Grave on Grand Avenue (7 page)

“Oh,” I say, although I’m thinking, loudly,
Who told you?

My aunt can read my mind.

“Grandma let me know. She wants to buy you a new car.”

“I have the money to do it on my own,” I say.
But so sweet that Grandma Toma wants to help me.

“That’s what I told her. I don’t know why you were driving that old beater, anyway. It’s not safe, you know.”

“We need to get back to our seats.” A figure, at least six feet tall, looms over me. The voice, deep and raspy, sounds familiar. It can’t be. But it is. Councilman Wade Beachum is addressing my aunt. He holds an almost empty glass of booze, only a thin line remaining.
You have got to be kidding me. No. This cannot be happening. That nasty old man known for his philandering ways
cannot
be with my aunt
.

The uniformed ushers now move through the lingering crowd, hitting their mini-xylophones with thin mallets. We get it, we get it. The next performance is starting.

Aunt Cheryl and I say our good-byes and I watch to see whether there’s any sign that those two are on an official date. Beachum has a hand on Aunt Cheryl’s back, but it’s a light touch—not necessarily a romantic one. The very thought sends a chill through me. I’ve dealt with the married councilman before, and I don’t like the thought of him anywhere near my aunt.

“Hey, I think we need to get going.” Nay’s beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I know better than to mention my suspicions to Nay. She’ll start constantly obsessing about whether the two of them are really having an affair. Rather than allaying my fears, she’ll put more wood on the fire.

We settle in for a completely different performance, unfortunately one without either Xu or Cece. I’m not quite sure what a contrabassoon looks like, but the program says this symphony features a famous movement for that neglected instrument. I do a process of elimination and figure out that the musician in the back I see holding a large black instrument must be the contrabassoonist. He’s about midthirties, thinning blond hair, a nose shaped like a ball. Not hot at first glance, that’s for sure. But, of course, you’d have to talk face-to-face with a guy to see if he’s really hot or not. I bend my head toward Nay to share this musical nugget with her but she’s dozed off. Thankfully, the bassoons and contrabassoon are making enough noise to disguise her light snoring.

I try to concentrate on the music, but my mind can’t help but wander to my encounter in the lobby. Aunt Cheryl has only ever had one serious relationship that I know of. The guy—his name was Steve something—even came to our Japanese New Year’s party back when it was at my grandmother’s house. (We’ve been holding them at my parents’ house ever since Grandma Toma moved in two years ago, so it was well before that.) He also was with law enforcement, with the ATF—Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I think that they met on the job, working together on a gang gunrunning sting investigation. No one in the family ever said it out loud, but I think most of us except for Grandma Toma wondered whether maybe Aunt Cheryl was a lesbian. Which isn’t really fair; it’s a stereotype that men on the force like to banter about the female officers, especially the ones in leadership. I know that Aunt Cheryl had to sacrifice a lot, especially for a woman of her generation. How could she be a wife and mother, raising babies while helping to oversee one of the largest police departments in the country? Things are a little bit better these days, but not by a lot. And I know I want all those things for myself, but way, way down the line. I don’t want to think about any of that right now.

The Brahms piece has ended and someone in the front row begins to clap first, setting off a rainstorm of applause throughout the hall. The noise rouses Nay, who immediately sits up and starts yelling, “Bravo, bravo.”

After the concert, there’s the Q & A with the artists that Nay insists on attending. “There’ll be food, too,” she says, and then adds, “Free.”

Free food is definitely an added bonus to make an appearance at the reception, which is held in the lobby. In a matter
of minutes, I’m loading my napkin with some kind of gooey cheese appetizer and then a shrimp one. I don’t care who sees me pigging out. I’m hungry.

Most of the attendees, including Nay, have congregated toward the front of the reception hall to hear a USC professor interview Xu and the conductor. I opt to stay behind, close to the food and drink. Their topic will be on Strauss and
Don Quixote
, whereas I’m more interested in filling my stomach.

I am dying for some wine, but even though I’m off duty, I can’t drink while wearing my uniform. Instead I pick up the last glass of mint lemonade and, making myself at home against the wall, I take a sip. This definitely is not my crowd, but then, what is?

