Little Saigon

Chapter 10

Cristobel’s place was a washed-out, once-blue, and now rickety apartment just past Fahrenheit 451 Books. The dog, sensing home turf, led Frye down a walkway. The buildings seemed to slouch in lazy angles, a patternless surrender to time and gravity.

He stood on a big patio, surrounded on three sides by railing. Dunce nosed the door to Number Seven. Through the Dutch door, Frye could see her sitting with her back to him, shoulders forward, head down a little, right elbow held outward.

For a moment he watched as she worked a big pair of scissors through some material, her left hand spreading it flat. Through the picture window she worked behind, Frye noted the blue glitter of the Pacific and the sun high in a flawless sky. Her reflection rode across the water, mingled with the sun — a truly special effect, Frye concluded. He moved closer.

Dunce barked and jumped at the door, and Frye watched Cristobel turn. He was getting a smile ready when a dark shape suddenly blotted her out and he found himself looking at a large black man who wiped out the ocean and sun: no shirt, muscles bunching and sweat glistening off his chest, his hair planed flat in the manner of Carl Lewis, a not very friendly look on his face. The man moved from the window and the door swung open. Dunce slipped inside with a series of whimpers that told of abduction, torture, escape. The black man offered his hand. “Jim Strauss,” he said.

“Chuck Frye.”

“Find our dog?”

“He kinda found me.”

Frye stepped in, aware of the commotion at the far end of the room — woman and dog in a homecoming scene. Dunce barked at him. Cristobel turned. Same face, he thought — full, pale skin, good mouth. Dark eyes, light hair. Off the charts. She gave him a contraceptive glare.

“Well, hello, Mr. Frye.”

“Hello, Miss...”

“Strauss.”

He forced a smile at both of them. “Oh, you two are... great, super.”

Jim smiled at him without mirth.

“Cristobel will do,” she said. “Blaster latch onto you?”

“He did.”

“He’s like that. A social animal.” She looked at Frye, shaking back her hair, hands on her hips and fingers spread against her jeans.

“Good to meet you,” said Jim. “Thanks for bringing back our dog.” Frye watched him disappear into a hallway. A door closed, music started up.

“He’s not rude,” she said. “He’s just working out.”

“Olympics?”

“Model. Everything has to be perfect.”

“Looks like he’s getting there.” Blaster’s head slipped under his hand. “I was putting a note on your dog’s scarf last night and he followed me to my car. I was in a hurry and he just sorta jumped in. The note said I was sorry for a bad opening line and wanted a proper introduction. Anyway, I apologize for what I said, and I’m sorry I kidnapped your dog.”

“That was a crappy thing to say to a girl you don’t even know.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t really expect me to say yes, did you?”

“No.”

“You Southern California guys are so damned arrogant sometimes. You think it’s cool. Some women must like that, but it just makes me think you’re a bunch of narcissistic queebs.”

“If you’ve got a blindfold and rifle, I’ll shoot myself.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Okay. Truce. Beer?”

“Sure.” He watched her go to the kitchen with an adulterous guilt, very much tuned in to the way she filled her jeans. Full-bodied but light on her feet, a gold chain around her ankle. He glanced toward Jim’s room, from which a series of odd huffing noises came, timed roughly to the music. When she came back, he was looking at the material she’d been cutting. It was a light blue background with yellow slices of moon on it. “Nice.”

“Kind of a sun dress,” she said. She held up a swatch of cloth. “Good silk. I liked those little moons.”

Frye sat on the couch and Cristobel took a chair. He looked out to the sand, the sun, the ocean glittering like a tossed handful of diamonds. “Nice place here.”

“Thanks. We rented it a year ago. Cheap and a good view. Hard to find in Laguna. What happened to your head?”

“A cop hit me with his gun.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’ve been following the story about Li. She’s been missing since Sunday, right? Any suspects?”

“There’s a suspect but I’m not so sure he’s solid. The cops think so.”

“My experience with cops is you get good treatment if you’re high-priority, and bad treatment if you’re not. I’d think that Li Frye is pretty high.”

Frye wondered just what this experience with the cops was, but it didn’t seem time to press it. He looked at Cristobel, feeling a sour regret that she was married, that he was married — technically, at least — that he had put his worst foot forward, kidnapped her dog, and now sat here with his pecker coming up like a garden gopher while he drank her beer.

“Don’t get discouraged,” she said. “They’ll find her.”

Through the picture window, Frye could see the people gathering on Main Beach. Bleachers and a stage had been set up, banners proclaiming the MIA Committee rally.

Cristobel fiddled with her anklet. The sun lit up her hair from behind. She has eyes that seem to see a lot, Frye decided. She picked up a framed picture from the coffee table: a young man in a flight suit, and his F-4. “I lost my brother Mike over there,” she said quietly. “Somewhere over Quang Tri.” She handed him the photograph.

“I’m sorry.”

Cristobel nodded, drank from her glass, shook back her hair and looked toward Jim’s room. “You got a job besides that surf shop?”

“I was a reporter for a while. Got fired.”

“Looking for another one?”

