Little Mountain (17 page)

        
“The landlord?”

        
“The landlord, yes.”

        
“Where does Khem live? “

        
“Around the corner, on Parnell Street.
Maybe I can find out the address for you.”

         She came back later and left his check. “Sorry, that’s all we know.”

         “Do you know where he works?”

         “I never heard him talk about work.” The waitress made a face. Judging from the lines on her face, Sam guessed that she worked all the time.

         “What did he say?”

         “That he was a vicious butcher. But Chea was a victim himself. My husband says that Chea’s ribs had been crushed with a club.”

         He paid his check at the cash register. Half of his meal was still on his plate when he left.

Rows of squat two- and three-story houses lined Parnell Street, their ancient paints slowly peeling. A white Victorian house with rounded corners sat next to an empty lot where boys played stickball in the weeds and glass. On the other side of the lot was a U-shaped building with a small courtyard behind a chain-link fence. A child’s slide sat in a patch of weeds and glinted in the sun. On the other side was a duplex with slime-green siding. Every house on the street seemed different to Sam, a place where bad architects dumped their failed experiments.

         Inside a blue Yugo next to the curb, a man sat and emptied a bottle of wine. In front of a house across the street, three sunflowers reached all the way to the first-floor window next to the porch. Maybe spilled from the shattered bird feeder on the porch and left to grow, this was a patch of beauty--a patch of color, anyway--in a neighborhood of plywood, oil stains, and winos.

         On the corner was a variety store with window signs advertising Coca-Cola, Red Man tobacco, and lottery tickets. There was also a banner printed in angular gray dots that said, “Go
For
It.” What had people ever done without computers?

         He stepped inside and inquired about Khem.

         “Sorry, I don’t live around here.” The sales clerk shuddered as she punched up a lottery ticket for a customer. Next to her, a young man sat on a stool and smoked. The girl’s lipstick was smudged, and she had a bright red welt on her neck. The jackpot was twelve million.
“Wouldn’t, neither.
What is he anyway, Lowatian?”

         Sam wanted to answer
Laotian, damn it. Learn something about your customers.
“No.
Cambodian.”
At least she didn’t call them boat people.

         The jackpot looked tempting. Maybe... He took out his wallet and bought a ticket. What would we do with all that cash? Buy a house, sure. A buck would be better just dropped in the bottle at home. It was a waste of time dreaming, but Sam felt lucky today.

He decided to ride his luck across the street. Maybe the sunflower house had someone who knew Khem. If not, he could get Wilkins to assign a patrolman to come around later. Now
that
would be luck.

         The fourth house he tried was the Victorian, which was rounded at the corners with a high-pitched roof and painted scrollwork above a large porch. He rang the doorbell, standing in a sea of paint flakes. A woman pushed back a lace curtain; when he showed his badge, she motioned for him to step inside.

         The front door opened into a foyer with a broad staircase leading to the upstairs apartments. “Mine’s over here,” the woman said. “Come right in.”

         A green elastic band held back her thin white hair; her skin was the texture of dried-out clay. On the living room wall was a picture of Jesus, his heart shining through his robe.

         “I told him not to do it,” she said.
“Keepin’ guests up there.
I told him and told him. You get rid of that fellow or I’ll have my son call the cops, I said.”

         “Whom did you tell, ma’am?”

        
“
Whom?
I told my son Tony, that’s
whom
. How come you’re talking so formal?”

         “What’s the problem with the tenant?”

         “The problem is,
there’s no sharing apartments
here. Soon they’d be having women up there. Or even worse, men! God knows what those two men do together anyway. I don’t go for
no
unmarried grownups living together, that’s why Tony called the cops. And no offense to you, young man, you seem nice, but mixing the races, well you probably don’t like it any more than I do, am I right?”

        
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was no sense in getting angry about this woman’s foolishness.

         “And you know my husband Dino used to say, after all, Christ was white--”

        
Which was obvious to Sam from Christ’s portrait.
Sam sniffed the air for the scent of alcohol, but caught only witch hazel and cat litter. He didn’t know about any complaint. Tony probably just said yeah, Ma, sure, Ma. “Who are the men up there?” he asked.

         “Fellow named Norville Quigley. He took in one of them Oriental men. Like you.”

         “Do you know the other man’s name?
The Asian?”

        
“Of course not.
It’s easier to throw a man in the street if you don’t know his name.” She sighed. “Except this one’s been hard to get rid of anyway. I was beginning to think Tony never really called the cops.”

         Probably hadn’t. Sam thanked her and walked upstairs.

Norville Quigley answered the door holding a plate of fried sausage, his three chins glistening with grease, his hands as big as oven mitts. He looked at Sam’s badge, then at his face. “Come on in,” he said. “
You lookin’
for Khem Chhap, too?” Quigley stood half a head taller than Sam, and looked like an out-of-shape linebacker. His New England Patriots tee shirt stopped short of meeting his sweat pants by a hairy inch. Small beads of perspiration dotted his face. “
I been
lookin’ for him for two days. Owes me rent money. Doesn’t come up with cash this week, his stuff
goes
right out the door. Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?”

