No Good to Cry (12 page)

Frankie smirked. “Yeah, I got hauled into the police station, but so did that loser. For me it's no big deal—I know the game. But not for hot-shot Judd. Romeo creep. This rich white dude from Avon finds himself calling his daddy. ‘Oh help me, help me, Daddy. The mean old cop's gonna rape me.' Christ Almighty man!” He munched on a French fry, but started choking. “They shoulda hung him by the balls.”

“What happened?”

Eager to talk of it, Frankie sat up straight. “He's a freak, that guy. Says I was moving in on his girl, like I would tap Saigon's sister, come on. I ain't stupid. So he pushes me. I shove him, he lands a blow, we wrestle. I knock the air outa him, and he's bigger. When I ain't looking, he takes my backpack and empties the shit out on the floor, kicks it around like it isn't nothing. Pulls out a little weed and waves it in the air for the world to see. Stuffs a new video game I just got in his pants. Brand new. I knocked him over. The security guard comes rushing in. Asshole. They take us both in.”

“No charges?”

“His daddy comes running in with a million lawyers, boo hoo, boo hoo, wink wink, let my boy go. Daddy is a flashy guy who likes to wave dollar bills in the air. He's all slicked over, like he's going to the prom or something. They send us home. But Judd boy is like shaking,
crying
, the big baby, and says he's gonna kill me next time he sees me.” Angry, Frankie pushed his plate away. Some fries slipped to the floor. “I can't wait for that clown. He hid my fucking weed in his pocket or sock and I never got it back.”

Simon looked up, his lips quivering. “Tell them about the car, Frankie.”

“Nothing. Just that I swear I seen him following me. I come out of my house in Frog Hollow and this convertible cruises by, top down. Nighttime. Chilly. I swear he was driving. What's he doing in Hartford?” He stopped, folded his arms over his chest. “It ain't nothing. I take care of my own troubles.”

“Tell us about the VietBoyz gang,” Hank asked.

“Yeah, we seen you two there that day.” He locked eyes with mine.

“You part of that gang?”

“Naw. JD lets us hang out there. We run favors for him, like around town.” He mimicked smoking a joint, his index and thumb holding an imagery joint. “Sometimes we got nowhere to go so we hang out there.”

“JD is cool,” Simon added. He nudged Frankie.

“But?” I smiled. “I sense there's a ‘but' coming.”

Simon shivered. “I mean, those other dudes scare us. They're like real…
criminals
. Ex-cons. Christ, one of them is like the son of a Born to Kill thug from Chinatown. When we go there and see them, we beat it outa there. JD tells us to get out. Other times we just
hang
.”

“That's where I can find you?” I asked Simon.

Frankie muttered something.

“Shut up.” From Simon.

“What?” Hank asked.

“Saigon hides at Michael's,” Frankie said, smirking. “His brother.”

“Shut up, Frankie.” The small boy's face crumbled.

Hank leaned in. “Maybe you should stop hanging out on Park Street.”

Frankie flared up. “They're gonna arrest us for killing that guy anyway.”

Simon was moving out of his seat, but dropped back in. “What's gonna happen?”

“Well, for starters, I'm gonna believe you, Frankie. You too, Saigon.”

Simon blinked his eyes rapidly, half-rose from his seat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A wise-guy voice. “I don't believe you.”

A horn blared, someone leaning on it. A low-slung Toyota with black-tinted windows and under-inflated tires idled just outside the window. The driver's door swung open and a guy stepped out. He was peering at the eatery, an angry look on his face, and he said something to a passenger. An Asian man, short, maybe early twenties, lean but muscular in a loose black linen suit with polished black shoes. A collarless black shirt buttoned to the neck. A spiked, shaved-on-the-side haircut that exaggerated his long head. He was wearing black wraparound sunglasses but he'd slipped them onto the top of his head. He lit a cigarette with a lighter, blew a smoke ring, leaned into the car, said something to the unseen passenger who stepped out and lit a cigarette. Another Asian, Vietnamese probably, shorter than the first, skinny, with a pinched wild-dog face. A similar black suit, oversized, button-up shirt, the prominent wraparound sunglasses. Street thugs, I thought, watching the cheap macho swagger and calculated blank faces. VietBoyz, maybe, gang soldiers.

