Little Mountain (21 page)

         It bounced twice and fell between two porch slats. How could something so small have caused him so much trouble?

         He finished working the block, then headed back to his car.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Viseth Kim shook the dice and rolled a ten.

         “About time,” he said.
“Haven’t won anything all day.”
Six of the Battboys sat cross-legged in the middle of his living room and played for the pile of fives and tens inside the circle. The VCR was playing a Kung-fu movie in Chinese with Cambodian subtitles. No one paid attention. Viseth’s mother was upstairs with the bedroom door shut, and his father was at a bar either getting drunk or trying to get laid. Both parents knew enough to mind their business when it came to the Battboys. The back of Viseth’s hand across his father’s face was enough to keep both parents in line.

         The room was thick with tobacco and marijuana smoke and the smell of beer. Moist air brought in by the window fan turned it into soup. Viseth reached for the money as Chun reached for his arm. Chun had a breath like a mongrel in a garbage can.

         “I haven’t rolled yet,” said Chun. “You rolled ten, I’ll roll eleven.” The dice went down, and a pair of sixes came up. This whole day was going to shit.

         Huon and Vanney laughed. Nak took a deep toke from a joint and scratched his balls while Souvann reached for another beer and farted. Chun scooped up a fistful of crumpled bills.

         “How much you got left?” Souvann asked.

         “Seventy-five,” Viseth said.

        
“Out of a
thousand
?”

         There were low whistles and more laughing. Viseth’s face burned with embarrassment. They enjoyed screwing him. The back door slammed. His old man must be home early.

        
“
Choi mai!
”
Viseth said.

         “Still going to California tomorrow?”

        
“What with?
You got all my money.”

         “Whew. Close call for the Long Beach girls.”

         “No shit,” Huon said.
“Same for the boys.”

         “What do you mean by that?” Viseth said.

         “I hear you give rides to little boys.”

         Viseth tried to smile, but the corner of his mouth quivered.
“Sorry to disappoint you, little boy.
You’ll have to ask someone else.” His hand shook as he emptied his bottle of Tsing-Tao beer. The muscles tightened in his chest, and he pictured that asshole Huon lying in a pool of blood. The others would drag the corpse away as he called his mother to clean up the mess. But that was only a wish; a 9-mm Beretta lay inside the diamond of Huon’s crossed legs.

         “I need to get out of here,” Viseth said. “Cops are getting too close.”

         Huon looked down at the space between his knees. “They got that Cambodian cop on you, and you’re just running away. Stick around, you coward. Cambodian stupid enough to be a cop needs to hear from the Battboys.”

         “You call me a coward? I’ve already decided to kill him.”

         “
Now
you sound like a man. He’s dead he can’t bother us, right?”

         “What you
mean,
us? You ought to help me kill him.”

         Viseth’s father stomped up the back stairs and slammed the outside door the way he always did when he’d been out drinking. He went into the bathroom and pissed with the door open.

         “No. Do it yourself,” Huon said. “Blow his face off, like you did that guy last week. I wish somebody gave
me
a thousand bucks for something that easy. Why’d they want him dead, anyway?” Huon said.

         “Some Khmer Rouge shit. Who cares?”

         Huon’s voice was friendlier now. “You should find out where the cop lives. Still have the shotgun?”

         “No, I got rid of it.” Why tell the truth now? The gun was back on the shelf under Miss April.

         “Can get you one for--um, $75.” Huon smirked like he was in on a joke.

         “You prick. That’s all I’ve got.”

         “Tough. You need that cop. What’s his name again?”

         “Sambath Long.”

        
“Probably in the phone book.
Guy who hired you, he’d say thanks, maybe you’d get a bonus.”

         Viseth’s father stood in the entrance to the living room. The blood was gone from his face.
“Huon!
Vanney! Nak! Get out of my house!” His finger trembled as he pointed to the front door. Viseth had never seen him this way before.

         Huon dangled his Beretta by the trigger guard. “
Relax, old man
. Put some Valium in your gin. We’re just having fun here.”

         “No, everyone get out! All of you
except
my son. You will
not
plan your crimes in my home. And you will
not
bring your guns here.”

         Huon tucked his Beretta under his shirt and walked out behind Vanney and Nak. “Get ready to be whipped,” he said to Viseth. “Your old man found his spine. You want another shotgun, see me later.”

         Viseth’s blood boiled, and his fists clenched and unclenched. How could the old man do this to him? He deserved a good--

         His father was in the center of the living room now. “Viseth, what are you planning to do? Are you planning to hurt someone? Who did you hurt last week? Did you kill our landlord?”

         “Just stay out of this, you old fart. It’s none of your business.”

         The old man slapped Viseth across the face. The father’s whole body shook, but Viseth saw anger and not fear.

