Murder on Bamboo Lane Read online

  I say an awkward good-bye to my parents and head over to a section of Downtown LA called the Artist’s Loft, where I meet up with Johnny. Johnny is like Armine—low maintenance. He has a bit of a stammering problem that comes out under stress, but I can tell he’s comfortable around me, because whenever we work together, his words come out perfectly fine.

  As bicycle patrol officers, we’re supposed to be issuing jaywalking tickets. Some officers are more aggressive than others, but I’m on the side of less citations. If you’re going to do it right in front of me, then, c’mon, you’re fair game. But run across Hill or Los Angeles streets a block away, and I’ll usually just give you a dirty look. Pedestrians have been killed, which is no joke. But no one seems to care that the jaywalking laws are there for their own safety. The people being cited just think that I’m trying to fill some quota or something. I could approach my career as reaching benchmarks, but I’ve learned from Aunt Cheryl that it’s not so prescriptive. A lot of times it’s being at the right place at the right time. And knowing when to close your mouth, as well as when to open it.

  Patrolling the Artist’s Loft area during the day is fairly easy, unless a movie shoot has come in to transform the streets and brick buildings into gritty New York City neighborhoods. We ride throughout its whole perimeter, from a Japanese Catholic church, where my dad’s a member, to industrial terminals to warehouses divided into lofts. The only really populated area outdoors is on Second Street, where government workers, businesspeople and artists get their midday cappuccinos or sandwiches with organic sprouts.

  I see flyers everywhere advertising the talk tonight at the Goldfinger Gallery. If Cortez can’t or won’t go, then I will, I decide.

  After my shift, I go home first to take a quick shower, walk Shippo and eat a frozen meal, compliments of Trader Joe’s. I decide to go back via train, so I’m late to the talk. I jog from the Chinatown Gold Line station; it’s only a couple of blocks west. I recognize Boyd and Azusa, a couple of uniformed officers, outside, and I nod to them. I can’t help but notice that they raise their eyebrows when I walk into the gallery.

  It’s a free country, I think. I can do anything I want in my time off.

  Despite all the flyers, I’m still surprised that the panel is standing room only. This is a more diverse crowd than the opening Cortez described. There’s a healthy contingent of the Artist’s Loft people, recognizable by their eclectic hairstyles and clothing. Also some Asian Americans, perhaps academics, dressed in khaki pants, coats and sensible shoes. And a smattering of Asian immigrants, probably Vietnamese, who seem quite unhappy with both the exhibition and the conversation.

  One older man is addressing the panel now, speaking in clipped English. “Ho Chi Minh is our Hitler,” he says. “The Jews would not allow an exhibition with an image of Hitler in this country. Why should we?”

  I survey the paintings and displays against the walls. I know enough about art to identify the pieces as mixed media: painted canvases combined with photographic images in various sizes, even with objects like shoes and passports. A lot them feature faces of Asian men and women. Most of them look like everyday people, but I do a double take at the image of a man with a graying goatee. The clue that he’s different? The name of the communist leader Ho Chi Minh is stamped on his balding head.

  “Again, my purpose is not political per se.” Tuan is now speaking from the front of the room. Next to him, seated at a table, are a white man and an Asian one. “I think that our community is ready for diverse perspectives. It’s been forty years since the fall of Saigon. It’s time that we reevaluate what has happened to our people, especially for my generation, the generation born well after the war.”

  Tuan then spots me in the crowd, and his eyes rest on me so long that a few people turn around to see who I am. “You have to remember that you are in America now. And one of this country’s guiding principles is free speech.”

  Another man then stands and starts yelling at Tuan in what sounds like Vietnamese. He looks like he may be in his late sixties. Spittle shoots out of his mouth as he continues his tirade. His reedlike body shakes.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m not in uniform. I go over and try to convince the man to calm down.

  Someone has called Officers Boyd and Azusa into the gallery, and they quickly move in to remove the distressed man. He pulls his arms away from them but walks out with them voluntarily.