But at that moment Frankie punched Simon in the side and muttered, “They're here. Shit. Get up.” He had a scared look on his face.

Frankie nudged Big Nose, who'd kept his mouth shut the whole time. “C'mon, Big Nose.”

“No,” he said to Frankie.

“Why not?”

“You think I'm fucking crazy?” Big Nose looked away.

But Simon, energized, rolled out of the booth, nodded at me as if to say—That's it. Okay? He bolted away from the table, pushed along by an antsy Frankie. Outside the boys jumped into the backseat of the car, the two slick thugs tossing their cigarettes away, sliding back inside. The car squealed out of the parking lot, a deliberate run of rubber that made everyone in the restaurant turn their heads. From where I sat I could see the car pause at a red light and then gun it, flying through.

Chapter Twelve

Liz wanted to know what I thought of Simon and Frankie. “They look so cute in their mug shots.”

“Yeah. Adorable.” I stared into her grinning face. “Bad boys with dimples.”

We were having an early dinner at the First and Last Tavern in the South End of Hartford, sharing a plate of lasagna, a Caesar salad, and a bottle of pinot noir. I'd dressed in oxblood loafers and a blue blazer, tan slacks. My outfit for first dates. Actually any date.

She was coming from a meeting at Hartford PD and looked tired. “It's dangerous having a criminal psychologist in the room when department higher-ups are trying to define police policy and their body language says they'd rather be at Duffy's Bar across town.”

Dressed in a tailored light blue suit with a white silk blouse that accentuated her creamy complexion, she looked all business. An attractive FBI profiler on TV, maybe. Until, that is, she twisted her head to the side and smiled. Then she looked dangerously mischievous. Alluring. I found myself smiling at her.

“Stop it,” she said.

“What?”

“You boys are all the same. You looked at me that way when we first met in the stacks of Butler Library a hundred years ago.”

I grinned. “Little Simon said you're my girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Hazel told Simon about our lunch in Farmington. I told him you were my ex. That the two of us stayed good friends—friendly.” I debated which word to use, which Liz noted, her eyebrows rising. “He suggested we'd always be married.”

The tip of her tongue brushed her lips. I noticed a trace of lipstick on a front tooth. “Smart boy, that Simon. For a young kid he seems to understand something about the weird rituals of formerly married friends.”

“Well, I did think it was cute.”

Liz frowned. “Wrong word, Rick.”

“Sorry.”

Now she laughed. “When we were married, every time you felt you won an argument, you'd say ‘sorry' and hoped I wouldn't notice.”

“Sorry.”

“I rest my case.” She waved her fork in the air. “Tell me about the boys.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “they come off as bratty boys, filled with spit and anger and tough-guy attitude, especially Frankie, who strikes me as a boy hardened by whatever life he's led. But there is something childlike—even childish—about Simon, also known as Saigon.”

“They knocked folks over.” Liz looked into my face. “Enough times that they were sent to juvie. They
hurt
folks.”

I scratched my head. “I know, I know. But that's the thing. It was malicious and wrong and stupid, but I believe they thought they were only fooling around, sort of like—well, I dare you to be bad.”

Liz's eyes widened. “But they
did
cause harm. Don't excuse them, Rick.”

I rushed my words. “I'm not. Really. But that's the real problem. It's a game for them. Or at least it
was
. Like playing one of those mindless, violent video games the kids are obsessed with. Fantasy slips over into ugly reality. A blurring of lines.”

Liz held my gaze. “But it seems to me that, if what you say is true, they're gonna stumble into some serious crime. Assuming, as you obviously do, that they did
not
attack Jimmy and cause the death of Ralph.”

“I can't see it. Even Frankie, as tough as he comes off, seems wrong for such a brutal attack.”

“And Simon?”

“The follower. Always.”

Liz's eyes got a faraway look. “You know that he's like Hazel, Rick. A bright girl, clever, beautiful, a lot going for her, but she nods at her caveman boyfriend, follows his lead. I watched
that
unfold last year.”

“Did you talk to her about it then?”

“Of course. But she's smitten, though ambivalent. Some fear in her eyes when he approached. And then she got mean because of his attraction to me.”

“You home wrecker.”

“It's not funny, Rick.”

I nodded, penitent. “I know that.”

“Hazel, like little Simon, has her own way of rebelling against the family.”

