Chapter 21

Channary slept fitfully, as usual. Night and day were reversed in this crazy land. In Cambodia, night was for sleeping. In America, everything happened in the darkest hours. Often she was awakened by the constant roar—cars, trucks, airplanes, the nearby factory—that she’d come to think of as the sound of America. Other times the boys in the house woke her. They were busiest at night—running, slamming doors, shouting orders to each other, even louder now, on the weekend.

She sat up in bed. Three other girls shared her room, but not her sleep problem. They enjoyed deep sleep, their breaths long and shallow. The dolls on their beds had dead, staring eyes, sparkling from the streetlight outside, that reminded her of friends at the orphanage. Were her friends waiting for her return? Or were they sad they’d never see her again?

She lay down and thought of her mother, begging in front of their tiny, worn shack. She’d point Channary out to passersby as she pleaded for money and food, and had taught her daughter to make a sad face Channary had feared would freeze forever.

The beating machines outside became a steady drone, and Channary’s eyes wanted to close. She sighed deeply.

Conley, the kind policeman, stood on a porch and beckoned her. Not a tenement porch like she was used to, but one on a pretty house like she’d seen in picture books. His handsome face smiled. A swing sat in the side yard, and a garden beyond. Sheila tended the garden plants, tall beyond belief, and brushed the soil from her hands and clothes. She climbed the steps to the porch and laced her fingers with Conley’s, and together they called her.

“Channary, come. Channary—ˮ

She awoke with a start and sat up straight. The bedroom door swung open and three of the Aunties hurried in, a finger to their mouths. Each lifted a girl, cradling them like babies. The womenʼs hair smelled like soap, their breath like cinnamon. The other girls protested sleepily and were shushed. The Aunties closed the bedroom door behind them. Their long dresses whispered as they hurried down the hallway, Channary and the girls in their arms, and carefully descended the stairs.

****

Samay followed Vithu down a narrow alley to a one-story building whose peeling sign simply said LAUNDRY. Samay followed him inside. The floor was faded linoleum and the walls were scarred paneling. An overhead fan turned lazily. Somewhere in back, laundry presses hissed and workers chatted noisily. Samay rounded a counter whose Formica top was held together with tape, and sat on a stool behind a cash register

“Repeat your instructions,” Vithu said.

“I wait for Ramon and let him in.”

“And what do you say?”

“Nothing.”

“And then?”

“When Ramon leaves, I follow.”

Vithu turned the sign in the window to CLOSED and smiled. “You’ve found your perfect job, Samay—doing the three things you do best—wait, shut up, and follow.”

Do what you do best, Vithu. Leave.

Samay’s hate for his mentor seemed to grow daily, and he contemplated what do with the secret he held—that Vithu had started selling drugs against Pon’s wishes.

After a long time, the rusted sleigh bells on the door signaled the arrival of Ramon, Diaz’s friend from the Hispanic Club. He looked worn. Tan was fading, cheeks showing coins of pale skin. Goatee was ragged, eyes bloodshot.

“Where’s Trong Tri?” Ramon asked.

Samay gathered the green curtain behind him and slid it along the aluminum tube. The wizened old man named Trong Tri sat on a thin mattress on a wooden slab. A wispy crown of white was all the hair he owned, save for an equally sparse mustache flecked with crumbs of bread. The man’s eyes studied the delicate tea service on a stand in front of him. A poster of Vietnam decorated the wall behind, lush green gardens on a blond wall panel.

Ramon tapped the man’s chin hard enough to clack yellow teeth together and make the mustache crumbs fly.

“Let’s go, old man.”

“No. I quit,” he said. “Choose another.”

Ramon smiled as he squatted, resting his arms on his quads, folding his hands.

“Cambodians, Trong Tri,” he said, a delicious whisper. “Cambodians. Sworn enemies of every Viet. A brave strike against them. An hour of your time. Translate what she says, that’s all. Simple for you. You’re a master of their silly gibberish.”

Trong Tri’s head started to shake.

“Choose another. Leave a tired old man.” He pulled crisp bills out of the pocket of his baggy pants and offered them.

Ramon stood, unfolded his hands, and clapped them back together. He blew into the space between his thumbs.

