No Good to Cry (16 page)

“Jesus Christ, Liz.”

“A slimebag.”

“So you sat with Hazel. Did you try to talk some sense into her?”

“I started to. Rick, she's
scared
of him. I could tell—real fear. I softened my voice, put on my psychologist cap, and began a careful…well, intervention of sorts.”

“Did she listen to you?”

“There was no time. She sat there, furious, tight-lipped. She whispered—‘Liz, he hits me.' But then her phone rang, and she switched it on. I could hear Judd's demanding voice. He was outside in the car. At the sound of his voice, she wilted, apologized to me, and ran out of the restaurant.”

“My God.”

“Yes. My God, indeed. I sat there, my coffee cold in front of me, and I told myself: This is a story that's going to have an unhappy ending.”

Chapter Eighteen

Hank and I spent the afternoon on Park Street, wandering through the shops and cafés of Little Saigon, covering the same ground we'd surveyed earlier. “One more time,” I told him. “Maybe we'll find new people.”

Carrying the photos of Frankie and Simon—those deadpan black-and-white photos—we asked the same questions, hoping for different responses. Back to the afternoon of April 10, around four or so, the beginning of rush hour as the streets were clogged with commuters escaping Hartford. Did you happen to spot these boys? In the arcade? In the convenience store on the corner? Anywhere around here? Together, both of them, not one, but both Simon and Frankie, an unlikely twosome, buddies wandering the streets, in-your-face tough guys. Surely you noticed them, no? Anybody? Wise guys, maybe. People notice wise guys.

“Maybe there are just too many wise guys around these days,” Hank concluded.

“Yeah, sure,” said one man who ran a convenience store that local kids robbed over and over. “All I got in here is wise guys. One buys a soda while the other pockets candy and gum and hot-rod magazines.”

No one remembered the boys. I was not surprised, though I hoped for some spark of recognition. Days later, weeks later, there might be someone who'd recall the boys, someone skipped by the police. Out sick, out of town, indifferent. “Oh yeah, sure thing. I remember the Asian kid. He bought a
ban mi
from me. Complained the pork tasted like crap. I thought—shit, the kid's a black boy. But those eyes.”

No such luck this time.

Hank and I had lunch at Bo Kien Restaurant. At midday on Sunday the small restaurant, a narrow corner space with an unpainted plywood counter and mismatched tables and chairs, was filled with Vietnamese. Old shriveled women with worn canvas bags of groceries from Saigon Market, young families speaking in Vietnamese and English, sliding from one language to the other, the small children glib and fluent. Hank and I sat at the smallest table for two, wedged into the narrow space that led to the bathroom.

Hank looked around the room at the chattering families. “Little Simon,” he whispered, “what's your story?”

“The boys who won't be helped.”

“Are we going down Russell Street? VietBoyz?”

“We have no choice.”

“They're not gonna be happy to see us.”

“I don't expect they will be.”

“We're not gonna learn anything there.” He glanced toward the street.

“No, Hank, I don't believe that—otherwise I wouldn't go. Maybe JD'll say something different today.”

“Because of the morning's
Courant
? The arrest?”

“Bingo. That's why I want to stop in. That gangland world may have shifted overnight.”

That morning's
Courant
reported that Hartford police, working with a state police task force, had arrested Mickey Tinh late yesterday afternoon. He'd been identified as the sole shooter of a Chinese banker during a home invasion on Prospect Avenue. The BTK New York gang had been known for such home invasions, often the homes of Asian businessmen who famously kept wads of cash hidden in plain sight. Three or four thugs had stormed the Prospect Avenue mansion. But only Mickey had been caught.

“The scary one from our last visit,” Hank commented.

“They were all scary. But that Born To Kill tattoo on Mickey was a little…disconcerting.”

Hank mocked me, a gleam in his eye. “Yeah, Rick, that's the word that comes to mind…disconcerting.”

Mickey, son of one of the most notorious BTK gunmen from Chinatown. The father, Voung Ky Tinh—Vick— had been killed in a shootout with FBI agents, a chase that moved through Canal Street and also resulted in the death of a woman visiting from Iowa who happened to be in the line of Vick's firepower. The
Courant
noted that authorities had been monitoring the move of Vick's son, Ming, a.k.a. Mickey Tinh, since his arrival at the VietBoyz storefront. In fact, the
Courant
used the arrest of Tinh as a focal point for an article about the “alleged” gang activity on Russell Street, a fact that must have jarred the placid citizenry of the town. “One more gang,” Detective Ardolino was quoted as telling the reporter. “You got you the Nelson Court, the Solidos, the new generation Latin Kings, the Asylum Hill Marauders.” He'd ended with a sarcastic remark to the reporter. “I can keep going, lady. There's a gang on every corner. When do you want me to stop?”

