LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA | 1971
After dropping Rosenda off at the studio in West Hollywood, Shane continued south on the San Diego Freeway to Orange County where a community of Vietnamese immigrants had begun to coalesce. He hated driving anything other than his Lincoln and the Catalina handled like a boat. The car’s one saving grace was its 455 cubic-inch V8, although traffic on the 405 wasn’t going to let him put it through its paces. What’s the use of having a Quadrajet four-barrel in L.A.? he mused. I’d be lucky to feel those secondaries open up once at this rate.
At least the odds were in his favor of getting to hit someone once he got where he was going. Chaperoning Rosenda was only part of his agenda while in Southern California, and truth-be-told, the woman could handle herself, physically losing the label’s number one cash cow, regardless.
Lý Nhân, the woman who kept his hair from turning gray, in more ways than one, was another strong woman able to handle her business, come what may. Her younger brother, Trai, was another story all together. When in Southern California, Trai was known to frequent a Vietnamese restaurant in Garden Grove called Quán Cà Phê. Shane was asked to have a talk with him, and if he could treat himself to their special clay jar grilled chicken while he was there, so much the better. Bringing a wayward lamb back into the warm bosom of Jesus, so to speak, always made him hungry.
The appearance of a tall, flaming red-haired Irishman didn’t raise a single eyebrow as he helped himself to a table where he could watch the door. A waitress brought him a glass of water and plopped a laminated menu down on the scarred Formica table in front of him.
“Cho một ly cà phê nóng, làm ơn,” he said, asking for coffee. The fact that a strange American was able to order in Vietnamese almost got an eyebrow. Almost.
Since his slow-roasted order could take up to 50 minutes to prepare, Shane settled in, downshifting into what he liked to think of as a slow idle. He was never a big reader, and was perfectly comfortable with his coffee and his thoughts. An hour later, Shane was one bite into his tender chicken and crispy charred broken rice, when the bell above the café’s front door betrayed Nhân’s arrival.
“Dừng lại,” Shane commanded, noticing the look of fight or flight on Nhân’s face. “Just stop.”
Nhân looked around the café for help but only seeing the impassive waitress, and knowing from experience that she had only the one gear, he sat down across the table from Shane.
“Bear, what a nice surprise,” he opened the gambit with a platitude. “How’s my sister?”
“You fucked up, Trai,” Bear stated, dipping a piece of chicken into a ramekin of Nam Jim Jaew, a spicy Thai chili sauce.
“You don’t think I know that?” Nhân sighed. “How the hell did you find me?”
“Plum.”
“Goddamn, Quỷ da trắng! You must have something really going on in the sack to get my own sister to drop a dime.”
“There’s no need to be vulgar, Trai. She is worried about you. She wants you to get this mess straightened out, before…”
“Before what?” Nhân interrupted. “Before someone sends their goon after me? Too fucking late for that. Jesus.”
“I’m not your enemy, Trai,” Shane switched to the small bowl of Nước Chấm, the house fish sauce. “I would like to see you put all this behind you as well.”
“Would you? How altruistic of you.” Nhân gazed down at the feast laid out before the Irishman. “Do you mind if I order? A last meal, perhaps.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Shane waved over the waitress who had been passively eavesdropping the entire time. “We aren’t there yet. But the people I work with are concerned that you leaving town was a signal that you aren’t all that interested in making this right.”
“Where the fuck am I supposed to get a hundred grand, for Christ’s sake?”
“Not my problem,” Shane said before turning to the waitress. “I am going to order for my friend. He’ll have the lemongrass pork chop with the broken rice, and, let’s see… the canh chua—the sweet and sour soup.”
“Motherf… this is my hang! You have some nerve ordering for me in my hang. What do you know about canh chua?”
“You make bad decisions, Trai,” Shane explained. “A man that forgets to make a heavy bet for heavy people can’t be trusted to choose what goes into his face.”
“I’m not scared of you, you know,” Nhân said.
“Good, I’m not looking for fear,” Shane explained, “I’m looking for respect. I don’t want you to be afraid of what might happen if you don’t make this right, I want you to know what will happen. I want you to stand on the solid rock of that and see a way out of this mess. Do we understand each other?”
“Fuck.”
“Yes! Fuck. Fuck is right. Fuck is good. Now that you’ve grasped the solemnity of the situation, fix it. You have one month.”
“Fuck.”
“That’s the spirit! Check, please.”
Román Leão 