“Sorry. You’ve been paid. There are no refunds in this life, my friend.” He cocked his head. “Maybe in the next.”

He lifted Trong Tri by one arm and signaled Samay to take the other. They dragged him out of his cubby, around the colorful counter, under the cheery chime of door bells. Arm in arm they passed shuttered, sleeping stores. Trong Tri cried as they pulled him down the alley, thin shoes scraping asphalt, loose clothes waving and flapping in protest. Plastic bags and rotten vegetables lined the way, an earthy stink that made the crowded Vietnamese section of Ocean Park smell like a farm. They passed tiny storefronts, buildings painted with splashes of outrageous color that distracted the eye from broken shingles, peeling paint, rusted drainpipes.

The back door of the van opened when they reached it. Five men sat on bench seats that lined the walls. One was striking, more a bull than a man, covered with black hair so flat and greasy it looked like a hide, and with arms the size of cannons, covered with sleeves of tattoos. Dark, merciless eyes darted like a lizard’s. Where was this monster from?

Hell, maybe.

Ramon held the door wide, threw Trong Tri onto the van’s floor, and bunched Samay’s shirt in his fist.

“You saw nothing. You remember no one. Otherwise, you’ll share the old man’s fate. Got that?”

Samay nodded.

Ramon started the van and pulled away toward the river. Gray paint and dull tires, slightly tinted windows, stock as stock could be, forgettable as a gust of wind.

When they were out of sight, Samay ran to his scooter and followed.

****

Soon after, Samay shut off his motorbike and pushed it the length of River Street. He turned onto a dirt path and hid behind a high hedge that bordered the courtyard of the tenements. The van sat in a dark corner. Trong Tri could be heard inside, sobbing—until two sharp slaps rang. Silence followed.

The back door opened. Ramon and four Latin Kings jumped to the ground and scattered. One hid in the dark alcove formed by a porch, another under the awning of a side door. The third disappeared down the alley next to the tenement as Ramon and another gangbanger climbed the porch stairs. They twisted the unlocked doorknob and slipped inside.

Crickets chirped in the weeds along the bank behind Samay, and animals scurried through the weeds. The Saugus River murmured, fish splashed. The earthy stink of mud and vegetation filled his nostrils.

A creak came from the van, almost imperceptible. A grunt followed soon after from the direction of the first sentry, quick and low, then a cry from the second’s position. Minutes passed before the van creaked gently again.

The silhouette of Ramon, unmistakable, burst from the tenement’s entrance, leaped down the steps, and sprinted across the courtyard. Samay positioned his kick starter. The back door of the van opened slowly and Trong Tri crouched on the lip, holding the door open like wings.

“Go, go, go,” Ramon yelled. “Close the damn door, old man.”

Trong Tri’s hand snaked out from the blackness, circled Ramon’s neck, and yanked him inside. Samay pulled down his ski mask, kicked his bike to life, sped to the van, and looked within. The bull was turned to the wall, his muscled back still. Trong Tri was sitting on Ramon, knees pinning his arms in crucifixion.

The feeble Trong Tri had become Pon again. His mustache was gone and his scalp was flecked with blood. The moon lit the tiny, angry pink replica of itself on his chin, the half-inch crescent scar. His skin seemed tighter, younger, as if he’d found the fountain of youth here on the banks of the foul-smelling Saugus River. His hand flashed behind him, drew a serrated knife, and held it close to Ramon’s face.

“Don’t kill me,” Ramon begged.

Pon dragged his fingertips lightly across Ramon’s handsome cheek. “I won’t, my friend. But maybe you’ll wish I had.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything,” Ramon cried, not so tough now that he wasn’t beating an old man.

“Good. You will bring a message.ˮ

“What do I say?ˮ

“Nothing. You say nothing.”

Pon’s hand hid Ramon’s eyes like a blindfold and clamped his head still. Ramon bellowed, and his cry swirled around the van’s metal walls and echoed with a metallic twang as Pon sliced one side of Ramon’s face from mouth to ear, then the other. Ramon choked, gargled, and groaned. He’d been given the widest, wettest smile in the world.

“No more beauty in this life,” Pon said, then jumped out and straddled the back of Samay’s scooter.

“Maybe in the next,” Pon yelled before they sped away.