Free The Orange Curtain by John Shannon Page A

parked in front and then Jack Liffey noticed the orange crime scene tape strung across the open front door of the house. A white Crown Victoria plainwrap was parked up the driveway with the police bust light clearly visible in the rear window. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out now and again to remind him he was only a mile or two from the coast.
    “Thank you for coming back so quickly.”
    “What’s happening?”
    The boy had risen to take his hand.
    “This is Tom Xuan, my daughter’s boyfriend.” It was pronounced Swan, or almost. “Jack Liffey, the man I told you is looking for Phuong. Somebody broke in and wrecked my house. Luckily my wife was at her sister’s.”
    They shook hands and the boy ducked and glanced up involuntarily as a seagull screeched, circling much lower than its pals, then he brought his eyes back.
    “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
    “How come you didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend?” Jack Liffey asked.
    Something passed between the two of them that he couldn’t read. After a moment, Minh Trac shrugged, and a little chagrin showed through. “I didn’t know,” he said. “She never told me. He came to see me just now because he had heard she was gone and he wanted to help.”
    Something was still heavy on the air, and finally the boy decided to let it out. “Xuan is a Chinese name, Mr. Liffey.”
    “Mr. Liffey’s my late father’s name. Call me Jack. I know Xuan is a Chinese name. Does that matter?”
    “If he were black and dating your daughter would it matter? I don’t care what you think you feel about tolerance. It would matter, wouldn’t it?”
    “Not much. I’d like it a lot, actually. Without African-Americans and Jews, the only culture this country would have is football.”
    “I believe I feel as you do,” Minh Trac said. “I have nothing against the ethnic Chinese who have lived for many generations amongst the Vietnamese in Viet Nam. They enriched our culture immeasurably. I can’t understand why Phuong doesn’t know I feel this way. Maybe because she has seen so much animosity in the fight over the Welcome Bridge.”
    A cop came out and ducked under the orange tape and looked at the three of them, then ducked back into the house. Hundreds of gulls came over very low, squawking, and all three looked up at them for a moment.
    “The official collective noun is a squabble of seagulls,” Minh Trac said. “I taught absurd things like that in English class.”
    “Let’s talk about what happened to your house,” Jack Liffey said. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
    “No. They smashed in the patio window and broke up all the furniture. It was obviously a message, but I can’t understand it at all.”
    “I think it was Quan sat ,” the boy said. “It means Body Count, but that’s just bravado. They’re too young even to remember the war. Somebody wrote coi chung ! on the wall with lipstick. It means look out or beware, and I’ve heard it’s their motto.” He laughed derisively. “It was misspelled.”
    Jack Liffey thought of the note in his pocket. The spelling wasn’t all too hot on the note either. “Do you think they could have kidnapped Phuong?”
    “I doubt it,” the boy said. “Everyone knows their specialty is extorting protection money from rich businessmen, and they haven’t asked Mr. Minh for anything. But they are not very bright and they are very paranoid. Many of the Quan sats are camp boys who had to wait for years and years to get in the country and never got much of an education. Some of them can’t even dial a phone.”
    The cop came out again, carrying a couple of silver Halliburton cases that looked like they contained film equipment. He put them in the trunk of the plainwrap and glared at Jack Liffey for some reason.
    “Don’t disturb anything,” he called officiously.
    Jack Liffey ignored him and turned back to the boy. “Where did you meet Phuong?”
    “UCI, in the Vietnamese Student Union. I’ve got another year