“Sorry Mai. Jet lag’s making me grumpy.”
“What was the man doing?”
“Looking at me. His bike was on the kickstand and he was sitting on it with one foot on the ground and the other resting across the seat. He was smoking. Made eye contact and deliberately blew his smoke toward me.”
“I do not know what to say. What do you call it… oh, yes, worse case scenario. The worse case scenario is that Lai Van Tan knew you were coming. Or, okay, do not get mad again, that man just looks like the shooter man. Look around, many men wear white shirts, blue shirts and gray slacks. Everyone has sunglasses.”
“If they know I’m coming, why are they in the open? Harassment? Terrorism? A promise of things to come?”
“Yes, yes. Father say that they are not like the Viet Cong. They don’t live underground, pop out, do something terrible, and then go back underground again. They like to be seen. And feared. Terrorism. You are right.”
I know Lai Van Tan is still a threat, but I was hoping like a child hopes that it was over. I still haven’t gotten everything that happened in Portland sorted out in my head.
“Sam?”
As awful as it was in Portland, at least I was on my own turf, in my city, my state, my country. Here, in a Communist country, or whatever it is, where Americans are… What? I don’t know how I’ll be perceived yet, but I got a feeling it won’t be as peachy as the travel brochures claim.
“Sam?”
I look over at her.
“I can see you worrying. Do not do that, okay? Right now, we really do not know anything about that man. I know you are an expert on how to look at people, but I would bet that he was not the same one as before. Even if he was, maybe it was a coincidence. He is on the street and we are on the street in a car that stands out from all the bikes and other cars. Maybe right now he is afraid because he thinks we are following him.”
I chuckle. “Okay, I’ll stop with the paranoia. Not a good way to start out as a guest in your country. But if I see him again…”
Mai laughs as she makes a right onto another street. “Then we would truly be in the shit bucket.”
“Nicely put.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, how is Chien?”
“Your kitty is fine, sort of. I was actually planning on bringing her with me to surprise you but she got sick about a week ago. So one of my students is taking care of her.”
“Oh no. Very sick?”
“Something with its lungs. The vet gave her a couple of shots and he gave me some pills to give daily. Said Chien would be fine in a week or so but that she shouldn’t travel.”
“Very sad. I miss Chien a lot.”
“And Chien misses you. This area is nice, do you live around here?”
“We are almost there. I live upstairs in a space that is about as big as the apartment I had in Portland. Father and Mother live downstairs, and Ly, Mother’s nurse, lives in a room in the back of the house. Since I’m a modern woman,” she says, overacting an air of sophistication, “I would have my own apartment somewhere else.” She abruptly frowns. “But Mother is sick, so I like to be there to help Ly and help when Ly takes time off to see her family.”
“I’m so sorry about Kim.”
“Yes, I am very sad. Mother is not doing very well. TB is a difficult disease. She suffers from fever sometimes and she coughs very hard.”
“She going to be okay?”
Mai goes inward for a moment, then softly, “I do not know.”
We turn into a short cobblestone driveway and stop before an ornate, black double gate that’s lit by lamps on each corner post. She lowers her window and exposes her face. The gate swings open.
“Video surveillance?”
Mai smiles. “Father will explain everything,” she says, guiding the car into a brick-covered parking area big enough for a half dozen limos. The two-story house is gorgeous: dark brown tile roofing, light beige siding, lots of glass, bricks, stones, potted trees, and well-placed lighting to show it at its best. This would be considered upscale even in the Hollywood Hills; I didn’t expect to see it here.
“Wow!” I say. “The jewelry business has been very good.”
“Father is a good businessman, a rare one because he ishonest. But this house— Oh, there. He is coming.”
Samuel waves from the top of about a dozen steps, his face beaming. He is dressed the same as he did in Portland: white overshirt, gray slacks, and red Converse shoes.
I wave back. “I am so happy to see him,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “He looks really good. Less stressed than when… What—the—hell?”
Mai covers her mouth and giggles. “I just thought something. I do not think you know about best friend of Father. He did not tell you?”
“That would have to be a no,” I say, gawking at a middle-aged Vietnamese man following Samuel down the steps, hand over hand, his legless torso swinging back and forth between arms that look disproportionately too long and too big for what remains of his body. He’s wearing a black tank top and blue Nike shorts; the empty pant legs drag on the cobblestone. If he does have legs, they don’t extend more than a couple inches from his pelvis.
“Son,” Samuel says, as I climb out of the car. He presses his palms together against his chest as if in prayer, his face beaming. “I am so happy to see you, so very happy you are here.”
Should we hug? I decide to err on the side of caution and extend my hand. “I’m happy to see you too, Samuel,” I say. He takes my hand into both of his, squeezes it gently, nodding his head several times. He’s either affirming his happiness or doing a series of short bows. Maybe both. He might be Caucasian, but he has spent the majority of his life here in Vietnam. Mai once said that he is more Vietnamese than American and what little I saw of him in Portland, I’d have to agree. His slight build, clothing choice, sun-browned skin, stilted speech, and demeanor all add to the confusion.
“Son, this is my very good friend, Tex Nguyen,” Samuel says, stepping aside so I can see the legless man whose head is no higher than my pant’s zipper and who seems to be resting—balancing?— on his torso. Should I offer my hand? Wouldn’t one less support limb make him fall over? Did he say Tex Nguyen?
The man leans on his left hand and extends his right, which is about as big as a dinner plate. Tattoos cover his thickly muscled arms from his fingers to his thick shoulders. “Okay to meet son of best friend mine,” he says, his voice soft, gentle, the accent thick but understandable. “Many things hear about you.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” He appears to be in his sixties, with a gray buzz cut and a wispy, gray Fu Manchu moustache that extends down the sides of his mouth to dangle in tight, three-inch braids of ornate knots below his chin. Some cops have a way of looking at people, sizing them up in an instant. Tex’s eyes
