No Good to Cry (24 page)

I kept going.

Then, approaching a red light, the Toyota suddenly swung to the right, but a Coca Cola delivery truck occupied the right lane, idling. In the left lane a transit bus. Both were waiting for the light to change. The Toyota considered squeezing through—I could see the car edge close to the back bumper of the truck—but couldn't. The light changed, but the truck and bus hesitated.

Police sirens shrieked from behind. No one moved. The Toyota tried to swerve around them into the opposing lane, but a sudden rush of opposing traffic blocked that escape. The Toyota swerved back to the right, smashed into the curb, and seemed to be trying to ride the sidewalk. But the right front fender snared a trash barrel, and the car limped along but finally squealed to a stop.

The Toyota shifted back and forth, managing to shake off the bin, but the car hesitated. Suddenly, as I watched, the right back door swung open, and Simon and Frankie toppled out, hitting the sidewalk, managing to crouch behind a parked car. The Toyota plunged forward and swerved back into traffic, nearly rear-ended by the Coca Cola truck.

I breathed in, closed my eyes.

The boys were nowhere in sight.

A squad car hit the intersection, another blocked the street from the front, and the Toyota tried to jump the sidewalk again but managed only to careen into a streetlight. The hiss of a blown tire. The crunch of fender against metal. The front hood flew up, steam bellowing out. Cop cars everywhere, sirens wailing, a bull horn, yelled orders.

Unable to move forward, I'd pulled over and jumped out of my car. Crouched behind a parked car, perhaps thirty yards away, I watched cops circling the faltering Toyota, rushing out, assuming position, guns drawn.

The grinding of gears as the Toyota belched and shimmied.

Suddenly Khoa opened his door and jumped out. He fired a single shot at the cop facing him. An insane move as the shot ricocheted off a street sign. A ping and an echo. He hunched over, a madman, extending his arm as though at a firing range, his face contorted.

“
Do mami
,” he screamed. Fuck you. The words sailed back over the paralyzed street corner. “
Do mami.”
Again. “You fuckin' assholes.”

Wildly, he twisted around, losing balance, and fired another shot, willy-nilly, at a cop car. The windshield shattered. Then, his eye obviously on the cop he faced, he pointed the gun.

A shot from the cop hit him in the head. His face bloodied, a hole in his skull, his head lolled to the side like a rag doll's. Another shot caught him in the chest. A third penetrated his side. His body folded, jerked back, bent.

Then it was over.

His body slipped onto the pavement, the gun still gripped in his right hand. On his back, his other hand twitched and slapped the cement.

It was over. Within minutes Diep was sitting on the sidewalk, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands cuffed behind his back. A sullen look on his face. Muttering, cursing, a volley of Vietnamese filth directed at any cop who neared him. He tried to shift his shoulders, but a cop yelled, “Don't fuckin' move.” Diep stared up into his face, turned his head toward the cop, and spat.

The area was cordoned off, cops everywhere, reporters, gawkers, the world come to see. I lingered at the edge of the yellow tape, watching, lost in the crowd. I looked for Ardolino, but there was no one I recognized. It didn't matter. It was over.

But I stood there a long time.

No one touched Khoa's body. He lay in a pool of blood now, his face contorted in an awful grimace. A trickle of blood seeped down the sidewalk, pooled in a crack.

Suddenly I felt pressure on my lower back, a hand digging into my spine. Simon and Frankie had come out of hiding. Little Simon was so close to me that his shoulders brushed against my jacket, his knees trembled against the backs of my legs. I could hear him breathing hard. One of his hands was moving, brushing my side. Startled, I turned and stared down into his face. Bloody, a face and hands scrapped from hitting the pavement, a purple welt on his lip, a swollen eye. He'd been crying, I could tell, wet puffy eyes, streaks of tears down his bruised cheeks. His face had broken out in red blotches, and he was blinking his eyes wildly. Next to him Frankie looked paralyzed, white as parchment, the gaunt look of a cadaver. A smear of dark blood on his temple, clumps of dirt in his hair, a closed eye.

“Simon,” I began, but stopped. These boys were scarcely aware of my presence.

Instead their eyes focused on the awful scene feet away.

