There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of (22 page)

“Yes.”

“And one of those areas is the Tenderloin?”

“Right. And you know, by and large it’s been great. The people of the neighborhood have been very supportive. I think a lot of them—particularly the older people, who have raised their own families and miss them—welcome the children. The children have given life to what used to be a dead place. They laugh, they play. . . . Well, you know what it’s like to hear happy children at play.”

“I sure do,” Don said. “And I understand things were going well for your people in the Tenderloin until recently. But now there’s trouble. Where did it start?”

“In the Globe hotel. It’s a nice apartment hotel, and even nicer since our people moved in and helped the other residents fix it up. We thought we were lucky, but then . . .” Carolyn’s voice cracked and she looked at me.

“But then you were forced to hire a private detective,” Don said smoothly. “And right now, folks, we’ll leave Carolyn for a while and talk with that lady. Yes, that’s right, she’s a lady. Women can do anything these days, and Sharon McCone detects better than most. She’s a staff investigator with All Souls Legal Cooperative out in Bernal Heights, and she’s been in some tough spots in the past and knows her stuff. So let’s have Sharon tell you about her case.”

Until Don has said the words “private detective,” I’d been caught up in Carolyn’s seemingly effortless narrative. Now I was cold from nose to toes, in spite of the heat in the booth. Remembering Don’s prior advice, I took a deep breath. Through the glass, Don was smiling at me. Carolyn’s small hand pressed my arm. I made myself speak.

“Thanks, Don. I appreciate you saying I detect better than most, but right now I’m on a case that has me stumped. A couple of days ago Carolyn asked me to come to the Globe Hotel, and there I met a wonderful Vietnamese-American family, the Vangs. There are nine of them, and they live in a two-bedroom apartment. They own a restaurant—Lan’s Garden, on Taylor Street—and everyone who is old enough works there. They are truly impressive people, the kind of people who build this country. And it’s a further tribute to them that the other residents of the hotel nominated them to speak to me about the problem.”

Don was smiling more broadly now. I must be doing okay.

I went on, “At first the problem seemed simple. Someone was frightening the kids in the stairwell. Growling at them. Howling. Silly stuff. The same thing was going on in the furnace room. And from time to time somebody would pull the main electrical switch and cause a power outage. I looked around but couldn’t figure out who was doing it. But I assumed they would eventually give up if no one panicked.”

Don said, “But then what happened, Sharon?” His face was glowing. I must be doing better than okay.

“A young man living at the hotel was murdered. His name was Hoa Dinh and he was sixteen years old. Hoa had come a long way from Vietnam, and he’d suffered a lot. But he’d made a new life for himself in this country, and then he died alone in a cold basement.” I could hear emotion cracking in my voice, feel Carolyn’s fingers pressing tighter on my arm.

I took another deep breath before I went on. “But that’s not the immediate problem. The police are working on Hoa’s murder, and they will solve it.” That was my sop to Greg, in case he found out about this broadcast. “The real problem right now concerns Hoa’s best friend, Duc Vang. Duc—that’s D-u-c—has been missing since yesterday afternoon. He’s never done that before, and his family is afraid something has happened to him—something connected with this bad business at the hotel. And that’s why we’re talking to you. . . .” I faltered, uncertain how to address the faceless people, then sensed on Don’s term. “To all you folks out there. We need your help in locating Duc Vang.”

Don cut in. “Can you describe him, Sharon?” He grinned, gave me a thumps up sing.

Dam, I
was
good!

I was so good I almost go carried away and forgot to answer.

“Duc,” I said, with a proper flash of humility, “is five-foot-six. He has black hair--a crewcut that is growing out. It looks bushy, stands up straight. He’s slender and dresses in the old style, in a smock and loose pants. His mother says when she last saw him, he was wearing a blue smock and matching trousers. Oh, and he has a mole on his left cheek and likes to wear dark glasses.”

I looked helplessly at Don, my earlier elation gone. He smiled, waited a couple of beats, then said, “So that’s the problem, folks. The reason we’re making you deal with serious stuff—that’s spelled s-e-r-i-o-u-s—twice in a row. Sharon’s a detective. Bona fide, card-carrying tough. Believe me, folks, this lady is
tough
. But she can’t figure it—Duc’s disappearance. And she can’t help him alone. Maybe you can help her. Come on, it’s your turn to detect. Make like Sherlock Holmes. You never heard of him? What about Miss Marple? No? Maybe Sam Spade. Yeah!

