Little Mountain (29 page)

         “Yes, I know. I did wait. Did you find a weapon yet?”

         Wilkins shook his head. “But from the looks of the boy’s leg, we expect to find a small-caliber weapon.
In the canal, most probably.
Viseth was stuck under a bridge past the mill, doing the dead man’s float.”

         “So you’re accusing me of murder.” It was not a question.

         “No, I’m suggesting you did a public service taking that trash off the street,” Wilkins said. “To the public, we’re looking high and low for the killer. Between you and me, though, I think we can close this case.”

         Sam’s hands trembled. What was he supposed to say? Wilkins wouldn’t sit still for a sermon on Sam’s values, which seemed so alien to the lieutenant. “
I didn’t do it,
” he finally said.

        
“Right.
Look, Viseth is gone. That’s the main thing.”

         All of Sam’s blood seemed to collect in his face. “No, it’s
not
the main thing! Don’t you think someone was pulling Viseth Kim’s strings?”

        
“Probably.
But Viseth pulled the trigger, and now he’s dead. Meanwhile, we have other cases.”

         Wilkins cut off Sam’s objection. “Look, I take it back. You didn’t have anything to do with Viseth’s unfortunate--um, demise. Anyway, your file stays clean. Don’t worry about that. I won’t stiff you the way you stiffed my brother.”

         Sam went back to his desk wondering whether he should go back to school and finish his degree. He was only a dozen credits short, but maybe graduation could get him a job where he didn’t have to work for Wilkins’ type. But how could he let his father down? That was why he’d become a cop in the first place. It was a family tradition, and he could almost hear his father’s lecture.
You have a responsibility, son.
Father looked stern in Sam’s memory.
The khaki uniform, the jet-black hair that gleamed like his polished shoes.
The gaze that seemed so ready to believe his son would disappoint him. “One day I will die,” he’d said, “and you and Sarapon must take care of your mother. I am afraid you will neglect her.”

         His father had been right. Sam hadn’t protected his mother in Cambodia, and he hadn’t protected his family in America, either. But he had become a policeman to prove his dead father wrong.

         He decided to visit one of Viseth’s old haunts.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Asian Store on Tucker Street was a five-minute drive, past the Jewish cemetery and over the railroad bridge. Sam had never been there except on police business. Two weeks ago, a gang had robbed this store and put the Cambodian owner in the hospital. Viseth had lived around the corner, but that didn’t prove anything. Now Sam lingered over the aisles of canned and packaged goods while a ceiling fan circulated the sticky air. The store smelled of egg rolls and fresh fish.

         The dark pine floors were worn smooth, probably years before the owner Souvann Tip ever imagined coming to America. Jasmine tea in yellow cans sat on shelves along with canned banana blossoms and boiled lotus seeds. Bags of
ting ting jahe
were just down the aisle from cans of tender bamboo shoots, sliced squid, and bottles of peppers. Packages in bright reds and greens came from places like Jakarta, Bangkok, and Singapore.

         And there was rice, of course rice, by the ten-kilo bag.
Rice candy.
Rice flour.
Rice paste.
Rice cakes.
And rice noodles, translucent, fragile,
looped
like endless ropes in thin cellophane bags stacked high on the shelves.

         Sam ached at the memory of his mother serving him bowls of steamed rice on a lazy afternoon when the monks let him out of school for the day. Of the sweet taste of coconut
milk,
and the
galangal
that turned cooked chicken into magic. He picked up a gallon of milk from the refrigerated case and a package of ginger candy off the shelf. Maybe Trish would like to try something new.

         Sam waited in a short line at the counter. The clerk was a teenage girl who snapped her gum and did not return Sam’s smile. The sounds of heavy metal drifted out of her earphones. He tried not to be distracted by the aroma of warm egg rolls that lay on the counter. Underneath the counter were dozens of cassettes for sale, everything from Bangkok heavy metal to Singapore disco.

         “How is your father?” Sam asked.

         She eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”

         “I’m a police officer. You were robbed here last month. Your father was hurt.” Souvann had taken a 9-millimeter slug in the shoulder. Sam and Willie had picked up Viseth for questioning and then released him. There had been no arrest.

         Her look hardened to cement. In the corner by the ceiling hung a camera that stared unblinking, like a large black fly stuck to the wall. This was a new addition since the robbery.

         “I’ll tell you one thing,” the girl said. “My father is glad that Battboy is dead.” A copy of
Cambodian Voices
lay on the counter in front of her, and Viseth’s murder was front-page news.
Nice of him to die before the paper’s deadline.

         “I just wondered how your father is doing.”

         “Ask him yourself. He’s in the back room with the fish.”

