The Man With No Time Read online

  “I hate to say it,” Hammond said, “but that's a phrase with real interest value. Slave girls.”

  “But against the law,” I said virtuously.

  “Well, the law,” Hammond said. “The law never works where sex is concerned, you know? Ask the guys in Vice.” He chewed on that for a second. “Slave girls. The tong leaders didn't see the crime in it. It was just business. Brothels in China were no big deal. Lots of the girls wound up as third or fourth wives.”

  “Third or fourth wives?”

  “God,” Hammond said acerbically. “Imagine four wives.” He was in the middle of a vehemently acrimonious divorce.

  “So there are tongs in every American city now?” I asked. I already thought I knew the answer, but I needed verification.

  "Yeah. Except they're all the same tongs. The tongs, most of them anyway, are national. Hell, they're international. They've got branches in Hong Kong and on the mainland, and especially in Taiwan. "

  “Why 'especially'?”

  “We don't have an extradition treaty with Taiwan,” Hammond said. “And I'm hungry.”

  “I promised you a meal,” I said. “So why don't you guys bust the tongs? That's what the Asian Task Force is for, right?”

  He shook his big, badly barbered head. Hammond's hair always looked like it had been cut with a can opener. “We can't get inside. Can't even tap a wire and listen in. You know how many dialects there are in China?”

  “No.”

  “So guess.”

  I tried to remember anything Eleanor might have said and failed. “Fifty,” I ventured.

  Hammond tried to grin, but the grin was nothing but a mechanical muscle-pull at the corners of his mouth. “A couple thousand.”

  “Jesus.” His stomach growled again. “What do you want to eat, Al?”

  He glanced around the big ugly room. “Something expensive and far from here.”

  “Steak? The Pacific Dining Car?”

  “Fine,” he said, underplaying it. Hammond would have chewed his way through a yard of concrete to eat a steak.

  “Why are the kids Vietnamese?” The Vietnamese hadn't been mentioned in the books I'd read.

  “The kids in the Vietnamese gangs are the enforcers. They're the ones who scare people shitless when they're late with their loan payments. They're the ones who pour Krazy Glue into the locks of the jewelry stores when the owner won't pay protection. They're the ones who break the elbows and slice the faces and pull the triggers. Hell, they've lost their country and their culture, and they're starting to forget their language. There are still lots of great Vietnamese kids, or so I hear. But, all in all, the bad ones are just about the meanest, scariest, deadliest little motherfuckers going.”

  “Great,” I said. “That's absolutely great.” I had a big molten ball of lead in my gut.

  “And behind the tongs,” Hammond said, watching me, “are the real bad guys. The triads. The triads are the real Chinese Mafia.”

  “I don't want to hear about it,” I said, giving up. “It's just a paper.”

  “Yeah,” Hammond said, laying it on thick. “It's just a paper.”

  Two hours later Hammond and I stood on a downtown sidewalk while a couple of Asian parking attendants hiked toward Mexico to get our cars. He'd had three glasses of red wine to wash down two pounds of raw steak, and he was at the point where we were two buddies, not cop and non-cop.

  “Is this about Eleanor?” he demanded. “And don't shit me.” In his present embittered state, Eleanor was at the top of a very short list of women whom Hammond was willing to tolerate.

  “No,” I said, shivering. It had turned cold while we ate. “It's something a relative of hers might have gotten into.”

  He gave me a couple of eyes that were smaller than raisins and he screwed up his mouth until he looked like Roy Rogers's mummy.

  “Do you think Roy Rogers was mummified?” I asked him.

  He didn't even look interested. “Might be. Any asshole who could stuff a horse. And look at Disney, he became a Creamsicle.”

  “They made Lenin into a coffee table.”

  “Which relative?” he asked, without a pause.

  “Just some uncle. Listen, Al, about all this. I'd rather you didn't talk about it with anyone, okay?”

  “I'd be embarrassed to,” Hammond said. He burped french-fried onions and waved it away, toward me. “I'm supposed to be a cop.”

  “I'll call you if it gets any closer to home,” I said, but he was looking over my shoulder and chewing at the left corner of his mouth.