“Kind of. I’m trying to help Benny right now. I’m trying to find Li. The cops and FBI are all over the place, but nothing’s happening.”

“Sometimes when nothing seems to be happening, that’s when everything really is.” She looked straight through Frye with a curious air of resignation, as if he were a window and she a passenger gone one stop past her destination.

“I’m done with my work for the day,” she said. “Like to walk over to the hotel, have lunch?”

Frye listened to the music still throbbing from Jim’s workout room. This woman can turn on a dime, he thought. It makes me a little nervous. “Sounds like a good way to get my face really creamed.”

She smiled. “We have an understanding.”

“I’ve got the sore face.”

“Don’t worry.”

They found a table at the far end of the patio, pads on the chairs, great view. Cristobel wanted a bottle of Cabernet and Frye could find little wrong with the idea. He looked down at the Whitewater easing toward shore, a few kids splashing around, a couple standing in the surf for a kiss that lasted until the wine arrived. A hundred yards up the beach he could see the MIA Committee banner and a huge American flag. The public address system squawked over the hissing waves. They touched glasses. “To the safe return of your sister-in-law,” she said.

Frye nodded and drank. “Good wine.” He drank more and leaned back, letting the sun and the alcohol mix, using the privacy of his sunglasses to study the person across from him. The wine loosened him a little and he babbled: surfing, the MegaShop, contests, growing up on Frye Island, college failures and his several years of aimlessness that ended in his first real job as a reporter for the Ledger. His words seemed to come out under their own power, and as he listened to his voice he wondered about this woman. There’s something oddly real in her, he thought, or something really odd. But which?

He pondered this, poured more wine, and glanced again at the water. A little west swell at Rockpile, not much shape, cool water. Hurricane surf due soon, according to the papers. A big round of applause eased its way through the breeze. Frye looked to the rally stage. He could see Lucia Parsons, positioning herself behind the podium. The applause got louder. She thanked her audience. Her voice was clear, if a little faint. It’s always good to be here in Laguna. It should be. Its my home.

Frye looked at Cristobel and whipped up a quick theory. The facts were thin, but that had never stopped him before, Cristobel Strauss. My age. Skin isn’t wrecked by now, so she probably grew up somewhere else. A few major secrets, none good. No surprise at that, though: beauty always gets the worst offers, and who can say no to all of them? Aware of her effect on the male. How to use it, how to enjoy it, both in moderation. Prone to misgivings about God, country and family, but has the good sense to change what she can, shine what she can’t and know the difference between the two. Level-headed in all respects except the really big ones, but who can brag that? Still, something is not quite right about this. Something doesn’t fit.

I’m here today to tell you I want our soldiers back from the jungles. I want them back on home soil I want them here, with me and you. And I’m here today to tell you there’s a way to do it.

He smiled, poured more wine for them, laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re not married to Jim, are you.”

“I never said I was. It’s kind of an IQ test, how long it takes a man to figure it out.”

“How’d I do?”

“A little above average.”

“What’s the point?”

She looked at him a little placidly, but he sensed the wall just behind her. “He cuts down the flak from jerks, and I deter some of the ladies. He doesn’t care for them, in general. Jim likes men, and I like to be left alone. The last name’s a coincidence, and an occasional source of fun.”

“It was really a gas.”

“I could have strung you along.”

He looked at her and realized she was right. This puts things in a new light. Just what light is it? “True. I must be wearing a little thin on mysteries these days.”

“Well, you figured out this one and no one hit you in the face with a pistol.”

Frye listened to Lucia Parsons describing her rapport with the Vietnamese people. The MIA Committee not only had their support, but had enlisted thousands of Vietnamese as members. “Day after tomorrow, we will be able to provide positive proof that American soldiers are still alive in Vietnam. What we need now is to meet Goal Three — our third and largest fundraising plateau. When the days come to negotiate for our men, we will need money to finance our travel, to support our volunteers, and perhaps to deal with the people of Vietnam. The day is coming soon when we will hear the good news,” she said. “On that day, we must be ready to start bringing those men home!”

“Lucia Parsons is doing good things,” Cristobel said. “If I had someone over there — a husband, or a brother, or a son — I’d do anything in the world to get him back. Anything. She’s great.”

He smiled, touched her glass with his. She told him about growing up in the wine country of Mendocino, a hundred acres of Cabernet and Zinfandel; college at Berkeley, masters in art at UCLA; a stint at fashion design that didn’t work out; ditching L.A. for Laguna Beach and a chance to design on her own again. Almost married once but changed her mind. She looked at Frye, then out to the water. “I’m waiting tables at the Towers mornings for money. It’s a good restaurant, gives me time to myself.”

“Ever think about designing for a company again?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Anyway, I guess I’m in a holding pattern right now. L.A. ended bad.”

