No Good to Cry (4 page)

The door opened. A roaring voice filled the room. “Christ Almighty, man.”

Detective Ardolino glared at Hank and me. “Clark Kent and boy wonder, Jimmy Olsen. I bet you ain't here to buy a damned cannoli.”

Ardolino slid into an empty chair and faced me. But he spoke to Maria.

“
Maria, qual e il problema con te? Sei matto?
Such criminals you serve here. I should shut you down.” His eyes danced. “Charge these hoodlums double for everything.”

Maria waved at him, pleased. “Tony, you scare away the customers.”

Again in Italian.
“Io son oil tuo miglior cliente.”
I'm your best customer.

She pointed at his potbelly. “Too much sfagliatella.”

Hank looked dazed by the exchange, and I translated. “If my high school Italian serves me, the detective questions Maria's sanity serving us. You and I are criminals.”

Hank beamed. “Detective Ardolino, you do know I'm gonna become a state trooper within weeks.”

The cop threw his hands up in the air. “Yeah, big deal. You'll spend most of your time catching drunks leaving Enfield gin mills and trying to get back across the state line to Massachusetts which, as we all know, is a lawless state run by Communists.”

Not amused, Hank bit his lip. “Or I could hang out in donut shops.” His hand swept the room and landed on the display case of colorful pastries.

Chuckling, Maria went behind the counter to brew Ardolino an espresso, which he downed in one noisy gulp. Likewise the ricotta confection she placed before him, swallowed in three generous bites.

“That good?” I asked him.

A twinkle in his eye. “You know it.” He nodded at Maria. “If she wasn't married to my best friend from Bulkeley High School, I'd marry her.”

“But you're already happily married,” Maria teased.

“Don't remind me.” Ardolino scratched his belly. “You boys are wasting your time here.”

“And why is that?” Hank asked.

“I'm wrapping up the case. I
know
who did it.”

I sat up. “Tell me.”

“My, my.” He looked at Hank. “Here's a lesson in good police work for the soon-to-be trooper. Lessons from the master. None of that kung-fu Confucius philosophy Rick spouted at me last time.”

I quoted a line.
“Con song con hoc.”

“Spare me.”

“Live and learn.” From Hank.

Ardolino sang out a line. “Yeah, right down to the ABCs of it. Teach me tonight. Teacher's pet.”

“What?” From Hank.

Ardolino sat back, a contented look on his face. “Well, I figured these punks ain't exercising their right to annoy the public for the first time. Mugging can become habit-forming. Bigger and better thrills, you know. Write that down, young man. Not that you'll ever deal with common street muggers. As it turned out, the two punks ran around the corner, so we're told, headed across Sisson to the convenience store where everyone in town buys loosies for a quarter a pop, the grammar school kids handing over their lunch money. We got this tape of two guys skipping along. One of them bumped into the super of a building, and he called in. Only a flash of a look, too quick to really remember features, but he said one was like a white or Spanish kid and the other was”—Ardolino paused dramatically and put a finger into Hank's chest—“you.”

“Me!” Hank half-rose from his seat.

“Well, not
you
as in
you
. But an Oriental like you. At least he thought the kid looked like that boy who delivers moo goo gai pan or General Tso's chicken to the drug dealers every Thursday night.”

“Chinese?”

“Oriental. Like I said.”

“And this led you to conclude what?” I prompted.

“A familiar M.O. That's what I mean. A white thug and an Oriental thug. Racial harmony in the insurance capital of the world.”

“But,” I protested, “they could be any two kids in hoodies, no? Just walking up Sisson.”

Hank jumped in. “No one saw who hit Ralph.”

Ardolino held up his hand. “I ain't stupid, guys. I can add two and two. Two guys running up Sisson? An Oriental? You see, awhile ago we had this string of muggings in the neighborhood. Two boys in hoodies would come from behind, running, whooping it up, knock folks over. Party time. Having a good old time, but some folks got hurt—smashed elbows, black eyes. Most not harmed, just frightened and somehow blaming me for not hanging them by the balls. Well, we sort of caught the two boys in the act,
flagrante
as I like to say, and they were underage creeps. One white, one Oriental. Looked like your younger brother.” Again the staring at Hank.

Hank fumed. “My younger brother is a Dean's List student and…”

“Yeah, yeah. Gonna be President of the U-S-of-A someday.”

“So you think they're the ones now?” I asked.

