Little Mountain (5 page)

         And maybe he wouldn’t.

         His mind drifted to the girl in the car last night. Too bad he didn’t know where she lived. Probably wasn’t here on 11th Street. Now
he
could show her some real fun. He could stretch her out on the hood of his old Chevy while her boyfriend looked on
--

         A Cambodian woman wearing sunglasses walked toward him with brisk steps, her face looking straight up the hill. Though he didn’t live in the neighborhood, he knew she was a single mother who lived in the same house Chea lived in, and that the girl who scampered along the edge of the park was hers. Nice body mom’s got, long legs, bet that ass could swing. “Hey lady,” he called out. “Let’s go someplace cool and get to know each other.”

         She didn’t turn her head or slow her pace, but he could feel her eyes looking at him. The faintest hint of a scowl shaped her lips. Her heels clicked on the cement sidewalk. She wanted him, he could tell. She walked by, close enough that he could smell her perfume. “It’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got twelve inches all for you.”

         The woman looked across the street and waved at her daughter. “P
h
eary, be careful crossing the street.”

         Up the street where she walked was Rocky, the Cambodian kid who put out one of the street lights for him. Rocky was a skinny little shit in a red bathing suit, shower clogs, and a golden brown back.
Who the hell cared what his real name was
? Rocky threw small rocks at a pair of sneakers that dangled over a telephone wire,
then
popped a bulb on a telephone pole. Damn kid was good,
he
had to admit. “Hey Rocky,” he called. “I told you to stop that shit. Once was enough.” Sure as shit, if the boy got in trouble for darkening the street, the kid would blame him. Cops might connect him with last night. He was unclear on that. Was there any way they could tie him to the murder? If there wasn’t any light, then no one saw him leave, unless
--
. He should have thought more about that ahead of time.

         A police car turned the corner and headed up the street toward Chea’s place. As the cruiser passed by, the driver looked at him for a moment,
then
double parked. Up the street was that Cambodian cop, the asshole who kept trying to bust him. He’d slipped away from the cop after the robbery a couple of weeks ago, but maybe he was pushing his luck to hang out here. Freakin
’
guy had muscles that could lift a pick-up truck, and eyes that could see through a barrel full of shit. Now he was in street clothes. Did he think he was fooling anybody? He was working his way down here. Viseth was fucked. If
he ran, he was
dead. Itchy beads of sweat clung to his forehead.

         The other cop stepped out of his car and said something to Rocky, then ambled across the street toward Viseth. Had Rocky called the cops? He should’ve paid the kid an extra five to shut his mouth. Or dunked him head first in the
canal,
see how long he could hold his breath. The cop’s revolver was snapped into a holster on that thick black belt they all wore. He had dark skin and a round baby face
. Gonzalez, his name tag said. What did they call them again, was it
spic
s?
This guy had to be new
--Viseth
was on spitting terms with most of the force.

         “Do you live here, sir?” Gonzalez said. He wiped his forehead with a hairy arm.

         “No.”

         “Then what are you doing here?”

         “This is a free country, right?”

        
“Right.
So what are you doing here?”

         “This is my sister’s place.
First floor.”

         “What is her name?”

         “Kim.”

         “What’s her last name?”

         “Kim. That’s her last name. Teeda Kim.”

         The officer looked past him, probably to the name on the mailbox.

         “What’s your name?”

         “Kim.”

        
“Your full name, please?”

        
“Viseth Kim.”

         “Mr. Kim, can you tell me where you were last night?”

        
“On a date.”

         “Where did you go on your date?”

        
“The movies.”

         “What theater?”

        
“Cinema 3.”

         “What did you see?”

        
“Nothing.
We stayed in the parking lot. I got the lay of my life.”
He wished.

         Gonzalez smiled. “I’m happy for you, sir. What’s his name?”

         “You hurt my feelings. I only do girls.”

         “I’ll bet you do. When did you get home?”

        
“About ten, ten-thirty.”

         “You’re a Battboy, aren’t you?”

         “No, Officer. I’ve been good.” He feigned his best hurt expression. Up the street, the Cambodian cop was talking to the little girl. Maybe Viseth could slip away.

         The cop’s expression didn’t change. “Let me try again. Are you a member of the Battboy gang?”

         “We’re not a gang exactly.
Just a few Cambodian kids who hang out together.”

         “What kind of name
is
Battboy, anyway? You guys play baseball?”

        
“Boys from Battambang.
Place in Cambodia.”

         “Where’d you get that shiner?”

         Viseth rubbed his sore eye. “Fell out of bed. No, my old man popped me one.”

