There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of Read online

  “No, I guess you didn’t.”

  Then he did a surprising thing: He leaned forward, put his hand on my shoulder, and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Take care, will you?”

  He squeezed my shoulder, turned abruptly, and walked out of the parking lot. I put my hand to my cheek and watched him go, amazed.

  It was the damnedest thing, I thought. And what was even more surprising than the kiss was the other factor: Not once since he’d arrived at the hotel tonight had Greg called me by that insult to my one-eighth Indian ancestry, the godawful nickname he had for me—Papoose.

  Now, sitting at Don’s dining table and working on my third glass of wine, I still felt strangely suspended between different worlds. There was this world of the past, when Greg and I had been together; the world of the present and my comfortable life with Don. The violence of the Tenderloin, where human life was a cheap commodity; the security of this loft, where music and love were precious assets.

  Confusion welled up inside me, and I knew it would soon be followed by tears. I’d better quit drinking, I told myself, and go to bed before I got maudlin.

  I poured the rest of my wine down the sink, descended the stairs from the loft, and crossed to turn the lights off in the big central space. Then I climbed to the smaller loft, slipped out of my clothes, and crawled into the wide bed under the skylight. It was a clear night for December, and as I lay there on my back, I could see stars and high-flying wisps of clouds.

  It was almost two in the morning. Right now they’d be taking last call for drinks at Don’s favorite bar, the Blue Lagoon on Army Street, not far from the KSUN studios. The Lagoon had been a gay bathhouse before the AIDS epidemic; now it was converted to a bar with a tropical theme, and a heated courtyard with wrought-iron tables surrounded the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Don and the musicians he’d been interviewing would be sitting there by the turquoise water . . .

  And then I was back at the Globe Hotel. In the basement. Kneeling next to Hao Dinh’s crumpled body, and all around me was the smell of death—

  I jerked awake and turned over, bunching the pillows under my head. They smelled of Don, his talcum powder, the spray he used in an unsuccessful attempt to control his thick black hair. I hugged them closer, breathing in deeply, then turned my head and caught the orange numbers on the digital clock. A little after three.

  They’d probably gone someplace to eat. Or to one of the many after-hours places Don knew. He’d be here soon. All I had to do was relax and sleep.

  But the bloody images returned, and I tossed about. Come on, Don, I thought. Come home and hold me. Keep me away from that basement . . . from that body . . . from that other world where I don’t want to be anymore.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I climbed up to the kitchen loft the following morning, Don was at the stove frying eggs. He’d crawled into bed beside me around four o’clock, smelling of wine and stale cigarette smoke, and had been asleep before I could say more than hello. He’d had a restless sleep, though—full of tossing and mumbling—and now I could see why. From all appearances, Don had a magnificent hangover.

  Now that was odd, I thought. Don liked to drink, but seldom anything stronger than red wine. And he never got hangovers.

  I went over and gave him a good morning kiss. He reached around me and patted my rear. “How’s the old war wounded?” It was his ritual comment lately, referring to the bullet wound I’d suffered there on a recent case.

  I was in no shape to think of a snappy comeback, so I merely took the plate he handed me and carried it to the table. “Rough night?” I said, sitting down and eyeing the eggs with distaste.

  He smiled weakly and sat opposite me, coffee mug in hand. “Yeah.”

  “You’re not eating?”

  “No way, feeling like I do.”

  “Hmmm.” I broke the egg yolk with my fork and began smearing it around my plate. “You want to tell me about it?”

  He sipped coffee and grimaced. “Where shall I start? Well, the taping with the Big Money Band went well. But then we went to the Lagoon for drinks. And that band is composed of hard-drinking old boys. Came up the rough and rowdy way—long tours, booze, drugs, you name it. I couldn’t keep up with them. Didn’t even try.”

  “Oh?” I looked him over skeptically.

  “Well maybe I tried a little. Anyway, long about last call, one of the boys decided to jump in the pool.”

