Little Saigon

Chapter 15

The FBI offices were in the Federal Building in Santa Ana. Frye waited in a nondescript lobby for thirty minutes before anyone was ready to see him, while a receptionist answered the phone, channeled calls, took messages.

She finally showed him to a back office. It was spacious, with a view of downtown, an overactive air conditioner, and cool gray carpet.

Special Agent-in-Charge Albert Wiggins shook Frye’s hand with federal authority, then pointed him to a chair. He was thinner in real life than he looked on Xuan’s TV set, with eyes a little too close together and an undentable layer of confidence about him. His coat was on, his tie was knotted tight. “I’m glad you called this morning, Chuck. In fact, I was about to call you. There are a few things I’d like you to think about. You feeling okay today?”

Frye nodded.

Wiggins sat back. “First, what can I do for you?”

“I think you ought to pay some attention to the Thach angle. I know General Dien has been trying to tell you the same thing.”

Wiggins smiled. “What angle is that?”

“That Thach has engineered things like this before.”

“What are you referring to?”

Frye told him what he knew of Paris and Australia, the beheadings, Thach’s mission to obliterate the resistance. “I had a long talk with Xuan about three hours before he was killed. He more than suspected Thach’s influence in Little Saigon. When he died that way, it was too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

Wiggins nodded along with the whole story, as if he’d heard it just a few minutes before. “Yes, well, you can be assured that we’ve not been ignoring it either. Despite what your Vietnamese friends tell you. It’s a fact that Hanoi has its eyes and ears in Little Saigon. We kicked a few loose back in seventy-eight, more in eighty. All small-time people. They were encouraged by Hanoi to send reports about what was happening, and to send dollars. You might know that Vietnamese currency isn’t negotiable outside the country. The dollars are extremely valuable.”

“I imagine.”

Wiggins leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “You’re a reporter.”

“Used to be.”

“You know, we’re extremely cautious about this Thach angle, as you call it. Any mention of Colonel Thach is enough to stir up the refugees. They’re terrified of him. You wouldn’t be contemplating an article, a piece on him, would you?”

“I’m contemplating how to find Li, is all.”

“I understand. We’ll find her. But you have to know that by implying Thach’s influence here, you would be creating a great amount of fear and causing a potentially dangerous situation in Little Saigon. In fact, we believe this is what Xuan’s killers and Li’s kidnappers may well want.”

“Who are they?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here talking to you, now would I?”

“You must have some ideas.”

Wiggins nodded, leaned forward. “I might. And you, Chuck, are the last one I’m supposed to share them with.”

“I know that.”

Wiggins stood, crossed his arms, gave Frye a governmental stare. “But I’ll do it anyway. I think — and this is purely a personal opinion at this point — that we’re not looking at a political situation at all. We’re not even looking at two related crimes. Listen. I think the kidnappers will come through with a big ransom demand, once they’ve sweated your brother long enough. God knows, between him and your father, the resources are there. When they do, we’re ready for them. That’s what Michelson and Toibin are there for. They’re the two best ransom men we’ve got. The second those kidnappers try to pick up the money, we’ll have them. I guarantee it.”

Wiggins took a deep breath. “Coffee?”

“No thanks. I’m listening.”

“I’ll admit it, Frye, when I first heard about Xuan, I thought the same thing you did. Two prominent resistance leaders... removed in the same week. But I did my homework on Xuan, bless his heart. He’s one of those Vietnamese who sees a Communist behind every bush, and remember this is the FBI talking. He organized his own secret police back in ‘seventy-eight, to screen the refugees coming in. People were beaten. People disappeared. You know what he was saying then? Thach. Thach is behind it all. Guy had a regular fixation, Frye. And I’ve got evidence now that Tuy Xuan may have been involved in some questionable dealings with the local gangs.”

“What kind of dealings?”

