Authors: Bob Sanchez
“
Did
you speak to his parents?”
“I wait for his father Nawath go to work, then I tell Sichan--that his mother. I think I must do this. She
say
‘Okay, no problem. My son okay now, don’t worry.’ I say ‘You must tell police,’ but she say no, not problem for police. Cannot trust, cannot trust.”
“What do you think she meant by that?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know, but I am very worry.”
Fitchie looked at Sam. “What does she mean by metal on his lip?”
“Maybe from the gun.”
“You mean a steel sliver?”
“Right.
A steel burr.”
“We’ll pick up your buddy Viseth. See what you can find out from the boy’s mother.”
Li Chang hugged her daughter. “You don’t say I come tell you this, please.
Nawath find out, he very angry with me.”
“Are you afraid he would hurt you, Mrs. Chang?”
“Not sure what he do if he is angry. I want mind my business, but this boy--” She bit her lower lip and stared past Sam as though she were watching dust motes in the air.
What could have
happened to Ravy Lac? Someone had seriously messed with the boy; that he lived in Chea’s building seemed like too much of a coincidence.
Had
Ravy Lac
gone
off with a stranger? If he did, then he would probably run away screaming if Sam stopped him in the street to ask him questions.
But Fitchie had a way with kids, of reassuring them, calming them down. His two boys were about Ravy’s age. They were no strangers to pain themselves, too young to bear the long goodbye to their mother.
“You think
this ties
into the Bin Chea shooting?” Fitchie asked.
“The boy lives in the same house. We have to look.”
“I vote we talk to his parents.”
They drove to the Highlands and parked up the street from where the murder had taken place. As they got out of the car, Ravy walked around the corner and up the hill toward them. When he finally noticed them, Ravy stopped short. His lower lip was puffed and
blue,
and he had a pair of contusions the size of quarters on his left cheek.
“What happened to
you
?” Sam asked, trying not to seem too concerned.
Ravy’s eyes filled with fear.
“Nothing,” he said, shrinking back as though Sam were about to strike him. Sam took a step back and held out his hands, palms open, no offense,
kid
.
Fitchie walked up the front steps slowly, as though he didn’t know he was in Ravy’s way. “Someone beat you up?” he asked over his shoulder. If Ravy answered, it was no more than a squeal.
Fitchie opened the front door and held it for the boy. “We’re not stopping you,” he said. “We just wanna talk for a minute.”
Ravy turned and ran into the house, followed by Fitchie and Sam, who took their time. Nawath Lac looked down from the second-floor landing.
His flowered shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, and a gold medallion hung around his neck.
The boy looked up, then down, then up again. He was trapped. Nawath grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into their apartment.
Sam explained the situation in English, and Nawath
’s eyes filled with concern. Oh my God, what happened? They did that to my son?
My only child?
Sam had seen the look before--it was one of calculated sincerity, of a person who could give you a friendly smile and then cut out your liver.
“Thank you for worrying about my son,” he said. “But I will find out what is bothering him, and I will call you if I need you.”
“You need the police now,” Sam said. “We want to keep this person away from your son.”
“Thank you. My son will be fine. We don’t want to waste your time.”
“Please allow me to speak with him--Ravy, isn’t that his name?”
As though Sam didn’t know.
Maybe he and Fitchie could get inside the apartment again, for whatever that might accomplish. Nawath seemed oddly unaffected by Bin Chea’s death. Was there a link between this man and the shooting? Nawath lit a cigarette, and the flame from the lighter flickered in his eyes. The light seemed to come from a furnace inside him.
“Sir, this is my family. My life,” Nawath said. “I know you tried to turn my wife against me. Perhaps you can find my landlord’s killer instead.”
“We’re doing that, sir,” Fitchie said. “But you can’t hit your wife, sir. It can land you in jail.”
“You don’t understand. It’s a Cambodian custom. Men must discipline their wives.”
Fitchie’s mouth puckered as though he’d swallowed a lemon. He shot a quick glance at Sam, who shook his head. Family violence happened, but--
“No!” Sam said in Khmer. “Take off your shoes in the house, that’s a custom. Give your wife a black eye, that’s a
crime
.”
Nawath stepped back as though Sam had punched
him
in the eye, but the hell with Nawath and his false politeness. Nawath clenched his fists but kept them by his side. Now his eyes told the truth as they aimed a death wish at Sam. Sam was a pebble in Nawath’s shoe, and he was going to get dumped out.
Nawath pushed past the half-open apartment door and slammed it behind him.
Fitchie slid into Sam’s car on the passenger side. “There was a little
heat
in your voice,” he said. “We lost him back there.”
“It’s
not
a Cambodian custom,” Sam said.
