Cheng didn’t drink. He searched around for an option. “How about a bowl of that?” Cheng said, nodding to a sign on the wall.
“One turkey and dumpling soup. Anything else?”
“Thank you, but I just have a few questions about a Mr. Jerry Watts.” Cheng fingered his notes. “I understand he worked here and passed away on the morning of the Delta crash. He was also known as ‘Chief.’ ”
Conversation throughout the bar stopped.
Marianne pressed a towel into her eyes. She quickly composed herself.
“You feds already came through here the day after that plane went down,” a long-haired patron in a metal neck brace shouted from across the room. “They interviewed everybody. The government’s got no respect for people in mourning. We all know it was a suicide passenger whacked both those planes, so why are you hassling us?”
“Sir, I’m not hassling anyone,” Cheng calmly responded. “I’m simply revisiting the area. I have a few more questions. Is this a private post for military veterans only?”
“You got a problem with that?” the man hissed.
“No problem at all,” Cheng said calmly, stirring his meal. “Thanks for your service. I guess you probably see a lot of friends and strangers come and go.”
“If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then hang on.” The man stood up from his barstool. “Anybody seen any terrorists in the neighborhood?”
“Yeah, there’s one down at the 7-Eleven,” a man sang out.
“Go get ’em, Stan,” someone else shouted.
“That’s Stanley Wosniak,” Marianne whispered to Cheng. “Wisconsin’s most decorated Vietnam vet. He had 380 confirmed kills. He doesn’t like too many outsiders. Sorry.”
“I can see that,” Cheng whispered back. “So, no new faces or suspicious people hanging around? No new war buddies that just happened to show up? Nobody asking questions about airport security or badmouthing the US government?”
“Nope. Nobody new around here except Mikey.” She gave a distant look. “Chief said he was related to Sean Penn the actor, but that was probably a lie.”
Cheng pushed his soup aside and opened his notebook.
“Don’t bother about him,” she assured. “He just rented the apartment upstairs for the summer. Nice college kid. He’s supposed to start bartending: we need the help.”
“Which school?”
“Beats me,” Marianne answered. “I think he’s trying to be a dentist.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s never here. He’s always running back and forth to Minnesota to see his girlfriend. He seems pretty whipped.”
“What’s her name?”
Marianne pursed her lips. “Good question. I’ve only met him a couple of times myself. He never talked much about anything.”
“You said he lives in back?”
“Upstairs. I suppose I could let you see the place, but your people already did that. They searched every building on the block.”
She plucked a key from the register. They walked upstairs.
Cheng saw an unmade sofa-bed, fast food wrappers, a sink full of dishes and a floor strewn with empty soda cans. Video games were piled inside cardboard boxes along with several textbooks:
Journal of Craniomandibular Practice
Contemporary Dental Practice
Effects of Mechanical Vibration on Orthodontic Tooth Movement
A typical college student.
Cheng opened the refrigerator. It was empty.
Chapter 34
Akil pulled off Kettner Boulevard into one of five empty parking slots and turned off the Camry’s engine. He yawned deeply. He approached the side entrance of the Russian Star Tattoo Parlor, walking past what he thought was old bedding strewn next to a blue recycle dumpster. An arm suddenly rose up, holding a filthy styrofoam cup. Akil ignored it.
Inside the Parlor, a young woman appeared. She was a heavyset Mexican-American with long black hair and a deep brown complexion. She wore a white frilly top and designer blue jeans.
“Do you need a tattoo, señor?”
Akil was mesmerized by the wall photographs of prison inmates displaying their ink.
“Thanks, but I’m actually just looking for Viktor Karkula. My name is Eddie.”
She contemplated that for a moment. “Are you the Eddie who keeps leaving messages so early on our answering machine?” Akil nodded. She glanced at a clock on the wall. “I’m glad to meet you. Viktor is in the back. He’s usually up by ten, but now that the airport is closed, he can sleep a little longer.”
A name was tattooed on her arm. “You’re Marissa,” Akil announced, extending his hand and noticing her finely manicured nails. Each featured shimmering metallic polish. “I knew it. I could tell by your voice that you were a nice-looking lady. Who’s Alejandro?”
“A mistake,” she answered unapologetically. Her smile returned. Compliments were rare here. Most clients were from eastern Europe, and they seldom spoke English.
Two faces peeked through thin bamboo strips hanging in a rear doorway. Marissa whispered something in Spanish, and the strips split open.
“My kids,” she said sheepishly. “Viktor doesn’t mind as long as they don’t bother the customers.”
The children filed into the room and stood politely.
“This is Amber. She’s seven. And this is little Jo-Jo. His real name is Jeremy. He just turned five.” Marissa combed the boy’s hair with her nails. “Say hello to Eddie.”
Amber blushed. Jo-Jo lurched forward and hugged Akil’s leg tightly.
“He likes you,” Amber announced. “He only does that to people he likes.”
Akil whisked him into the air. “Hey, little dude. How old are you?”
“We live next to McDonalds, and we have a swimming pool,” Jo-Jo said, pressing five fingers against Akil’s nose. They were sticky and smelled sweet. “It’s called a Travel Inn. Are you going to marry my mommy?”
“Jo-Jo,” Marissa called out a mild reprimand.
Akil smiled and lowered the boy.
Marissa clapped her hands twice. The children scurried away.
“I come from a big family myself, and I love kids,” Akil remarked, noticing the sound of a musical toy in the background. “I guess I just haven’t found the right woman.”
Marissa’s smile faded, and she actually took a step back. Too many men appeared in the neighborhood under court-ordered placement.
Akil sensed her wariness. “I’m sorry; I’m from Minnesota. I’m finishing up my degree. I’ll be living in the apartment upstairs.”
“A degree in what, señor?” Marissa’s smile returned. So did her interest.
“Business, actually. Someday I want to open my own music store. You know, sell instruments and equipment, give lessons.” He smiled. “And you are Marissa…?”
“Sanchez. It’s good to have goals,” she said. “Amber likes music too. She got a keyboard organ for her birthday. She takes it everywhere. Maybe she could play it for you sometime?”
“I’d like that,” he said. “I don’t know much about San Diego. I wish I could find someone who could—”
“I would be happy to show you around,” she quickly offered. “I’ve lived here all my life. Seaport Village is really nice, because you can walk along the ocean. There are lots of shops and restaurants. And our zoo is one of the best.”
“That sounds great, Marissa. I really appreciat—”
“What you want?” a deep male voice interrupted. “Tattoo special, sixty dollars. No stars. Stars only for Russians. You pick from book. Cash or credit card. No checks.”