  “Hey,” he said, and then he stopped. He put one hand in his pocket and took it out again, then put it back. “Hey, look, did I tell you I'm seeing someone?” He stared off at the horizon, avoiding my eyes, and a slow flush began at his jawline and climbed upward like the mercury or whatever it is in a thermometer.

  “That's great.” His blush deepened. “I think.”

  He shook his big blunt head. “She's on the job,” he said, and then stalled again.

  “Really,” I said, just to keep the afternoon moving. “Does she rank you?”

  “I may be stupid,” Hammond said, “but I ain't no masochist.”

  “What's she like?”

  “It's what she's not like. She's not like Hazel.” Hazel was Hammond's soon-to-be-ex. I'd never met Hazel; Hammond and I hung out mainly in male-bonding areas like bars and places where someone either just had been, or was immediately likely to be, killed.

  Since I didn't know Hazel, the statement wasn't particularly informative.

  “In what way,” I asked, “is she not like Hazel?”

  He shifted his focus to a spot a foot above my head. “She's Hispanic,” he said.

  “Oh-ho,” I said. I waited until the pressure in my chest subsided and I was absolutely certain I wasn't going to laugh, and then said, “Bit of a change in the routine.” Although he generally behaved himself, Hammond's feelings toward people of color were not likely to attract the official attention of the Vatican after he passed on. “Well, well,” I offered. Hammond was still waiting for the moon to rise. “I'd like to meet her, Al.”

  “You will,” he said as one of the attendants pulled up in the car. “Maybe tomorrow night. Look whose car came first,” he said, tilting his chin discreetly toward the attendant, who immediately looked very interested. Chinese people point with their chins. “Looks like you pay for the parking.”

  “You know, Al,” I said. “You should really attend more of those interracial sensitivity sessions.”

  “Can't,” he said. “I'm giving all my time to the homosexual empathy hours.” He opened the door of the sedan and slid heavily in. The car sagged with a certain mechanical irony. “By the way,” he called, “Roy Rogers is alive.”

  My first stop was Horace's, where I picked up Bravo. I'd called from UCLA and volunteered to get him out from underfoot, not saying what I really felt: that he was a living reminder of the twins. Eleanor, who'd answered the phone, hadn't said it either, but she'd been a little too bright about what a good idea it was.

  Horace opened the door, looking like someone who'd just bungee-jumped off the Eiffel Tower tied to a shoelace: hair on end, pouches of flesh beneath the eyes, a broken pencil dangling from his mouth like a dead yellow cigarette. One corner of his shirt collar poked a dimple in his left earlobe.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said by way of greeting. “Bravo's here somewhere.”

  “How are you?”

  “Awake,” he said. “Alive.”

  “Eleanor here?” Bravo bounded out and, seeing me, started to bark.

  “No, she's, I don't know. Shut up, Bravo.”

  “Pansy asleep?”

  “Not now,” Horace said sourly, looking down at Bravo.

  “I’ll get him out of here."

  “Good idea. I'll call you if anything happens.” Horace closed the door on Bravo's rear end, and I stood on the porch, rebuffed. With Bravo at my heels, I went down the stairs and got in the car, feeling walled
out.

  Despite all the ups and downs Eleanor and I had endured, this was something new. We'd been friends briefly and then lovers for years, first in various student hovels around UCLA, and then in the awful little shack Eleanor found for us in Topanga Canyon, a tilting, rickety, three-room tribute to threepenny nails and wishful thinking, with nothing to recommend it except the best view in Southern California. I'd been accepted by Horace as a drinking partner almost at once. Mrs. Chan, who, after almost thirty years in the States, still considered all non-Chinese to be foreign devils, was a bit more difficult. It took months before she stopped calling Eleanor every forty-eight hours to harangue her about pure blood. Eventually she invited me home for the sole purpose of feeding me things she was sure no Westerner could eat. Over the course of ten or twelve dinners I swallowed steamed sea cucumber, the eyes and cheeks of fish, a veritable Fannie Farmer Assortment of entrails. I got it all down, nodded, smiled, asked for more. Most of it was delicious, although I have to admit the fish eyes later rolled uninvited into my dreams, goggled at me in threes, and waved at me with tiny white gloves.

