Hard Rain Read Free Page A

and pulled her up and twisted her arm behind her back and twisted some more.
    Then she told him.
    Bao Dai left the next morning. He wore the tropical suit, the button-down shirt, the brogues, but he kept the tie in his pocket, together with the traveling money she’d given him—at least, she hadn’t tried to stop him when he took it from her bag.
    In the airport and on the plane, Bao Dai began to notice that people had things. All kinds of things. He didn’t even know the names of some of them. He had a tropical suit, a tie with sailboats on it, a button-down shirt, boxer shorts, long socks that needed washing, and shoes—with little holes in the toe—two sizes too big. They gave him blisters. He’d seen the blisters when he’d gone to bed the night before, but he couldn’t feel them.
    â€œCocktail, sir, before your meal?”
    Bao Dai looked up, into the slanted eyes of a yellow woman. “Cocktail?” she repeated.
    He shrank in his seat.
    â€œOr would you prefer a nonalcoholic beverage?”
    Bao Dai grunted. She went away. He kept an eye on her for the rest of the trip.
    He got off the plane in a city where the air made his eyes water. He found the house he wanted, near the beach. It was a white Spanish house with a red tile roof. It made him think of Zorro. He remembered how Zorro spun the 7-Up bottle with the tip of his sword. Zip zip zip —the mark of Zorro. Every Saturday afternoon. Four-thirty.
    Bao Dai walked past the house three or four times before he went up and knocked. No one answered. He went to the garage and tried the door. It opened. He stepped inside, pulled the door closed and stood by the window so he could watch the street.
    A car turned into the driveway and stopped. A nice blue car. The windows were down so Bao Dai could hear music playing inside, just before the ignition was switched off. Music, full and clear, as if the band had all its equipment right there in the back seat.
    A young-looking fair-haired man got out of the car, opened the front door with a key and entered the house.
    So fucking young-looking .
    Bao Dai’s hands were fists again. He straightened them, reached for the handle of the garage door. At that moment, another car drove up. A woman got out.
    A beautiful woman.
    She had healthy, glowing skin and a strong body—he could see it was strong from the way it moved under her skirt. He liked the way it moved. It gave him feelings he barely remembered feeling before, almost as though it were the first time. Almost. Three female faces flipped through his mind—black from the clothing store, yellow from the plane, and now white a few yards away. And suddenly he wanted sex, not just sex, but rough sex. That must have been the yellow part. He hadn’t thought of sex for a long time, hadn’t had an erection for years. He didn’t know if he could have one.
    Bao Dai slipped his hand into the waistband of the suit pants and touched himself. Nothing happened. He kept his hand there anyway, while he watched the woman walking toward the house. There was a little girl with her. They had the same kind of hair. He wondered how hair like that would feel against his penis and felt a faint stirring. He glanced down. The feeling vanished. Maybe he had imagined it. He heard a low, angry growl. A few moments passed before he realized it was coming from his own throat. When he looked up again, the woman and the girl were disappearing into the house.
    Bao Dai stayed in the garage. After a while, the woman came out alone. Now she had a frown line between her dark eyes. She drove away in her car.
    The sky grew darker. The glare remained. When it was fully night, not black night, but a pink and orange, starless night, Bao Dai silently opened the garage door and silently moved toward the house.

4
    Jessie Shapiro was in a bad mood. At a glance, anyone would have seen that from the way she was standing in her doorway, arms crossed. But no