“Liz, the truth of the matter is that Mike Tran comes off as a demanding father. He's scared of them failing, of America crushing them, so he drives them, almost relentlessly. Study, study, books, school. He doesn't want them to have a tough life.”

“So in the process he makes them sheep,” she concluded. “These kids are programmed to follow anyone's authority but their father's.”

“It's especially dangerous for Simon a.k.a. Saigon, no? The lethal combination of follower coupled with a rebellious streak. That leads to…”

“The wrong crowd,” she finished.

“Yes. VietBoyz. But Simon and Frankie didn't cause Ralph's death.”

“You don't have to convince me.” Her eyes sparkled. “I've always trusted your instincts.”

“Always?”

Hesitant. “I should never speak in absolutes.” A pause. “I leave that to you.”

“The problem is—how to trace those boys' footsteps the day Ralph was killed. A timeline. Places they went to before Russell Street. Or, maybe, someone who saw them in the vicinity of JD's evil little empire.”

“You know kids think they're indestructible.”

I sat back, interlocked my fingers. “Maybe I have to locate two anonymous street thugs in dark hoodies in a city where that's already the obligatory tough-guy spring-fashion look. Abercrombie and Son-of-a-Bitch. While I wrap up two fraud investigations for the Travelers and Aetna, teach Criminology one night a week, as well as handle Jimmy's cases while he's tucked away under Gracie's doting care.”

Liz smiled a long time. She took a sip of wine and watched me over the rim. “Gracie has never been happier.”

Sourly I added, “This cannot have a happy ending.”

“You cynic. Even Gracie knows that. Hey, we've all met Jimmy.” She fiddled with a bread stick, broke in, nibbled on an end, her eyes catching mine.

“What?” I said. “You're not telling me something.”

“True.”

“Which you'll tell me eventually.”

“True.” She sighed deeply. “I don't know how to read this. Hazel's boyfriend.”

“Judd Snow?”

“I had a phone call from him.”

I sat up. “Why? For God's sake, Liz.”

She shrugged. “It may mean nothing.” She twisted her head to the side. “But I don't believe that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's only that you have enough on your plate now, and I don't want you stepping into my problems—if problem it is.”

“Tell me.” My voice rose.

“That crush on me last year? A puppyish crush, unnerving, but I thought—harmless.”

“I never thought so, and it's a mystery to me why he's Hazel's boyfriend.”

She fiddled with her napkin. “Another example of one of the Tran kids following someone else around. Humble servants.” Her hands made a what-can-I-do gesture. “Last week when we met him outside the Farm Shop, well, I…well, he looked at me a little too long.”

“Yeah, an obnoxious kid. I didn't like him.”

She snapped, “Not a kid, Rick. He was always a little scary. All that swagger. The way he assumed I'd be flattered by the attention of a young boy.”

I counted a heartbeat. “What did he say on the phone?”

“A brief conversation, which I ended. I was surprised he had my number, but of course Hazel had it last year. The caller I.D. said ‘Unknown,' but I picked up anyway. For a minute it was harmless. ‘Good seeing you again. A surprise. You still look the same. You don't change.' I interrupted. ‘What do you want, Judd?' That bothered him, I could tell. He said he just called to say hello—to thank me for helping out the Tran family in what he called ‘their hour of need.'”

“That's it?”

“That's enough. It's not so much what he said, Rick, but the fact that he
called
.”

I waited. “There's more, right?”

She made a face. “Smart boy. There's always more. I told him not to call me anymore and he said all right, but I picked up anger, the way he slurred his goodbye, the abrupt click of the phone. Since then I've had a few calls, all I.D.'d as ‘Blocked' and ‘Unknown.' I think it's him.”

I burned. “Not good.”

“Just when I was leaving my apartment, an ostentatious red Audi turned a corner. Yes, I know there's more than one in the world, but the coincidence made me think…”

I sat back, drummed the table, thinking. “Frankie had a lot to say about the fistfight he had with Judd. Lots of anger. I'd like to hear Judd's side of what happened—to get a handle on Frankie. What's he capable of? Frankie also claims Judd was following him one day. The wonderful red Audi.”

“Frankly, I'd avoid Judd.”

“But I'd like to get his take on the Tran family. Hazel—and even Simon. Maybe he picked up something that can help me.”

