There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of (18 page)

“Lan,” I said, “what is it?”

“Please, come in.” She opened the door wide and gestured with one arm.

I stepped into the living room, which looked dingy and ill-furnished in the subdued light that filtered in from the alley. The room was empty, but I could hear voices and the baby’s cries from the adjoining bedrooms.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

Lan glanced at the door to the bedrooms, then said in a low voice, “It is Duc. He did not come home all night.”

“Has he ever done this before?”

“No, never.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Before we left for the restaurant, at four yesterday afternoon. My husband had told Duc he might take the evening off from work, because of his grief for his friend. I thought he planned to stay here.”

“When did you realize he was gone?”

“When the lights came back on after you and the policeman left. Before that there was such confusion, and Dolly needed me. I had no time to think of Duc. When I noticed he was missing, I did not mention it to anyone. I especially did not want my husband to know; he had had such a difficult day, so full of pain and shame for our daughter. But I lay awake listening for Duc until daybreak.”

“Did you mention it to anyone this morning?”

“I have asked the other children. They know no more than I do.”

“What about the others in the hotel?”

“I asked Sallie Hyde and Mrs. Zemanek and several others. They had not seen him. I even spoke to the foot . . . beat officer. He said he could do nothing for seventy-two hours, and then I must go to the police station and fill out a form.”

“That’s standard procedure here in missing person’s cases, unless there’s some indication of suspicious circumstances. Duc is old enough to be out on his own, and there’s no evidence he’s been harmed.”

“But he has never done this before?”

I patted her shoulder briefly, thinking of the talk I’d had with Duc yesterday. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to help you find him. What about his friends, the other boys? Did you question any of them?”

Lan brightened somewhat. “I had not thought of that. There is Hoa Dinh’s brother, and the boys on floor five. Shall I go see them?”

“No, let me do it. I need to speak with them anyway, and I’d like to ask you to do something for me in the meantime.” I got out the list of disturbances that Lan had given me at our first meeting and asked if she could fill in the approximate time of day each had happened. She said she would consult with the others, and then I left her and climbed to the sixth floor.

I was about to open the fire door there when I heard noises above. The door to the roof creaked on its hinges, then boomed shut. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and seconds later Roy LaFond appeared on the landing. His mane of white hair was windblown and he was brushing dirt from his sharply creased tan slacks. When he saw me, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Ms. McCone,” he said in an obvious attempt to cover his confusion.

“Mr. LaFond, what a surprise. I thought you hardly ever came to the hotel.”

“I don’t, usually,” he said, moving across the landing to the steps. “But with all these problems, I thought I should stop by and check things out.”

“On the roof?”

He glanced back the way he had come. “On the roof, as well as in the rest of the building.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting. . . .” He went down the stairs, and I listened to his footsteps clatter all the way to the bottom.

When I’d talked with him before, Roy LaFond had said he hadn’t been to the hotel since last August. At the time I’d believed him; his manner had been convincing. But so had Otis Knox’s—almost—until Knox had dropped his country-boy façade and shown himself for what he really was. As owner, Roy LaFond would have a full set of keys to the hotel. There was nothing to prevent him from coming and going at will. But if he had done so often, wouldn’t someone have seen him? That was another thing I’d have to ask people about.

I went through the fire door and knocked at the Dinh’s apartment, but got no answer. It was late enough that the family would all be off at their jobs. I got similar results at the apartments of Duc’s other friends on the fifth floor, and made a mental note to come back later. Then I went downstairs, bypassing the Vangs’ floor, to Mary Zemanek’s and when she saw me, her lips pursed in disapproval.

“You again,” she said. “Now what?”

“I want to borrow your key to the roof.”

“You’ve already been up there once.”

“I want to go again.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a key anymore.” Now her mouth took on a sullen, downward slant.

“What happened to your key?”

“The owner took it. Said no one was to go up there again.” She paused, then added grudgingly, “He’s the owner. He has the right.”