“Funny thing. Back then, they were caught after a shopkeeper calls in a shoplifting incident. There they are, on tape, the two boys. The little Oriental comes clean. I mean, he doesn't believe in lying, he tells me. Go figure. Gives me hope in a world going down the toilet. Kid blurts out that he and the other creep did the muggings—if you can call it that—six times. Christ, he gives me a number. Admits to shoplifting all over town. This and that. You couldn't shut him up. Like he's on
To Tell the Truth
or something. The other kid yells—shut the fuck up. So we nailed them—and the fact that they were carrying weed in their pockets.” Ardolino rubbed his palms together.

“What happened to them?”

“Both boys sent for a four-month rest and recreation at Long Lane Juvenile in Meriden, a training ground for future murderers and rapists and politicians.”

“So they're away at juvie.”

“Hold on, Lam boy. A month back both got home, happily reunited with their loving families.”

“And you think they're back to their old tricks.”

“I'm positive.” He fiddled with something in his breast pocket.

I looked at Hank. “I wonder.”

“No wonder about it.” Ardolino withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket, then debated whether to share the contents. Finally, shrugging, he handed small black-and-white photos to me.

“The white boy is Frankie Croix, a sixteen-year-old dropout from Bulkeley High School. The Oriental is Simon Tran, a.k.a Sy, or as the locals call him, the Saigon Kid. Also sixteen, also skinny, also a pain in the ass.”

“Not much proof.”

Ardolino frowned at me. “Then prove me wrong.”

I stared down at the photos. Frankie looked like a wasted drug punk with deep-set blank eyes, a pimply face, and electrified hair. Big ears made his face clownish, though the dullness in his eyes mitigated that comic look. Simon Tran looked Spanish, dark skin and black eyes in narrow sockets. Close-cropped hair. A bony face. But his eyes, staring back at the camera, were filled with anger, his lips drawn into a thin, razor line, menacing. A boy who resented the police photographer.

“Can I keep these shots?” I asked him.

That surprised him. “Go ahead.” A befuddled smile. “Knock your socks off.”

I pocketed the two photos.

I looked at Hank. “Do you know this Simon Tran?”

He shook his head. “I know the family, sort of. Dad's a mechanic. Hard workers, the kids over-achievers in school.” He smiled. “So local legend has it. The Vietnamese venerate the scholars in the community.” He offered a cynical grin. “One of Confucius' seven precepts, Detective.
Tri.
”

Ardolino grimaced. “Tree?”

“
Tri
. Learning. The importance of it.”

Ardolino scoffed at that. “Real nice. Kill a tree and make a book. Yeah, this Saigon Kid is a scholar, all right. This is someone who'll spend his life being
booked
—not
reading
books.” His eyes got wide as he laughed out loud over his own joke. “Do you get it?”

Neither Hank nor I said anything.

“Well?” he goaded.

“Yeah,” Hank finally answered. “Maybe we should book you at a comedy club.”

Chapter Four

“Big Nose.”

The first words out of Hank's mouth late that night when he called. I'd been lying on the sofa, the
Hartford
Courant
spread over my chest, thinking about Jimmy—and the two hooded attackers. The front-page article chronicled the sad story—Ralph Gervase described as a “Vietnam veteran fallen on hard times.” I thought the word choice questionable. Jimmy, however, was a “celebrated Private Investigator.” Celebrated? That made me smile. I could imagine his horror at that description.

“What?” I said into the phone.

Hank repeated the words. “Big Nose. I like saying that.”

A little impatient. “What, Hank?”

“Remember when everyone thought Willie Do pushed the cleaning lady off a bridge? Well, do you remember his grandson?”

“No.” I sat up, and the newspaper slipped to the floor.

“Big Nose. That's what everyone calls Anh Ky Do. Roger in his legal American world. Big Nose to the rest of the world.”

“And he doesn't mind?”

Hank laughed. “It's the name he answers to. He
likes
it.”

“Okay, Hank, what's your point?”

“Well, he's sometimes a troublemaker, most times an all-right kid. Anyway, he's a buddy with Simon Tran, the Saigon Kid, or so my father told me.”

“And? You going somewhere with this?”

“Simon Tran's father called my house last night because Willie, Big Nose's dad, gave him the number.” He paused. “Mike Tran was trying to reach me—actually
you
.”

I sat up. “The reason?”

Hank made a clicking sound. “Ardolino pulled in Simon and this Frankie kid, accused them of the brutal attack and causing Ralph Gervase's death. He threatened murder charges. I guess the scene at the precinct got real ugly because both kids got hot tempers. Mike Tran went with his son, and told Willie that Frankie slammed a fist into a wall, bloodied his knuckles, and pipsqueak Simon threatened to beat the daylights out of Ardolino.”

“God, no. Did he arrest them?”

“That's it. No. He was in their faces. You know the drill—scare them.”

“So Ardolino has nothing concrete on the boys—yet. That's clear.”