  “Oh-oh.” Swimming in the Blue Lagoon pool was strictly forbidden, and even a move in that direction was grounds for refusal of service.

  “Yeah. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but he decided to take Tony with him.” Tony Wilbur is KSUN’s program director and Don’s boss. “Then,” he went on, “another of them thought it was such a riot that he jumped in—carrying a waiter. Things got out of hand, and pretty soon there were twenty people in the pool and the cops were arriving.”

  “Where were you all this time?”

  “Hiding under the table.”

  I grinned, picturing Don peering out through the white wrought-iron filigree. “And then?”

  “The cops arrested everybody in the water, and I had to go to Potrero Station and straighten things out. Those old boys may have spent many a night in jail, but Tony hasn’t. Besides, it wouldn’t have looked good for KSUN, leaving them there. So duty called, and I went, and eventually everything got straightened out. End of story.”

  “I don’t understand why you got stuck getting them released. Doesn’t the station have a lawyer or a P.R. guy to handle things like that?”

  Don rolled his eyes. “Yes, but our attorney wasn’t available when I called him. The P.R. guy was one of the ones in jail.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at my uneaten eggs.

  “You’re not laughing,” Don said. “Or eating your breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry either.”

  “What’s wrong? How come you’re here, anyway? You told me you wanted to sleep at home last night so you could get an early start this morning?”

  “I did, but something came up, and I decided it was better not to be alone.”

  He leaned forward, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “What happened?”

  I set down my fork and told him about the murder at the Globe Hotel.

  When I finished, Don was silent for a moment, stroking his mustache. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, babe,” he finally said. “You know, sometimes your job make mine look so goddamned frivolous.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Right now I could do with a little frivolousness.” Then, because he looked so downcast, I added, “Besides, not all the shows you do are lightweight. What about the one-in-four?” The one-in-four was the serous show Don did every month; he would pick an issue that was creating a major impact on the city and bring in people to discuss it. The show was live, with call-ins, and often provoked a good bit of controversy.

  “One-in-four’s not enough.”

  “Cheer up; it’s a start.” I pushed my plate away and stood up. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Sure.” He stood up too, eyes on my face. “Be careful, will you?”

  “Look, it’s broad daylight, and the sun’s shining—what could happen to me? Like a lady at the Globe Hotel is fond of saying, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Don’s frown returned. I could tell he didn’t like the bitter tone in my voice. For that matter, neither did I.

  Inspector Richard Loo was a slender Chinese who must have been around forty. In his correct blue pinstriped suit and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked more like a banker than a cop. He’d been with the SFPD’s Gang Task Force since it was formed in the seventies in response to violence among the youth of Chinatown, and he was well known as an authority on all types of gangs—Oriental, Hispanic, black, or Caucasian. As I sat across the desk from Loo in his small cubicle at the Hall of Justice, I could see the keen intelligence in his bespectacled eyes and sense his toughness.

  After leaving Don’s, I’d gone
home to let the contractor in, feed the cat, and change my clothes. Then I’d phoned All Souls for my messages. Loo had returned my call from the previous afternoon, saying he’d be in all morning, and since I had to make a formal statement about finding Hoa Dinh’s body anyway, I’d driven directly to the Hall. The statement had taken only a short time, and I’d had to wait outside Loo’s office for less than five minutes.

  Now Loo said to me, “You’re interested specifically in Vietnamese gangs?”

  “Yes. I believe they’re called ‘dust of life.’”

  Loo nodded. “Bui doi. Somehow it’s too passive a description for those types.”

  “Are there many such gangs active in the city?”

  “Hard to say. The Vietnamese gangs aren’t as easy to pin down as, say, the Hispanics or Chinese. They’re highly organized, but they’re also highly mobile. They drift from city to city—probably that’s where the term ‘dust’ comes from.”

  “I take it these aren’t street gangs in the usual sense.”