I watched her thoughtfully, then said, “I ran into Mr. LaFond on the stairwell. What was he doing here anyway?”

She bit her lip and her eyes strayed to the little Christmas tree. “That’s none of your business.”

“Well, I said, following her gaze, “at least he didn’t make you remove the tree. Why did he go up on the roof?”

“I said, that’s none of your business.”

The anger that lay under her defensive attitude didn’t seem to be directed at me, however. On impulse, I said, “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“What he was doing up there. You don’t know any more than I do.”

She drew herself up haughtily. “Mr. LaFond has no secrets from me.” But the fury in her eyes told me I had been right.

I got the revised list from Lan Vang and checked it over. There was no pattern to the times of the disturbances—at least none that I could see. I’d have to examine it carefully later on, but right now I needed to go about the neighborhood while I was still able to investigate. After telling Lan I would keep asking about Duc, I went down the street to Hung Tran’s grocery store.

The old man was behind the counter, wearing the same kind of gray smock and looking as if he hadn’t moved in two days. He nodded politely when I came in, and didn’t seem surprised when I asked how often he’d seen Roy LaFond visiting the Globe Hotel.

“At first, when he bought the building, it was often,” he said. “Then not so much. Whenever he came he was with people who looked like real estate salesmen. I hear the building is for sale.”

“That’s true. When did you last see him?”

“Only a half an hour or so ago.”

“And before that?”

The grocer’s eyes became veiled. “I do not remember.”

“Mr. Tran, this is very important.”

He looked at me for a moment, then seemed to make some sort of mental decision. “The day before yesterday.”

“What time of day?”

“Late. It was dark. Perhaps after six. No later than nine. At nine my son comes to run the store until closing, and I go home. He does not like for me to be here so late.”

And with good reason, I thought. Robberies—armed ones—were common here in the late evening, and they could easily flare into fatal violence if there wasn’t sufficient money in the till. I said, “What was Mr. LaFond doing at the hotel? Did you see him do anything unusual?”

Again his expression became vague. “He was there. That is all I can tell you.”

“Can, or will?”

He gave me a polite inquiring look, pretending not to understand.

The grocer’s silence didn’t matter, though. What did was that I now had a witness who could place Roy LaFond at the hotel within a couple of hours of the time Hoa Dinh had died. Thinking of Hoa Dinh made me think of Duc, and I asked, “Do you know Duc Vang, Mr. Tran?”

Again he didn’t seem surprised at my question. “Yes, the young man comes in here often. His mother has a young child, and she must work long hours at their restaurant. Duc helps her by doing the family grocery shopping.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

He considered. “Yesterday afternoon, perhaps at two o’clock. He purchased a half gallon of milk.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

“Mr. Tran, the other day I asked you about the
bui doi
.”

He nodded.

“Could either Hoa Dinh or Duc Vang be connected with them?”

“No. Most certainly not. He
bui doi
do not recruit young men of their type.”

With his reply, I gave up any notion of a gang connection. “But Hoa and Duc and some others at the hotel were friends. You’d see them going about the neighborhood, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of things did they do together?”

Once more he put on his vague look.

“Mr. Tran, the reason I ask is that Duc Vang is missing and may be in danger. I need to know where he might go, what he might do.”

“I see.” Hung Tran folded his waxy hands across his smock and stared down at them for a moment. “You are a detective, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled.

“Well, that is what Duc and his friends fancied themselves to be. They went about the neighborhood being detectives. Actually what they did was more like spying.”

“Who did they spy on?”

“Their families, particularly their sisters.”

“But why?”

“The boys are very traditional. And they are afraid for their sisters in a neighborhood such as this. They wanted to make sure no harm came to them.”

“And to make sure it didn’t, they followed them?”

“Yes.”

“Good Lord.” That meant that Duc had probably followed Dolly on at least one occasion when she had met with Otis Knox. Perhaps he had even followed her to the Crystal Palace and figured out what was going on inside. What would Duc have done if he had known about Knox and his sister?

