There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of (15 page)

Carolyn looked unbelieving, but didn’t press the issue. Instead we talked about the problems she had when relocating her clients in Tenderloin hotels—drug dealing and thefts from the rooms; the repetitious police narcotics raids; overdoses and knifings in the hallways; the caches of stolen goods and illegal weapons.

Then our food came: there was chicken flavored with five mysterious spices, beef with something called lemon grass, and mint-flavored shrimp and pork in delicate rice skins. All of it was wonderful, and we ate ravenously, in total silence. When we were finished, Lan emerged from the kitchen carrying another pot of tea and two more cups. With her was a stocky man whom she introduced as her husband, Chinh. The other customers had left by then, so Lan and Chinh sat down to relax with us, Lan removing her shoes and wiggling her toes luxuriously.

At first we talked of inconsequential matters: the earlier downpour, which had now subsided; Christmas, and how much shopping we had left to do; the new tree that had mysteriously appeared in the Globe lobby. I was interested to learn that Christmas was not a holiday the Vangs had adopted upon coming to the United States; they, and many of there friends, were Catholic and had celebrated it all their lives. Finally the conversation turned to more serious affairs: the Dinh boy’s death, and their son Duc’s deep grief.

“He seems to blame himself,” Lan said, “and the sorrow grows, rather than diminishes.”

“He is so serious,” Chinh added, “so unlike our other children.”

I said, “He seems very concerned with the traditional Vietnamese values.”

“Too much so,” his father replied. “We respect the old ways, of course. But we are making a new life in a new country now, and we must try—”

The door behind us burst open, and we all turned. Dolly Vang stood there, her mouth open, one hand clawing at the ends of a scarf she had tied over her hair. Her eyes were like black holes in her ashen face. She stood there, seemingly unable to speak, looking wildly from one to the other of us.

Lan rose and spoke to her in their native language.

Dolly just stood there, clutching her scarf.

I got up and went over to her. “Dolly, what’s wrong?”

She looked imploringly at me. Whatever had upset her seemed to have driven both her English and her Vietnamese from her head. Finally she drew in a gasping breath and said, “You must help.”

“Help with what? What’s happened?”

“Please.” She grasped my arm above my elbow, her fingers digging into my flesh.

The others rose and started toward us. I held up my hand. “Let me handle this.”

They looked at me and then at one another, doubt and concern plain on their faces.

Dolly tugged at me. “Please!”

“Stay here,” I said to Carolyn. “Keep everyone here. I’ll phone you when I know what the trouble is.”

Then Dolly was pulling me from the restaurant, her grip on my arm so tight it hurt. “Please,” she said again, “we must hurry.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dolly led me down the street at a face pace, clutching my hand now. Her English seemed to have deserted her once more, and we rushed past bars and greasy spoons and cheap hotels in silence. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her small fingers grasped mine like a cold metal trap. Twice I glanced back to see if anyone from Lan’s Garden was following us, but if they had, they’d fallen far behind.

The rain had stopped, leaving a mist that blunted the sharpness of the neon signs and masked the ugliness of the buildings they adorned. The temperature was warmer, the air washed fresh, and the night people had emerged from whatever shelter they had taken. Dolly weaved expertly among them, oblivious to the lewd and enticing comments some of the men yelled at us.

After we had rounded a couple of corners, I realized she was not taking me to the Globe Hotel, as I’d originally supposed. Instead, she seemed to be angling toward Market Street. We passed down a particularly dark block with a row of burnt-out and boarded-up buildings, and I glanced warily into their shadows. Dolly, however, did not seem to be aware of our surroundings.

The muted amber streetlights that lined Market were visible ahead of us. Half a block from the corner, Dolly stopped abruptly and let go of my hand. I looked around and realized we were on the side street next to the Crystal Palace Theatre. The scaffolding extended along this side of the building also, and there was a block Ford Bronco parked under its overhang. Otis Knox owned a black Bronco; I’d seen it only hours before, parked between the golden arches at his ranch. Had he come into the city after I’d left him? Was that what the phone call he’d gotten had been about? Perhaps it had been from Dolly . . .