         “You have no respect for anyone,” his father said. “When you were a boy, we brought you through the jungle to freedom. We brought you to America so you could go to school and have a good life. Now you call me names, but your mother and I bring home a paycheck. You bring your mother and me nothing but shame.”

         His mother came down slowly from her upstairs bedroom, gripping the banister to steady herself. His father was on his knees, and his hands were clasped together. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “If you killed Bin Chea, I beg you to go to the police.”

         “Someone is going to kill you, son.” Mother’s voice was soft and controlled, as though she had practiced her words. “We saw too much killing in Cambodia. That is why we came here. These boys are not your friends. I think that Huon boy would kill you for nothing and smile at the memory of it. Please listen to your father and go to the police.”

         Viseth stared down at the brown carpet. One of his friends had spilled beer, and his father was kneeling in it. “Police are the only ones I have to worry about,” he said. “I’ve never hurt anybody.”

         “Stop lying to me,” Father said. “Did you kill Mister Chea? Look at me and tell me you didn’t kill him.”

         Viseth met his father’s eyes. “I didn’t kill him,” he said. “This policeman just made up his mind I’m guilty.” And that policeman was going to pay.

         His parents stood together now, Father’s eyes glistening in the light. Mother’s eyes were
dry
, hard, unbelieving.

         “Pick up the telephone, son,” Mother said. “Call the police.”

         “You’re asking me to kill myself, Mother.”

         “No. We are asking you to save yourself. You are caught in a cycle of evil. We will stand with you, but you must accept punishment--”

         “Where is the telephone book?”

         Mother picked up the book and handed it to him.
Punishment?
Fuck that. I won’t be anybody’s victim. He flipped the pages in the telephone directory--Long, Sambath. There it was. He circled the name, address and telephone number, tore out the page and folded it, and stuffed the paper in his pocket. Maybe that cop Long would like some 2 a.m. phone calls, or would they just put him on his guard?
No, better to catch the motherfucker by surprise.
And if he wasn’t home, maybe his old lady would get her face rearranged.

         He headed for the front door, and heard his mother swallow a cry.

         “Please make the phone call,” Father said.

         Viseth slammed the door behind him and walked out back to the bulkhead. He picked up the shotgun and drove to Boston. There was a broad he could stay with for the night.

Back at the station, Sam jammed a sheet of paper into his Selectric and typed up his notes using two fingers. Was
Angka
--the Organization--here in Lowell? His heart pounded, his fingers raced. Who cared about spelling at a time like this?

         “Officer Long, may I speak with you?” Sam looked up, and there was Li Chang with her daughter Sopheary in tow. She spoke to him in halting English.

         “Of course, Mrs. Chang,” he said. He gestured to a side chair, and she sat down with Sopheary on her knee. The little girl waved, and he managed only a half smile in reply. Li Chang pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. Sopheary reached for a pen on Sam’s desk, and Li Chang slapped her hand.

         “I am afraid for my neighbor’s boy, Ravy Lac,” Li Chang said. “He lives upstairs from us. Yesterday someone picked up him on the other side of the park and drove away.”

         “I remember him. Have his parents reported him missing?”

         “He’s not missing. He’s back home.”

         “Then what is the problem, Mrs. Chang?”

         “
That man frighten
him so bad.”

         “Do you know the man?”

         She shook her head. “He is Asian. I have seen him a few times on Eleventh Street. He drinks beer and has a filthy tongue.”

         Viseth’s name came to Sam’s mind. “What happened to the Ravy Lac boy?” Sam motioned for Fitchie to listen. “Can you tell us in English, Mrs. Chang?”

         “Okay, I try. I was already
worry
about him. Then Peary and I coming back from park and we meet him run up sidewalk. He could not speak from screaming, and his pants soak with--” She struggled to find the right word.

        
“Urine?”

         “Urine, that’s right. I took him in my apartmen’--”

         “Why didn’t you take him home?”

         “His father sleeping, and I afraid he punish his boy for be so dirty. Nawath Lac not reason--” Mrs. Chang was stumped for the right word.

         “Not a reasonable man?” Sam said.

         “Yes, not reasonable man.”

         Sam remembered Sichan Lac’s bruises. “So what did the boy tell you?”

        
“At first, nothing.
He
smell terrible, and he mess in his underwear.” Sopheary wrinkled her nose while her mother spoke. “I let him take a bath. I notice his mouth cut, and a tiny metal on his lip. He beg me leave it alone, and not to tell his paren’ about any of this. I gave him towel to wear and I take his clothes to laundry around corner.”

         “When I came back, he was
feel
a little better. He say something about a cellar, and about a gun in his mouth, and he cry again. ‘Please don’t tell
my paren
,’ he say. ‘Please don’t tell
my paren
.’ ”