Over my morning coffee I'd read that passage, and grinned—good old Ardolino, making friends with the Fourth Estate.

Ardolino was also quoted talking about the Russell Street storefront. He hinted at drug trafficking, money laundering, extortion, threats to local businesses, mysterious explosions in noncompliant Chinese restaurants, and the familiar home invasions of Asian success stories.

A security camera had caught Mickey's unmasked face as he fled, unlike the others whose faces remained hidden. He was picked up after using a stolen credit card. A Korean dry cleaner on South Whitney had argued with him about the card, and Mickey, never the most serene of customers, had gone berserk, shoving the shopkeeper, pushing over a rack of clothing, unaware that the Korean owner's trembling wife, hidden in back, phoned 911. The state police already had an APB out on him and arrived at the dry cleaner's just as Mickey was storming out. Cornered, he reached for his .45, tucked into the waistband of his jogging suit. A state cop shot him in the shoulder.

“One down,” Hank commented now.

When we walked into the storefront, JD looked up. He'd been sitting by the doorway, a wad of cash gripped in his hand as he counted out bills into neat piles. He jumped, the money sliding to the floor. His face flushed with anger, he ducked down, scooped up the scattered bills and jammed them into a drawer. Standing, he faced us. Behind him, a group of young men sat playing cards at a table. Others were gathered around a tablet. The sound of gunfire, screeching tires, yelling. A Hong Kong kung-fu flick. I heard dubbed-in Vietnamese. A classic—
Love and Death in Little Saigon
. Probably an initiation film for the young street soldiers, mind-boggling violence shown in slow motion.

“You got a fucking invitation?”

“Open house.” Hank's head swung left and right, taking in the room.

JD let out a false laugh. “Yeah, more like open season.”

“You lost one of your boys,” I said.

Unblinking, cold. “A visiting lecturer from New York.”

That surprised me. “Very nice. A lecturer?”

“We're a social club.”

“Can we sign up?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, a state cop. Gonna make you Secretary of Hate.”

“A pun?” I asked.

He turned away and checked out the room. “Can I help you? Again?”

The card players had stopped to watch us, but the young guys watching the video could care less. Mainly young Asian boys, perhaps late teens, early twenties. They all looked similar with their close-cropped shaved heads or their slicked-back hair gleaming with mousse, gold stud earrings, bulky sports jerseys, shit-kicking boots, and tight, unhappy mouths. A shooting on the screen, and their bodies shifted to the side, heads rolled back, delighted. Shoot-'em-up music, a drumbeat.

One of the card players nodded at another. A young guy with a nose ring quietly moved his jacket, covering up what I realized was a .357 resting on an seat. Someone shifted an carton of Chinese food while his elbow bumped an empty beer can. It hit the floor and rolled.

“You know why we're here,” I told JD. “Thought we'd check in.”

JD debated what to say, looking back at the rows of upturned young faces, expectant, hostile.

“Maybe it ain't your job to do that.” JD spoke quietly.

“I got nothing else to do.” I watched his face.

Some kid behind him tittered, then thought better of it when the guy next to him shot him a questioning look.

“No one in Little Saigon saw them that afternoon—except you.”

JD's voice got louder. “I told you that.” His hand waved around the room. An unfunny smile covered his face. “I guess I ain't a good witness for the cops.”

“Maybe it's the folks you hang out with.”

“I'm the leader of the pack.
Dai lao
.” Big brother. But he leaned closer, his voice confidential. “Maybe they're doomed, them boys. Saigon and Frankie. They're just—wannabe gangsters, the two of them.” His words were spaced out, menacing. “Maybe they hangin' these days with new friends who ain't the kind you can bring home to Mommy.”

“Tell me something, JD. Frankie's brother Jonny”—I saw his eyes widen, wary—“says he couldn't get here that afternoon. The Portuguese church a had a procession down Park.”

He spoke over my words, “Yeah, so what?”