The death car was still idling, the engine groaning, up against a streetlight. A wispy plume of smoke drifted from the radiator. The kaleidoscopic flash of police lights, a dance-floor light-show cast macabre illumination on the street. Diep, handcuffed, rocking back and forth, quiet now, his face frozen in hate. That gigantic red-and-green dragon tattoo across his neck. But what held the boys' rapt attention was the twisted body of Khoa: blood-splattered, stiff, an arm unnaturally bent, that horrible death grimace gazing up from the pavement, his mouth agape, his tongue hanging to the side. The gun catching the brilliant sunlight. The outstretched hand that no longer twitched.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Diep and Khoa wanted them to be scouts. Lookouts.”

I was sitting with Hank the next morning at Lucille's Breakfast Bar across from the Farmington Courthouse, a room filled with lawyers and clerks and vacant-eyed defendants and accusers—a wholly curious mix of people. Hank had arrived late, but immediately pummeled me with questions about yesterday's shoot-'em-up events. That bloody street scene was splashed across the front page of the
Courant
, not only the wrecked car against the streetlight, but two old mug shots of the brothers Pham—Diep before the dragon tattoo, and Khoa, his eyes half-shut and his mouth twisted. Neither looked happy. Bridgeport police had a warrant out for the two on suspicion of the murder of a Vietnamese restaurateur who famously kept cash in a home vault.

Hank had the newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Simon and Frankie,” he said matter-of-factly. “They were moments away from ruining their lives.”

“Tell me about it.” I sighed, sipping coffee. “When it was all over, the two boys crowding me on that street corner, I drove them to Gracie's apartment—I'd called her first—where she bandaged them up. I mean, she was a delightful Florence Nightingale, mothering, feeding them. She calmed them down. They fell in love with her. Jimmy glowered through it all.”

“But you didn't tell the cops about them.” He glanced at the next booth where two Farmington cops were contemplating the menu.

I shook my head. “No, I didn't. Jimmy had a problem with that, but only for a minute.”

“But is that right, Rick? They were in that car.”

I ran my finger along the edge of the cup. “No, Hank. Think about it. They chose
not
to be on that corner where they were supposed to meet Khoa and Diep. They hesitated. And yet, by chance, they were forced into that car. A gun pointed at them. I saw that. Luckily they bailed out. For once they made the right choice. They were
not
a part of that bank robbery.”

“But they could have been.” A note of pique in his voice.

I smiled. “Sometimes there are different laws that govern the universe. There's no good that could come of handing them over to the police. What would be gained? I want to move them
away
from crime, not reinforce it.”

He smiled back. “And so you saved them?” He reached over and broke off a corner of the wheat toast on my plate, swallowed it. My frown meant little to him.

“I don't know about saving them, but I know that they may have been scared straight, to use that awful and familiar phrase my captain bandied about during my Manhattan cop days.”

“Scraped and bruised?”

“Yeah, but they're tough kids.”

“I can't believe the brothers planned to use them.”

“Simon said the brothers had cased that bank, purposely near Little Saigon. I mean, JD had ordered them to leave town because he'd had it with them. But I suppose they were hoping the finger of the law would point back to VietBoyz—at JD. But extortion and petty graft are the bread-and-butter of VietBoyz, small-time crime, drug trafficking in the city. They want to keep it in Little Saigon. Simon told me Khoa knew there was a security guard stationed there some days, different hours, nothing constant. They wanted Frankie or Simon to walk in, stroll around, ask a question maybe, play stupid, then walk out, communicate with the brothers. The other boy would wait by the entrance, watch for any problems outside the bank. No one would pay attention to two young boys.”

“Devilish.” Hank was shaking his head.

“Yeah, fiendish. They'd already groomed them with weed, money, and gifts like bootleg watches and electronics. Most of all they gave praise, taking two boys with poor self-esteem and building them up. Big brothers, looking out for them. Simon figured they'd use them as shields—or foils.”

“But what would have happened to them if the robbery had gone off without a hitch?”

I drummed my fingers on the table. “The brothers were headed out of town. They'd left another car off I-91 in a Newington commuter lot. Ditch the Toyota. Let the cops find it—what did it matter? They'd be gone. They didn't count on me IDing the car to 911 so fast. They'd leave the boys behind. As it was, they were furious the boys didn't show up, so when they saw them walking by, they forced them into that car. Maybe they were thinking, I don't know—hostages, insurance. It never happened.”