  I completed my trial by fire one evening when Mrs. Chan uncovered a dish of brown, dense, grainless meat surrounded by some kind of fungus and proudly announced that it was dog. It was too much.

  “Does it have a name?” I'd asked Eleanor.

  “Spot,” Eleanor said, catching a smile from Horace. “Dick and Jane are out combing the streets for him now.” There were just the four of us at the table; Pansy was still living, undreamed-of, in Singapore. Husband Number Two had skillfully fled the scene after only seven months.

  Mrs. Chan said something to me in Chinese, gave me a thousand-watt smile, and cut off a great whacking piece. It made a slapping noise as it hit the plate.

  “I wonder whether it could do tricks,” I said, feeling my stomach shrink away to nothing and threaten to invert itself.

  “I have to say this very fast,” Horace said, looking at Eleanor but talking to me, “this is really venison.”

  Eleanor nodded at Horace and smiled. Their mother looked suspiciously from son to daughter and back again, and Eleanor held up her plate like a good little daughter. A couple of minutes later, we all dug into Bambi. When we finished, I was a member of the family.

  Months later Mrs. Chan clarified matters by admitting over yet another meal that she'd consulted a fortune-teller on the morning of the Bambi Banquet, and that the soothsayer had peered into my future and seen a golden shower. Horace, who was translating, stopped suddenly, looked down, and scratched his nose, and Eleanor remarked that it was a good thing her mother didn't understand American slang.

  “If she did,” she'd said, “God only knows what you'd be eating.”

  And I'd been a guest of honor at Horace and Pansy's wedding and at the twins' hundred-day party, and welcome always in the cramped apartment that Mrs. Chan ruled. I'd seen Husband Number Three abandon ship in haste after his wife, having already gone to all the nearby barber shops to pick up hair clippings for her backyard compost heap, dragged a comb through his brush and found several long blond hairs. There had been a scene. There was always a scene.

  I wasn't used to scenes. My family didn't have them. We loved each other politely and fought with silence. No one in my family ever threatened a relative with a meat cleaver or kicked a hole in a door. We touched each other's clothing, not each other's skin. I found that I liked scenes. I liked getting the anger out and over with, the spontaneous upwellings of love, the unpredictable eddies from some deep, lovingly familial current.

  Horace's roomful of broken computers and applications for jobs he never intended to take. The encyclopedic, uncataloged knowledge of wholly unrelated facts that he unveiled in long, rambling lists. Pansy's cameras and quiet wit and shy, blinding smile. The big round heads and sweet, unblinking eyes of the twins. The sheer variety of Mrs. Chan's husbands. Everything about Eleanor. I'd isolated myself in years of study, wondering where I was going and who I was going there with. I woke up next to Eleanor one morning, sometime after the death of Jennie Chu, and thought I'd figured it out at last.

  Bravo sat bolt upright in the backseat, indulging the conceit that he was in a limo and I was the chauffeur. I reached back to pet him, and he dodged my hand, discouraging familiarity from a mere driver, and I pointed the car south toward Wilshire.

  It had all held together until Topanga. As long as Eleanor and I moved from temporary dwelling to temporary dwelling, a couple of nomads setting up and striking our tents, we were inseparable.

  Maybe it was something about the idea of a house. I said I wanted it, and I thought I did. I said I looked forward to the prospect of more time together without friends and acquaintances to bother us. After months in the house, after she'd finished her first book and sent it off and I'd earned some money as an investigator, we began to talk, loosely and theoretically but earnestly, about marriage. I immediately had an affair.

  And then another and another. They were meaningless, joyless, mechanical, purely technical violations of faith. She found out about one and forgave me. Later she forgave me again. Then she received simultaneously an advance for book number two and the news of affair number three, and she stopped forgiving me and moved out, into the little house in Venice in which she still lived.

