Predator's Waltz Read online

  As was the sixteen-year-old boy at his elbow. Thien had come to stand beside him and was observing the scene intently, as if he could see more in it than Daniel had.

  “Serves her right,” Daniel said. “If she’d come straight over here with the bowl it wouldn’t’ve gotten smashed. Why wouldn’t she, anyway, when the tightwad over there obviously wouldn’t come up with her price?”

  “Better the devil she knows,” the boy said. “The old woman probably doesn’t even speak English. She knows the Vietnamese pawnbroker would cheat her, but she thinks you would know some terribly clever American way of cheating her that she’s never even heard of. Maybe even that she would be asked too many questions, get arrested, if she came here. You are foreign soil.”

  “Kid, she lives on foreign soil.”

  Thien came as close as he ever did to making a joke. “Not in this neighborhood,” he said.

  Daniel didn’t need it rubbed in. He was quite aware of what Thien meant by that: That particular problem was ruining his business. In the last ten years a hundred thousand Asian refugees, most of them Vietnamese, had crowded into Houston. For the most part they didn’t blend. They tended to cluster in certain run-down neigh­borhoods and make them their own. It was Daniel’s bad luck that his own pawnshop had been surrounded by just such an influx. It had been a bad neighborhood already, many of the businesses closed and property values declining, so it had been easy for the Vietnamese to move in. Owners had been glad to sell out. Daniel would have done so himself if anyone had made him an offer. But no one had, so the tide of Vietnamization had swept around and past him, until his was the only American-owned business on the block. It was as if some weird urban renewal had purged the neighborhood. The block looked better than it had in decades, but it was no longer American.

  And when the foot traffic on the street had changed color, Daniel’s business had begun to dry up. White Houstonians still came to the street, but for the most part only to the two Vietnamese restaurants, or to poke around in the curio shops. They weren’t interested in the American pawnshop in the middle of the block. Daniel still had his old customers, but his shop didn’t generate any neighborhood business. There was a steady stream of Vietnamese in and out of the other shops on the street, but not into Daniel’s. They stared at him as if he were the intruder. He had to win their acceptance.

  It seemed he never would now that the Vietnamese man had opened another pawnshop directly across the street from Daniel’s. When Daniel had seen what the place was going to be, he had gone over and tried to talk to the man, tell him it would be bad business for both of them, but it was impossible to talk to the rival. He had just stared as if the words slid right by him. The shop had opened as scheduled and of course had drawn in all the Vietnamese business, with none left over.

  Daniel had tried one other farfetched tactic to get rid of the Vietnamese shop, but nothing had come of that.

  He turned away from the window into the gloomy interior of his own shop. It was appropriately seedy, as a good pawnshop should be. Who would think he was getting a bargain if the merchandise gleamed like new? Who would want to slip into a brightly lighted fishbowl carrying a typewriter or camera under his arm? Goods were stacked to the ceiling on the shelves that lined the walls. Three display cases—locked, to make the cheap stuff within seem more valuable—held jewelry and trinkets. The valuable stuff, the guns, were behind the wire screen that cut off access to most of the west wall of the store. You had to ask to see those items.

  “I should have sent you out to sweep the sidewalk,” Daniel said. “Maybe your smiling yellow face would have drawn her in.”

  Thien was in fact holding a broom now, but he wasn’t sweeping and he didn’t seem to be listening. He was standing in the corner that held the shop’s small store of books. People would often include a few books when they brought in a load of stuff to sell, after cleaning out Grandma’s closets or their own. Daniel paid next to nothing for the books, and they almost never sold—who went into a pawnshop to buy a book?—but he liked having them. Gave the place class.

  Daniel thought it was the books that had drawn Thien into the shop in the first place. He was a neighborhood kid, and Daniel’s was the only shop on the street that had books in English. Thien had hung around the shop for weeks, leafing through the books, asking Daniel polite questions, gradually insinuating himself into the back­ground, before Daniel had thought of offering him a part-time job after school. He had had in mind that when the Vietnamese neighbors saw one of their own working there, they might start frequenting the shop. So far that hadn’t happened.