I turned to her and saw she was staring at a backlit opening in the scaffolding, twisting the ends of her scarf. “What now?” I finally said. In spite of the traffic sounds from the surrounding streets, it was quiet here, and my voice sounded unusually loud.

She turned her face toward me, black eyes gleaming against its pale oval. “Come, please,” she said and started forward on tiptoe, toward the opening.

I followed, hand poised over the pocket in my bag where my .38 rested. Knox was here, and he had probably done something to frighten Dolly—perhaps to hurt her. I would not have gone in there unarmed.

The opening in the scaffolding led to a narrow walkway next to the wall of the theatre. The light I had seen came from bare bulbs that had been strung at intervals, probably as a security precaution. I followed Dolly’s slender back, steadying myself with one hand on the rain-damp wall, so I wouldn’t stumble on the broken glass and other scattered debris. Dolly moved toward where the building fronted on Market Street and finally stopped at a side exit door that stood partway open. She turned to me and motioned wordlessly at the door.

Suddenly I wondered if this was a trap—some plot Otis Knox had concocted to get even with me for my earlier putdown and then had enlisted Dolly to help him carry it out. I said, “All right, Dolly, we’re here. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“Please,” she said, “you must help me.” The words came out in an anguished whisper, and I knew she was not playing a game. Something terrible had happened to Dolly inside this theatre.

I reached into my bag for the small flashlight I carry there and handed it to her. “You take this and lead me.” Then I got out my gun and released the safety catch. At the sound, Dolly whirled. Her eyes went to the gun, and she froze.

Of course Dolly had had plenty of bad experiences with guns in Vietnam. Quickly I said, “It’s all right. It’s to protect us.” Then I gave her a gentle shove, and she started through the exit door as if she were sleepwalking.

The door opened into the lobby. What light there was came from the plate-glass entry at the front of the theatre. Directly ahead on the far side was a wide marble stairway that probably led to the balcony; to the left was an empty candy counter, popcorn and soft-drink machines still in their place. On either side of the counter were large swinging doors that led to the main part of the theatre.

Dolly had stopped again and was holding the flashlight limply, so it shone on the floor, picking out a gold fleur-de-lis pattern on the worn blue carpet. I took hold of her hand and positioned it so the flash shone straight ahead of us. The beam wavered as tremors shook her small body.

I waited, listening, and heard nothing but distant street sounds. Leaning closer to Dolly, I whispered, “Now where?” She started forward, in that same sleepwalking gait, and led me into the main part of the theatre.

The shaky beam of the flash showed rows upon rows of seats upholstered in worn blue velvet. The side walls had gold-railed boxes projecting from them, their entrances draped in the same material as the seats. The stage curtains carried out the fleur-de-lis pattern of the carpet. It smelled stale and closed-up in there, and the air was colder than outside on the street. Beside me, Dolly began to tremble harder, and she jerked the flashlight. Its beam darted toward the vaulted ceiling, revealing a large crystal-and-gilt chandelier.

Dolly got the flashlight under control and began to walk down the aisle toward the stage. I followed, holding my gun. There was no sound but the brushing of our footsteps on the carpet. We mounted the stage on the left side, and Dolly pulled the curtains apart and motioned for me to pass through. I looked around them cautiously, breathing in their musty odor. There was no one, nothing, on the stage.

When I turned to her, Dolly was hanging back on the other side of the curtain. I gestured for her to come ahead. She did so, walking with more determination now and holding the light steady on the second set of curtains at the rear of the stage. We crossed the great empty space—our footsteps echoing hollowly now—and moved into the darkness beyond.

At first I could make out only abstract shapes. Then I saw that there were ropes and metal scaffolding and ladders that rose up toward the catwalks and lighting grid overhead. At the extreme back were bulky objects, probably stored scenery flats.

A man lay crumpled here. A man in cowboy boots, jeans, and a western shirt. Otis Knox.

I jammed the gun into my bag, grabbed the flashlight from Dolly, and went over to him. He lay on his side, legs splayed, one arm outflung, the other bent under him. His head was cocked at an odd angle, and streaks of blood spread out from under it.

