Heat Lightning

with the state of Minnesota down in the U.S. I was told that you might be able to help me with a question.”
    “Well . . . Officer Flowers . . . I’m a cultural attaché here. I’m not sure that I’m the person . . .”
    “You should know,” Virgil said. “What I need to know is, when the Vietnamese execute a criminal, or whatever, do you guys stick a lemon in his mouth to keep him from protesting?”
    “What?”
    “Do you stick a lemon . . .”
    “Is this a joke?”
    “No, no. We’ve had two murders down here, that I’m investigating, and both of the dead men had lemons stuck in their mouths,” Virgil said. “I was told that Vietnamese executioners sometimes did that, you know, like firing squads, to keep the man quiet.”
    “Why would I know something like that? Who told you to call me?”
    “Well, I was told that you’re really the resident for Vietnamese intelligence, and that it’s something you would know.”
    “What? Intelligence? Who would tell you such a thing?”
    “Just a guy I met down here,” Virgil said.
    “I don’t understand a single thing you are saying. I am hanging up now. Good-bye.” The phone banged down.
    “Sounded like a big ‘Yes’ to me,” Virgil said aloud.
     
 
HE KILLED MORE TIME with his camera, and was looking through a long lens at the Sinclair apartment when Mai came out, forty-five minutes later, carrying a gym bag. Watched her walk away.
    He let her get another block down the street, then started the truck, eased onto Lincoln. She walked four blocks, then over to Grand, where she became involved in a curious incident.
    Two skaters turned the corner, slipping along on their boards, hats backward, long shirts, calf-length baggy pants, fingerless gloves, nearly twins except that one was black and one was white.
    The white kid said something to her, with a body gesture that was right next to a smirk, and Mai stopped and said something back to him, and held up a finger; and said something else, and waited; and the two boys turned away, got off the sidewalk, and slipped on down the street.
    Virgil eased the truck back behind the corner before Mai could turn far enough to see it. When he eased forward again, she’d gone on, taking a left on Grand. He went up to the corner, looked left, and saw her turn at a tan-brick building with the red scrawl of a neon sign in the window. He was at too sharp an angle to read the sign, but it looked like a dance studio.
    He thought about going back after the kids, to ask what she’d said to them, but there’d be a risk in that if they were local, and if she should encounter them again.
    Besides, he didn’t really need to. He knew what had been said.
    Something close to:
    “Hey, mama, you wanna feel a really hard muscle?”
    And she’d said, “Go away, little boys. You don’t want to mess with me.”
    They’d gone, because they’d seen the same thing that Virgil saw.
    Virgil didn’t know a hell of a lot about karate or kung fu or jujitsu, but standing there, Mai had looked like one of the sword women in the Chinese slasher films that Virgil had seen three of, with titles like The Pink Flowers of Eternity and Swords & Shit.
    A certain pose that didn’t say dance, but said, instead, “I’ll pluck your fuckin’ eyeballs out.”
    You find out the most interesting things by spying on people, Virgil thought. Especially if you’re a cynical and evil motherfucker.
    Just take the girl dancing, Virgil.
    DAVENPORT CALLED AS VIRGIL was driving back toward the motel.
    “What’re you doing?” Davenport asked.
    “Nothing much. How about you?”
    “Nothing much here,” Davenport said.
    “Okay. Well, talk to you tomorrow,” Virgil said.
    “Virgil . . . I’m too tired. Just tell me.”
    Virgil gave him a recap of the day, and when he finished, there was a moment of silence, then Davenport said, “Good.”
    “One thing. These guys, Tai and Phem—you know anybody in the Mounties who might take a peek into a computer, see what’s up with them?”
    “I don’t, but Larry McDonald up in Bemidji, he works with them all the time. I got his number here.”
    Virgil jotted the number on his pad, on the seat beside him, and the car on the left honked as he swerved slightly into that lane. “Fuck you,” he muttered.
    “What?”
    “Not you. Guy just honked at me,” Virgil said. “Road rage. Okay, I’ll jack up McDonald, but I think my best bet is Bunton. I can’t find anybody to tell me about him.”
    “Be patient;