  “No. It’s hard to get a handle on them—or on what the typical member is like. The majority are young men, but others are in their forties. It’s rumored that some of the older members may have been part of the Nguyen Van Thieu’s elite bodyguard corps. But that’s just unconfirmed talk. They tend to confine their crimes to preying on their own people. Extortion. Robberies. Some of their schemes are pretty elaborate.”

  “Can you give me an example.”

  “Blackmail. Protection. You remember the ethnic Chinese-Vietnamese couple who were tortured to death in the Richmond District last year? Or the couple who were gunned down in the Sunset?”

  Vaguely I recalled reading about the cases in the paper. “Those were gang-related?”

  “We suspect so, but again, it’s hard to prove.” Loo leaned back in his chair, the light from the overhead fluorescents glinting off his glasses. “Our biggest problem in getting information or prosecuting gang members is the fear they engender in the Vietnamese community. Victims refuse to testify; or if they do, there are violent reprisals.”

  “What are the chances of a young man of sixteen being involved in one of these gangs?”

  “Depends on the young man. If he was a drifter, alone in the country, it’s very possible.”

  “The one I’m thinking of lived with his family in the Tenderloin. It seems a pretty stable home environment. He was studying electronics.”

  “Then it’s doubtful he’d be involved with the bui doi.” Loo straightened up, placing his forearms on the desk. “Is the young man you’re speaking of the one who was killed at the Globe Hotel last night?”

  “Yes.”

  He motioned at a number of reports stacked on his blotter. “The details came up from Homicide an hour ago. I only glanced at them briefly.”

  “Well, I was hired to look into some incidents at the hotel and, in the process, found the boy’s body.”

  “What sort of incidents?”

  “Scare tactics. Nothing serious—until the murder.”

  Loo nodded, looking thoughtful. “So you think these incidents may be gang-related?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I’d say it’s a remote on. The Tenderloin is relatively free of the kind of gang activity we’re talking about. The reason for that being that the bui doi are primarily interested in money, and there isn’t much to spare in those resettlement hotels. The gangs are more likely to hit on the well-off Vietnamese who have been here longer and are established, like those couples out in the Avenues.”

  It made sense, especially when coupled with what the grocer, Hung Tran, had said about Vietnamese gangs not being street gangs in the usual sense. Still, I was unwilling to completely let go of the idea. “The bui doi must live someplace, though, however temporarily, and I can’t see them setting up in the Richmond or the Sunset. Wouldn’t the Tenderloin be a logical place for them to locate?”

  Loo shrugged.

  I went on, “If they had surfaced in the Tenderloin and someone at the Globe Hotel had gotten in the way of their activities . . .”

  “Anything’s possible.” But the inspector looked doubtful.

  I thanked him for his time and told him I’d report anything pertinent I might learn about Hoa Dinh and the bui doi. And the best place to start looking was into the life of the dead boy himself. His best friend, Duc Vang, should be able to supply some of the necessary details.

  On the way to the hotel, I remembered the sheet I’d found in the basement storage locker the day before. The last I’d seen the sack containing it, it had been sitting where I’d put it next to the Christmas tree in the lobby. But in the commotion following the police’s arrival, I’d forgotten it. I decided to look for it so I could show it to Duc.

  But when I arrived at the hotel, Jimmy Milligan, the poetry lover who had confronted Brother Harry the day before, was hanging an ornament on the new live tree. It was a cheap silver-and-gold ball, and it clashed with the other handmade trimmings, but Jimmy didn’t seem to notice. Mary Zemanek and the two Vietnamese toddlers who had been with her the previous day stood looking on, and they didn’t seem to mind that the ornament wasn’t up to par either.

  When I came in, Jimmy turned to me, gestured at the tree, and said, “‘Pardon, great enemy . . . without an angry thought . . . we’ve carried in our tree . . . and here and there have bought . . till all the boughs are gay.’”

  I said, “William Butler Yeats.”