“He’s an activist. He enlists support in Nguyen Hy’s so-called Committee to Free Vietnam. They fund a ‘resistance’ over there. I’d speculate he got some funding from the gang kids’ families, and the gang kids went to get it back. It’s damn easy to throw suspicion, if you want to leave a signature. Look at yourself, it worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Who? The Dark Men? Ground Zero?”

“I don’t know, at this point. I’m not sure it matters. Let’s just say we’ve got early indicators that Xuan and the criminal youth element were tied. So we’re not talking politics here. We’re talking plain old dollars and cents. You know something, Chuck? The refugees are smart. They know that they can point fingers at Hanoi and we good Americans will go along with them. We hate Communists in this country, don’t we? Well, the refugees know that. They play on our own fears, and every time someone gets their pocket picked, they blame Hanoi. The gangs know that. Eddie Vo knows it.”

“Gang kids beheading an old man? Hard to swallow.”

“There was a gang working here in the early eighties. Their leader was infamous for doing just that. His nickname was Chop, for God’s sake. So it’s not hard for me to swallow at all. Unless, of course, you know something about Li or Xuan that you’re not telling us.” Wiggins sat down, looking at Frye innocently.

“Something like what?”

“The pipeline to Vietnam. The ‘prosthetics’ that Bennett and Li send over there.” Wiggins smiled. “He told me he was sending over plastic limbs, and I laughed in his face. Which isn’t easy to do to a man who hasn’t got any legs.”

Frye said nothing.

Wiggins smiled. “Hey — I don’t care. I think it’s great. Send all the guns and ammo he can afford. That’s the question, though. How does he afford it? Where’s he get the money?”

“You got me.”

“Knew I would, Chuck. Just knew I would.”

“Funny how we got back to politics again.”

“Fleecing money from homesick refugees isn’t politics. It’s theft.”

“General Dien is the master of that game, from what I hear.”

“And Nguyen Hy is a close second. Bennett and Li are just a little too close to Hy’s CFV for the... contact not to rub off. You know — sleep with pigs, you pick up their smell. And sooner or later, the suckers find out and what happens? Heads roll. So, if you’ve got any information on how that pipeline is financed, I’d sure like to know. I might be able to keep something like this from happening again. Talk about good copy, Chuck. You help me, and I’ll help you on this one. We could show just who’s taking money out of Little Saigon and where it’s going — or not going. But if you’ve got any ambition to write about some Vietnamese colonel cutting off heads in California, Chuck, I have to ask you to run it by this desk first. Would you do that?”

“No. I’d end up with my byline on the same kind of lies you let the other papers print today.”

Wiggins’s face darkened. “Chuck, let me put it another way. Stay the fuck out of Little Saigon and forget about Colonel Thach. I’ll give you the first tip for your big exposé. The main reason we didn’t release the MO on Xuan’s murder isn’t because we’re afraid of starting a riot in Little Saigon, though that’s a possibility. The main reason is that Colonel Thach can’t even leave his apartment in Ho Chi Minh City anymore. He’s in protective isolation — a better term for it is house arrest. The new Hanoi Politburo doesn’t trust him. He’s an old war machine and they know it, and they also know they can’t control him. They’ve been sitting on him since June. His ice is too thin for the kind of skating you’re talking about.”

Frye considered. “That’s exactly what Hanoi would tell you, if Thach were running an operation like this, isn’t it?”

Wiggins sighed and looked at Frye as if he were a moron. “Hanoi didn’t tell us that, Chuck, We’ve got more reliable sources than those lying bastards. So lighten up. Let the FBI do its job and you do yours. What the hell is your job anyway? Besides hustling Tuy Nha?”

“I don’t have one, exactly.”

“Well, you’re so hot to trot, why don’t you go find one?” “I’m working on it.”

Bill Antioch presided over the empty MegaShop, drinking his ever-present health shake. “Got you all signed up for the Masters at Huntington, Frye. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m also telling everyone you’ll be at the showing of Radically Committed Saturday night. At the Surf in Huntington. Any truth to that rumor?”