I feel that as the months pass, I share less and less in common with the Fearsome Foursome. My coworkers are mostly guys who are married or have girlfriends. Johnny has his biking friends. The one other woman in our unit, Armine, has two kids. I don’t fit in anywhere anymore, at least not as easily as I used to when I was at PPW. There, I was just another college student. I could wear my PPW sweatshirt and feel like I belonged to a club (so what if it was a club with a grapefruit mascot; at least it was something).

While the interviewer is talking to Xu at the front of the reception hall, I notice Xu’s father taking a phone call in the back.
Rude,
I think.
Isn’t this your son’s shining-star moment?
But Mr. Xu seems upset. I mean really upset. He raises his voice and then realizes that he’s attracting unwanted attention. People don’t realize that he’s Xu’s father and give him some stink-eye. I can’t find Nay in the crowd; she’s probably positioned herself in the front row.

I’m wondering whether something has happened to Mr. Fuentes. Nobody would think of informing me of his medical status. If he dies, then Mr. Xu could really be in some hot water. He’ll have to extend his stay in the U.S.; that’s for sure.

After about half an hour, there’s clapping in the main hall, and the crowd disperses. Some choose to get more appetizers, but quite a few, their jackets and purses in hand, choose to leave. I search for Nay. Don’t see her. Mr. Xu is gone, too.

As I eat more cheese, Nay finally reappears. “Listen, I’m going to stick around. I met someone.”

“Who?”

She gestures toward an Asian guy and I catch a flash of orange neon, the same neon as at the crime scene.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, disgusted.

“You know him?”

“I never got his name.”

“Washington Jeung.”

I arch my eyebrows.

“Now, now, no need to be so rude,” she scolds me, even though I haven’t actually said anything. “You know the whole Chinese immigrant thing for presidential names. He can’t help what his parents named him.”

“Still . . .”

“He’s not bad-looking.”

“He’s not good-looking, either. Or bad enough.” I know Nay’s type—or should I say
types
—and this guy doesn’t fit any of them.

“Anyway, he’s a freelance translator. He’s even translated for Xu’s father in Europe in the past.”

“Yep, I know.”

“So how do you know him?”

I catch myself before I reveal too much about the case. It has enough complications as it is.

“I heard him introduce himself to some people here,” I lie. Weak, but Nay uncharacteristically buys it. Perhaps she’s too smitten to think straight?

“Are you sure about this?” I ask. Nay hasn’t had the best taste in men. But, as Rickie says, it’s Nay’s 31 Flavors. If she doesn’t like one on Monday, it really doesn’t matter because there will be a new one the next day. “How are you going to get home?”

“Well, maybe I won’t go home.”

“Nay!”

“Look at him. I have a good twenty pounds on him. I’ll be all right.”

I’m not so sure. I’m worried about Nay. I know she has pepper spray in a sparkly Hello Kitty case, but despite these precautions, Nay could get hurt. Badly. Now that I work in Central, which covers PPW, I hear about many more incidents of assault and date rape than I ever realized were going on while I was attending college. I can’t tell her the private details, but I realize more than ever that PPW isn’t the protective enclave that we all thought it to be. And beyond its walls, in the outside world, literally anything can happen.

“Listen, you call me if you need a ride,” I tell her. “Anytime, okay?”

Nay’s already heading back to Washington’s side. I try to mad-dog him, give him a fierce look and puff out my chest in my uniform.
You hurt my BFF and you’ll answer to me.
Benjamin used to tell me whenever I tried to look menacing, I just managed to look cross-eyed. Either way, Washington doesn’t even seem to notice me.

The crowd has thinned considerably and I look for a place to leave my empty glass when I notice someone next to me. Someone at least six feet tall, with a beautiful head of black hair, smooth skin and sparkly eyes. It’s Xu, being a wallflower like me.

Shouldn’t you be out there, in the center of things, signing autographs or something?
I think. Instead, I say, “Oh, hello.”

“Hello,” he says back. I’ve never heard him speak before, and wasn’t sure how well he spoke English.

“Nice concert,” I say. Lamest thing ever.

“You were at the accident site.”

He has a slight British accent, which throws me off a little. I know Hong Kong was a British colony, but wasn’t Xu from mainland China? Isn’t that more New World than Old?