He waited for some clarification but she offered none, choosing instead to wrap herself tightly in the light coat she’d worn, tugging the collar up close, then shaking back her hair in a riot of golden waves that struck Frye as feloniously lovely. Call nine-one-one, he thought. In his mind she shed her clothing and wrapped him in a splendid coital knot right there on the patio while outraged drinkers ran for the exits, all sweat and golden hair stuck to her shoulders and breasts, mutual shrieks of love challenging the surging surf below. But he saw as she gazed out to the bright ocean that her eyes held an entirely different vision — anger maybe, or a disappointment too major to air, or some deep and unitemized sorrow, or perhaps nothing at all he could understand. A group of young Mexicans took a table next to them, restaurant workers done with the lunch shift. Cristobel looked at them, then at Frye, an odd confusion on her face. “Well,” she said, standing. “Time for this one to go home.”

“What about lunch?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She led him down the steps to the sand and headed toward the blue apartments, a disheveled outline to the south. He checked the waves again, gazing down to Brooks Street, water splashing the boulders with a faintly purple tint. The color of Li’s ao dai, he thought. Where is she now?

... Good people, there are only three things we need to make this happen. You — each and every one of you — and your money. And you’ve got to write your representatives in this government and get them to support our House Bill eight-eight-two-three-one, which will establish a modest relief fund for the people of Vietnam.

Cristobel looked toward the Rockpile, a silent seascape of rock and foam in the distance. “Going to surf that place tomorrow?”

“Maybe. You going to be out with your dog?”

“Maybe. I usually am.”

“I’m glad you were there that morning, Cristobel.”

“I’m in the pageant this year. Susanna and the Elders. I’ll leave you a ticket at ‘will-call’ if you want to come see me Thursday night.”

“I’d like that.”

“Be there by eight or they’ll sell it to someone else.” She stopped, looked up to her apartment, crossed her arms against the breeze.

Frye moved a stray strand of hair from her face and thought seriously about kissing her. Something mannered, he thought, a skosh formal. The hell?

She stopped his hand with hers. There was a struggle in her eyes as she regarded him. He sensed some contest being fought. Fear versus something he couldn’t quite identify, and fear seemed to be winning. “The last guy to do that’s in the slammer now. His three friends are too. You should know that about me. They kind of show up at bad times, you know?”

Frye looked at her, the sundry data falling into place like a ton of cold bricks. It had been a while since he’d felt like such an ass. Several hours, in fact. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.” For a moment, she looked a thousand years old. “There’s just a whole lot of bad precedent staring you in the face.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“That’s one thing I don’t want from you right now.” She looked long at him.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“One thing you ought to understand up front is I’m not like anybody else. I’ve got some territory there aren’t maps to.”

“You’re not the first one who got lost.”

“I suppose not. But I’d feel a little better if I could call you.”

Frye thought this one through. “As in, don’t call you?”

“It’s got something to do with control.”

“Suit yourself.”

“See you at the pageant, maybe.” She turned and disappeared up the rickety stairway, shoes thudding against old wood as she climbed.

The MIA rally was breaking up by the time Frye got there. He was just in time to see Lucia Parsons getting into a limousine double-parked on Coast Highway, and to pick up a flyer that listed private and corporate supporters, along with a form for joining and giving money.

Edison and Hyla were donors. So was Bennett. So was the Frye Ranch Company.

Frye looked up to see Burke Parsons, hat in hand, slogging through the sand in his cowboy boots.

“Haw, Chuck.”

“Burke.”

Parsons wiped his brow, and looked out to the water. “Seems like everybody I know’s trying to get somebody back.”

Frye nodded, assessing Parsons. He was tall as Frye, thicker, ten years older. Same curly black hair as Lucia, just shorter. Something about the eyes seemed slow. They focused lazily, then bore in.

“Any news on Li?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Well, I did what I could to help Benny, but he ain’t much in the mood for help these days. Kinda like told me to take a hike, is what he did.”

“The pressure’s getting to him.”

“I guess. Any luck on a new job? I miss your boxin’ stuff in the Ledger.”

“I’m working on it.”

Parsons turned to watch the limousine roll up Coast Highway. “I go to these rallies when I get time off work. I like to sit back with the crowd and just listen. You know, this’ll sound dumb, but being proud of your own blood is just about the best — well, second-best — feelin’ there is. My goddamn twin sister. She gets another ten grand raised for her and her assistants, and it’s back over to Hanoi next week. She’s just real sure the government’s about to break down and admit they’ve got some of our boys. Admit they’ve found some of our boys, is what they’ll do. And if she gets Congress to pass that aid package for Hanoi, that’ll make the dealings go real smooth-like. They want those dollars, same as anyone else. That’s why she was telling everyone to write their reps. I don’t know where she gets the energy, Chuck. I really don’t. I’m just proud as all getout.”

“You ought to be.”

Burke wiped his brow again, frowned at the water, then looked at Frye. “Benny keepin’ you busy looking for her?”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do to pitch in, just say the word. I’m busy, but I got time for friends. Benny has my number, and I live right down here in Laguna.”

“Thanks, Burke. It means a lot, all of you pulling for her.”

Burke nodded. “Fuckin’ gooks. Ought to just ship ’em back where they belong. Let ’em eat their dogs and grow their rice. Li and Hy can stay. They’re real Americans, if you ask me. But the rest don’t bring much to the party.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Me neither, Chuck. I’m just a little bit out of kilter about all this. But Li’s a great gal. See ya around. Call if I can help now, hear?”