No Good to Cry (19 page)

“You know them?”

“I've seen them, Simon and Frankie in the backseat of that car.”

“Well, Simon wasn't happy. I asked him what the hell was going on. He mumbled two names. Diep and Khoa. And then sneered, Joey and Kenny. Brothers. Diep the older. The only thing he said was that he knew them and they were looking for him and Frankie.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “He knows them from Little Saigon, I guess. And I guess Frankie—he says it was Frankie—snagged some weed from the guys. A big no-no in gangster land.” He breathed out. “Christ, that boy's nothing but trouble.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. By the time I pulled into our driveway and Simon scooted out, hunched over like a corrupt Hartford mayor avoiding the photographers, the Toyota was gone.”

“Christ,” I mumbled.

Michael stood up, slapped some cash on the table, and nodded at me. “Out of here. Things to do.”

I called after him. “Sounds to me like you're becoming part of the family again?”

He stopped walking. “Don't count on it.”

“It wouldn't hurt.”

“Of course, it always hurts—family.”

He started to walk away but turned back. “Well, think about it, Rick. I don't want my brothers and sister—hurt.”

I threw out a line in Vietnamese. “
Mot giot mau dao hon ao nuoc la
.” It gave him pause. I could see him translating. I helped him along. “Blood is thicker than water.”

“Did you make that up? So clever, the modern PI running with chopsticks at the ready.” He sighed. “But I suppose it's true.”

“Blood being thicker than water?”

“Blood being preferable to slaughter.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Hank bustled into my apartment. “News, news, glorious news.” He bowed. “The venerable town crier has arrived.” He placed his laptop on my coffee table, and switched it on. “News, news.”

“Did you call Big Nose?”

“Of course.”

“Big Nose is the real town crier, Hank. Did he come through?”

With the appearance of the Vietnamese gangsters in the low-slung Toyota, I needed information. Kenny and Joey. Khoa and Diep. The slick punks in the black linen suits.

“Yeah,” Hank began, “lots to say, running his mouth.”

I smiled. “An understatement, Hank.”

“Big Nose got the dope from Frankie. The duo moved up from Bridgeport, two slimy brothers. They beat up a massage parlor owner there. They'd been part of the Saigon Crips gang out of Canal Street. They got into trouble there, so they had to get out of town. Loose cannons, nuts. They gravitated to VietBoyz because that's what you do if you're a thug, but JD isn't happy with them.”

“A power play?”

“Maybe. Probably they want in on the action.”

“Which is?”

“Drug activity, mainly. But also extortion, protection. Hookers—pimps.” Hank grinned. “Big Nose recited a laundry list.”

“So they're not welcome at Russell Street?”

“Big Nose thinks JD is playing them—to keep an eye on them. He's waiting to make a move on them. But they're ruthless—or at least that's the reputation they like. JD is cunning, plays the friendly gangster—we've seen bits of that, no?—but at heart he's dangerous. Some of the young soldiers think the brothers are cool. Those Miami Vice black-linen duds, the guns.”

“And Simon and Frankie?”

“JD isn't happy that they're grooming the boys as runners. Flattery—then control.”

“Why them?”

“I guess Frankie screwed up bad—ripped them off. Now they got their hooks into the boys. Threats, mainly. Big Nose is scared shitless of them.”

“Maybe Simon and Frankie, too.”

“They use them as drug runners.” A bewildered smile. “Sort of like what JD himself does. Kenny and Joey splashed cash on them, a little weed for their troubles, maybe some liquor, probably not girls but who knows, and the boys got drunk with it.”

“Not anymore.”

“Right. Diep, the older one, likes to shoot off his gun. Target practice. A real mean streak. Big Nose says he held a gun to Frankie's head—a sort of joke, but Frankie wasn't laughing. Khoa is a little simple-minded, laughs a lot at things that aren't funny. They like to go to bars and pick fights. Flash their guns. Or knives. They brag about ripping off convenience stores. Shoving clerks, hauling off cartons of Marlboros. Mind you, this is Big Nose talking. The boys are afraid to disobey them now. They're in a bind.”

“Michael said the guys lay in wait for Simon on his street.”