  I follow and watch as they tell him to sit down on the curb. He complies. His head hangs down; I can’t tell if he’s ashamed or stewing in anger.

  They ask for his ID, and he knows enough English to pull out a razor-thin wallet. As Azusa looks through its contents, Boyd acknowledges me. “Didn’t know that you were an art fan, Rush.”

  “I go to my share of galleries and museums,” I say. That “share” is the equivalent of maybe two galleries a year, but still probably more than the average Angeleno and definitely more than the average cop.

  “Speak any Chinese?” Azusa asks me, handing the wallet to Boyd. Apparently, the man doesn’t have a driver’s license but has a Social Security card, which lists his name as Quang Hai Phuong.

  “I think he speaks primarily Vietnamese,” I say. “Not that I can speak either one.”

  Nevertheless, I kneel down and try to make a connection with Phuong. His eyes are wild. The whites of his eyes look a bit yellowish, and something has congealed in the left one.

  He spits into my face and something sharp stings my left eye. I turn, too shocked to even swear.

  The two officers, who had been looking away, turn their attention back to me.

  “What happened?” Boyd asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  They resume their conversation, and I surreptitiously rub the moisture out of my eye. Phuong seems surprised that I haven’t sold him out. I’m not eager to explain to my sergeant what I was doing here, and Phuong would be charged with assault on an off-duty officer and maybe spend the night in jail. I’ll ignore the spit to make things easier for both of us.

  I’ve learned my lesson and keep my distance from Phuong but remain outside. Through the gallery’s storefront windows, I watch Tuan continue to field questions. Wearing a long-sleeve shirt that hides his tattoos, he looks like any young Asian man ordering a latte from Starbucks.

  “I think that he’s cooled down,” Azusa finally says. I turn around and see that Phuong’s face and body language have visibly changed. His eyes no longer look crazed.

  “No point in taking him in, huh?” Boyd says hopefully. I know what he’s getting at. To book him and file the paperwork would be a hassle. And the DAs wouldn’t be happy wasting their time with a simple public disturbance charge.

  The officers return Phuong’s wallet to him and tell him that he is free to leave. He removes a heavy chain wrapped around an old bicycle, a basket fastened to the back of its rusted frame. He gets on and squeaks away.

  I remain outside until the crowd disperses.

  A few of the other panelists have stayed behind to share some parting thoughts around a table of wine and cheese. After the panelists finally leave with the gallery manager, I step forward.

  “Hello,” I say to Tuan. “You got a good crowd.”

  “Well, it was because of today’s LA Times article, I guess. The exhibition has started to generate interest. The owner has said that he might have to hire a night security guard to make sure no one defaces the building.”

  I stand in front of a canvas featuring a woman with a round face and a man with an angular build like Tuan’s. “Are these your parents?”

  Tuan nods. He walks to another canvas. “And these are my grandparents. My grandfather fought for North Vietnam.”

  “Oh,” I say. Benjamin thinks I know nothing about Southeast Asia, but I know at least that North Vietnam was on the other side. Our enemies. And enemies of most of the Vietnamese who came here under political asylum.

  “I guess that can cause problems.” Not the most profound stateme
nt. I can’t tell if Tuan is amused or disgusted by my reaction. Again, I don’t pretend to be a history major. I look around at some of the other pieces—life-sized white-paper sculptures of an Asian woman kneeling down beside a manicurist’s foot tub, an older Asian man with hedge clippers, and a man sitting at a drafting table, most likely created in the image of Tuan—as Tuan pours some white wine into two plastic cups and hands one of them to me. We both sit down on folding chairs. It’s starting to drizzle again, and through the storefront window the black streets look slick and shiny.

  Tuan takes a sip of his wine. “Thanks for taking care of that disruption.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “He’s just one of the wackos who regularly heckle me. That one is my stalker. He follows me everywhere.”

  “He wasn’t too thrilled with me, either. Do you think that he was also stalking Jenny?”

  “I don’t know why he would. Jenny was totally apolitical.”