I thought I knew, and it made me even more concerned for the alienated and missing young man.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brother Harry was preaching furiously in front of the Sensuous Showcase Theatre when I came out of the grocery store. He stood on his square of blue carpet, waving his arms and shouting and, for once, attracting quite a crowd. Behind him, the theatre was dark, although I could see the cashier just inside one of the plate-glass doors.

I went down there and worked my way into the crowd, curious to see what Harry was saying that had made them stop. Up close, I saw that the preacher’s fleshy face was mottled red, his eyes flashing with zealous excitement. The intensity of his voice and motions seemed to hold his listeners spellbound.

“The wages of sin, brothers and sisters! The wages of sin is death! Otis Knox was a pariah among us, a panderer, a purveyor of sin and degradation. He has now been made to pay. . . .”

I looked around at the crowd. They were the usual neighborhood types—winos and bag ladies, pimps and whores, ordinary shabby citizens—and they all stared at Harry, mesmerized by his diatribe—which might very well be the only eulogy the porno king would ever have.

“The Lord has delivered a mighty blow and rid us of this foul creature! He has lifted His great sword and meted out His divine justice! Justice and retribution, brothers and sisters. Retribution for Otis Knox’s sins. If you do not also wish to pay this same terrible price, you must repent. . . .”

I had heard enough. Turning away, I spotted Jimmy Milligan at the edge of the crowd. The poetry lover was obviously in one of his down periods, standing with his head bent, hands jammed in the pockets of his worn corduroy jacket. When I went up to him, I saw that he was crying.

“Jimmy,” I said, “are you okay?

He looked up, elfin face twisted, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks. He said, “Come away, O human child . . . to the waters and the wild . . . with a faery, hand in hand . . . for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

“What is it, Jimmy?” I said.

He shook his head, tears flowing faster. “Come away, O human child.”

I remembered that Knox had said Jimmy would sometimes stand in the street and cry. This was not unusual behavior for him and, at any rate, there was nothing I could do to help. I gave his arm an ineffectual pat, but he caught my hand and held on.

Through his sobs, he said, “The world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

I sighed and said, “I guess so, Jimmy.” I stood there for a minute, holding his hand until he got himself under control. Then I watched him shuffle off down the sidewalk toward Market Street, still mumbling the poetic refrain.

The crowd around the preacher was beginning to thin. I skirted it and went up to the door of the theatre, where the cashier still stood watching through the glass, her jowly face rigid with revulsion. When I tapped on the door, she shook her head and motioned for me to go away.

I shook my head and indicated I need to talk to her. Finally she unbolted the door and let me into the lobby.

“So what is it?” Her voice was harsh with emotion, and her eyes, beneath heavy blue shadow, were puffy.

“I need to talk to you about Mr. Knox.”

“Talk to Brother Harry. He thinks he knows it all.”

“I know how you feel; what he’s doing is disgusting.”

She clenched her teeth and glared at him. “Yeah, it is! Otis never did a thing to him. Anybody else would have had the cops here every time Harry set up shop. But not Otis. Oh, he’d chase him off once in a while, but mostly he let him be. And this is how Harry repays him.” Then she turned toward me. “So what do you want?”

“I’m a private detective, working with the police on Mr. Knox’s death. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

She looked at me skeptically, but said, “So ask.”

“I was with Mr. Knox at his ranch last night around seven-thirty. He got a phone call and indicated he needed to come back to the city. Do you know if anyone here at the theatre made that call?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t here then. I get off at six.”

“Who was here?”

“Arnie, the projectionist. Karla, the night cashier.”

“Where can I find them?”

“Karla’s probably at home. I don’t know the address offhand, but I could look it up. Arnie’s in the projection booth. He practically lives here, has a mattress in there when he curls up. Another of Otis’s charities, like that fucking preacher.”