He laughed. “I can't believe they rolled out of the backseat.”

“Simon's idea, he told me. Frankie whispered that the police would kill them, shoot at them through the rear window, and Simon whispered back, ‘Now. Get out.' The car hesitated and they toppled out.”

“It saved their lives.”

“And it may have been the moment that they needed to—well, wake up. Life suddenly got a little too heavy-duty. Hey, the big boys carry guns. And they use them. Christ, Diep fired a shot in the bank, grazed a teller.”

“So they're back home now.”

“Frankie delivered to his mother's home, where no one was home. Simon into the arms of his mother, who wept when she saw the bandages. And we're back where we started. Ardolino still on their case. Nothing has changed.”

Hank bit his lip. “Except maybe
they
have.”

“Ardolino's a stubborn guy. He insists they were the ones in the ‘almost' mugging in Little Saigon. He followed up on that, talking to the old man who had nothing to offer. But Mike Tran told me Hazel insists she was with her brother on Franklin Avenue the same time as that incident. She's vouched for him. And she told Ardolino that Frankie showed up. The three of them were slurping shakes at Pinkberry a couple streets over from their house.”

“What did Ardolino say about that?”

“Not happy. I told him Hazel wouldn't lie, but he didn't buy that.”

“Well, I hope Simon has come to his senses. His days as a juvenile delinquent need to be over.”

I puffed out my cheeks. “Lord, I hope so. As Buddha said, You need to prune the growing plant when its leaves are still tender.”

Hank's eyebrows shot up, a quirky smile on his face. “Grandma always says to me,
Ai lam nay chiu
.”

You blow an evil wind and soon you'll have a raging storm.

I was surprised. “You're finally starting to listen to her.”

He smirked. “When did I ever have a choice?”

While Hank wandered across the room to say hello to a state police lieutenant he knew, buzzing as though surprised by a celebrity popping up in a donut shop, I typed some notes into my laptop while idly sipping my third cup of good coffee. Sleepy, I stretched my back and told myself I needed to get back to running, maybe take in a swim at the college pool, write a final exam for my night class. My phone rang.

“Liz.” I snapped shut the laptop, sat up. “Hello.”

“Where are you?”

I told her. “I'm with Hank.”

“I'll drive over. I was just leaving the office.” Then, a rousing laugh. “Tell Hank to save me one of Lucille's chocolate croissants.”

“You're thinking of Jimmy, Liz,” I said, laughing. “Hank only eats protein bars that resemble wood planks, omelets fashioned from the whites of free-range eggs, and kale smoothies that look like a baby's digestive surprise.”

“Okay, thanks. There went my appetite.”

By the time Hank returned to the booth, Liz was walking into the eatery. She waved from across the room.

She slipped into a seat and poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Lord, I know everyone in this place,” she whispered. “Even some of the criminals twirling around on the stools at the counter.”

I checked the time on my phone. “You have news, Liz?”

“You bet.” She took a sip of coffee, sighed. “The best, always. Anyway, news on the Judd Snow front. Good in its own bizarre way, but also bad. Maybe ‘sad' is the word I want.”

“He's leaving Hazel alone, I hope.” Hank sounded angry.

“Well, he has no choice these days. But there's more to the story.”

“There always is.” I leaned forward in the booth.

“Here's the deal. I've been working with a colleague to get a restraining order for Hazel, who now talks to me every day, I am happy to say. Warm, friendly talks. She's starting to feel good about herself—not in the cocky teenage pretty-girl way but, well, genuinely. Talking to her dad. More attention to schoolbooks. I gather Judd had been making her life miserable for a long time, and she never told anyone. Ashamed—blamed herself. He helped that idea take root. She kept it hidden last year. I never knew.”

“What about you?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yes, that too.” She laughed. “Yes, a fortyish woman has to petition for a restraining order against an eighteen-year-old boy.”

“Man.” I stressed the word. “A man.”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced around the crowded room. “A troubled man, that one.” She shuddered. “Hazel now confides horrible stories to me. The slaps, the raw, verbal assault.”

“So what happened?” Hank was anxious, leaning in.

“Liz,” I said, “you're leading up to something.”

