No Good to Cry (11 page)

“Always looking over her shoulder or staring into space. Like she was hoping something good was waiting for her.”

Grandma spoke over her daughter's words, “Yes, lonely.”

“But what happened to your friendship?” I asked.

Grandma was nodding her head vigorously. “What happened is a failure of my spirit.”

Hank, exasperated, “What?”

“I betrayed her.”

Grandma's words hung in the warm kitchen, and we waited.

Her small gnarled fingers trembled. “We were close, the two of us. She had no one else. We chatted, gossiped, even prayed together. She had settled her life into mine, and welcome.”

“I don't understand.”

“One day, excited, she told me she'd met a man, but she kept him away from me. I asked her over and over about him, this mysterious man. She was happy, always laughing, never so happy. She talked about the man who had no name. But one day in Walgreen's, I spotted them.” A deep intake of breath. “She was arm in arm with Mike Tran.”

Hank's Mom muttered, “
Tran den
.”

The black man.

A long silence, painful. The words exploded in the room, whole paragraphs filling in the blanks surrounding his mother's terse phrase.

“Yes.” Grandma stared into my face. “A different world back then, Rick. So close to the old country—the war, the American GIs in the street. The Cong soldiers. Mike Tran was left out of the Vietnamese community. You know that. He had been brought to America with deceit, then tossed onto the street. But a man who was not only forbidden—a dust boy”—her voice lingered on the words
bui doi
—“but the impure blood was…African.”

The black man.

Suddenly I flashed back to the orphanage in Saigon and Le Xinh Phong, the black kid shunned by all—and gleefully attacked by me. Sitting in Grandma's kitchen now, I found myself alternating pictures in my head of Mike Tran and that never-forgotten kid in Vietnam. The memory of my cruel hand across the side of his trembling face.

Wildly I thought—karma.
Dao phat
. It waits decades to find you, and then you lie awake at night.

Grandma sighed. “Lucy fell in love with him. A good man, hard-working, who saved his pennies, sweated away at every job he could find, and managed to create a life.”

Hank finished. “Still not enough to satisfy some people.”

Grandma nodded. “Yes. So many years ago. Decades. I was a foolish woman. Like the others, I shunned her. I let the friendship drift away, slowly, so that one day I realized I hadn't talked to Lucy in years. In the markets the women turned their backs on them. It is easy to forget about the devil in America. I forgot that he was inside of me already—a part of me. You'd see them shopping on Park Street, see them on Sunday morning in Saigon Kitchen, ignored by most but not all. After a while Mike Tran earned—they earned—the respect of the community. But I never talked to her again.” Grandma trembled. “My failing, I tell you now. I listened to the wrong heartbeat.”

“Grandma,” Hank began, “that was then.” He looked at me. “We all had these views.” He addressed me. “Rick and I…” His words trailed off.

I cleared my throat. “You never talked to her again?”

“My shame.” Grandma closed her eyes. “My own disgrace. Now, years later, I see myself as a foolish woman who listened to the wrong birds circling in the sky.”

Her daughter was watching her closely. “But now her son Simon is in trouble. A man died.”

Grandma seemed not to be listening. “So long ago.” Her words fluttered in the air, silenced us. “Too long ago.”

Hank's Mom looked into my face. “Tell me, Rick, do you believe young Simon is innocent?”

“Actually I do. I have no proof but his father's strong belief.”

Hank's mother went on, “Lucy and Mike Tran built a life that everyone now knows is…”

She stopped, gasped. We heard banging on the floorboards and jumped. Hank's grandfather stood in the doorway, his body swaying, his face an awful scarlet, his lips quivering.

“Grandpa.” Hank half-stood, nervous. “What?”

The small, wizened man was staring at me, so intense a look that I turned away, unnerved. Hank, protective, stammered—“I…we…”—but then fell silent.

The old man shuffled in, grasped the top rung of a chair, and steadied himself. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he spat out the words, “The black man.” He shook his fist in the air. “A man whose name should not be mentioned in this house.”

Hank protested. “Grandpa, no. Mike Tran is…” But a look from his mother shut him up.

Respect, I thought: the careful protocol of patriarchal Vietnamese families, violated now as the American Hank sputtered and squirmed. His grandfather eyed him closely, and Hank turned away, eyes dropping into his lap.

The old man spoke through clenched teeth, a slow methodical spacing of words. My fractured Vietnamese was faulty, to be sure, but there was no mistaking the man's venom.