  “Did you know she was trying to get a job in City Hall?”

  “Nah, nah. Like I said, Jenny wasn’t into politics. She hated politics. Well, she hated politicians.”

  “Really? Her boss at the Census says Jenny was extremely ambitious about pursuing a career in politics.”

  “Jenny was probably just playing her. She liked to do that sometimes. Mess with people’s heads.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about her job at the Census?”

  “Only that she hated it. She didn’t like getting into people’s business, asking them probing questions. And the territory they gave her? The projects? Most women who don’t live there wouldn’t step foot in the projects. Jenny was tough, though. Not much fazed her.”

  I can’t believe how Tuan is describing Jenny. It’s the exact opposite of how her Census supervisor characterized her. Someone is off, and I have a feeling that it’s not Tuan.

  “Is there anything else that you can think of that might help? Did she have a computer and a cell phone?”

  “Well, yeah. You haven’t found them?”

  I shake my head. “Have you seen her journal?”

  Tuan furrows his brow. “I don’t remember her keeping a journal. Did someone say she did?”

  “It could have been a scrapbook.”

  “Jenny wasn’t into that kind of stuff. She was pretty serious. Intense.”

  “What did she think of your artwork?”

  Tuan’s eyes grow wet. “She loved it, man. I couldn’t have made it without her support.”

  “What about her family? There’s no one in the US?”

  “Her parents are from Vietnam, but Jenny was born here. An only child. Her father died when she was in high school, and when Jenny graduated, her mother went back to Vietnam.”

  “Went back? Isn’t that weird?”

  Tuan finishes off his wine. “No, thousands have returned. A lot of them from the US. Some go even for business reasons or to retire. Jenny’s mother, I think, was an entrepreneur type. She passed away last year. Jenny went to Vietnam for the funeral.”

  I remember that’s what Susana had said. When Jenny returned, she was a changed person. “Are you in touch with the rest of the family?”

  “Not so much now. I have their address and phone number, but I wanted to give them some space.” Tuan traces the lip of his empty cup with his finger. “I just don’t get it. Things were going so good. I was going to ask her to move in with me. And then, three months ago, she tells me that it’s over. One of these ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ things.”

  I feel bold enough to say, “You know, the talk is that Jenny was seeing other people.”

  “No way! That’s a lie!” Tuan springs out of his seat. “I’ve heard that, too, but that’s bullshit.”

  How can you be so sure? I think.

  “The last times we were together—we were so close. Jenny even told me that she didn’t think she would ever feel so close to anyone in her life. For reals. She was crying and everything. I knew that she wasn’t lying.”

  It’s futile to pursue this with Tuan. No guy wants to hear that the girl he loved was stepping out with someone else.

  “Listen,” I tell him, “if you can think of anything else, let me know.” I give him my card and write my personal cell number on the back of it.

  “I’m glad someone else cares,” he says. “Susana stopped taking my calls. It’s like everyone wants to forget that Jenny even existed.”

  No problem, I want to say. I’m just doing my job. I know, however, that this is going way beyond my responsibilities.

  I leave my cup on the table and wave good-bye. I pull up the hood on my jacket and jog out into the light rain, making sure not to slip in the puddles. As I head toward Chinatown Gold Line station, I hear the steady squeak of a bicycle wheel behind me. Yet when I whip around, I don’t see a living soul, just the blur of neon lights flashing in the distance.

  ELEVEN

  SECOND STREET

  When I get home, Shippo is already curled up in his dog bed. I leave my wet jacket on the porch to dry off and turn on my wall heater. My tiny house was probably built in the 1950s and I love it, but when it comes to modern conveniences like heat, air conditioning, closets and Wi-Fi, it has issues.

  I finally get on the Internet and look up the Vietnam War on Wikipedia. I barely know anything about it—I basically only know what I’ve seen in a couple of movies, and the one that I remember the most is The Killing Fields, which is actually more about the war’s spillover into Cambodia. It tells about how a New York Times reporter had to abandon his Cambodian interpreter, Dith Pran, during the takeover of the capital city by the Khmer Rouge.