“Anyway, folks, you want to help us? Maybe one of you has seen Duc, knows something about his whereabouts. You’ve got the description. You know as much as we do. You’ve got the number of the KSUN Hot Line. So let’s get those calls coming
in!
Give us some
info
, ask us some
questions
, but
help
us!
In case you don’t remember, in San Francisco, the number’s 752-7445. In the East Bay, call 845-5018. You folks down on the Peninsula . . .”

I expelled a breath and looked at Carolyn. She nodded, her eyes shining. Don finished and put on another tape of a commercial. Through the earphones, he said, “You guys were terrific.”

I hit the talk-back button. “So were you.”

“Thanks. When the tape’s done, I’m back to you, Carolyn. I’ll ask a question. You talk. Talk long, about whatever you want. The lines aren’t exactly lighting up.”

Both Carolyn and I leaned back, looking up at the lights above the window. They were dull and still.

Carolyn said, “Well, at least the in-house hot line isn’t flashing. That means none of us said ‘fuck.’”

Don laughed and said, “Commercial’s almost over. We’ll talk about general stuff. Fill lots and lots of air time until somebody gives us break.”

The commercial ended and he led into a discussion of the refugees: statistics, history, anecdotes. Carolyn talked, her eyes fixed—as mine were—on the lights.

“So what future do you see for the refugees, Carolyn?” Don said. “Where are they going in their—”

The first blue light started to flash. Carolyn’s fingers dug into my arm. Don grinned in relief, picked up the phone, and said, “Hey, we’ve got a call-in. Don Del Boccio here.”

“Don?” The voice was old-lady trembly.

“Yes, darlin’.”

I started. It was a word Don never used, particularly to someone as old as this woman sounded. But his was radio, and when the woman replied, she seemed pleased.

“My name’s Virginia Millburn. I don’t know anything about the missing boy, but . . .”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“But . . .well . . . I do have a nice empty room in my house. A room with an adjoining bath. It isn’t big, but I was thinking that if Carolyn had a small family or a couple who wouldn’t mind sharing the kitchen with me . . . Well, my husband died last spring, and I’d surely welcome some company. I wouldn’t charge. The company would be enough, you understand.”

Don blinked, obviously touched. “Virginia Millburn, you’ve made my day! Can you believe that, folks? This lady is offering to open her home to some of our new citizens. Virginia, tell you what—I’m going to switch you over to one of our KSUN operators and you can give him your name and address, phone number, all that stuff. And right after the show, Carolyn will be in touch. Hey, Carolyn—what do you have to say to this lady?”

Carolyn was shaking her head in amazement. “I say that’s an incredibly generous offer. Thank you, Virginia. Thank you very much.”

A second blue light had been flashing. Don switched over the call, then picked up the next line. “Don’s Forum. Who’s this?”

“This is Ellen. I think I saw the guy you’re looking for.”

I tensed; so did Carolyn; even Don’s voice was taut.

“Where, Ellen?”

“At the Greyhound bus station in El Cerrito. I recognized him by the haircut. And he had his guitar.”

“His what?”

“His guitar.” The words were slurred, and I realized the woman was either drunk or stoned. “Didn’t you say he always carried a guitar?”

“No, darlin’, we didn’t. But thanks for the info. I want to repeat it to our KUSN operator. So just wait a minute, I’ll switch you over. Appreciate it very much.” He looked at us and rolled his eyes. The other blue lights were flashing. He picked up another line. “Don’s Forum. What have you got for us?”

The male voice was cultured and stuffy. “I must speak to Carolyn.”

“You’ve got her.” Don pointed to the phone in front of us.

Carolyn picked it up gingerly. “This is Carolyn.”

“You’re the Oriental lady?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, why don’t you and the rest of your people just go back to Japan.?”

“What?”

“Go back to Japan where you belong.”

“Sir, we’re from Vietnam. We
can’t
go back.”

“Just go back to Japan and take your Toyotas and Datsuns with you—”

A connection was abruptly broken. Smoothly, Don said, “A misunderstanding, folks. The fellow was obviously out at the fridge getting a beer when we got started.” He picked up another line. “Don Del Boccio . . . I think.”