“It’s my movie, I guess I ought to be there.”

“Gnardical.” Bill gave him four comp tickets.

“How are we doing today, Bill, from a sales angle?”

“We’ve sold one bar of wax.”

“Large or small?”

Frye surveyed the shop. Bill had straightened things, dusted, arranged the boxes and boards, taken down the faded Christmas signs, put the wetsuits back on the rack by size. MegaT-shirts were marked down to three for ten bucks. This stung, but Frye said nothing. The windows were clean. The first inklings of retail hopelessness crept over him as he reached behind the counter for the phone.

He called Elite Management and got the usual put-off from the receptionist. She said that Rollie Dean Mack would return his call, but Frye had heard that one before. He tried again to get the address.

“It’s like no way, unless you have an appointment,” she said. She sounded like a certified surf-bunny, about age eighteen, loose-jawed, heavy on the schwas. “We don’t give out our business address unless we’re expecting you. Elite isn’t, like, geared to the publuck.”

Frye slammed down the phone. Then it hit him. “Advertising.”

“Can’t afford it,” said Antioch.

“No. Elite ran advertising in the Ledger, on Wednesdays, so that means someone had to go over the veloxes with them on Tuesday morning.”

“Cool.”

He called the Ledger and asked for display advertising, Dianne Resnick. Dianne once liked Frye, who occasionally wrote puff pieces to make her advertisers sound better than they were. Frye did this because Dianne had great legs, and because exaggerating the virtues of hopelessly third-rate companies was just plain fun. He brought a desperate, manic enthusiasm to these pieces, which read like a cross between Hunter Thompson and Alexander Haig. The all-seeing Ronald Billingham had edited the hell out of them.

Dianne answered the phone in her sales voice, soothing and eager to please. Frye explained that he needed to know where Dianne sent the ad proofs for Elite Management. The pulling of these ads was understandably a sore spot with Dianne, who was now out fifty-six dollars and seventy-eight cents a week in commission. “You still make ten times a week more than I did, Di,” he said.

“That’s because I bring money to this paper. Any nerd can write copy.”

“I did my best to tout those greedy mutants passing themselves off as businessmen. You have to admit that. It would mean a lot to me if you could give me that address, Dianne.”

She sighed. He heard papers shuffling. She put him on hold for a full minute. “Okay, Chuck, here it is. For a company called Elite, they sure didn’t seem to have much going for themselves. The receptionist proofed the ads, a little beach tart is what she sounded like on the phone. Anyway, it’s Number Eighteen Palisade, up in Newport Center. I’m sure the receptionist will just love you.”

“Rad.”

“Like, woah. Any chance you’re coming back? I really did like the piece you did about my rug dealer being a Persian prince, and his family being held hostage by the Ayatollah.”

“That one was true. Just nobody bothered to ask him. Put me through to Billingham, would you?”

“I think he misses you, Chuck.”

Frye asked Billingham for his job back and Billingham said no. Frye told him he had a Pulitzer winner on a Little Saigon patriot who finally got tracked down and beheaded by Hanoi. Bill Antioch looked on with horror.

Billingham waited. “I read the papers, Frye. Nothing at all about anybody’s head rolling. This kind of like watching that welterweight go down and calling it a dive?”

“It was a dive, and I can substantiate every word of it. Now this murder piece is already written. The slug at the top says Frye/Ledger. Cost you my spindly salary for a look at it.”

“No can do. I’ve replaced you with a J-school girl already.”

“What do you pay her, two-seventy-five a week?”

“Two-fifty.”

“There should be a new rung in hell for editors like you.”

“Give us a quote about how the Fryes are coping with the kidnapping.”

“Get fucked, Ron.”

“Go to another paper. Our circulation’s dying anyway.”

“I just may do that, and you’ll be sorry I did.”

“How come you need an address for Elite Management?”