“Bingo. But he's convinced…”

I broke in. “Maybe forensics will help nab the boys.”

Hank sighed. “Simon's father is running scared and wants to talk to—you.”

I rubbed my eyes. “What can I do, Hank?”

A long pause, quiet a moment. “Well, he wants you to move mountains. To prove his son innocent.”

I hesitated. “And is this…Simon…innocent?”

Hank waited a second. “That's what you gotta find out.”

“What does Simon say?”

Hank made a
tsk
ing sound. “The boy refuses to talk.”

“Makes my job easy then.”

“I promised Big Nose you'd look into it.”

I smiled. “You were sure I'd say yes?”

Hank's voice rose. “I know you. They're Vietnamese. You imagine sins you're always atoning for.”

“Atoning for?”

“And you got a heart.”

“So I'm supposed to meet the family? When?”

Hank chuckled. “Well, tomorrow morning. Minh Loc Tran—everybody calls him Mike—has the day off. He's a grease monkey. Sunday morning. They'll give us
mi ga
.”

“Us?”

“You don't expect me to miss homemade chicken soup, do you?” A pause as he rustled papers near the receiver. “They live in a small Cape Cod off Campfield on Milton Street in the South End.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Didn't you hear what I said, Rick?
Mi ga
. Chicken soup for the Vietnamese soul.”

***

The driveway of the small Cape Cod home looked like a used-car parking lot: a rusted Dodge pickup up on cinder blocks, a decade-old Honda with a smashed-in right fender, mud smeared, and an ancient black Cadillac that might have seemed cool when Gerald Ford assumed the Presidency.

“God, Hank,” I mumbled, “this looks like a salvage yard.” I pointed to a vintage Jeep, primer paint slathered on the door, parked on the muddy lawn, its rear tires imbedded in dirt.

“They got a lot of cars.” Hank did not sound happy.

“Are any of them running?”

Hank bristled. “They're poor people, Rick.”

I shut up.

The house was painted a robin's-egg blue, eye-catching, a color so brilliant the house seemed a wonderful toy lifted from a children's fairy tale. The houses left and right—in fact, up and down the curvy street—were cookie-cutter homes, some building contractor's unfortunate hiccough back in the 1950s, the sameness relieved only by the different color siding.

Sitting in front, checking out the derelict cars, I sensed movement in an upper dormer window, a flash of a young face glancing out and then disappearing.

“They're expecting us,” Hank said firmly. He jerked his head toward the house. “We just gonna sit here?”

“In a minute,” I told him. “I want you to tell me what I'm walking into—and why you're being evasive.”

On the way over Hank had been uncharacteristically quiet, answering mostly in monosyllables, his clipped responses unnerving me. “Did you ever meet Mike Tran?” I'd asked him.

“No.”

“Anyone in the family?”

“No.”

“Christ, Hank, help me out here.”

“Grandma knew the wife a long time ago.”

“And?”

“They tend to stay to themselves.”

On and on, maddening, a scant biography that told me little. Hank's face was unusually frozen, his eyes avoiding mine.

No, he said, they rarely attended the Tet New Year's parties at the VFW hall in East Hartford. No, he'd never seen them in Little Saigon or shopping at A Dong, a supermarket a mile away in Elmwood.

“No, no. no.”

“You're not telling me something,” I'd insisted, and his feckless smile convinced me I was right.

“It's not important.”

“I'll decide that.”

So, frustrated, idling in front of the house, I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Let's just spin around the block, Hank. You gotta give me more. I want to know who this family is.”

At the end of the block, I pulled up to a curb and sat back, waited. “I got all day.”

A sheepish smile. “
Mi ga
waits for no man, Rick.”

“I'll sacrifice the pleasure.”

“Okay. I asked Grandpa, but he turned away. Nothing, not even his usual dismissal of folks he finds fault with. You know that he has Pop's biases—big time. So I asked Grandma, who was reluctant but—you know Grandma. She wants to like everyone. I kept at her. She told me that Buddha said, ‘
So nguoi o phai nauoi cho an
.” You can't put blame on good and decent people.

I laughed out loud. “Which tells us nothing.” I quoted Buddha back at Hank. “
Dau xuoi duoi lot
.” Good beginnings make excellent endings. I punched him on the shoulder. “So begin.”

He scowled. “You and Grandma—a goddamned road show.”

“I like that idea, but—start.”

“Minh Loc Tran—Mike— is an embarrassment for the Vietnamese community, that is, for folks like Grandma who believe in decency and…and the rightness of things. I mean, the way
he
was treated. Not that
he
did anything embarrassing. You see, Mike Tran and his family are a whopping success story. He's an American dreamer who made his dreams come true.”

I watched his face closely. “Okay, this sounds like good news—and bad.”

