said.

         “Anyway, I don’t know if Chea was the guy at Little Mountain.”

         “How common’s his last name?”

         “How common is Smith?”

         “Oh. So you caught the same shit Khem did over there?”

         “Everybody did.”

         “Maybe Khem hired some Battboys to do the deed.”

         Cal paid the check, and they headed back into the heat. Cal was a decent fellow, but Sam had probably wasted his time. Fitchie followed.

         “By the way,” Cal said. “You know that DOA the other night?”

        
“The guy who hit the pickup?”

         “And the girl goes ass over teakettle through the windshield with her panties down her kneecaps?”

         Sam nodded. At the same time, Julie’s panties had been sliding down past
her
kneecaps. Then the phone rang, and they slid back up.

         “Why do you think they were driving like that?” Cal asked.

         “Someone caught them in the act, I suppose. Ask Carmela Diaz.”

        
“Tried.
Sight of a cop gives her lockjaw. You’re good at talking to people, though. Maybe you could speak to her. They were three blocks down from your man’s house.
A straight line.”

         “They might have seen the shooter?”

         “Must’ve seen
something
to break their concentration,” Cal said.

         “I have to make a call,
then
I’ll go see her. Thanks, Cal.” Sam went to a pay phone and called the funeral home where Chea’s body had been taken after its release.

         Sam talked to Paddy McDermaid, the funeral director. “I need to know what Mister Chea looked like,” Sam said. “Will you show a picture of him at the wake?”

         “I believe we will,” McDermaid said. “We encourage it with closed caskets.”

         The wake was scheduled for six. After that, he should have time for a trip to Cochran’s Gym, which
he’d
skipped the last couple of nights.

“Gentleman here to see you,” the nurse announced.
Sam followed her into Carmela Diaz’s hospital room. A large bouquet of flowers sat on a small table. The other bed was empty. The television had a game show on. Carmela’s face was covered with bandages, her eyes framed in purple skin.

         “Who’s he?” she asked, but the nurse was already gone. Sam introduced himself and showed his badge.

         “How are you feeling, Miss Diaz?”

         “How do I look?”

        
“Like you’re in pain.”

         “You’re very smart. I’m what, nine shades of blue? Cut from head to toe? Head big as a watermelon, didn’t bust open,
only
feels like it?
Concussion, broken bones in my face, broken elbow, torn cartilage?
Name a bone, I think it’s broke?” Her eyes filled up like a dam about to burst. “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

         “I’m sorry about your accident.”

         She sniffled. “What time is it?”

         “Four o’clock.”

         “Change the channel for me?
Seven?
No, just turn it off.” Sam flicked the power button on the remote, and the picture collapsed into a point.

         “Were you parked on Eleventh Street the other night?” he said.

         “Justo’s
dead
.” Tears rolled down purple spillways and soaked into the dressing on her face.

         Sam waited.
Tried to stay detached.
Tried not to think of his father’s agony.
Finally she calmed down a little.
Why were you and Justo driving like that?
was
the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask. How
humiliated
she must be. “What did you see at the top of Eleventh Street?” he finally said.

         “
I seen
this guy.”

         “What was he doing?”

         “He was like staring at us.”

         “Is that all?”

         “He had a rifle.”

         She had seen the killer. “Was it pointed at you?”

         Carmela shook her head and winced.

         “Maybe you should keep your head still. Do you know who he was?”

         “Justo must
of
knew him. He thought the guy was like totally gonna kill us.”

         “Did Justo mention his name?”

         “I don’t think so.”

         “Did you get a good look at him?”

         “He was in shadows. The street light was out. I think he was an Asian kid with hair in his eyes.”

         “But your boyfriend recognized him?”

         “Justo wasn’t really my boyfriend.”

         Oh, I’m sorry. I jump to conclusions. He kept his voice gentle. “Justo could see him in the dark, but you couldn’t?”

         “Look, don’t you think I suffered enough? He blew a guy
away.
I don’t want him coming after me.”

         “I understand how you feel. But if he knows you, you’ll be safer when he’s behind bars.”

         She turned her head away from Sam. “Get out of here,” she said softly. “Just leave me alone.”

On his way home, Sam drove by an old wooden building. When he’d first moved to the area, the place had been a small bookstore. After a year or two it became a thrift shop. Now it was the perfect target for a firebug: the window in the door was shuttered, the CLOSED sign hadn’t been flipped in months, and the second floor windows were covered with plywood. He slowed to notice the broken number on the door.
One-seven-five, the last digit a shadow where the hardware had been.
One of the places on Fitchie’s Paradise list.
Hmph. Was probably scheduled for the torch until Bin Chea died.

After supper, Julie excused Trish from the table, and she sat alone with Sam and two glasses of iced tea. Perspiration formed a light sheen on her forehead, and Sam brushed her face with his fingers. “Sometimes I feel a little crazy,” Julie said.

         “I do that to you?” He still couldn’t believe his luck in marrying her.

         “No. I mean yes, but--but I kept seeing the same car today, some old rattle-trap. It’s
stupid,
I just saw it three or four times.”

         Sam sat up straight. “What kind of car?”

         “It was old and blue, and had four wheels. You know me and cars.”

         “Did anyone bother you?”

         “No one even
looked
at me,
that’s
how silly I feel.”

         “You see what the person looked like?”

         Julie squeezed the lemon into her tea,
then
shrugged.

         “Man?
Woman?
White?
Black?”

         “Yes sir, Detective Long, sir. Subject was an Asian male, of whom there are approximately ten thousand in the area. Subject was ascertained to have been minding his own business.”

         “If he keeps showing up, try to get a plate number and a make on the car, okay?” Julie’s seeing the car didn’t seem to mean much. The tea chilled his throat going down. “Someone’s trying to buy me off,” he said.
“Left a wad of bills in my car this morning.”

         Julie didn’t ask whether Sam turned it in; to her, there was no other possibility. Maybe that came from knowing that her family would never let their daughter and grand-daughter become poor. No, that wasn’t it. Sam struggled to do the right thing; Julie could be penniless and stumble on a million dollars, and she’d still say “it isn’t mine.”