  “It just occurred to me, kid, maybe you’re some kind of outcast yourself. Maybe that’s why you haven’t drawn me any business. Neighbors think you’re an untouchable now that you work for an American?”

  “I am well beloved in the community,” Thien said. Daniel laughed.

  The boy had been born in Vietnam but you couldn’t tell it when he spoke. His English had been learned in five years of American school; there’d been no occasion for him to learn pidgin. Thien was one of those smart-as-a-whip Vietnamese kids who came to America speaking no English and ten years later would graduate from high school as the valedictorian. There was nothing wrong with his brain, and ever since he had known Daniel he had even started making an occasional joke, always in that same solemn tone. Daniel saw that the book he was leafing through now was Madame Bovary, and he won­dered how much sense Thien could make of it. The last book the boy had picked out of the pile had been Valley of the Dolls. He was a completely indiscriminate reader, a valuable quality if you’re going to depend on a pawnshop for your reading matter.

  “Daniel,” Thien said, not looking up from the book. “How long have you been in business here?”

  When he’d first started coming in the shop, Thien had politely asked his name and thereafter called him Mr. Greer so often that Daniel, at the age of thirty-four, had begun to feel ancient, so he had finally told the boy to call him Daniel. Now Thien exercised that privilege about once a day.

  “Three years or so, to my regret.” Daniel was looking out the window at the stolid old slant across the street, who was washing down his brand-new plate-glass win­dow that he’d replaced only two weeks ago. Business must be good for him.

  “And was business better before the—character of the neighborhood changed?”

  “Yeah, some,” Daniel said, remembering how he’d wanted to strangle the Vietnamese pawnbroker when the old fart had refused even to listen to him. It wasn’t like they were Sears and Montgomery Ward, opening their respective five hundredth stores across the street from each other. They were talking life’s blood here.

  “How much better?” Thien persisted. “As a percent­age, I mean? Do you keep—”

  “What is this, an interview?”

  “I’m taking a business course,” Thien said hastily. He already had the lie prepared. “I thought as a project I might—”

  The bell on the shop door jangled and they both looked at it. No one had come in.

  “Wind,” Daniel said listlessly. “My best customer.” Thien didn’t reply. He was still staring at the door.

  “Listen, if you want to see the books I’m going to have to—”

  The bell sounded again. This time Daniel looked at it in time to see the door closing but again no one had come in. “What the hell,” he said. He walked over and rattled the knob. The door was secure in its frame. He opened it himself and let it close.

  “There was ...” Thien began, but his voice trailed off. Daniel didn’t pay any attention. He opened the door again and stepped outside to see if the outside knob was tight.

  There was a Vietnamese standing just outside the door. He was against the wall and hadn’t been visible from within the shop. The man’s presence made Daniel jump. He gave him a second glance and thought it was the young man who had run into the old woman. Of course it wasn’t true that they all looked alike. This one, for example, was heftier than most V
ietnamese. His face was slightly rounded and his upper body fairly thick, whether with muscle or fat Daniel couldn’t tell. The man was wearing a padded jacket.

  Daniel merely nodded politely and looked down at his doorknob, until he felt a hand on his arm. He looked up into the face of the man, who gestured with his other hand, indicating a path down the street. Daniel glanced that way and saw nothing.

  “Speak English?” he asked.

  The Vietnamese merely repeated the gesture. The grip on Daniel’s arm tightened ever so slightly. Daniel glanced around and saw that the street was empty. The Vietnamese pawnbroker had gone back inside his shop. Daniel looked inside his own store and saw Thien staring at him. Daniel gave him one sharp look and then moved his gaze to the telephone. Thien was the only person on this street he could count on to call the police if there was some kind of trouble.

  He couldn’t imagine what that trouble might be. He looked into the unmoving face of the Vietnamese. Maybe he was a customer with no English but a valuable truckload to sell. The man started walking down the sidewalk. Daniel accompanied him. The hand on his arm fell away.