He sucked in his breath. “Here's the story. A hard-working man, come up from nothing. You see, Mike Tran is half-black, Rick.
Bui doi
, but with an added cruel twist. Born in Saigon to a woman who went with a black guy, he was a leper twice over in the old country. There's taboo—and then, well, there's big-time taboo that chills the Vietnamese soul. Not only a mongrel but also a black mongrel.” Hank had trouble looking into my face. “Not his fault, of course—not any baby's fault—but that's not the embarrassment to the Vietnamese I'm talking about. I mean, for the Vietnamese living here in America. In Hartford.” He paused.

“Go on, Hank.”

“You see, back when America was flying in all the half-American children in the 1980s—that Operation Amerasian Homecoming airlift that tried to right a wrong—a time when thousands of mixed-blood kids ended up here…” He stopped, nodded toward me.

“Yes,” I half-bowed, “I know. I'm one of that gang.”

“Anyway, in Vietnam, under the Commies, packs of half-American kids roamed the streets, begging for food, sleeping in alleys, beaten, forbidden to go to school because they were…the product of collaborators.”

I bit my lip. “I remember, Hank. I don't need a history lesson.”

“I know, I know. But the sad thing was that so many Vietnamese families, desperate to leave poverty and Communism, sort of
adopted
these orphan kids, bought them, forged papers, brought them into offices, and said, ‘This is my dead sister's boy.' Not only the white-blood ones, but—others. Yes, he's black as the night, but he got our ancient blood coursing in his veins. And so many like Mike Tran, then Tran Loc Minh, scrounging for crumbs, suddenly found a new family and the whole crowd—mommy, daddy, lots of children—was welcomed into America. So Minh's family was delivered to Hartford and given an apartment on Huntington. The father was given a job on an assembly line at Pratt & Whitney in East Hartford, food allowances, furniture, money. The Tran family—a father, a mother, and three other children, all Pure Blood. Capitalized. The mother spoke some English and was hired to teach the immigrant kids at Bulkeley High School.”

“I know where this is going, Hank.”

“Yes, the embarrassment is that within one month they put the thirteen-year-old Mike Tran into the street. Dropping him off on the corner of Main and Garden. Alone on a cold winter day.”

“It happened all over America.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

“And the good Vietnamese hide their heads in shame.”

Hank squirmed. “Well, Mike Tran was a hardscrabble survivor, even found friends to live with, stayed in shelters, slept under bridges, did odd jobs, grappled with the raw deal he got, drove himself, and he became a success story. A man driven to be a good American. A GED from high school, courses at a trade school on Flatbush Avenue, a good job in a garage making okay money. Honest, good, he saved his money, and he bought a house and paid his bills.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah. But lots of Vietnamese turn their heads away from him when he walks by. For one thing he looks too—black. Yes, those slanted eyes, that Vietnamese frame, but that mahogany skin. That hair.”

“Just awful.” I shook my head.

“But a smart man, really. And a good man. He married a Vietnamese girl who could care less about him being an outcast—an orphan herself, shuttled here and there, ignored. And they had four children, high academic achievers, mostly. According to Grandma, Mike enforced strict discipline, real severe, afraid of failure. A man with a hickory stick. School first. Always. He lives in Hartford, but each kid got a scholarship to a private prep school. The oldest is now at Trinity in Hartford, Hazel is a scholarship girl at Miss Porter's, her twin Wilson a scholarship boy at Kingswood-Oxford.”

“And our little criminal? Simon?”

“The last of the brood, always battling his father's whip. A bright bugger, I'm told, but a handful. The sixteen-year-old who rebelled against books and teachers and—his family. Suspensions, shoplifting, absenteeism, smart-mouthing the world. A teacher called him ‘Sy' one day and someone morphed that into ‘Saigon Kid.' Which he liked a lot. Rumor has it—courtesy of Big Nose—that he got a tattoo of that on his bicep.”

“At sixteen?” My voice crackled.

“God, how shockable you are, Rick. One of his buddies did it. There's a shot of it on his Facebook page. On Instagram. I checked him out.”

“Does his father know? His mother?”

“Maybe we'll find that out now.” Hank pointed up the street. “Let's go. They probably think we've changed our minds.”

We pulled back in front of the small house and I switched off the motor. A curtain moved in that same upper dormer window and a small face glanced out, disappeared again.

“Don't mention the tattoo, Rick.”

I smiled. “Makes him easy to identify in a police lineup, no?”

“We're here to save him from a murder charge.” Hank's eyes got wide.

“Let's just start with a steaming bowl of chicken soup.” I tapped him on the forearm. “Let's move. I think everyone in the house is watching us.”