“Yeah, Big Nose said that after Frankie ripped off some weed, a dumb act, things got scary. This is after the gun-to-the-head act. A stupid boy.”

“Christ.”

“Big Nose says the boys are nervous as hell now.”

“What's next?”

“He doesn't know. He no longer stops at Russell Street. Too messed up, he said. ‘I seen the blood in their eyes.' That's his line. ‘I don't think they're fun anymore.' An epiphany in a sixteen-year-old.” Hank waved his hand in the air. “Sort of gives you hope, right, Rick?”

“Yeah, civilization has arrived.” I walked to the window, gazed down into the street. “So what'll happen to Simon and Frankie?”

Hank gave it some thought. “Big Nose says he's washed his hands of them. He's staying away. He told me he has a girlfriend now.” He laughed. “Big Nose seemed surprised that a girl would
like
him.”

I was thinking of Frankie and Simon. “None of this sounds good.”

Hank pointed to his laptop on my coffee table, the screensaver an image of a state trooper leaning into the driver's window of a stopped speeding car. “And it's going to get worse.”

“What?”

Hank's eyes brightened. “I know folks of your advanced age view social media as one more communicable disease. You refuse to believe that real life is being tweeted and Facebooked and texted nanosecond by nanosecond. Now Big Nose, who travels with a cell phone, a tablet, an MP3 player, and a knapsack filled with violent video games, probably a pair of Google eyeglasses and an Apple watch, and only seems to lack an active account at LinkedIn, asked me innocently what I thought of Simon and Frankie's video, uploaded onto YouTube. Well, that took me by surprise.”

I counted a beat. “Well, at
your
advanced age…”

While he was talking, he tapped on the keyboard, brought up the site, typed in a few words, and suddenly there was a line of bold capital letters: SAIGONSEZ—NO GOOD TO CRY.

Hank translated for me. “Do you get it? Simon Says. Saigon…”

“I get it.”

The first image was startling. Shot probably in Simon's living room with a backdrop of his mother's knickknacks on a shelf and a curtain slipping off a rod, I marveled at Simon and Frankie's…well, presence. Both boys gloriously filled the screen. A still shot, black and white, both assuming slovenly gangsta poses as the video began: arms folded over their bony chests, heads tilted back and to the side, eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a belligerent line. That rhythmic nodding that punctuated a hip-hop performance. They were dressed in familiar outlaw-boy attire: oversized jerseys promoting the New England Patriots, tremendously baggy blue jeans that cascaded over brown work shoes, Alaskan Klondike gold-nugget necklaces around their necks. Assorted plastic bands around their wrists. Oddly both boys had braided their shortish hair into sloppy Bob Marley dreadlocks so that both looked like country-bumpkin cartoon characters from the old funny papers.

“My God,” I said to Hank. “What the hell?”

“Wait,” Hank cautioned. “You gotta hear this.”

The still shot of the boys dissolved as the video began with jerky movement, Simon stepping closer to Frankie, then stepping away. Both boys stared into the camera with tough-guy demeanor. The next shot was a close-up, waist-high. Simon stared into the camera and announced in an amazingly sure but high-pitched voice: “We are Saigon”—he pointed to his own chest—“and Frankie”—a nod toward his partner. “And we are”—both boys together—“SaigonSez.” An uncomfortable moment as the boys looked at each other.

Frankie then picked up the narration, his voice rough at the edges, clipped in some tough-guy inflection that reminded me of James Cagney but was probably stolen from LLCoolJ or Eminem.
Mama said knock you out
…
Trailer park girls go round…

“This here is our first rap. ‘No Good to Cry.' Because it ain't no good to cry. Look around you.” Frankie punched the air with his fist. “You ain't gonna change nothing in the world. Shit happens. No good to cry.”

Simon a.k.a Saigon spoke over his words with a sheepish grin that belied the words he spoke: “In the name of the devil.”

Frankie added, “The situation in Afghanistan.”

Saigon echoed, “Afghanistan blood bath, you know.” A slight giggle. “ISIS. Ice baby, ice.”

I glanced at Hank. “Current events? Really?”

Frankie repeated in a singsong voice: “Seat-u-a-tion. Seat-u-a-SHUN.” Stressed.