         Sam turned around. The circular mirror above the paper goods was also new; his image reflected off the polished surface. He stepped across the threshold that led into the narrow back room. A fluorescent light strobed overhead as Souvann sat on a stool and added ice to the cases that held squid, pogy, mackerel, and cod. His left arm rested in a sling while he shoveled the cubes right-handed with a metal scoop. Anyone hit with a bullet three inches above his heart would want to rest that left arm for quite a while. If Sam had wanted to get past Souvann to the plantains and the bok choy, he would have to slip sideways.

         Sam offered a wide smile. Souvann looked up, but didn’t look glad to see him.

         “Did your doctor allow you to go back to work so soon, Mister Tip?” Sam put down the milk and shook Souvann’s hand, which had the slippery feel of fish scales.

         “My doctor won’t tend the fish while I heal.”

         “Aren’t you going to tell me who shot you?”

         “I don’t know who shot me.” Souvann looked at the fish; he had yet to look directly at Sam. Sam’s eyes drifted to a codfish, which returned a dead stare. “When I find out,” Souvann said, “I’ll deal with him myself.”

         “What do you mean?” A .38-caliber pistol lay on the floor, partially hidden by the stool Souvann was sitting on, within easy reach of his good hand. It wasn’t the gun that had shot Viseth; that was a .22.

         “I don’t trust the police,” Souvann said. “They’re no better than the criminals they’re supposed to protect us from. What are you doing in a job like that?”

         Sam ignored the question. “We’ll do our best to protect you if you’ll let us. Do you know Bin Chea, the man who was killed a few days ago?”

         “You’re standing there holding a gallon of milk and asking a lot of questions. Meanwhile, your family goes hungry, and I don’t get any work done.”

         “Mister Tip, do you have a carry permit for that gun?”

         Souvann shrugged with his good shoulder. “What do I need one for?”

         “Massachusetts has a strict gun law. If you’re caught without a permit, you will spend a year in jail.”

         “So you just caught me. I’m guilty of defending myself without permission. At least in jail I won’t see any Battboys.”

         “Don’t count on that, Mister Tip. Meanwhile, I’m not going to arrest you. Give me the pistol, and I’ll return it when you get a permit. Come by the station in the morning. I’ll help you apply.”

         Souvann turned over the weapon, grip first. “What do I owe you for not arresting me?”

         “I want to know about Bin Chea. What do you know about the man?”

         “I know a lot of people.”

         “These people who attacked you might be the same people who attacked Bin Chea.”

         “Then I forgive them.”

         “Why are you angry with Chea?”

         “I never said I knew him.”

         “You don’t know him, but you’re glad he’s dead.”

         “I never said--”

         “You said more than you think. How do you know him?”

         Souvann sighed. “We met at Site 2 in Thailand. He helped me start this business. I owe him three thousand dollars, and he’s been angry with me because I can’t repay him yet. My business is slow. If I paid him back right now, my daughter couldn’t go to school in the fall. As it is, I can’t afford health insurance for my family.”

         “Did he ever threaten you?”

        
“No, never.
He was always polite but insistent. Maybe he was my health insurance.”

         “Why are you so angry at him?”

        
“Because in the last month, four of my tires have been slashed.
Because I get calls in the middle of the night, one, two in the morning, and no one is there.
Because I just had to replace my plate-glass window.
And because I was robbed and shot.
Those things never used to happen. And now I know what a shit he is. I’ve heard the stories people tell. They say that in Cambodia he was always polite to his victims before he bashed their skulls.”

         Sam’s stomach tightened. “Do you have any reason to believe those rumors?”

         “Everybody kept saying it. All those people can’t be wrong.
To think that I trusted him.”

         And now you think you don’t have to pay him back. “Did Chea know the person who attacked you?”

         “There’s a chance. I heard Chea say the Battboys are scum. Follow a Battboy and you have to scrape your shoes, he said. But he didn’t say he would never let a Battboy follow him.”

         “Does he have relatives in the city?”

         “He has a son in his own house.
In the second-floor apartment.”

         Sam buried his surprise. The pieces were falling into place. “I met him. Who else lives in that apartment?”

        
“His wife, their son, and his mother-in-law.”

         Nawath Lac and his wife had never said anything about losing Nawath’s father. How did she react? Shocked, but not grieved. They implied that he was only their landlord and not the head of the family. Had they held back? Was Chea alive, and had they known it when he spoke to them?

         “When did you last speak with Chea?”

         “The last time he asked for payment. About a week before I was robbed.”

Sam brought the pistol to the station. When he got home, Julie lay on the couch on her right side, her back to the door. The apartment smelled like roast chicken, which still sat on the kitchen table.

         “You were gone for over an hour, Sam,” she said. “Trish had her supper and went to bed.”

         “Can I get you something to eat?”

         “Uh-uh. Not hungry.”

         “Me either. Let’s just go to bed.”

         She made a half-hearted effort to push him away,
then
yielded as he gently placed her arm around his shoulder. They walked together into the bedroom, and he eased her onto the bed.