Little Mountain (11 page)

         “So you remember,” Sam said. “What then?”

         Tuch sipped on his beer. The living-room lamp lit up his face, which was a moonscape of smallpox scars. “And then you will have an easy investigation. When you find the bodies, you can look me up.”

         “What did those kids have against Bin Chea?”

         “Who knows? Chea had worked for that murderer Pol Pot, but the kids don’t care about how many bones are stacked in the old Tuol Sleng prison.”

         Tuol Sleng, the school turned torture center turned museum of the dead. “I know those rumors about Chea. Who says these things about him?”

        
“My wife.
Her cousin.
Some of the neighbors.
Everybody says he was a butcher.”

         “Did your wife know him in Cambodia?”

         “No, but she heard what he did.”

         “But you moved into one of his houses.”

         Tuch looked embarrassed. “He takes care of the places. You see some of the shit boxes people live in, you know you’re lucky to live in one of Chea’s buildings.”

         You know, you’re lucky...

         The words forced a memory from the folds of Sam’s brain, like a wedge of coconut pried loose with a penknife. Every day that he’d woken up at Little Mountain, he knew he was lucky his brains were still inside his skull. Suddenly, everything reminded Sam of his past: the dark underbelly of a cloud, the innocent turn of a phrase.

         “Did you see any weapons on these boys?”

         “No, and I hope I never get that close.”

         “If they’re too young to remember Pol Pot’s slaughter, what did they have against Bin Chea?”

         The man shrugged. “I told you, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask one of them. I have enough grudges already.” He gave Sam the name and address of his co-worker: Neang Kim on Mersey Street.

        
Oh-h-h-h yes.
Viseth Kim’s father.
Sam wouldn’t make his next visit without a backup.

         “Tell me something else,” Sam said. “Do you know Dith Chang?”

        
“Strong back and good heart.”
Tuch tapped his head. “But his skull is made of stone. Who knows where he went? Is that what you’re asking?”

         “Dith Chang used to work for Bin Chea. Odd jobs, I heard.”

         “Yeah, he cleaned yards, ran errands, did practically anything. We used to drink and play cards together. But something went wrong and he vanished. Maybe he screwed up a job and Bin Chea fired him.”

         “Do you think he could have killed Bin Chea?”

         Tuch was silent for a long time. “He is a quiet man,” he finally said. “I can’t tell you what goes in his mind.”

         “What about the Cheas, what are they like?”

         “Bin Chea was like a jellyfish drifting in the sea: if you swam too close, you got a nasty sting.”

         “How do you know?” Sam asked.

         “By the way the little fish avoided him. Last week I saw him at Khmer Video.”

Tuch had been shopping for a movie to watch with his girlfriend, but the stuff was all crap. Either the hero’s feet were like helicopter blades, or the movie was made by the guy who owned the camera, or it was filmed in Shanghai and dubbed over in Khmer that didn’t match the action. You know, a guy falls off a bridge and is still screaming after he sinks into the river.

         It was a cramped, narrow place with videos up to the ceiling, and a long display stand that took up a lot of the floor space. On a TV in the back of the store, a movie showed scenes of houses on stilts off the shore of Tonle Sap. There were four men inside the store: Tuch, the man behind the counter, and two kids who were just hanging around, the whole place stinking from their cigarettes. You’re not buying anything, get out, said the guy behind the counter. The boys laughed at him until the bell rang and the front door opened.

         It was Bin Chea, and the laughter stopped. He scanned the room through reflecting sunglasses that were silver like his hair; his mouth formed a straight line. Both boys were big enough to reach down and pat him on the head. They put down the videos and headed for the door, but Bin Chea stood in their way.

         “Tell me the joke,” he said in a mild tone. The boys mumbled something about having to go now. “You’re not leaving until I laugh.” They were in for a long wait, because Bin Chea never laughed. “Take a movie,” he said to Tuch. “My gift to you, and then I wish you would please excuse us.”

         Tuch mumbled his thanks as Bin Chea held the door for him. If he had known his landlord had anything to do with the place, he wouldn’t have gone there. He didn’t even dare look at what he had taken until he got to his car. Then he went home and wrote out a check for his rent, a week early.

Sam thanked Tuch for his time and then headed for his car. The thunder and lightning had disappeared, and the sky was stained like yellow curry. A steady rain pelted the ground.
Bin Chea.
Battambang.
Battboys.
How many connections would he find? He reported in to the station, asking for a records check on the missing Dith Chang and a backup for tonight. No way would he walk into a Mersey Street house without someone watching his back. Sam and Willie had busted a two-bit coke dealer there last year. They slapped cuffs on some white guy that Sam had pegged at five-ten, two-sixty, most of his bulk hanging over his belt--“Two-fifty if he shaves his armpits,” Willie had said.

         And two-forty if he takes a bath, Sam started to say, but even this pathetic mass of smelly pores deserved a little respect.

         Now Sam looked into his rear-view mirror as a car came around the corner. The streetlight illuminated a cruiser, and Willie pulled up behind him.