Then Frankie reached out of camera range and obviously pressed an “on” button because a driving, iterated bass line began, too loud, a rhythmic duh duh DUH duh duh DUH Boom. And over again. Repeated a couple times, and then Frankie began rapping in a deep heartfelt voice:

In the name of the devil

awright you go to hell

In the name of the devil

awright I'll go to hell.

He paused as Saigon jumped in, spat out the words
:

Boys with black and hooded heads

Cool and classy in the street

Talking trash and keeping time

Tattooed savage digs the beat.

Punctuating Simon's lines Frankie sang out in counterpoint:

hide a secret

hide a secret

A pause, then Frankie repeated the refrain:

In the name of the devil

awright you go to hell

In the name of the devil

awright I'll go to hell

Saigon, more confident now, stared into the camera with fierce, penetrating eyes:

See a coffin passing by

It ain't Satan—never never

You and me—no good to cry

Only Satan lives forever.

Frankie's new backing:

practical joke

practical joke

In the name of the devil

awright you go to hell

In the name of the devil

awright I'll go to hell

Saigon thrust his arms out toward the camera, a boxer's aggressive fists:

No tomorrow for a fool

Laugh today, it's all a fake

Forbidden streets ain't got no map

Nowhere to run when you awake

Frankie's parting shot:

hats off to you

hats off to you

Both boys ended with:

In the name of the devil

awright you go to hell

In the name of the devil

awright I'll go to hell

Hank stopped the video. We stared at each other, eyes glazed.

“You look stunned,” he said.

“I am stunned. I can't believe this.”

“You know what this sounds like, don't you?”

I closed my eyes for a second. Chaotic zigzags of brilliant light in the dark. “Yes, a confession.”

“Bingo.” Hank pointed at the computer screen. “What in the world are they thinking of?”

“They're thinking of rap music fame, of MTV appearances, streaming video, girls hanging off their beltless pants, of becoming Justin Bieber, Dr. Dre hustling them off to the Bahamas for lunch with Jay-Z and Beyoncé.”

Hank laughed. “You've been watching the E! Network.”

“No matter.” I pressed a key and the screen woke up. “When was it posted?” I scrolled down.

“That's the kicker. “The day before Jimmy and Ralph were attacked.”

“Christ.” I saw something else. “There are 8,756 LIKES, Hank. They're finding an audience.”

“Well, it's not exactly going viral, Rick. That's a blip on the radar screen of social media.”

“Well, all it takes is Detective Ardolino to print out the words and hand them to the D.A. It's…well, a celebration of street thuggery. In the name of the devil no less.”

Hank chimed in with a run of quotations. “I've seen it a dozen times, Rick. Boys with black hoodies. Trash talk. Laugh today because it's all a fake. Forbidden streets. A secret. A practical joke. Satan lives forever. Man, you can picture them strutting down the sidewalk, hoodies up, menacing, having the time of their lives because…you're gonna die someday. Only Satan lives forever. So you might as well do your joke, knock your way through life. Hats off to you, boys. Life is short—no good to cry.”

I held up my hand. “Enough. I get it.” I slumped in the seat. “What are they telling us here, Hank?”

“They're telling us that they work for the devil.”

“Not good.”

A world-weary smile. “Not good at all. In fact, no good to cry.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Late in the afternoon I wrapped up a fraud investigation for Cigna Insurance, pressed SEND, and stood up, stretching out my limbs. I needed to grade papers for my one-night-a-week Criminology class, but I put it off. Time for a nap. The sameness of my investigations sometimes got to me—white-collar crime exhibited a pathetic redundancy. So much of my work involved picayune plodding, and surprisingly the conclusions were often transparent—folks always thought their way to embezzled riches was pioneering. In truth, it was as if the crook simply pressed “replay” on an LP on a turntable that went round and round.

My cell phone jangled. I grabbed it.

I was expecting a return call from Detective Ardolino. Earlier that day, I'd phoned the Hartford policeman but neglected to reach him. I'd left a detailed message on his office machine—“Detective Ardolino's office, I'm not here. This better be important”—letting him know about the incendiary YouTube video from SaigonSez. Though it cast Simon and his cohort in a bad light, I always agreed with Jimmy who stressed transparency. Sooner or later Ardolino would return the favor. A gruff officer of the law, he possessed an abiding if quirky sense of right and wrong.

