Monkey on a Chain Read Online Free Page B

always different ones.”
    “Well, that makes it a little easier,” I said. “I’ve never heard of a prostitute using a Claymore. You said he was drunk that time he came home from the neighbor’s. Did he drink much?”
    “That was the only time I ever saw him drunk.”
    “What about drugs? Did he use them?”
    “Never. He hated them.”
    “Tell me about his personal life.”
    “He didn’t have one.”
    “He didn’t belong to any clubs? Civic organizations?”
    “No.”
    “His family, then. What about them? Where did his parents live?”
    She made a face, as though she tasted something foul. “They lived in Los Angeles. He didn’t see them very often. I think he sent them money sometimes, but not often.”
    “He didn’t take you to see them?”
    “Once. It was on my eleventh birthday, right after he brought me home. He had bought me a new dress. It was blue, I remember, and I thought I was very pretty in it, like an American girl. It was the first new dress I’d ever owned. I was so proud of it, and I really wanted them to like me. But they hated me.
    “I sat in the living room, all alone, and they were screaming at each other in the kitchen. His mother was screaming, anyway. She said that she wouldn’t have the little Commie gook bitch in her house. She yelled at him to get rid of me. I sat there in my new dress and listened to his mother for a long time. Then Dad came out and took me home. He never took me back.” She looked at me impassively.
    “Some people are like that,” I said. “Was that all of his family? Just his parents?”
    “There was a sister. He sent her cards on her birthday and at Christmas. I helped him remember them. I even bought the cards for him, when he was busy. But I never met her.”
    I made a face. “There’s not much there. As a motive.”
    “No. There’s not much there.”
    “What about you? How did he treat you?”
    “He loved me.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Of course. He bought me lots of nice clothes. Just last year he gave me my car. He let me have my friends over whenever I wanted. Of course he loved me.”
    “Did he ever hug you?”
    She looked down at her hands, where her fingers twisted together on the table between us. “He didn’t have to. I knew he loved me. I know it.”
    “Did he beat you?”
    “Never. I told you, he loved me.”
    It sounded cold to me. I watched her playing with her fingers and tried to read her. If Toker hadn’t hugged her or displayed much emotion of any sort, she was apparently willing to overlook it.
    Of course, she had grown up Vietnamese-American in a land where any sort of mixed-race person was looked down on. She had been sent off alone by her aunt, and that must have felt like an abandonment. She’d survived the boat to Hong Kong and the British internment camp. She’d developed an American veneer, but underneath she was a survivor. She seemed to consider the food, the clothes, and the absence of blows enough. She talked about Toker as though she loved him. She wept when she spoke of his death.
    After three hours I had a better picture of Toker’s life, but his life didn’t seem to have much bearing on his death.
    April acted tired, or possibly depressed. She had answered my questions as well as she was able. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask at the moment, and it was getting late. “We’d better go,” I said.
    “Can I ask a question?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why did Dad tell me to come to you?”
    I shrugged. “He said to come if you needed help. Sometimes I help people.”
    “You mean you’re like a detective?”
    “No. That takes a license. I call what I do Crisis Management.” I stood, hoping she would leave it at that, but she was persistent.
    “Does that mean you solve problems for people?” she asked.
    “Sometimes. Sometimes I create them.”
    She thought about that for a few minutes, then asked, “Do you charge a lot?”
    “I’m cheap. One dollar and all found.”
    “A dollar isn’t