         Patrolman Willie Johnson slid onto the front seat next to Sam. Willie had mocha skin and a slender frame, and his hair formed tight brown curls. He had a reputation for taking care of himself that came from his high-school days when he’d won a bantamweight boxing championship sponsored by
The Lowell Sun
. Sam had seen the front-page photo of Willie landing a right cross flush on the chin of the other finalist. “Beating up a white guy and getting a trophy for it? Heaven, man,” he’d told Sam. “Up there with grits and sex.”

         “Long time, man,” Willie said. “Been what, a week?”

         “Saw you last night.”

         “A week since we doubled up, though. So how is it, working for
a cement
head?”

         Sam smiled and said nothing.

        
“Thought so.
Don’t know how you can take it. How’s Fitchie’s wife doing?”

         Sam shook his head. How would he feel, losing Julie? He pushed the thought out of his mind and slammed the door. “Ellie’s not going to make it.”

         “Leukemia’s a bitch. Don’t know why they paired you two when he’s going to be out so much.”

         “Fitchie’s a good man. It will work out fine in the long run.”

         The neighborhood was a mixture of Southeast Asians, whites, Latinos, African-Americans, gays, straights, everyone just trying to get by. Sam knew some of these people. Some worked at the Mobil stations and the Seven Elevens, some robbed them, some did both. The clouds broke apart like crumbling cement and let in the day’s dying sunlight. A teenage boy and girl stood on the curb and stroked each other’s rear ends.

         Willie held his hand in front of his stomach. “Come back in the fall, that girl’s gonna be out to here,” he said. “Any kid in this neighborhood’s got two strikes against them, and the third pitch is this big fucking spitball they’ll never hit.”

         Sam was about to ask what he meant, but Viseth and another Battboy--it looked like Chun--walked into the house next door to Viseth’s. “Here’s our buddy,” Sam said.

         Sam and Willie followed.

         The hallway stank of cigarette smoke, cheap wine, and cat shit. Upstairs, someone shouted in Khmer, and a tabby screeched and ran. This house certainly didn’t fit the theory that Bin Chea took care of all his property. Viseth and a friend sat on the stairway underneath a flickering light and listened to the radio. A cassette player sat at the boys’ feet and played a song with high-pitched Cambodian voices and a western-sounding rock band. They stared at the two officers, but made no move to get up.

         “Didn’t we see you on 11th Street this morning?” Sam asked Viseth. Viseth looked back and said nothing; his dark brown eyes were filled with hate. He took a deep drag on a cigarette. His watch said Omega.

         “Nice watch,” Sam said. “Looks like about two months’ rent. How’d you afford it?”

         “Heard he’s got a night job,” Willie said.

         Chun turned the music way up, and Sam reached down and flicked the OFF button. “Is this how you spend your time, smoking cigarettes and being rude to strangers? They’re both bad for you, you know.”

         “You’re no stranger, you fuck,” Viseth said.

        
“Ooooooh!”
Willie said. “Nice talk.”

         Viseth blew smoke in Sam’s face. Sam cocked his fist and waited for his old partner to hold him back. His biceps twitched, but he wouldn’t give in to temptation. Not worth the court appearances.

         Viseth blinked. “You don’t have the guts.”

         Sam put his face an inch from Viseth’s, close enough to smell the nicotine on his breath. His face looked like the surface of an alien planet full of old craters and active volcanoes.
A face that only a judge could believe.
Sam grabbed an ear. “I could lift you by this,” he said.

         “Take it easy, man,” Willie said. “Chrissake, they’re only kids.” Sam let go, but held his gaze. Viseth’s eyes hardened like flint.

         “Why did you slash Bin Chea’s tires?”

         “
What?
”

         “Patrolman, this boy can’t hear me. Will it help if I stretch his ears?”

        
“The fuck you talking about?”

         “Patrolman, this boy needs a Brillo pad for his mouth. Mister Kim, one of your friends told me how you slashed Bin Chea’s tires.”

         “Who told you that lie?”

         “Why did you do it?”

         “Look. It’s a shame about his tires. It’s a shame about
him
. Some real mean guys out there, huh? Truth is
,
I don’t care about my landlord one way or the other.”

         “You don’t care that he’s dead?”

         “You see me wearing white for his funeral? Look, you want to arrest me, go ahead. If you don’t, then get out of my face.” Viseth turned his head toward the wall.

         Through the wall came a filtered conversation, a man and woman speaking in Khmer, Nintendo sounds on the television, a rap-rap sound that could have been a ladle on a soup pot, and footsteps. Fried-onion fumes oozed through the cracks in the plaster.

         Willie traced his finger along his nightstick. Chun dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it. He had a gap-toothed grin inside a round face. If Sam shook him, Chun’s brains would rattle like dried peas in a bowl.

         Chun’s eyes were fixed on Sam’s muscles. Willie leaned against the wall and picked his teeth.

         “Where do you live, Chun? What floor?” Sam said.