I hung on his line a little too long, hoping he'd pick up, and ended feebly. “I just thought you should know.”

When I told Hank about it, he'd roared, “I'd love to be there when Ardolino brings up YouTube and stares into the quasi-gangsta faces of those boys. All that teenaged testosterone and in-your-face attitude.”

I'd thought about that. “I have a feeling Ardolino slams up against that street attitude every day of his working life.”

In my phone message I summarized the video, even read a few choice passages from our transcript. Hank had transcribed its curious helter-skelter language. Hank insisted the urban vocabulary and syntax of rap videos demanded
all right
be written
alright
. Or, worse,
awright
. That
you
become
ya
. I cringed at that. That the apostrophe become invisible. And that first person singular, as in
doesn't
, become
don't
—

“Stop,” I'd pleaded. “I get it.”

So I was expecting a call back from Ardolino, perhaps one laced with sarcasm, a shot of bile, and perhaps a reluctant modicum of thanks.

“Rick.” Liz, her voice frantic.

“Oh no.”

“Exactly. I'm at work, and we just got a buzz out of Hartford. Seconds ago. Another knockdown attack. This time on Whitney off Farmington. Another man attacked. Violent, cruel. An old man slugged in the side of his head.”

“Dead.”

“Yes.”

My heart raced. “My God.”

She hesitated but went on, “APB for two young men last seen running south on Whitney, one report saying they headed toward Sisson. Black hoodies.”

A refrain from SaigonSez echoed in my head:

Boys with black and hooded heads.

Cool and classy in the street.

“Christ, Liz.”

Liz's voice was scratchy. “There's no proof it's Simon and Frankie.”

I grit my teeth. “Yeah. Tell that to Ardolino.”

“I'll keep you posted. I'm reading the wires as they come in. It wasn't on the media when I got it, though the TV stations are probably there now.”

“I'm headed there. Call me on my cell.”

Her voice had an edge. “Rick, maybe you shouldn't go there.”

But I was already hanging up and grabbing my jacket. I considered calling Hank, but I knew he was at the Academy, spending the day with some other new recruits he'd become friendly with, the group of four or five young men and women catching a movie and a few beers at a cop bar in Meriden.

I parked at a small strip mall on Farmington Avenue, a line of struggling businesses with lackluster 1950s façades, faded pastel signs with blinking neon. A failed beauty academy, boarded up. A take-out Chinese restaurant notorious for being blown up by Chinatown extortionists—and, I wondered, possibly a recent visit from the VietBoyz. A Spanish bodega with the plate-glass window plastered with LOTTO and MEGA MILLIONS signs. “We had a $1000 Winner!” “You Can't Win If You Don't Play!” “We accept W.I.C. Food Stamps.”

A fat man in a greasy T-shirt stood in front, rocking on his heels, a cigarette between his lips, and he frowned as I stepped out of the car. He pointed his cigarette down toward the intersection of Whitney and Farmington. I turned to look—a kaleidoscope of flashing police lights, fire engines, spotlights, and TV satellite trucks. A growing rumble of noise. Screeching tires, a two-way radio blast, a police cruiser taking the corner, siren blaring.

“There,” the man said quietly to me. “It ain't safe to leave the house nowadays.
Que lastima
!” I nodded back at him. He rocked on his heels. “Somebody is gonna get you sooner or later. If it ain't those bastard ISIS killers…” He shrugged as I walked away.

No good to cry about it.

As I suspected, the corner of Whitney and Evergreen was cordoned off, a line of yellow tape stretched from a stop sign across the street, wrapped around a light pole, and circled back through a row of cars. A patrolman stood on the perimeter, arms folded, bored.

A crowd of stragglers bunched at the tape, peering, demanding, gossiping. I joined them, pushing to the front, though an old woman clutching a shopping bag filled with empty deposit cans and bottles elbowed me. “My spot.” Her fierce voice in my ear made me jump. I ignored her and she elbowed me again. “I was here first.”

