Free The only good Lawyer by Jeremiah Healy Page A

pants and shirt like hand-me-downs from a huskier older brother; Maybe forty-five himself, he wore his hair in a flyaway cut that looked as though one of his soup bowls could have been its inspiration. The horn-rimmed glasses were black, similar to the army-issue ones in the sixties, and they slid down his narrow nose toward a mustache with few enough strands in it that they could be individually counted.
    I said, “One for lunch.”
    He nodded but seemed disappointed, as though hoping I might be the advance scout for a tour bus-Led by him toward the middle of the twenty tables» I could see why. Only three others were occupied) one by a young Asian couple wearing business suits and a second by two teenaged Asian women decked out in the sort of designer “active-wear” that never sees the inside of a gym. At the third table, an old man in a flannel shirt hunched over a large bowl of what looked like pho, a rich, traditional soup of meat served over noodles and other goodies. Everyone looked to have Vietnam somewhere in their heritage, though after a year in-country, I’d learned you could never judge ethnicity accurately by appearance alone.
    My table was square and wooden, with a formica top and three violin-back chairs around it. As I sat down, my host laid the menu against a small lazy Susan in front of me, chopsticks in a ceramic mug like pencils in a holder. Plastic-scoop soupspoons lay stacked between the mug and some squeeze bottles containing what I’d bet would be sweet and chili sauces.
    The man said, “I am Chan. Your waitress come quick.”
    Chan walked back toward the cash register, and I looked around the room. Widely spaced ceiling fans hung from the old, stamped tin above, wobbling as they turned to piped-in music that sounded an awful lot like Vic Damone. Thatched, manila wallpaper provided background for paintings of ducks, geese, and other waterfowl. Along one wall, the lighting dimmed, and there were four banquette booths of green and gold leatherette, white tablecloths under glass protectors for easier cleaning.
    One of two swinging doors at the back opened, and a Woman—dressed exactly like Chan—brought out a fray for the teens. Her right foot circled in a floppy but controlled limp as she balanced the tray and negotiated the spaces between the tables. The teens were closest to me, and before she set their meals in front of them, they asked for silverware in unaccented English, unless you count “Valley-Girl” as a dialect. While the waitress served them, they continued talking a blue-streak stream of consciousness about tennis camp and nail polish and handbags at the mall.
    I turned to look instead at the old man in the flannel shirt. He used his chopsticks to sprinkle mint leaves and bean sprouts into the bowl and mix them into his soup. Satisfied with the blend, he then shoveled the noodles into his mouth with the scoop spoon, the chopsticks directing the long strands without either twirling or cutting them.
    “Welcome to Viet Mam. I am Dinah, your waitress.”
    I turned back and looked up at Dinah as she emphasized the last syllable. Also about the same height and age as Chan, Dinah tried to be cheery despite the gaunt cheeks and dark, sad eyes. A whiff of stale smoke came off her, and I noticed amber nicotine stains on the knuckles of her right hand. The shortish black hair seemed professionally coiffed, as though that were the only feature worth enhancing. A scar beginning at her Adam’s appk trailed down under the shirt collar, and she stood hip-cocked on her left leg, maybe to allow the right one a brief rest.
    I said, “Is Dinah your real name?”
    She paused, the cheeriness flickering a little. “No. Owner give me that.”
    “The man at the counter, you mean?”
    Another pause. “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “My Vietnam name not good for work in restaurant.”
    “What is it?”
    A hacking, smoker’s cough. Then, “Dung.”
    Chan may have had a point. “Well, Dinah, this is my