Dead and Gone

“Not know her. She know me.”

Meaning: Gem knew her by more than mere reputation—she knew people who knew Mama personally. And what Mama was capable of.

“Is that enough?”

“She make call, earlier. Ask about you, why you call me ‘Mama.’ ”

“She called you?”

“No. Call friend. Pao.”

“She’s Cambodian, then?”

“Yes, Cambodian. All same with Pao. This girl, Gem, Pao call her ‘Angkat.’ Girl easy to find. Anytime. No problem. What you tell girl, she not tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay, Mama. Thanks.”

“Watch everyone,” she said. And hung up.

Pao was a Cambodian woman who ran a network like Mama’s. I’d only met her once, at the restaurant. I couldn’t begin to guess her age, any more than I could Mama’s, but I knew they went way back. Mama had told me “easy to find.” Meaning, if Gem double-crossed me, there’d be no place for her to hide … and she’d know it.

When I went back into the living room, she was still on the couch, as if I’d been gone minutes instead of hours. I sat down in the armchair and said, “Do you want to hear the story?”

She got up without using her hands, like smoke rising from a cigarette. She took a couple of steps toward me, then dropped to her knees, clasped her hands, looked up at me expectantly.

“There is a Russian couple,” I said, not looking directly at her. “Man and wife. From Chicago. They had a child. A son. He was abducted when he was around four years old. Disappeared without a trace. There never was a ransom note. No body was ever found. They never heard a thing. A lot of years passed.

“Then, one day, they were contacted by a man who said he had their boy. The man wanted to exchange him for money. A lot of money. The Russians, they were immigrants. Nervous. Didn’t trust the police. So they went to a gangster. A Russian, like them, in New York. He hired me to handle the transfer. I was there, with the money. A kid got out of the ransom truck. At least it looked like a kid—it was dark. But it was a trap. The kid shot me. So did some others. They ran away, thinking I was dead.

“It took a long time for me to heal. Then I went to see the man who set it up for me to make the transfer. He told me that the Russians had insisted on me for the job. So whoever was lying in wait, they knew I’d be the one coming. I’m who they wanted to kill. It was never about a ransom payment—it was a murder setup.

“The Russians don’t live in Chicago anymore. They have someone there who keeps up a front for them, but all their mail is forwarded here. To Vancouver, I mean.

“I need to talk to them. I don’t know what they look like. Or where they live—the Vancouver address is a mail drop. I figure, if I … if you … write them a letter, in Russian, I might be able to get them to come out in the open.”

She knelt there quietly, deep dark eyes on me, waiting. When she saw I was done, she blew out a long stream of breath, a cleansing act like yogis do. Then she asked, “You wish to find out who wanted to have you killed?”

“That’s not past tense. If they knew I was alive, they’d still want me dead. I have no way of knowing what they know. It cost major money to set this whole thing up. So they may have resources I don’t know about. Access to information.”

“Why were the arrangements so complicated?”

“I thought about that, too. And maybe they weren’t. Not all that much. I don’t live aboveground. I don’t have a home. Or an office. Or a hangout,” I said, dismissing Mama’s from that category—she wasn’t exactly open to the public, and I couldn’t think of a worse place to try and take me out. “If they wanted to hit me, they couldn’t just go out and look for me; they’d have to bring me to them.”

“Do you believe this gangster person was involved?”

“I don’t think so. For two reasons: One, I’d had to meet with him to get the money to deliver. So, if he was going to hit me, why not just do it right then? Two, there was a kidnapping. There was a missing kid. The Russians did run.…”

“How long?”

“I don’t … Oh, you mean, how long have they been running?”

“Yes.”

“About a year, as near as we can tell.”

“And the attempt on your life was … when?”

“Sure. I know. They were in the wind before it all went down. There’s pieces missing. Big pieces.”

“Would it not be better to ask this gangster person more questions?”

“He’s no longer available,” I told her. “I see.”

She went quiet then. So did I. Finally, she looked up at me from under her eyelashes, said, “Do you feel comfortable with me … like this?”

“You mean … talking about this stuff?”

“I mean with me on my knees,” she said softly.

I closed my eyes, reaching for the answer.

“Yes,” I finally told her.