         This asshole cop had no reason to bother Viseth. His mother would swear that he was home for the night by ten, ten-thirty, whatever he told her to say.
Yes, my darling son. I will protect you.
She was a blind old woman, but she’d kept him out of jail before. No jail time, not even overnight. He was untouchable, and a lot smarter than his reputation.

         “Do you know Mister Bin Chea?”

         “Yeah, I know who he is.” There was no use lying about that.

         “How do you know him?”

         “He’s my landlord.”

         “And you live on
--
?”

         “Mersey Street.” Viseth wanted to rip that little notebook out of the cop’s hands and jam it up his nose, but being unarmed and a head shorter discouraged him. He pictured this skinny spic with tire tracks on his back.
Road kill in a blue uniform.

         “Know anybody want to hurt him?”

         “Hurt him?” Oh, shit. “No. What’s this have to do with me?”

         “Why do you think this has anything to do with you?”

         Viseth placed his hand over his thumping heart. “No reason,” he said. “No reason at all.”

         Soon Gonzalez left. Rocky chucked another stone that sailed high above the sneakers and bounced off a car’s hood. The sun was too damn hot after all. Maybe Teeda had more beer in the fridge. Maybe Rocky needed a lesson.

CHAPTER FIVE

The mongoose and the cobra, was that it? Two creatures with a mutual hatred built into their genes? Sam was still trying to understand his gut reaction to Nawath.
Best not to take that analogy too far, though.
When the mongoose and the cobra meet, one must die.

         Meanwhile, Sam wanted to nail Nawath for something.

         When he stepped out of the second house it was like joining a turkey in the oven, and he basted his forehead in the noonday sun. Ten thousand BTUs chilled the apartment he’d just left, and nothing else useful had come of the visit. How could the fans in his apartment possibly keep Trish and Julie comfortable tonight?

         Yesterday the hot, sticky air that had lingered after the sun dropped below the horizon snuck into his apartment and stayed the night. It had curled up with Trish and made her whine, sidled up to Julie and made her snarl, pushed Sam out of bed and made him sit silently in front of the living-room fan, his arms and legs spread to catch
all the
breeze they could. Now the sunlight glared in mustard-colored discs off the roofs of cars; curdled air shimmered off the pavement. The smells seemed to form layers that swirled together when a car drove by: mown grass, exhaust fumes, sticky hot top,
roses
. Two cops worked the apartments down the street, but the neighborhood was otherwise quiet. No kids riding bikes in the park, no mothers walking their babies, in fact no one but a few cops--and a girl who played by herself under a tree in the park.

         Not enough people answered the knocks on their doors, so Sam decided to drive over to the hospital to visit Mrs. Chea. He crossed the street to find his car wedged so tightly between two others that he wouldn’t easily get out. A yellow parking ticket graced his windshield, and the hood of his Ford sported a brand-new dent. On the sidewalk, a dog with a summer haircut sniffed at a fire hydrant.

         This had been no random killing. Bin Chea was a prominent businessman, if a reclusive one. The shooter apparently hadn’t tried to rob him, so what was the point? Maybe it was a gang bang, or maybe a hit.

         The young girl approached from the playground, smiled, and stuck out her hand. She was about six years old, and she looked perfectly comfortable in her pink skirt, white ruffled blouse, and black patent-leather shoes. Behind her and down the grassy knoll, the swings were still, the playground nearly empty.

         “How do you do?” she said in English. “My name is Sopheary. What is your name?” She looked up at him with big, trusting eyes, her hand thrust halfway up to his face. He hesitated, and she waited. Clearly she expected him to meet her halfway, and would not settle for any less. Sam felt uneasy around children--except for Trish, of course.

         Sam shook her hand. “I am fine, young lady--”

         “I am not a lady, I am a little girl. You may call me Sopheary.”

         “Then I am fine, Sopheary. You may call me Detective Long. And you may let go of my hand, please. Thank you. Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?”

         Sopheary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes as though she wasn’t used to hearing such foolish questions. “You’re not a stranger,” she said. “I know you now.”

         She was far too trusting. This young girl needed a talking to, but not by him.

         The cars were jammed together like rush-hour traffic. Could he push the Toyota in front of him? Not likely. It was a tight squeeze, as though cars had been lifted by a magnet and dropped into the spaces. That seemed how he would have to get his car out. Lift and drop. God, couldn’t there be a little breeze?

         “I have to go home for lunch now,” Sopheary said.

         “Where do you live?”

         “Over there.” She pointed to the first blue house, the one where Bin Chea had died. A boy looked down at the crime scene tape as he walked by. “I live on the first floor, behind the yellow stripe,” she said.

         “Is anyone home there? I knocked and there was no answer.”

         “My mother is there now. She just got back from shopping. She’s very pretty. Would you like to marry her?”