“Yes. And you were, too.”
And it would have been nice if you’d stayed around to see if the man your father injured was okay
.

Xu’s cheeks are pink and I wonder whether it’s from the wine he’s holding or from what I’m insinuating. “How is he?” he asks, meaning Mr. Fuentes. He takes a sip of wine as I just shake my head. It’s not my place to divulge any medical details, especially ones I’m completely unsure about. “My father was just protecting me. Protecting my cello,” Xu says.

“So you’re saying that the gardener was a thief?” I can’t help myself.

Xu’s whole face is flushed now. I wonder if he’s missing the enzyme to properly process alcohol, a condition that a lot of us Asians have. “I don’t know why he did what he did. Truly I don’t,” Xu says.
Which he?
I wonder. Fuentes or his father?

“Well, at least you got your cello back.” I figure that by making the assumption, it will generate an answer to what I’ve been wondering about all night.

“I did,” Xu says; then his eyes widen. “Did you have anything—”

A woman in high heels and a low-gelled ponytail comes our away. It’s Kendra Prescott. “There you are,” she says to the cellist. “I was looking all over for you. Bono wants to take a private meeting with you.” She notices me beside Xu and frowns, just in the corners of her mouth, before quickly turning up her lips. “Ah, hello. I didn’t know the police were here.” She still doesn’t seem to recognize me from the day before.

“Just here as a private citizen,” I tell her.

Before Xu can say another word, Kendra’s ushering him away. PR flak—was that what Nay called her? All I can say is that she’s very good at her job. I toss my empty plastic cup into the trash can and walk across the expansive lobby to the escalators leading to the parking structure. Most everyone has left, so there are only a few couples—all older ones with stylishly groomed gray hair—on the escalator with me.

I’m parked on the lowest floor, and by now most of the parking spots are empty. Sound carries through the empty parking garage, and I hear angry voices as I make my way to Kermit. I look around warily, and in a section marked
ARTISTS’ PARKING
, I see a flash of platinum hair. Standing next to a dark BMW convertible, Cece is speaking loudly in what sounds like Chinese to someone obscured by a parking column. I must have been spotted, because she immediately lowers her voice.

I get into Kermit and check my rearview mirror as I back out. The BMW’s rear lights are now on, but I don’t see Cece or the person she was talking to. As I drive up the next level of the parking lot, all I can hear is the squeak of my tires against concrete, a familiar sound at the end of a strange day.

FOUR

The next morning I check my phone. No calls, texts or e-mails from Nay. Since I’m on a four-day schedule, I’m off today, even though it’s the middle of the week. Nay is my usual go-to person to goof off with. Now, thanks to the translator, that option is not available.

I text Nay:
What are you doing?

About five minutes later, I get a phone call. It’s her. I don’t bother with hello or any of that stuff. I get right to the point. “Where are you?”

“At Washington’s apartment.”

“Nay, already?”

“No, it’s not what you’re thinking. We did some barhopping in K-town and he lives right here. We just came to crash.”

She can apparently feel the disapproval in my silence. “This is all for the paper. Really.”

“Where is he now?”

“Taking a shower. He lives in a two-story multiunit thing. The outside is nothing special, but the inside is so, so cool. Wait a minute. I’ll send you a video clip.”

On my phone is a link to a short movie that Nay’s made on her phone. The footage is bumpy, like Nay’s been in a 7.0 earthquake or something. But I still can make out the room and furnishings. I immediately recognize the spare Scandinavian furniture and colorful throw rugs and pillows from catalogues I get in the mail.

“Nice,” I tell Nay.

“He actually has a sense of style.”

She thinks he’s stylin’ just because he knows how to order from IKEA? I’m not going to say anything, however. The video clip includes the view out a large window. I can see a parking lot, palm trees and a weirdly shaped concrete building in the distance. I squint at the image and pause the video.
What is that?
It looks like a gigantic gray bucket.

“By the way, I was right.” Nay sounds proud of herself.

“About what?”

“About Xu and Cece doing the dirty. Washington got a call from Cece while we were at this one bar and I swear that I heard Xu’s voice on the line with her.”