“Well, Frankie mentioned it. Sort of tells me he
was
here.”

“Shit. I already told you that.”

“I'm checking it out.”

“Good for you. But there ain't no answers here.” Again he waved his hand around the room.

“They're hard boys to save.”

“Maybe they don't believe they can be saved.” He pointed behind him. “None of us can be saved.”

“A rung of hell, this place?”

He sneered. “You got that right. Hell is the only place open at night.”

I shifted gears. “So the cops swarmed all over you yesterday?” I waited a bit. Then, slowly, “After they picked up Mickey Tinh across town.”

“Yeah, local pigs and the fucking F's.” The FBI. “That Ardolino is a bulldog. An asshole. I keep telling him we're a social club. No drugs here. No crime spree. No nothing.”

I laughed. “I bet he doesn't believe you.”

“Well, neither do you.”

“There must be a reason for that, no?”

“Yeah, pigs gotta act a certain way.”

“I'm not a cop.”

He pointed at Hank. “He is. A general in Uncle Ho's Cong army.”

Hank bristled, looked ready to say something, but kept quiet.

“My only concern is Simon Tran.”

“And Frankie Croix, no? Don't forget the white boy.”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

He looked bored now, enough game-playing. “Well.” He glanced behind him at the upturned young faces. “Time for you to go.”

The young girl I remembered as Lana sidled up to him, blended into his side, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer. I noticed a tattoo on her forearm. Green-and-red lettering.
Doi la so khong
. Life is worthless. Another above it:
Tien
. Money. For a second he buried his face in her neck, whispered something that made her giggle, and then he pushed her away. She pouted.

I nudged Hank, who turned toward the door. Reaching into my breast pocket. I took out one of my business cards. It seemed a foolish act, but I handed it to JD, who debated taking it. Finally, reluctantly, he did, but he stared down at it, eyes narrowed. For a moment I wondered if he knew how to read. So many of these lost boys, street wanderers, were illiterate—I knew that from dealing with such kids back in Manhattan many years back. They survived with an “X” in the appropriate box, but unfortunately that box often led them into deep and troubled waters. But JD, fingering the card, read the words out loud: “Rick Van Lam, Private Investigator, Gaddy Associates.” He read the address, but in a slow, jerky voice, as if unsure of pronunciation. I took the card back. On the back I wrote my Farmington address and my phone number.

“Call me if you hear anything.” I pointed. “My home.”

“I never leave the city,” JD announced.

“Why not?”

“I go to a place like Farmington and all I see is white people.”

“I'm there.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “but you got most of your foot solid in some country club. Your Viet Cong blood is like a bad cold that you can't shake.”

With that he stepped back, bowed toward the doorway. Flicking my index finger toward him in what I hoped was a friendly valedictory, I left, one step behind Hank.

“Follow me,” I told Hank.

We returned to Bo Kien Restaurant where we ordered jasmine tea and bean pudding. The waitress, startled by our return, smiled at Hank. She was a pretty girl, maybe twenty, in painted-on jeans, a loose peasant blouse, and rap-video gold loop earrings that made too much noise. She smelled of gardenia perfume. She gave Hank a lot of attention. “
Toi ten la Emily.
” My name is Emily.

“We're going to watch that doorway,” I told Hank.

Sitting by the front window, we could see, at a crooked angle, the dead-end street and the doorway of the storefront.

“What for?”

“You know, Hank, we did learn something from JD.”

“What?” He tilted his head. “Sounded liked the same bullshit to me.”

“Well, he confirmed that the Portuguese church blocked the street that afternoon. Score one for Frankie telling the truth. And, more importantly, he talked of Simon and Frankie as wannabes, suggesting he sees them as hangers-on, not really part of the gang but there, hungry to be included. But JD is bothered by something else. He was telling us something is going on.”

“But we're still back to square one.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I nodded toward the street. “I want to see what happens there.”

We waited. A long, drifting afternoon, the two of us lingering over tea. The young waitress Emily flirted with Hank, which flattered him, insisting he knew her family. But she also gave us a certain grace because no one asked us to leave. At one point Hank began fidgeting, twisting in his seat, and I suggested he go for a walk. I'd sit there alone. After all, I was the investigator—and one used to the long, dreadful empty hours of surveillance.

He rejected that idea. “The only problem is that I may end up married by the time we leave.”