Then, from an adjacent storage room, a boy with Asian features, large ears and a bad complexion came into the kitchen. He was, I guessed, no older than sixteen and dressed in baggy pants and a sleeveless black net shirt that showed off lean, muscular arms and a six-pack. His straight black hair was streaked with hot pink and brilliant blue, and his nose, lip and ears were pierced in a dozen places.
He had shadows under his eyes and the look of someone who was chronically tired, chronically stressed. The look, I thought, was familiar. And though he was far too young, I realized that his drawn, exhausted face brought to mind at least a dozen of the boys I’d played with when I’d lived in the refugee camp.
The boy balanced a fifty-pound burlap sack of onions on one of his shoulders. He was moving slowly beneath its burden when he turned into the narrow aisle between two stainless-steel counters and noticed Uncle Tinh and me. Abruptly he straightened his back and quickened his pace. Unfortunately the top of the sack wasn’t completely sealed and his abrupt movements shifted its load. Dry red onions began tumbling to the floor. Startled, the boy took a half step forward to maintain his balance, put his foot down on one of the escaped onions and fell sprawling between the counters.
In the moment that it took the kitchen staff to recover from the sudden chaos, Uncle Tinh was on his knees at the teenager’s side. As everyone looked on, he helped the boy to his feet and waited as the boy turned his head left, then right and flexed his arms and legs. Once he had proved himself uninjured, Uncle Tinh patted him on the shoulder and leaned in close.
“Di dau ma voi ma vang,” he murmured quietly. “Ma vap phai da, ma quang phai giay.”
I was probably the only other person in the kitchen who heard and understood what Uncle Tinh said. The old Vietnamese proverb cautioned against reckless haste. Loosely translated, it meant “hurry up slowly.” The boy listened with eyes downcast and nodded.
“Then back to work, Tommy,” Uncle Tinh said as he slapped the boy’s back in a very un-Vietnamese-like gesture.
Vin, who had served us dinner upstairs, would have been terrified by such close interaction with his employer. But when Tommy lifted his head, his serious brown eyes, framed by long colorful bangs, looked directly at my uncle.
“Yes, sir,” he said in English, in an accent that was pure New Orleans. “Thank you for your kindness.”
Uncle Tinh watched as the boy began retrieving onions with the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a roomful of balls. Briefly, a sad smile played across my uncle’s lips, making me wonder if he envied the boy’s youth. Or, perhaps, he was recalling how bittersweet youth could be. In any event, he gave himself a slight shake, stepped back beside me and addressed the entire kitchen.
“Everyone! Maybe you remember my niece, Lacie. She come from way up north to sample Tropicale Vu.”
The tall, thin pastry chef’s head bobbed appreciatively as she shoved the first sheet full of pastry into a waiting oven, then took the next sheet from the waiting hands of one of her assistants. Uncle Tinh snatched a clean apron from a peg, a tall chef’s hat from a shelf and a copper sauté pan from an overhead pot rack. Then he, too, went to work.
I found an empty stool in a relatively quiet corner, took my drawing pad from my briefcase and relaxed as I waited by filling a page with quick sketches of the kitchen staff. Then I turned the page and did a larger drawing of the boy, Tommy. Pimples, big ears, piercings and all. He had good bone structure, I thought, and nice eyes. Once his complexion cleared and he grew up a bit…
“Finis!” Uncle Tinh announced from across the kitchen, so I quickly put my drawing pad away. When I had more time, I promised myself, I would draw the teenager not as he was, but as he would be.
A short time later, Uncle Tinh and I sat together at a small round table just outside the kitchen door, and he watched eagerly as I sampled his creation. Colorful, delicate and bursting with flavor and texture, the dessert involved tiny pieces of tropical fruit encased in a crackling sugar glaze, ribbons of white chocolate, macadamia nuts and custard, and thin, round layers of buttery crust.
Like so many of Uncle Tinh’s hallmark dishes, this one, too, was a dramatic and sophisticated blend of France, Vietnam and New Orleans. It was heavenly and would undoubtedly become a favorite among those who took good food for granted. I told Uncle Tinh just that.
As I finished off the last of the dessert, I listened as members of his staff came to my uncle for instruction and resolution of problems. Nothing about the conversations reflected anything but business as usual in a successful restaurant.
Then I returned our conversation to a far less savory business.
“So Beauprix told you about the murders and he asked you for help.”
“Yes. But I was already considering calling you because of a…related…situation.” Uncle Tinh shook his head. “If you were a stranger, I would have called sooner. But to ask such a favor of someone you care for—”
That thought was interrupted by Tommy, who approached the table confidently.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, his polite manner at odds with the rebelliousness his appearance suggested. “The pastry chef says the raspberries that were delivered earlier are unacceptable. The top layer looked fine, but beneath that the berries are spoiled.”
“Tell her— No, I will tell her that we will no longer use that supplier. In the meantime, ask the cashier for some cash, drive quickly to the Market and obtain for us the quality we need. Can you do that, Tommy?”
Tommy nodded enthusiastically, then left on the errand.
“He is the first in his family born in America,” Uncle Tinh said. “A hard worker in a land of opportunity. I think he will do well.”
Then he waved his hand in the direction of the nearby hostess. She scurried to refill our coffee cups. Uncle Tinh waited until she was out of earshot before speaking again.
“I know you do dangerous work, Lacie. But I would not have called you if there were another option. No matter how competent you are now, my heart still sees the child you were. Perhaps that is why I am comforted that you have Anthony Beauprix as an ally. Working with another professional makes the situation safer. It made my decision to call you easier.”
I was not surprised by Uncle Tinh’s attitude, nor did I argue about whether or not I needed Beauprix. Though I often worked alone, I had never objected to having someone competent watching my back. And although I found his attitudes annoying, I had no doubt that Beauprix was competent.
“Tell me what you would have me do that the police cannot,” I said.
He nodded.
“A man in my position hears rumors—and receives information—from many sources. I have already told Anthony what I am now telling you. A gang has taken over Little Vietnam, intimidating the merchants, as well as the residents. Many business owners now pay protection.”
I told myself that if my uncle was himself the head of a criminal organization, he would have the resources to deal with this threat. But the moment of comfort I took from that thought might have been longer if I’d had less knowledge of immigrant gangs. It was too easy to remember that, less than a decade earlier, the well-entrenched criminal establishment in New York’s Chinatown had been shaken to its roots by the invasion of a psychopathic gang called the Born to Kill.
“Protection only?” I asked, pushing Uncle Tinh for answers to questions he didn’t know I had. “Or other activities? Like smuggling illegals? Or perhaps supplying them with documents?”
Uncle Tinh’s tone was bland and, when his dark eyes met mine, his gaze was unwavering.
“Like all gangs, they engage in whatever is profitable. Certainly, counterfeiting