“You talk of a son who runs foul of the law. This…this Simon. A youngster hell-bent on evil. Well, that evil springs from the soul of that man.”

Grandma spoke in a hesitating voice, though she never looked at the old man. “A boy who has to find his way back, who…”

He never let her finish. “Who knows what evil possesses his children? All of them. Mongrels. America rewards them for reading a book? Black hearts.”

“But…” Hank sputtered.

He got no further.

“It doesn't matter,” the old man said, his voice creaky. “It only takes one evil child to blacken the soul of an entire family.”

He shook his head and left the room.

Chapter Eleven

Big Nose brokered a meeting with Simon and Frankie. The gadfly boy was proving to be a valuable intercessor. A sometime friend of Simon Tran and someone who liked to singe his fingertips on the edge of trouble—Hank told me he'd flirted with petty lawlessness a few times, picked up for shoplifting Transformer action figures at Walmart—Big Nose also liked to be in the mix of things.

Hank summed up, “Ever since his father had me ask you to help little Simon, Big Nose has been calling me, sending me tweets, begging for information,” Hank told me. “He's afraid some juicy tidbit might pass him by. So I asked him to talk to Simon. Guarantee a meeting. Promise that Simon won't head for the hills again.”

“Simple as that?”

Hank grinned. “Who would have thought it? The boys run from everyone. Big Nose sends one text, probably ungrammatical and filled with hieroglyphics like LOL, LMAO, and other emoticons, and the delinquent boys jump at the chance to catch lunch.”

“How civilized,” I said, grinning.

Hank and I drove in my car to a greasy eatery on New Britain Avenue. “I had to promise them lunch. Whatever they wanted.”

“A small price,” I told him.

“At the Coffee Pot?” Hank frowned. “The price is acid reflux and possible emergency flight to the ER.”

I got serious. “I wonder about this change of heart.”

The Coffee Pot was a converted gas station now masquerading as a working-class diner. A Mexican take-out one lot over. An all-night laundromat on the other side. At the end of the block a “Welcome to Hartford” sign covered with Keith Haring graffiti. A painted sign with a spotlight on it. “Eats.” No neon. White stucco façade, windows with rusted bars, a faded Exxon sign poorly painted over, and on the side an ancient Ford station wagon tucked between two Dumpsters.

Hank pointed to it. “Looks like something you probably drove when you were begging girls for dates back in New Jersey.”

“Yeah. A tin lizzie.”

His eyes got wide with glee. “Was that your nickname for Liz?”

“Yeah. Why don't you ask her that when you see her?”

“She'll be mad at you.”

“Liz has a sense of humor.”

He opened the car door and stepped out, leaned back inside. “She must have. She married you, right?”

I groaned. “Junior-high humor, Hank?”

“Nowadays we call it middle-school humor.”

“Hey.” A voice startled me, approaching from the left. “Hey, youse.” Big Nose stood next to my car, staring at me. Stepping out of the car, I extended my hand, foolishly expecting a handshake, but Big Nose stared at my hand as though it were covered in toxic waste. Instead he rolled a few fingers against my palm, so quick a gesture I might have imagined it. A small, round boy, around sixteen now, with a round head and a shabby haircut underneath a backwards Red Sox cap, he grinned at me, in the process his small eyes disappearing into the folds of his plump cheeks.

“Hey,” I said back.

“Hank, what up?” He waved at Hank.

Hank, one toe gingerly in the real world of adolescent boys, performed the handshake ritual with aplomb.

“Everybody's late.” Big Nose pointed back to the street.

“We're on time.” My wave included him and Hank.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Whatever.” He jerked his head toward the doorway. “Follow me.” He looked over his shoulder. “I hope you guys like mean-ass chili dogs.”

Inside we discovered that Simon Tran and Frankie Croix were already tucked into a back booth by the bathrooms, partially shielded by a pile of cardboard boxes labeled Dixie Cups. The corner smelled of some disinfectant, and my nose twitched.

Big Nose, spotting the two, looked unhappy. “You was supposed to meet me outside,” he yelled across the room. A few diners looked up from their burgers and fries, squinted at the angry, roly-poly boy.

Frankie got up as we approached and slid in next to Simon, so that Hank and I faced them both. Big Nose, looking at the narrow space, pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat on the end.

“Now what?” he said into the silence.