  He smiled sadly at me. “‘Upon a Dying Lady.’ When her end is near, her friends bring her a Christmas tree. And rightly so. ‘Tis the season. The great enemy, of course, is death . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked back at the tree with liquid brown eyes, his face as melancholy as a clown’s. I wondered what past holiday scenes he was remembering.

  Mary Zemanek said briskly, “That was a lovely thing to bring an ornament, Jimmy. But you’d better run along now.”

  The bearded man roused himself from his reverie with an effort. “‘And pluck, till time and times are done . . . the silver apples of the moon . . . the golden apples of the sun.’” He touched the ornament gently as he spoke, then moved toward the door.

  When he had gone, I said, “What was all that about?”

  Mary Zemanek sighed. “That poem—with the silver and golden applies in it—it’s one of Jimmy’s favorites. He recited the whole thing to me one time. It’s about a man who catches a fish that turns into a girl and runs away from him. He spends his life looking for her.”

  “But doesn’t find her?”

  “That’s Jimmy’s way of seeing it. Who knows?” She paused, her pale eyes reminiscent. “You know, I used to read poetry when I was a girl. I’ve forgotten a lot of it, but I do remember my Yeats. Some of it is just beautiful, and I can recognize a number of the poems Jimmy recites.”

  “Really?” I was surprised at the sudden gentleness in her gravelly old voice.

  “That one he was just reciting—about the apples—I’ve always thought it describes Jimmy’s life. The opening line is something about going out into the hazelwood ‘because a fire was in my head.’ A fire, like the craziness in Jimmy’s head. And it’s about a search, only in Jimmy’s case, it’s a search for a home, not a girl.”

  I hadn’t expected her to be so insightful. “Maybe he likes it for that reason.”

  “Maybe so.” Then she looked at me curiously. “What’s the name of that law firm you work for? Carolyn Bui mentioned it once, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “All Souls Legal Cooperative.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Yes, the name is a little strange for a law firm.”

  “No, I mean it’s an odd coincidence. Jimmy’s favorite poem lately is ‘All Souls Night.’ It’s about ghosts drinking wine together and mummies. It’s eerie.”

  “I guess so.” Although the wine part fit with All Souls. Or used to, I reminded myself, back in the days when it was full of convivial spirits. Maybe the part about the ghosts wasn’
t far off either. The place did have the feel of a subterranean crypt lately.

  Mary looked over at the ornament on the tree. “Jimmy’s a nice man,” she said. “I hated to push him out, especially after he brought that ornament, but the owner wouldn’t like him here.”

  “Why? Jimmy isn’t dangerous, is he?”

  She glanced down at the two children, who were standing silently on either side of her, one clutching he skirt of her dress with a small hand. “You go back inside, now,” she told them. “Watch the TV until your mama comes.”

  The children went into the apartment, as quietly as they had disappeared the day before.

  I asked, “Are you babysitting?”

  “Yes. The mother has English classes until one.” Mary came over to the counter and straightened the red cord that Jimmy’s ornament was suspended from. She moved wearily, one hand pressed against her right side. When she turned, her pale eyes were puzzled. “Now what’s this about Jimmy being dangerous?”

  “I just wondered. He got into a fight with the street preacher, Brother Harry, yesterday.”

  “Oh, that. Happens all the time. Jimmy likes to needle the old goat. It’s a game he plays.”

  “Harry doesn’t seem to think it’s a game.”

  “Well, no, he wouldn’t. Man’s got no sense of humor. Religious fanatics never do.”

  I had to agree with that. “How does Jimmy survive, anyway? Someone told me he won’t go on welfare.”

  “He survives like any of them do. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that.” She looked scornfully at my six-year-old suede jacket, as if possession of it rendered me incapable of comprehending the difficulties of eking out a living in the Tenderloin. When I didn’t reply, she went on. “Jimmy collects things from the garbage cans; sometimes I give him odd jobs. And he panhandles. He once told me he can make ten dollars on a good day. And then there’s the blood bank.”

  “He sells blood?”

  “Twice a week, at three locations.”

  “Don’t you have to be in good health to do that?”