  It was not a pleasant day for a stroll in shirtsleeves. The sun was out but low in the late-afternoon sky, and there was a sharp wind. Daniel put his hands in his pockets. The Vietnamese did not. He wasn’t looking at Daniel.

  “How far is your truck? I can’t leave the shop long, I’m expecting someone.”

  He might as well have been talking to the pavement, for all the response he got. The Vietnamese was walking on the street side of the sidewalk, and gazing across the street. They had walked a block. They crossed another street and were essentially out of the Vietnamese neigh­borhood. This block looked abandoned. A block farther warehouses loomed. Daniel glanced back the way he’d come. All human life had ceased, as far as he could see. His Vietnamese companion was staring across the street as if searching for someone, but Daniel couldn’t see a soul.

  “Look,” Daniel began, when he realized suddenly that a man was walking beside him on the inside of the sidewalk, almost shoulder to shoulder. He must have come out of a doorway some yards back, while Daniel was looking across the street. His appearance beside the pawnbroker was so abrupt and yet so casually transitionless it was as if the man had been walking invisibly beside him the whole way, only gradually shimmering into view. Like a guardian angel from a ’30s comedy. And he said what a guardian angel might say.

  “Mr. Greer,” he said. “I’ve come to help with your problem.”

  The man was Vietnamese. He was thin, with an even thinner moustache, and sharp cheekbones. He wore a black suit with a tan shirt and matching tan tie. His hair was jet black, with no shadings of other colors. There were a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Daniel would have guessed his age at forty, but wouldn’t put much reliance in his guess.

  “We can talk here as well as anywhere,” the man said, prompting.

  The round-faced younger Vietnamese had dropped back a couple of paces and was turned sideways to them. He was looking back down the street, which remained conspicuously uninhabited. Daniel wondered if Thien had called the police. He sensed that there were others nearby, out of sight. Daniel had the strange feeling that if they went back and entered the restaurant for tea they would find it empty as well. Deference hung heavy in the air.

  And then he realized who the thin man beside him must be. He was Daniel’s farfetched tactic for business survival, come to call on him on the street.

  A little impatiently the thin man said, “I am Tranh Van Khai. I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

  Khai rhymed with sky. Daniel indeed knew who he was, though few Houstonians outside the Vietnamese and the police would have.

  “Y-yes, I did,” Daniel stammered. “But I had no idea you’d come see me. I thought—I’d have to make an appointment—”

  Khai smiled engagingly. “I’m not such a big shot that I snap my fingers and people appear before me.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate that nothing hap­pened. Nothing did except that his round-faced body­guard looked startled. “Especially not an American businessman such as yourself,” he added.

  “Oh, I’m not so ...” Daniel trailed off. He couldn’t deny being both American and a businessman.

  Uninformed as he was about Vietnamese affairs, Dan­iel had heard of Tranh Van Khai. After his attempt to persuade his rival to open his pawnshop elsewhere had fallen flat, Daniel had begun to make quiet inquiries as to whether there was someone who might intercede on his behalf. A waiter at one of the Vietnamese restaurants, after Daniel had eaten regularly at his station for weeks, tipping generously, had agreed that there might be such a person. Daniel had wondered how he might contact this Tranh Van Khai, and the waiter had only shrugged. Daniel had thought he was on his own after that, but obviously the waiter had done more than just shrug, because here was Tranh Van Khai staring levelly at him. Daniel feared he was going to disappoint the man.

  “I’m sorry you had to come out of your way for such a small problem. It seems so petty now. You may have noticed I own the pawnshop back there…”

  Khai nodded. Daniel, looking back, saw the shop was blocks away, out of sight.

  He quickly told the history of his relations with his rival Vietnamese pawnbroker. “Obviously I can’t even talk to him,” he concluded, “what with the language barrier and all. I knew that you are an influential man in the community—” He didn’t say “Vietnamese commu­nity” both to be flattering and because it was unneces­sary. “—and I had hoped you might help me. You see, it’s really not a big deal.”

