Chapter 12

Channary looked up from her book. The boys were filing past, feet shuffling, voices silent. Two of them—Vithu and Samay—stopped in the doorway, looking at her and whispering. When Sheila arrived, they hurried away with the rest of their friends. Sheila set an armful of books on the end table and Channary sorted through.

“Sheila, will the policemen ask me more questions about the church?” she asked in Khmer.

“Probably. I’m afraid so. Why?”

“Because there’s one question they did not ask.”

The basement door at the end of the hall slammed shut. Voices carried from downstairs. Sheila closed the book. “What question?”

“They didn’t ask if I prayed. That’s what’s done in church.”

The Aunties passed by on their way to the kitchen. They glanced into the room.

“I’m asking, Channary. Did you pray that night?”

“I did.”

The house was silent, except for the murmur from downstairs.

“What did you pray for, Channary?”

Tears formed in Channary’s eyes.

“I prayed to be with my family again. I miss Cambodia.” She held up a picture book with a cartoon family posing in front of a house. “Like them. Will God answer me, Sheila?”

Thompson took the book from Channary’s hands, buried her tears in her shoulder, and took a very long time to answer.

“He will, Channary. I’m sure He will.”

****

A grimy basement window was tinged by the setting sun. It cast an eerie orange glow on the shiny black eels that hung from the cellar rafters, waiting to be skinned. Samay thought the light show and the briny smell of the freshly-caught eels formed a strange welcome for this very special Monday night—Pon had finally arrived.

He didn’t look like much. Young and thin, with long hair like a girl’s. He moved deliberately, like a cat. Face was clean-shaven—perfect skin except for an inch-long crescent-shaped scar across the jut of his chin. The few words he’d uttered so far hadn’t been spoken. They’d been purred.

Purred to Samay and Vithu at the bottom of the basement steps as the Asian Boyz passed.

“We robbed Tommy Lopez, the drug dealer,” Vithu told Pon breathlessly. “We killed him and destroyed the Latin Kings’ club. Ocean Park is ours.”

Pon’s eyes glittered. “Well done. We’ll kill the next drug dealer together.”

Vithu froze. Samay caught his breath.

Is Pon a fool? Vithu is Tommy Lopez’s replacement. Vithu is the next drug dealer.

Samay filled the growing silence.

“The Latin Kings threatened a Cambodian girl. She’s upstairs. Her name is Channary.”

Pon’s eyebrow rose. “Sounds like something to fight for.”

When the gang had finally gathered, Pon broke away and sat in their middle on an oriental rug so faded from age it was no longer a color. Samay squatted across from him, knees almost to his face, arms wrapped around his calves. The basement was musty even though the nearby furnace labored loudly. Pipes and vents crisscrossed the ceiling, knocking and pinging. Occasionally a swoosh sounded from the thick black soil pipe, or a whoosh from the ancient oil burner.

They were in an open space, but the rest of the basement contained makeshift rooms whose walls were flimsy partitions of two-by-fours and paneling. Thin mattresses lay in the alcoves they formed, along with hotplates, canned food, dishes, and utensils. Burning incense from one of the open rooms mixed with the wetness in the air and smelled like a doused campfire.

Vithu stood guard at the foot of the dark steps, worrying a leather sap. The black weapon seemed to pulse and bulge like it was alive and ready to jump from his hand.

Those in the circle were quiet and still, waiting. The only noise came from overhead—the old women preparing dinner, children playing around them on the kitchen floor. The cellar door creaked open and feet tapped down the stairs. Sleepy had arrived, late as usual, wrinkled clothes hanging on his skinny body. He smiled.

Vithu swung his empty hand in a roundhouse and clapped the newcomer on the side of the face with a sharp slap that hung in the humid air. Vithu then grabbed the boy’s collar and flung him toward the open space in the circle beside Samay.

Sleepy dropped to the floor and crossed his legs, the happy smile melting into a frown. A red picture of Vithu’s hand covered his cheek. Hair and clothes smelled smoky, like burning leaves. Sleepy was stoned.

Pon nodded, an appraisal and greeting, and scanned the circle one way, then the other. He opened a box, reached inside, and drew out a snake, its wide neck swelled like a vampire’s cape. White fangs flashed.

Samay gasped. He’d never seen a snake like this. He’d caught eels in the river—fat, slimy, stupid creatures, but this snake’s eyes glowed with intelligence, and seemed to assess them all the same way Pon did.

Vithu prowled outside the circle, the sap squeaking in his hand like a trapped animal. All eyes were on Pon. Looking at Vithu was far too dangerous.

Pon raised a knife in front of the snake’s face so that its flickering tongue tapped the metal.

Sleepy giggled. Maybe no one heard. The snake’s tongue flared.

“A snake questions with its tongue and tastes the air,” Pon said. His voice was steady as he turned toward Sleepyʼs mirth, then nodded.

Suddenly Sleepy was gone. He’d been removed, pulled back fast, as if tethered on a bungee cord.

Samay chanced a look behind. Vithu was dragging Sleepy along the cement floor, arms and legs flailing. They disappeared into a cubicle.

Pon tapped the top of the snake’s head. Its mouth opened and hissed wetly—the promise of venom.

“Well armed, but harmless if contained,” he said, tapping again, with the same response.

A sharp thwack sounded in the cubicle, and a muffled cry—or had the sound come from above?

Fear brought on denial. Maybe footsteps of the old women working in the kitchen, maybe a finger burned on a hot stove?

Pon raised the snake and stroked its underbelly with the dull edge of the knife. The snake’s tongue slowed.

“He wants safety and pleasure. Comfort.”

More sounds from the cubicle, thuds and bangs. A groan followed.

Maybe not from behind. Maybe the children upstairs, wrestling on the kitchen floor, scuffling.

Pon turned the knife suddenly, so quickly the blade seemed part of his hand. He cut the snake’s head off with a blinding flick and threw the writhing, bleeding body into the box. The head tumbled onto the rug and landed in the middle of the circle. Its mouth opened and closed. The boys stared.

Vithu returned and sat next to Samay, his chest heaving. The veins in his muscular neck and on the backs of his bony, tattooed hands were dark and full, as if they lay on his skin instead of under it.

“Snakes are brave warriors,” Pon said. “Even after they die, they fight. Their poison lives.”

The others stared, transfixed. Vithu’s heavy breath warmed Samay’s neck. Sleepy whimpered in the cubicle. But when Pon cast his unblinking cat eyes on Samay it felt as if they were the only ones in the room.

“We must prepare,” Pon said to him, his voice as smooth as the downy cheeks it came from. “Snakes are coming.”