He guided the Cyclone through the long thin shadows of the Newport Center palms. The palms were newly planted, a hundred feet tall and there were millions of them. Everyone had a different story of what they’d cost: some said three thousand per tree, some said twenty thousand. The idea was to make the place more attractive to shoppers and the palms were brought in, like relief pitchers, after twenty years of so-so consumerism.

On the afternoon that he was fired, Frye had sat in his car for an hour and watched them plant a few. The root systems, carefully bound in wet burlap, were the size of living rooms. Now the emerald grass of Newport Center had been rolled right up to the trunks and the trees looked like they’d been there all along.

Number 18 Palisade was on the west side of Newport Center, in a building that housed a bank, a beauty salon, and a jewelry store. He climbed the stairs, looking in, each of the clients in a different state of beauty improvement. The hairdressers hovered over them, all elbows and chatter.

Elite Management was next to the restrooms. The door was locked, so Frye pushed the intercom button. The surf-bunny sounded half asleep when she asked who was there. Frye said he was UPS. The lock buzzed open and he walked in. The girl’s desk plate said SHELLY — RECEPTIONIST. Frye smiled and watched her face turn sour at his lack of packages and brown uniform. She had long blond hair, a denim dress, and skin rich and dark as teak wood.

“You’re not UPS, no way,” she said.

“That’s true.”

“There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“Why not?”

She picked up an index card and read Frye the blurb about Elite not being geared to the public. He studied the office: a small room with two chairs, a desk, a Hockney litho on one wall, and a door behind Shelly. The door was shut. She had been brushing her hair. The brush lay on her desk blotter, trailing golden scraps. She finished the reading and looked up at him. Her face changed. “You’re Chuck Frye, aren’t you?”

“I am. And you’re Shelly, right?”

She smiled and put her hairbrush in a desk drawer. “I heard you’ll be at Radically Committed Saturday night.”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

“Woah!” she squealed. “Like what’s the deal?”

“The deal is I want to see Rollie Dean Mack.”

“Oh, that’s going to be hard, Chuck.”

“Is he in?”

“No.”

“When will he be?”

“Beats me.”

“Must be in sometime.”

“I’ve worked here all summer and I’ve only seen him, like, three times. I usually say he’s in the field, ‘cause that’s what I’m supposed to say. But I wonder what a millionaire like Mr. Mack would be doing in a field. Think about it.”

“Come on, I really have to see him, Shelly.”

She brought out her brush and ran it through a couple of times. Her hair gave a static crackle, lifted out, and hung a moment. Her teeth were white as typing paper. “I’m telling you, Chuck. I sit here eight hours a day. I do my nails, then my hair, then my makeup, then I listen to the radio, then do it all again. I’m not allowed to talk on the phone to my friends or this would be great. Daddy got me the job. Anyway, I take calls for Mr. Mack and Mr. Becwith. I write the messages on this.” She held up one of those three-color memo pads that make a different color copy for each person.

He sighed.

Shelly kept brushing her hair and smiling. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

This chick’s no dummy, he thought. Harder to get past than a free safety. “Damn it, Shelly, I surf all morning and it isn’t easy, you know? I gotta work at it, like everyone else does. I come in here to see your boss about a job and all I get is a runaround.”

“I’m real sorry, Chuck. I love the way you surf. And the way you moon the camera in Committed. Can’t wait till that part.”

“So you’re not going to let me see him?”

“I told you. He’s hardly ever here. Neither of them are.”

From the utter blankness on Shelly’s face, Frye could only conclude she was doing her job and that was that.

“You know, Chuck, I was in Mega looking for a board the other day. I looked all around. Gotcha has good boards but too expensive.”

“My stuff’s better. How much you want to spend?”

“Not much.”

“Shelly, we can work a deal. You let me see Mr. Mack and I’ll give you a board at cost.”

“Can’t do it, Chuck. I told you what the deal here is.”

“I’ll give it to you for free.”

Shelly’s eyes glittered. She laughed perfectly. “I’d love a Mega board.”

“Get me Rollie.”