  “Not such a small deal,” Khai said. “It could put you out of business.”

  Daniel had to agree.

  “But it is small in that it can be fixed easily,” Khai went on smoothly.

  “Of course I’d expect to pay you for your time—”

  “As I would expect to be paid.” Khai smiled and Daniel smiled back. “And I have friends who would have to be compensated.”

  Daniel felt uneasy. He was letting himself in for some kind of con job, he knew. Contractors and subcontrac­tors, expenses . . . “How much are we talking about?” he asked deferentially. He glanced at the bodyguard, who was watching the street rather than Daniel and Khai. Was he watching for friends or enemies?

  Khai looked off into space over Daniel’s shoulder, musing. Then his eyes came back into focus and he smiled again, though his face remained serious. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Twenty—” Daniel’s mouth fell open. He was on the verge of laughing. Maybe this sharp-faced man who made him think of knives didn’t understand the rate of exchange. “Are you—?”

  And he fell silent abruptly, realizing what they’d been discussing.

  Khai looked at him placidly, as if this sputtering were the proper, anticipated first response in such a negotia­tion. He seemed to see through the layers of Daniel’s thoughts.

  “No, no. I’m sorry, that’s not what I had in mind at all. I was only hoping you’d use your influence—”

  “That’s all we’re discussing,” Khai said softly.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Daniel remained sharply aware that he was alone on the street with the two Vietnamese men. They were standing in front of a storefront whose broken window had been boarded up with one large sheet of plywood. The for sale sign on the board was tattered. He looked at the bodyguard, whose face had gone rather flat. He was no longer making a show of staring all around the street; now he was looking straight at Daniel. His brown pants were much baggier than his boss’s suit; they flapped in the wind. But his crossed arms held his jacket closed across his chest.

  “Twenty thousand is much more than I thought of paying,” Daniel said, changing tack. He didn’t want to make any accusations. “I only hoped it could be sug­gested to him that business would be better for both of us if he were to relocate. I just didn’t think he understood that’s what I was trying to tell him.”

  “The suggestion
alone probably wouldn’t be worth much. He’s a stubborn man, as you learned.”

  “Oh, you know him then?”

  “I try to know everyone,” Khai said. “We’re a tight- knit community. Like a small town inside the big city.”

  “That’s why I thought—I needed to have a friend in your community. But I don’t have twenty thousand dollars. I’ll have to—”

  Khai looked away musingly again. “It’s not carved in stone. It’s a negotiable figure, to a certain extent.”

  Daniel took a step away from him, which brought him a step closer to the silent bodyguard. The bodyguard uncrossed his arms, letting the wind pull his jacket open slightly.

  “It’s so far outside my price range, though, that I’d be embarrassed even to make a counteroffer.” The way to go, Daniel had decided, was to suggest that he couldn’t pay the freight. Not, certainly, that he was morally outraged that his request had been misunderstood. “I’m sorry you had to come out of your way for this. I just obviously didn’t have any idea . .

  He trailed off. He was even with the bodyguard now, still backing slowly away. The bodyguard wasn’t looking at him now; his eyes stayed steadily on Khai, waiting. Daniel took another step back and was behind him, so he could no longer see the expression on the bodyguard’s face. Khai, though, was staring at Daniel with eyes that were hard and black. Daniel couldn’t read the thoughts behind that face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  He took one more backward step, then turned and began walking away. There was movement behind him. His shoulders hunched, he walked on. In the distance he could see two or three people but they were small, anonymous figures, as he must be small and faceless to them. He was coming to the end of the block and wondered suddenly if Khai had someone else waiting around the comer of the building. He turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. The round-faced bodyguard had moved but wasn’t coming after him. Khai was motionless, hands in his pockets. Even at this distance of half a block his sharp features were distinct. He was watching Daniel speculatively.