Knowing it was hopeless, I tried to find a pulse. Nothing. His flesh was plaint and beginning to cool. His neck was undoubtedly broken.

This was too much. Two people dead, in two days. Two times, kneeling next to a body . . .

And then I had a jarring thought; Dolly had killed him. She had killed him and now she wanted me to cover it up.

I felt a familiar reflex—the sudden intake of breath that would quickly turn into uncontrollable gasps. I told myself I couldn’t give in to it; I had to deal with this situation, deal with Dolly. And as I shuddered with the first gasp, I felt her coming up behind me, shaking as badly as I was.

Weakly I stood and put my arm around her, telling myself I would have to control my breathing. And, miraculously, I felt it return to normal. I waited, holding Dolly tighter, but there were no more spasms in my diaphragm.

Good Lord, I thought, maybe I’ve just learned something. Something about the power of my own will. Maybe I’ve discovered some strength I never knew I had.

I moved Dolly back, away from Knox’s body, and shone the flashlight over it and then up the ladder at the lighting grid above. There was a narrow catwalk that led over to the ladder on the other side of this space; other catwalks branched off from it over the stage. Had he fallen from up there? It seemed likely. But what had he been doing up there in the first place?

When I lowered the light and held it so it illuminated where Dolly and I stood, I saw she was crying. Huge tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks, but she made no sound. “When did you find him?”

She paused a moment, fighting for control. “It was just before I came to the restaurant for help. I saw his car. I came inside. I found him.” Seeing Knox’s body this second time apparently had unleashed her powers of speech. I remained silent, letting her tell it, trying to gauge her truthfulness.

“I came in, but he was not downstairs where we always go . . .” And then she stopped, putting her hands to her face. She scrubbed at the tears, looked up again. “I am so ashamed.”

“You don’t need to explain. I know.”

“You . . .
know
?”

“Yes. Knox told me.”

“He told you.” Her voice was flat, dead.

“Don’t be ashamed, Dolly. Just go on and tell me what happened.”

In the same flat tone, she said, “I looked for him downstairs. He was not there. I called out. He did not answer. Then I came up here, and I found him.”

“How did you see him? Did you have a flashlight?”

She looked down at her empty right hand. “I must have. I do not remember . . .”

I shone my own flash around the floor. There was another, several feet from Knox’s body, and it tended to substantiate Dolly’s story. “You must have dropped it. Where did you get it in the first place?

“Downstairs? Yes, now I remember. Downstairs, where the movies are to be made.”

“Were the lights on down there?”

“Yes.”

Knox must have had PG&E turn on the power; or perhaps it had been on all along. “But none were on up here?”

“No.”

“All right. Did you come in here just because you saw Knox’s car—or did you have an appointment with him?”

“No, I had no appointment. I was walking home, but the rain had stopped, and I wanted to walk a little more. So I came down here, to look at the theatre where I would become a film start. He”—she motioned in the direction of the body—“was going to make me a film star. Here, in this theatre.”

You bet he was, I thought.

“He said he loved me. I would be famous. He told me I was beautiful. No one had every said that before.” She paused, then added, “But he also told you about . . . us.”

A wonderful thing had happened in Dolly Vang’s life. Or at least she had thought so. It was probably the only wonderful thing in a life of hardship, and now it was not only taken away, but tarnished. Still, I said nothing to soften the blow; its pain would shield her from future mistakes.

Part of me still couldn’t shake the suspicion that she might have killed Knox. I said, “So you came inside. You went downstairs, looked for Knox, got the flashlight, and came up here.”

“Yes. He was . . .” She put her hands to her face and began the strange, soundless crying again.

“Stop it, Dolly,” I said, more harshly than I intended. I realized I was angry: at Dolly, at Knox, for using her need for attention to his own advantage; at Knox’s killer—be it Dolly herself or someone else—for taking his life. Whatever else he had been, Otis Knox had also been a human being, with dreams and enthusiasms and hopes like all the rest of us. No one, for whatever reason, had the right to end that life.

Dolly was looking at me with wide, hurt eyes. I didn’t apologize for my sharpness. “Why didn’t you go for the police?” I asked.