“I’ll get you as close to him as I can. How’s that?” She stood up and opened the door behind her. Frye walked into the larger room. Two desks and chairs, two round wastebaskets, two blotters, a couple of lamps. The office was a mess. It looked like the Ledger newsroom. Piles of paper on each desk, trashcans full, notices and bulletins thumbtacked to the walls. The blotters were scribbled upon. The desk calendars were on the right day. He flipped through Mack’s, but found no hint as to where he might be. In fact, there was no hint as to where he’d ever been. Not a single note in eight months. His finger came away from the desk top with dust on it.

“Oops,” said Shelly. “I’m supposed to dust every morning before they get here, but I forgot.”

“Before they get here? I thought you said they don’t come in.”

“They don’t. You know, like, dust before they got here if they ever did. But they never do. That’s what I mean.”

He noted the pile of yellow message slips on each desk. Shelly said they never told her to put them there, but she did anyway just in case they came in, and to cover herself.

“Who’s your boss?”

“They both are.”

“But you’ve never seen them?”

“Well, I’ve seen Mr. Mack like a couple of times. He was here when I came to interview. He asked me what I wanted to do for a career and I told him be a model or be in advertising, then he said I was perfect and hired me. After that, he’s come in a couple times with little beat-up guys. I think they’re wrestlers or something, but they’re kind of small for that. He doesn’t show up much. He’s like independently wealthy, so why bother?”

“How do you know that?”

Shelly giggled. “Why else would you never show up at your job? And Mr. Becwith works nights.”

“Yeah. So when you take the messages, how do you pass them along?”

“Mr. Mack calls in at nine, one, and four. Every day.”

“From where?”

“Beats me. Why all the questions, Chuck? You must really need that job.”

“You have a number to get him, say for an emergency, or a real important call?”

Shelly looked at him for a long moment. “I really think what I’m doing here is, like, getting myself into trouble. Daddy got me this job, ya know. I don’t want to—”

“—Give me that number, Shel.”

“Gawd, Chuck. Be cool.”

“Sorry. I mean it, I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“You’ve been a real help, Shelly. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone about what you told me.” He looked around again at the empty office, then helped himself to a business card from a holder on each desk. Shelly eyed him from the doorway, a little red-faced now, a little fearful, a little like a girl who’s just been seduced. Frye felt bad.

“Thanks. One more thing, Shelly. Don’t tell Mr. Mack I’ve been here asking questions.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

For a brief moment Frye wanted to hug her and apologize. “You come to Mega any time you want and pick out a board. Take whatever you want, and a MegaSuit too. No charge. Bill gives you any trouble, just have him call me. I’m in the book.”

She brightened, started brushing her hair again. “Me too. Shelly Morris. Thanks for the board, Chuck! I always liked Mega the best, except you don’t have any girls’ stuff.”

“We’re working on that.” He gave her a couple of tickets to the Saturday movie. She took them in a smooth dark hand.

“Will you tell him I was here, about the Ledger advertising? Just the advertising, not all the questions.”

“I may be an airhead, but I’m not like completely stupid. I’ll write on that pad that you came by about ads. That’s all.”

“Come get that board sometime, now.”

“Thanks, Chuck. You really want to know if Mr. Mack comes in here, don’t you?”

“I really do.”

She deliberated. “I could maybe like sneak you a call when he’s back in the office or something.”

“Be careful.”

“See ya Saturday night. If you act like you know me, my friends will think I’m cool.”

“You’re a good friend, Shelly, Does Elite have a fighter on the Sherrington card tonight?”

“We have two.”

“Mr. Mack be there?”

“He always goes when one of his guys is fighting, Chuck.” She smiled and the phone rang. The wall clock said one o’clock. “You better go now.”

Frye nodded and headed down the stairs. At a gas station he called Dianne Resnick to see if she’d ever actually laid eyes on Mr. Mack of Elite Management. She hadn’t.

Neither had Ronald Billingham, who had taken Elite’s advertising cancellation over the phone.