Liz wasn't happy. “You're gonna have to go through Hazel.”

“She'll know how to find him.”

“If he wants you to find him.” A pause as she stared into my face. “Don't say anything to him about the phone call, Rick. I can see what you're thinking. I can handle that.”

“I can't promise that.”

She made a face. “Ah, the old knight in shining armor defending the damsel in the bell tower.”

“That's not what I mean. Liz.”

“I'm a big girl. I fight my own battles.”

“I know that—I respect that. But, you know…” I faltered.

She smiled. “You worry about me.” She touched my wrist. “Like I worry about you.”

“But keep in mind what Simon said. ‘You'll always be my girlfriend.'”

“Yes, Rick, but it's not 1950. And you're not Wally Cleaver on
Leave It to Beaver
. Menaced virtue, my hero plunging into battle, sword at the ready.”

Now I laughed. “When knighthood was in flower.”

“Well, knighthood has gone to seed these days. Thank God.” She locked eyes with mine. “
Try
not to say anything.”

“That's better.”

***

I dialed Hazel's number at Miss Porter's. Surprising me, she answered on the first ring, hissing, “About time,” then was irritated when she heard my voice.

“I'm disturbing you.”

“I…I was expecting a call. Oh no, really. I don't mean to be…so abrupt but…”

I stopped her. “It's all right.”

But almost immediately she snapped, “Well?”

“I'd like to talk to Judd, Hazel.”

A long silence, then in a whispered voice, “Why?”

“I want to talk to him about that fight he had with Frankie. I'm curious about Frankie's public behavior. I'm trying to prove…” I stopped because I could hear her clearing her throat, ready to jump into my words.

“That was ugly, that fight. Judd is—like too possessive. Frankie talked to me and…God, it was nothing, but Judd—like he's afraid I'll look at another guy.”

“Could you give me his phone number?”

She hesitated, her voice suddenly buttery. “I'll call him. He's at the Avon Country Club on Simsbury Road. At the indoor tennis courts. He's playing till four.”

“I can meet him there.”

Again the hesitation. “I guess so, but let me reach him. I'll tell him you're coming.” She spoke into the phone, her voice loud now. “Should I be there?”

“You don't have to be, Hazel. I just want to hear what he has to say about Frankie.”

“I can tell you that right now. He doesn't like him.”

“Let him tell me that.”

I started to thank her, but her voice got gravelly. “You're not gonna bring Liz with you, are you?”

“No. Why?”

Anger in her voice. “I don't want a repeat of what happened last week.”

“Meaning?”

“Didn't you
see
? My God. Judd all in Liz's face, flirting, talking about nothing. Lord, you'd think she was…like Michelle Obama or something. It embarrassed me. Like Liz is a great person and all, but she could be his
mother
.”

“Liz has no interest in your boyfriend, Hazel.”

“Sure, I know that, but she was supposed to
stop
it.”

“She didn't encourage him, Hazel.”

A high, false laugh. “Well, it doesn't take much to encourage Judd. All she had to do is show up in that parking lot.”

“Four o'clock.” I wanted the conversation over. “I'll be there. Tell him.”

“Maybe you can tell him to stop talking about her. Lately he brings her up in every conversation.”

“Four o'clock,” I repeated, shutting off the phone.

***

The lounge of the country club, a spacious room off the main entrance of the rambling Colonial-style building, mimicked aristocratic British décor: burgundy-tinted walls, understated lithographs depicting foxhunts that had never taken place anywhere near Avon. A wall of uncut leather-bound volumes secreted behind locked leaded glass panel doors, volumes so uniform I imagined they were some interior decorator's faux-laminate addition. Pristine oriental carpeting so deep you felt as if you were walking in your slippers. A brick fireplace with gargoyle andirons. And deep, bulky leather chairs in forest green, three of which now contained men engaged in a spirited conversation about some item in the
Hartford Courant
. I watched them as I sat across the room, waiting for Judd.

Every so often the men would glance at me, deliberately, in a body, but then turn back to their current-events squabble. A little insecure, I tugged at the lapels of my corduroy sports jacket, pressed my hands across the seam of my ironed khakis, and noticed that my loafers were suitably worn at the heels. A burgundy knit tie and a pale blue shirt. Slightly shabby, but very Ivy League, I looked as if I belonged there.