“Hi, Don.” The voice was deep and masculine. “This is Jim Wong. I’ve got a little house out in the Avenues, Twelfth Avenue, to be exact. I had a pretty good tenant there, but she moved out, and I was thinking. . . . The house is paid for and I don’t need to charge a lot of rent. It’s got two bedrooms, a big basement, a yard. Would be perfect for a family. Would Carolyn be interested in having it for some of her people? Say, for three hundred a month?”

Rents in the city for the kind of property he was describing started around eight hundred. I looked at Carolyn; he eyes were wide.

“Carolyn,” Don said, “would you be interested?”

“Would I? Mr. Wong, that’s a most generous offer.”

“Well,” the man on the phone said, “it needs a new refrigerator, but I’m sure I could buy—”

“Mr. Wong,” Don said, “I’m sure there’s a listener out there who would provide a refrigerator. How about it, folks? Does somebody have an extra fridge? Just give us a call.” Then he added, “Mr. Wong, I take it you’re Oriental?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Were you born in this country, or are you remembering hard times you yourself endured?”

The man laughed. “Buddy, I grew up in that house I’m offering out in the Avenues. I’m a native of the city, played football for S.F. State.”

For the first time tonight, Don’s composure was rattled.
“Football?”

The man laughed harder. “You don’t remember Crazy Jim Wong? My dad was Chinese, but my mother was Samoan. Three hundred and fifteen pounds now, some of it muscle, that’s me!”

“Sorry, Jim,” Don said, laughing himself. “I’m just a new kid in town. But I’d sure like to meet you sometime and we really appreciate your offer. Will you leave your number with the operator?”

“Sure, buddy. And tell Miss Carolyn she’s got a real sexy voice.”

Lines were lighting up madly. Don picked up another. The voice at the other end said, “I want to talk to the lady detective.”

Still glowing with pleasure from the previous call, Don said, “You’ve got her, guy.”

Smiling, I picked up the phone and said, “This is the lady detective.”

The voice was muffled, but I still could tell it was shaking with anger. It said, “The Vang family problem is not something you should interfere with. It is dangerous. You could die like the other one. Do not interfere with God’s business. All things remain in God.”

There was a click as he hung up. I sat there clutching the receiver, once again feeling cold all over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fortunately, there were no more crank calls during the rest of the show. And once I recovered from the shock of hearing that hate-filled voice, I began to enjoy myself again. We received several offers of a refrigerator for Jim Wong’s house, two more calls from landlords who were willing to rent cheap to refugee families, and seven highly dubious tips as to Duc’s whereabouts. But the temperature of the little booth rose higher and higher, and both Carolyn and I heaved sighs of relief when we went off the air.

I yanked off my headset and stood up, running my fingers through my damp hair, and she did the same. Outside, Don pushed his chair back from the board and waved his clasped hands in a congratulatory salute. The engineer hurried out of the studio, and we trooped after him.

In the lounge, Carolyn turned to me, her face concerned. “Do you think that one caller was serious?”

“The religious nut? Probably not; most of them just like to hear themselves talk. Isn’t that right, Don?”

“Yes. And the later at night it gets, the more they phone in. The worst slot I ever held as far as nut callers was midnight to four.” But he looked thoughtfully at me; I’d told him about Brother Harry.

Carolyn shivered. “Still, it’s scary knowing someone wants you to take your Toyotas and go back to Japan.”

She smiled weakly.

The engineer returned, bottle of wine and paper cups in hand. “Here,” he said. “You look like you need this.” He thrust them at Don, then went off down the hall, whistling.

I said, “That’s the one, huh?”

“The one what?” Don sat down and began pouring wine.

“The engineer who gives you all the goodies.”

“Oh, yeah, him and a couple of others.”

“They
all
do that?

“Most of them. Engineers are a weird bunch. But then, so are d.j.’s.”

Don handed the cups around and we all drank in silence. After a little bit I said, “Will there be any more calls?”

“Probably not. But if there are, the operator will take them.”

“I guess it didn’t work—as far as finding Duc, that is. The other things should really help the Center.”

Carolyn nodded.

“Unless,” I added, “that crank call—mine—
was
from someone who knows something about Duc. Or about the murder. Maybe the show brought him out into the open after all.”