“Okay.”
“Cambodian men don’t
do
that, hit their wives.”
Fitchie looked Sam in the eye. Fitchie’s eyes were slate blue, his skin light from days spent indoors at Ellen’s bedside. “Oh, cut it out. This is
me
you’re talking to, Sam. You’re not talking to a school
kid,
or some dumb bastard from Neptune. This is me.
Fitchie.
I’ve hauled Cambodian jaw-breakers off to jail.”
“But they’re criminals.”
“You bet your ass they’re criminals.”
“It’s
not
a Cambodian custom.”
Fitchie clapped his hands on his chest. “I never said it was.”
“No, you didn’t. Sorry. Let’s forget it. We should see what Viseth has to say.”
They stopped at a convenience store, where Fitchie bought a roll of Tums. He opened the package and offered the first one to Sam, who shook his head.
“Can I ask you something personal? Your parents passed away, right Sam?”
Sam nodded.
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You have pictures of them?”
“Only in my head.”
“Every day I go and see Ellen at the hospital,” Fitchie said. “Plus I must open my wallet twenty times a day just to look at her picture. I’m terrified I’ll forget what she looked like.”
“You’re not the type to forget.”
Fitchie looked out the car window. A young couple walked hand in hand, laughing. “What am I going to do when she’s gone?” he mumbled.
“Your boys need you,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” he said, straightening his posture. “For now, let’s go see Viseth.”
Viseth’s neighbors were enjoying the late afternoon. People were coming home from work, taking off their work shirts, cracking open beers, sitting on car hoods, kissing their wives, opening windows, turning on their radios and fans, sticking their heads out of whichever apartment windows didn’t have fans. A lady was out for a walk, holding a stroller in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She had a stomach out to here. Down the street, someone was washing his car with a garden hose. “Your mother’s a whore”
came
a voice from across the street. When Sam and Fitchie turned, two boys giggled and ran down an alley. A red Trans Am drove slowly down the street, the
thump-thump-thump
of bass notes rattling windows until the damned car turned a corner and peeled rubber. It was too late to notice the plate number.
Sam rang the buzzer under the name that said “Kim.” In a minute, Viseth’s father appeared at the door. He had thin white hair on his head, and small tufts of hair grew out of his ears. He was holding his abdomen, like a man trying to recover from a punch in the gut. His glasses were held together by a piece of tape. It wasn’t so much that he looked old; he looked like a middle-aged man whose son was destroying him.
Sam flashed his badge, and Kim shook his head. “Viseth not here,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“Where can we find him, sir?”
“I not know. He
have
trouble?”
“We have a lot of questions for your son. When did he leave here?”
Kim looked down at his bare feet. “I not see him today.”
“Tell us the truth,” Fitchie said. “You’re protecting him, aren’t you?”
“Viseth is my son,” Kim said, and he seemed ready to burst into tears. “Of course I protect my son.”
Of course.
That’s what Sam’s father would have done for him. “He could be in a lot of trouble,” Sam said. “If you want to help him, tell us where he is.”
Kim looked as though his heart would break. “If he guilty of crime, you arrest him, okay. Just not hurt. Please not hurt.”
Sam and Fitchie headed back to the station. On the way, they drove past an old wooden building with peeling gray paint. “That place was on your Paradise list,” Sam said.
“No kidding?” Fitchie said. “Looks like a placeholder for a parking lot.” Sam frowned, so Fitchie explained. “A dump,” he said.
That evening, Sam laced up his white running shoes over his white socks and leaned against the living room wall to stretch his calves. His heel didn’t bother him enough to keep him from running, but he had to get used to the day shift all over again, to make the time for his regular exercise. Julie traced her finger along his biceps. “God, you’re a handsome devil,” she said.
Julie’s warm breath in his ear had a way of focusing his attention completely on her, on the warm curve of her--
She slapped his hand.
“Later, when Trish is asleep.
Now get out of here and have fun.”
Sam jogged down the concrete sidewalk and stopped to chat for a couple of minutes with Mr. Coppolino, who grew tomatoes and marigolds in his front yard. “Stop for a bag of tomatoes on your way back,” Mr. Coppolino said, and Sam promised he would. At the intersection, he waited for the green light before he crossed into a new neighborhood that mixed variety stores and three-story tenements with black steel fire escapes on the side, and women reaching out the windows to pull the clothes off the line. Rain began to fall, just a light mist--maybe he should have driven. No, the mist felt cool on his face, and his foot was fine. He passed by a schoolyard where boys were shooting hoops in the fading light. Cochran’s Gym was a two-mile run across town. If he didn’t lose track of time, he could get back soon enough to tuck in Trish, have some supper and a shower, and spend some quality time with Julie.