Both boys watched me closely. Dressed in the uniform of the day, they wore baggy dungarees bunched up, accordion-style, over untied work boots, oversized football jerseys—the New England Patriots, displaying a certain loyalty to the region—and Boston Red Sox baseball caps, turned backward. They struck me as partners in primary colors: Simon in a red windbreaker, Frankie in blue.

“We ain't done nothing.” Frankie spoke first, his face scrunched up.

A lanky boy, stringy, light brown hair falling over his forehead, dull hazel eyes that looked a little glazed over, a jutting chin, exaggerated now, defiant. He kept flicking his head toward the window, checking the parking lot.

Hank was impatient. “Well, you
did
do something.”

Frankie's voice rose. “That ain't what I mean, and you know it. This time. Yeah, we did some stupid shit, Saigon and me.” He glanced at Simon who had slumped down in the seat, uncomfortable, his head dipped into his chest. Frankie had a deep, rumbling voice, syrupy, so many words swallowed.

“All right, all right.” I nodded toward Hank—slow down.

“Why do you keep running away?” I asked Simon.

Frankie answered for him. “Everybody's out to get us.” He jerked his hand toward Simon's sleeve. “We were stupid, me and Saigon.”

“But I've been asked to help you boys, no? I'm an investigator.” I paused because Frankie twisted his head to the side and made an exaggerated comic face. “In-ves-ti-ga-tor.” Frankie spaced out the word, stressing the syllables.

“I do insurance fraud, Frankie. Not…well, street muggings and assaults and a possible manslaughter charge.”

Frankie yelled at me. “We ain't done that.”

For the first time Simon looked up, blinked wildly. “No.” One word, stretched out.

“Then help me, boys. Help us.” I indicated Hank.

Frankie sneered, “How? It ain't possible. What we gonna do? Find the real criminals and haul their asses to you? It's bad enough that asshole Ardolino is on our case. The fat fuck got his mind on crucifying us, and nothing ain't gonna change it.”

I sat back. “Then we're gonna have to find an answer. Help me.”

A waitress approached the table, delivering plates filled with oversized cheeseburgers, fries, and huge glasses of Coke.

Frankie smirked, “We figured we would order, seeing how you was gonna pay anyway.”

I smiled. “Be my guest.”

“We got ice cream coming, too.”

“Why not?” I nodded at the waitress.

Big Nose was fussing, tapping a menu as though he'd missed his one chance to be a glutton. Eying the food on the table, he pointed. “I want
that
. And a chili dog. Two of them.”

I nodded at the waitress. Hank and I got cheeseburgers and Cokes. Frankie nodded his approval.

Simon spoke up. “Pop is on my case.”

“He knows you're innocent,” Hank broke in.

“That's what he
says
.” Restless, the boy bumped against Frankie's side.

“C'mon, Simon.”

“Saigon.”

“All right. Saigon. You don't believe that he thinks you're innocent?”

“All he thinks is that I screwed up the family.”

“Well, he's on your side.” Hank softened his voice. “He told us you never lie to him.”

Wide-eyed. “I don't.”

“And I'm not lying to you now,” I went on.

A thin smile. “You ain't Pop.”

“That's not the point.”

“Pop thinks I'm a fuck-up. Cuz I dropped out of school.”

I waited a bit. “Why did you?”

He stared out the window. “I couldn't do all the shit he wanted.”

“Which was?”

“Like the pressure. When I got good grades, he yells, ninety-five, why not one hundred? What's the matter with you? Your brother Michael…he…”

Frankie spoke up. “Bullshit. His Pop says, ‘Go to Yale or something.'”

“What about you?” Hank asked.

Frankie laughed sarcastically. “When he was around, my own dad ain't heard of Yale. If you ever find the bum, ask him. And Ma…the only thing she asks me is to go to the corner bodega and pick up a pack of Marlboros. Red box, filters. Keep the change. All fifty fucking cents, just for me.”

Hank's voice was biting. “Your dad loves you, Saigon. Christ, you
look
like him.”

The boys swiveled to look into each other's faces. Simon grumbled, “Yeah, like that's supposed to make me feel good? The black boy in the family. Hazel is prom queen with a fucking tiara on her head, and Michael plays lacrosse at prep school. In school the teachers say—‘You don't look like your brothers. Your dad remarry?' What kind of fuckin' question is that?”

“So what?” From Hank. “Families…” His voice broke.