  Once, when I was visiting Nay’s house, I saw a framed picture of the actor who’d played the interpreter on the wall.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Dude, the guy’s dead. Shot outside of his apartment in Chinatown. He’s a freakin’ international hero in the Cambodian community,” Nay explains to me. “Everybody thinks that the dictator, Pol Pot, had a bounty on his head. Three gangsters were convicted in his murder, but we think differently.”

  “You, too?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Nay says. “I may not believe in God, but I believe in conspiracy theories.”

  I haven’t spoken about Cambodian politics with Nay since then, but it’s not like it comes up in everyday conversation.

  I Google “redistricting” and “Los Angeles City Council,” and find a ton of links to pages regarding a Redistricting Commission and meetings, most of which took place in December and January.

  My phone vibrates.

  I answer, “Hi.”

  “What are you doing?” Cortez asks.

  “Just surfing the Net.” I move aside my laptop. “How was your Skype date?”

  “Good. Raf is doing well. Having a hard time with math, though.”

  “Raf? That’s his name?”

  “Short for Raphael.”

  “I like it.” I really do. I wonder if it was Raf’s mother’s choice or Cortez’s. I don’t want to get into that territory tonight.

  “Was that awkward for you today?” Cortez asks.

  “You mean with my parents? Was it awkward for you?”

  “I saw the fear in your mother’s eyes. ‘What’s this black dude doing with my little girl?’”

  “No, she’s not like that. It’s just that, well, it’s complicated.” I don’t want to admit that I hadn’t told my parents about my breakup with Benjamin.

  “Seriously, they seemed cool. Tight couple. That’s nice.”

  My parents do get along, which isn’t true for a lot of my friends’ parents. They are into communication, which isn’t my particular strong suit, according to Benjamin.

  Feeling convicted of hiding information, I explore telling the truth about tonight. “Actually, Cortez, I just got in around an hour ago. I went to Tuan Le’s talk at the gallery.”

  No sound from the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” I say.

&nb
sp; “So how was it?” Cortez’s voice has definitely shifted in tone.

  “There was one disturbance. An older Vietnamese man. Azusa and Boyd were there. They didn’t arrest him, but they got his name.”

  Still no response from Cortez.

  “Was it wrong for me to go?”

  “No,” Cortez says. And then a little louder, as if he is trying to convince himself, “No. It’s good, actually, to cover our bases.”

  I take a deep breath of relief.

  “I’ll talk to Boyd and Azusa, just to get their feedback.” His voice gets all businesslike, and I know that I’ve been moved from potential girl of interest to a lowly P2.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” he says before hanging up the phone.

  Did I just mess things up with Cortez? I wonder, feeling disappointed that he doesn’t ask me out for the weekend. I then notice that I have a text waiting for me. It’s Nay.

  TMRROW @ 2:30 PM YOUR PLACE CARPOOL 4 HIKING

  I’m in no mood to be traipsing around with Goggy and his brother, but it now looks like I don’t have anything better to do.

  • • •

  Nay and I are waiting outside the Green Mile at Eaton Canyon, located at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. I’m wearing what I usually wear: T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes and my aviator sunglasses. Nay, on the other hand, has purchased a new pair of Merrell hiking shoes, probably the first ones she’s ever owned. Her hair is tied back in an orange bandana, and she’s wears a PPW T-shirt and cargo shorts. She holds on to a hiking stick. Nay goes full on in any new thing she decides to do.

  Eaton Canyon is right above Pasadena, in an unincorporated area called Altadena. It’s rugged urban, which means that it’s about two blocks away from a coffeehouse and the large boulders there get regularly hit by taggers. But it also has amazing canyon ravines, giant oak trees, cacti and seasonal wild flowers. During the rainy season it’s spectacular, because water flows from the mountain ranges through cracks in the rocks. I haven’t been there since last fall, and I’m actually kind of looking forward to walking through the canyons to our final destination, a waterfall that accumulates water in a shallow pool.