She smiled at me. “So impatient. At this moment he's cooling his heels in a Hartford jail.”

“What?” I blurted out.

Liz sat back, narrowed her eyes, savoring the tale. “Well, we've talked about the toxic relationship he has with his father. Hazel insists there's some truth to Judd whining that Daddy hits on young girls. Namely, Hazel. Makes your skin crawl, no? Daddy slinks around town in Mick Jagger's rock 'n' roll discards. Now that Hazel has told Judd to get lost, Judd's hormones compelled a new girl into his lair. One of them sneaking away from Kingswood, much to the delight of Daddy who came home from the office to discover the pair. Oddly, learning of it, Hazel got jealous, angry. A typical reaction, if an unappealing one.”

“Fireworks?”

“You got it. Judd and Daddy Leerest got into it yesterday, and Judd, the poster boy for failed anger-management classes, beats up his father. Okay, Judd is already a wounded animal from the kerfuffle with Frankie, but, though he's hobbling around, he tackles his father, bloodies him, until the neighbors call for help. Judd is carted away, and because this isn't his first foray at the rodeo, he's actually booked, fingerprinted, the whole nine yards. A night in the slammer, where, as I say, he now sits, though not for long.”

“Let me guess,” I volunteered, “Daddy's posting bail.”

“Exactly. A father's love and devotion for an errant child. Sort of sounds like he should be a member of the Tran clan.”

“That's not fair,” I said sharply. “Simon would never punch out his father.”

Hank jumped in. “Because Mike Tran would run the game on that skinny little body.”

I shook my head slowly. “This is horrible. But at least Hazel is free of him.”

“Well.” Liz stretched out the word.

“Christ, no. What?” I raised my voice.

“There's always a second act to a domestic tragedy, no? Well, it seems Daddy called Hazel last night, imploring her to forgive Judd. To take him back. He's hurting. He's in love. His behavior was unseemly. The courts will look upon Judd with more forgiving eyes if she withdraws her plans for a restraining order. No need to testify before a judge. Why would she want to hurt him? He's been hurt so much. On and on—drivel.”

“You're kidding.” Hank slammed his fist down on the table. “He
called
her?”

“Sweet-talking her. Pleading. ‘My only son. There's just the two of us. Mommy ran off with the candlestick maker. The bitch abandoned him—walked away and never looked back. He still has nightmares—cries out in his sleep.' Hazel hung up the phone and called me.”

“The man is a creep.” Hank lowered his voice. “A damned creep.”

“Which one?” Liz arched her voice. “The father or the son.”

“They're both cut from the same cloth,” I noted.

“Daddy is bandaged up.” A pause. “Well, then, so is Junior.” Liz took a final sip of her coffee. “Gotta run, gentlemen. The world of criminal psychology is demanding. Every detective on the Farmington force is a manic-depressive. I mean—bipolar. But I knew you'd want to hear the latest from the
Avon Mountain Gazette and Coupon Clipper.
Liz Sanburn, editor-in-chief. One subscriber.”

“Call me later,” I said as she walked away.

“Are you taking me out to dinner?”

I glanced at Hank, who was grinning. “Well, of course. You pick the restaurant. How did you know?”

She laughed. “One thing about being married to you in the golden age of Ronald Reagan, Rick—I could always read your mind.”

She walked away.

“I love her,” Hank said. “I think you two will end up remarried. God's plan. Buddha's magic.”

I said nothing.

“Say something,” Hank insisted.

“I have nothing to say.”

***

Hank had orchestrated a plan for later that afternoon. We'd watched the brief video given me by JD—what amounted to ten seconds of impossible images: cloudy, a flash of quick moment and blinding reflection of sunlight. Worthless. I'd emailed a file to Detective Ardolino, and he'd left a message on my machine: “Are you nuts? My alcoholic nephew shoots better footage when he's heaving in a corner. This is supposed to help the case—how?”

Ten seconds of video, but definitely an intended assault in Little Saigon, one that was thwarted by the car crash that sent the culprits scurrying away. Worthless. I agreed with Ardolino.

Not so, Hank. “A video is a video,” he said, a line I frowned upon because it told me nothing.

“And a rose is a rose,” I told him.

“That makes no sense, Rick.”

“Gertrude Stein.”

“An old girlfriend?”