“Families don't count for much.” Frankie arched his head, stuck out his bony chin. “You know what I'm saying?”

“Look it…” Simon began, but Frankie nudged him, and the boy shut up. Both stared stonily at me, Simon slipping down in the booth while Frankie sat straight up, ramrod. A fiery look in his eyes.

Hank nodded at me, a look that communicated: Frankie is kingpin here, Simon the follower. In fact, Simon looked at Frankie repeatedly, as if they'd orchestrated a strategy beforehand and now, in the eatery, he'd forgotten his rehearsed lines.

“Tell me about the arrest—the one that got you four months in juvie?”

I waited. Again Frankie seemed to be debating what to say.

“Hijinks.” Frankie savored the word. “Yeah, hijinks.”

Hank squinted. “Meaning?”

“Goofing around.”

“Well,” I began, “assaults on people, knocking them…”

Frankie's voice was triumphant. “We just did it for fun. I mean, we just pushed through people walking by. Fun.”

“What do you mean—do it for fun?”

Frankie munched on a French fry, smeared ketchup on his fingers, licked them. “I dunno. You know, there was that stuff online, like YouTube, about these kids doing a knockout game, you know, coming at old guys and punching them in the head, knocking them over.”

“Yeah?” I prompted when he paused.

He shot a look at Simon. “I…well, we thought it was cool. But not to
hurt
anyone.”

Hank was having none of it. “But people
did
get hurt. Broken limbs, in one case. An ambulance took a man to the hospital. How many times did you do that?”

Frankie ignored him, but stared into my face. “Like until we got caught. That last time. Real dumb. Then we got caught shoplifting. Just candy and stuff. But they seen the video and then it, you know, came together.”

“And drugs.” From Hank.

“Just a little.”

“It was nothing,” Simon whispered.

“No,” I insisted. “You can't say that.”

Frankie pounded the table. “We just knocked people over.” He stifled a giggle. “Fun.”

I glanced at Hank. “Are you telling me you never robbed folks, Frankie?”

“Naw.” Frankie bit into his cheeseburger. “Well, one time we banged this guy and his wallet flew out of his pocket.”

“But we didn't take it,” Simon finished.

“Really?”

Frankie snapped, “Goddamn it, man, whose side you on?” His face flushed, a vein popping in his neck. He shuffled in his seat, and I sensed he was ready to flee.

Nervous now, with a sidelong glance at his buddy, Simon looked like a skittish kid dragged into the principal's office.

I shifted the conversation. “JD says you two were at the storefront—when Ralph Gervase died. He's your alibi.”

“Lotta good it does. Like the cops believe him.”

“Well, tell me. You gotta tell me everything. Every place you went to that day. A timetable. When you arrived at JD's. What you did before. I'll trace folks down who met you. But you got to give me something to work with.”

Frankie shrugged. “Here and there. All over Little Saigon. Mostly at JD's place.”

“That won't help.” From Hank.

“Some more,” I prodded.

But the boys were closing up, shrinking in their seats.

Hank sensed the tension, and he said in a cheerful voice, “You into music? I see you got your music with you.” He pointed to the ear buds hanging around their necks.

Simon beamed. “We're gonna be rap stars.” He grinned widely, but Frankie, pursing his lips, punched him in the elbow, as though Simon had revealed secrets.

“Cool.” From Hank.

“Yeah, ain't it?” Frankie's words were snide.

“Music,” Hank went on. “Like what?”

Frankie put down his sandwich. “Enough of this shit.”

“I'm only…”

Frankie cut Hank off. “Phony.”

Hank smiled and shook his head.

I changed direction. “Saigon, we talked with your sister, Hazel, the other day.”

“I know,” he said slowly. “She phoned Mom. You and your girlfriend.”

“Liz is my ex-wife.”

Simon grunted. “Same thing. Like if you're still hanging around with her, you're…like married.”

That gave me pause, and I found myself laughing. “You may have a point, Saigon.”

My remark puzzled him. “Hazel ain't happy.”

“Why?”

“
You
know.” He waited. Then he stressed, “
You
know.”

I must have looked helpless because Frankie jumped in. “Her asshole boyfriend. Judd Snow, white supremacist in charge of bullshit.”

“I hate him. Everybody hates him but stupid Hazel. I mean, like he orders Hazel around like she's his slave.” Simon's words were whispered. “She afraid to say no to him. Scared.”

I looked at Frankie. “You had a fight with him, right? At the mall?”