  Once separated we became close again and remained close, closer to each other than we were to anyone else in the world, and then the twins came along. We both loved the twins and they drew us closer, until her publisher, a New Age entrepreneur named Burt, took her to bed. Or maybe Eleanor took him to bed. It didn't help matters that I thought he was a vulgar, pretentious clown. Even then, though, I still had the family to love. I could still share in their lives.

  But now they'd become Chinese, and they'd built a wall around their crisis that only a Chinese could pass through. I didn't have the password.

  As I drove I asked myself whether my feelings were hurt and answered the question untruthfully in the negative. What was burning a hole in my stomach, I persuaded myself, was that they had done so much for me—they'd opened my life emotionally, they'd given me their love without asking themselves whether I was worth it—and here was an opportunity for me to do something for them, something I was reasonably good at, and my help was being refused.

  I wanted desperately to see Eleanor.

  Colored Christmas bulbs gleamed and winked in the gathering November dusk, framing the houses of the impatient. We picked up a little drizzle halfway to Santa Monica, not really rain but low fog sliding in from the ocean. Bravo put his head out the back window and let the wind pin his ears back, and I fought the temptation to do the same as the windshield slowly went from transparent to translucent to opaque. “Maybe you'd like to drive,” I said to him as I pulled over on Santa Monica Boulevard and got out to wipe the glass. He barked.

  “You've been watching too much TV,” I grumbled, climbing back in. “It isn't funny there, and it's not funny here.” He maintained a dignified silence until we turned south onto Ocean, when his ears went up straight.

  “Well, aren't you the navigational genius,” I said. Normally I didn't go to see Eleanor unannounced—especially since Burt emerged from the ether—but under the circumstances I figured it would be all right. Anyway, Burt was in New York. Bravo whined, and his tail thumped against the seat as I made the right onto Windswept Court and pulled up in front of Eleanor's house. As I came to a stop he put both front paws against the window and panted loudly.

  “Slow down,” I said. “Do you see her car?” He turned his muzzle over his shoulder to look at me. “Do you see a light in the window?” His tail whapped the seat back. “God, what a stupid dog,” I said, feeling desolate. “Anybody can tell she's not here.”

  He looked away and made a hunching motion with his hind legs, ready to jump out of the car.

  “Hold it,” I said, putting my hand on his rump. “We'll go up and check, but you've got to get out of the car like a gentleman.”

  I opened my
door, and he scrambled over the seat back and across my lap and out, waiting for me by running short, impatient circles in the driveway. I climbed out with exaggerated slowness, and the moment I had both feet on the driveway, he charged up the sidewalk to the front door. I joined him and rang the bell three times, as much for me as for him.

  “See?” I said, trying to sound happy about it. “Nobody home.”

  We got back into the car together, both disappointed. He lay down on the backseat, dispirited, with his ears flat. “I know,” I said. “I love her, too.” We made the long slow drive to Topanga in silence.

  The fog had preceded us. Topanga Skyline was blocked by a police car parked lengthwise across the street, its flashers firing red and blue into the mist.

  “You can't get up,” the cop said. “Fire equipment.”

  “I live there.” I showed him my driver's license.

  He shrugged. He had small, uninterested eyes and nostrils you could have saved quarters in. “Back it up. Go somewhere else.”

  I started to say something snarky and then remembered that I still had the Vietnamese kids' semiautomatics in the trunk. “Thank you, Officer,” I said. “Always nice to talk with a servant of the people.”

  I took Alice around the back way, up an unpaved fire road and then down again until it struck Burson, which in turn intersected Topanga Skyline at the top of its arc. We were above the fog here, and I could see it brimming silver like a ballet lake below us, cradled in the cup created by the sides of the hills. It wasn't hard to imagine the ghosts of plesiosaurs paddling through it.

  I parked Alice at the foot of the steep, rutted, unpaved driveway, and Bravo charged up it ahead of me. I huffed up at my own speed, toting the two guns, and joined him at the house. He was too busy sniffing to notice me until he heard the door open, and then he barreled past me and went to sit in his cave under the table that holds my computer. I put the little warriors' semis away the way I put most things away, which is by dropping them behind the largest object in sight. In this case, it was the couch. I made a note to take a look one of these days and see what else was back there. When I got the courage.