         Quigley picked a sausage from his plate with his fingers and offered it to Sam. “Try one? Delicious.”

         A taste of cilantro rose briefly in Sam’s throat. “No, thank you. Does he have a separate room?”

         “What, do you think we share a bed?”

         Sam pictured Quigley turning over in bed, steamrolling Khem to death. He stifled a smile.
“No sir, of course not.
Where can I find him?”

         “Why?
He done
something wrong?”

         “No, I just have routine questions.” Why were the windows shut on a day like this? The room smelled as though Quigley had been cooking dinner in a sweaty gym.

         “How long has he stayed with you?”

         “Three months. One month of rent, two months of promises. Gets old, ya know?”

         “Where did he come from?”

         “Long Beach, I think.”

         “What does he do for work?”

        
“Says he works for a Cambodian community outfit.”

        
“The Cambodian Self-Help Organization?”

         “That’s the one. Don’t know what he does there.”

         “Did he ever talk about anyone named Bin Chea?”

        
“Might’ve.
Honestly, though, he didn’t say much. Just took up space. Oh, you’re thinkin’ he doesn’t take up as much space as me? Well, that’s sure true. Hit the big four-oh-oh this week.”

        
“Any friends?”

         “Not too many besides my frying pan.  I don’t get around too much--”

         “I meant Mr. Chhap.”

         “If he does, I don’t know ’em. I warned him not to have any guests or Tony Carullo downstairs would throw us all out.”

         “He’s the landlord’s son?”

         “No, he’s the landlord.”

         Sam pointed to a closed door.
“That Mr. Chhap’s room?”

         “Sure is. Let me show you.”

         From the looks of Khem’s room, he planned to come back. The room was barely large enough for the twin bed and dresser, and it smelled of stale tobacco. On the rumpled sheet was a small black hole from a cigarette burn. On top of the dresser were a half carton of Kools, a glass ashtray with six crushed butts, and a framed photo of an Asian woman who appeared to be in her fifties.

         “His sister,” Quigley offered.
“Calls her once a week.”

         “The calls are on your phone bill? Do you have a copy?”

         “Sure, I’ve got it here somewhere.” Quigley searched through the mess in the living room. On a coffee table held down by the platter of sausages was a
Lowell Sun
opened to the
comics
page. Quigley nodded toward the food. “Help
yourself
,” he said. Sam shook his head.

         Quigley knelt on the floor and looked though the mail strewn on the carpet. The cushions in the middle of the couch were crushed by his mass, and a piece of paper stuck out from behind one cushion like a white flag of surrender. Sam reached over and plucked out an envelope with the telephone company’s logo on it.

         “Oh, thanks,” Quigley said. He stood up, winded and slightly flushed. “That’s the list off an old bill. Anything besides a 617 or
508 area code
is his. Borrow it and mail it back if you want. Or bring it by, and stop in for lasagna. That’s one thing I couldn’t get Khem to do, was eat. Pay rent was the other.”

         Sam thanked Quigley and left. He’d have Garibaldi check out the telephone exchanges, then get on the computer and ask for some help from the other coast. Maybe Khem whacked Chea and flew home. Maybe the Long Beach police could pay him a surprise visit. Meanwhile, he would visit the Cambodian Self-Help Organization. They might be able to fill in some background.

The CSHO occupied a store front on Dutton Street, its name printed in modest black letters in both English and Khmer. No one looked up when Sam entered. In the background, an air conditioner hummed. An Asian man of about twenty-five spoke on the telephone while two hold buttons flashed. With the telephone wedged between his cheek and his shoulder, he turned and typed with two fingers at a computer keyboard. He wore a dark blue tie with its knot askew. A woman searched through a black file cabinet as an older woman stepped out of an office. She was American, with long gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. Sam showed his badge and stated his business.

         The woman looked puzzled. “Khem Chhap? No, he doesn’t work here. I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the gentleman. We do keep a database of people who come to us for help. If you can wait a minute, I’ll check it.”

         Sam sat in a metal folding chair and waited.
The woman tap-tapped at her computer and peered at the screen.
The CSHO had been in business for eight years. Americans helped launch and run it, but Cambodians themselves kept it going, as the name implied. Sam was out of that loop. She pursed her lips and frowned, then looked up at Sam.

         “I’m sorry, officer. I can’t help you.”

         The man on the telephone placed his hand over the receiver. “Wait a minute, please,” he said, and pushed a hold button. “Khem Chhap? Maybe sixty years old, gray hair, skinny fellow? I talked to him last week.
Said he wanted to borrow the price of a bus fare to Los Angeles.”