'No.'
'They from the north?'
'They are from Vietnam.'
Wu smiled. The companions seemed to be barely out of their teens. They were both shorter than Wu, small- boned and lank haired One of them had a horizontal scar maybe two inches long under his left eye. They both wore jeans and sneakers and maroon satin jackets. The guy without the scar wore a blue bandana on his head.
'You are a detective,' Wu said.
I nodded.
'And you are investigating the murder of an actor in Port City.'
I nodded again.
'You had lunch recently with my wife.'
'Sure,' I said.
'In your restaurant.'
'And you questioned her.'
'I question everybody,' I said.
'While you're here, I'll probably question you.'
'I wish to know why you are questioning my wife.'
'See previous answer,' I said.
'Excuse me?'
'Like I said, I question everybody. Your wife is simply one of the people involved with the theater.'
'My wife,' Wu said calmly, 'is not 'simply' anything. She is Mrs. Lonnie Wu. And I would prefer that you not speak to her again.'
'How come?' I said.
'It is unseemly.'
'Mrs. Wu didn't seem to think so,' I said.
'What Mrs. Wu thinks is not of consequence. It is unseemly for her to be having lunch with a lowfaan.'
'Is lowfaan a term of racial endearment?'
'It is an abbreviated form ofguey lowfaan, which means barbarian,' Wu said.
'Though many people use it merely to indicate someone who is not Chinese.'
I nodded.
'You don't fully subscribe, then, to the melting pot theory,' I said.
'Nor do I wish to stand here and make small talk,' Wu said.
'I think it would be best if you stayed out of Port City.'
'Is it okay if I retain my U.S. citizenship?' I said.
'What you do outside of Port City is your business. But if you come back.. he moved his head in such a way as to include the two Vietnamese kids against the wall… 'we will make it our business.'
The kids were silent. As far as I could tell, they understood nothing of what was being said. But they didn't seem to care. They seemed relaxed against the wall. Their dark eyes were empty of everything but energy.
'So that's what the teeny hoppers are for,' I said.
'I don't know teeny hopper,' Wu said.
'Adolescents,' I said.
Wu nodded. I could see him file the phrase away. He'd know it next time.
'Don't be misled,' Wu said.
'They are boat people. They are older than their age.'
'And empty,' I said.
Wu smiled.
'Entirely,' he said.
'They will do whatever I tell them to.'
I looked at the kids for a moment. They were not something new. They were something very old, without family, or culture; prehistoric, deracinated, vicious, with no more sense of another's pain than a snake would have when it swallowed a rat. I'd seen atavistic kids like this before: homegrown black kids so brutalized by life that they had no feelings except anger. It was what made them so hard. They weren't even bad. Good and bad were meaningless to them. Everything had been taken from them. They had only rage. And it was the rage that sustained them, that animated their black eyes, and energized the slender, empty place intended for their souls. The kids saw me looking at them and looked back at me without discomfort, without, in fact, anything at all. I looked back at Wu.
