Free Dragonfish: A Novel by Vu Tran

mannequin.
    He called out something in Vietnamese to the brothers. The older one approached him and said, “Are you sure?” Junior gave him a look. Without another word, the two brothers made their way down the sidewalk that skirted the pond.
    Junior peered at me now with raised eyebrows. I could see my own awkwardness in his calm, dignified demeanor. It reminded me of my first and only time going to confession, at Suzy’s request, and not knowing what was too sinful to divulge to the priest and what was not sinful enough.
    “It’s good to see you again,” he said.
    “Is it?”
    “It is. So long as you cooperate this time.”
    “I don’t know anything about Suzy.”
    “I know.”
    “Does your father know it?”
    “We both know it now. We had to be sure first.”
    “About what? That I wasn’t hiding her? That I hadn’t stolen her back?”
    “Given your last visit, we thought anything was possible.”
    A moment passed before I realized I was silent out of shame. My recklessness months ago had cost me the right to be above suspicion in anyone’s eyes, least of all theirs.
    “So why am I here now? Is it penance you want?”
    Junior unhooded himself. His pale skin was flawless, his hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. Such symmetry seemed to sharpen his admonishing air.
    He said, “I am here today in my father’s place because I insisted on it. Because I know he is a man who remembers everything and forgives nothing. You should be glad to see me, Mr. Robert. Andyou should be grateful—to my father and to me—that up until now you have been shown some mercy. Do you understand?”
    He noticed my left hand, which I’d been absently clenching and unclenching.
    “Of course I do,” I said, more meekly than I wanted to. If I had been spared, I doubted that kindness was behind it. Still, Junior’s tone confused me. It struck me that his most inscrutable habit was his insistence on his own sincerity. Like last time, I found it difficult to trust, but even more difficult to dismiss.
    I searched along the banks, the picnic tables, the random vague figures who might resemble his father, watching us from a distance. About fifty yards away, the brothers sat smoking on a bench with their sunglasses and their obviousness trained on us.
    “Listen,” I said to Junior. “I respect everything you’re saying. Believe me, this situation between me and your father, between me and you—none of that’s lost on me. But you guys’ve had a gun to my head for a day now. Someone needs to either shoot me or explain what the hell’s going on.”
    Junior reached down and stubbed out his cigarette in the dirt. He took off his gloves, dropped them in his lap like he was ready at last to speak truthfully.
    “Miss Hong disappeared four days ago. The last time my father saw her was Saturday night when she was sleeping in bed. Sunday morning, she was gone. As you must know, she never misses Sunday Mass for anything. She took her car and her purse and left everything else. Her clothes, jewelry, books, everything. She and my father have had their problems, and she’s had her reasons for leaving in the past. But nothing explains her leaving like this.”
    He looked at me like I had contradicted him. “Understand something, Mr. Robert—my father has made mistakes, some muchworse than others. But he loves Miss Hong more than anyone in the world. He wants her back. And he wants you to help him.”
    I must have looked sufficiently perplexed because he raised a quelling hand and added, “We have reason to believe she’s still in town, and I’ll explain that shortly—but that is why you’re here.”
    “What makes you think I can help him?”
    “Don’t be stupid. You know your value to us. You know my father wants nothing to do with the police. The real police anyway. What he has is you, and you are in debt to him.”
    I felt like telling him his idea of a cop was as real as Dick Tracy, but he reached into his coat pocket