I waited. I spotted Ardolino conferring with another man by the State Police evidence van, Ardolino dressed in a light tan raincoat that flapped open. Hunched over, speaking into the neck of the other man, he kept pointing his finger toward the body, which lay under a blanket on the pavement. Every so often, though engrossed in the conversation, his eyes swept the crowd, quick penetrating glances that missed nothing. Inevitably his eyes caught me, pressed against the yellow tape. He started, straightened up, and whistled to a patrolman.

He pointed. “Him. The Oriental.”

But the cop was confused. Alongside me were two cooks from the Chinese take-out, both in grimy white aprons. Both were chattering in an excited Fujian dialect, and I was surprised that I caught a few words—”bad luck” and “dead.” The rest a mishmash. A buddy in college spoke that parochial dialect.

The patrolman was gazing at the two men, who suddenly looked scared, backing off and trying to maneuver themselves away from the crowd. Headed toward them, the cop looked ready to pursue, his hand on his revolver, but Ardolino, frustrated, yelled out, “You damned fool. Are you blind? The one that looks like he got a golf club stuck up his suburban ass.”

I bowed.

The cop wasn't happy but let me slip under the tape.

“Your boss is a charmer,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he grinned back at me, “a charm-school dropout.”

“How did I know you'd be prowling these streets?” Ardolino began.

“Of course I had to come here. I heard it on…”

He held up his hand. “I ain't got time to chat with the likes of you.” He started to walk away but swung back, stepped close to me. “But don't go away. Somehow I'm gonna end up talking to you about this shit, and I might as well get it over tonight. Stay right there.” He actually pointed to a spot on the pavement, back behind the yellow tape. I took my position, and waited.

As I stood there, a woman rushed up the sidewalk, a policewoman cradling her elbow, and she tried to break free, headed toward the body. Another cop grabbed her arm, but she shrugged him off, wailing, arms flailing, until she stumbled. It was an awful moment, the crowd around me becoming silent as her body rolled back and forth. I breathed in, caught by the raw display, and the moment took me back to New York, to my flatfoot beat in Chelsea. How many times had such a scene played out on a bloody sidewalk? The awful grief that hit a loved one like a senseless tsunami, the dark engulfing sorrow. I'd witnessed it too many times, yet it never failed to stun me. Now, again, this anonymous woman shrieking about the old man dead on the sidewalk.

Ardolino, watching, his pad in hand, didn't budge. But when he looked around again, I noticed that his face was pale as dust.

An hour later, the body removed after the medical examiner made his official pronouncement of death and the evidence squad photographed and bagged and labeled, the crowd drifted away. I waited by the tape with a few stragglers.

At one point, looking back toward Farmington Avenue, I spotted a low-slung Toyota with dark tinted windows idling at the light. Khoa and Diep? Kenny and Joey? They were too far away to tell. The light turned green, but the car didn't move. A red light, then green again. A car behind them blew its horn, but still the Toyota refused to move. Finally, one insistent horn blast erupted from behind, the driver maddened and leaning on the horn, and the Toyota whipped forward, backfired, its occupants returning the horn fire. It disappeared. The Vietnamese brothers? With Simon and Frankie in the backseat?

Finally, darkness falling, streetlights popping on, the street shadowy and bleak, I watched Ardolino nod to another man, tuck his pad into a breast pocket, button the raincoat, and walk away. A dozen yards away he opened the door of George's Pizzeria, but deliberated. He yelled back to the patrolman, “Hey, Sanchez. Yeah, you. Do you see any other cops named Sanchez earning a buck for just hanging around? Yeah, him. Get that guy.”

That guy: me. I slipped under the tape and walked by Sanchez.

“As I said,” he whispered to me as I passed, a knowing grin on his face, “the dunce sitting in the corner of charm school.” I saluted him, and he smiled. “Good luck, amigo.”

Inside Ardolino was already sitting at a booth, still in his buttoned-up tan raincoat, hunched over the table. I slid into a seat across from him as he signaled to the waitress. “Honey, a Bud Lite. I'm off-duty.” The last was addressed to me. “Don't call the fucking commissioner, Lam boy.”

“I probably still have him on speed dial.”

“Funny man.” He bit his tongue. “Christ, murder makes me thirsty.” A sickly smile. “So maybe your bad little boys are back at work. The first one was practice, sort of whetting the appetite. This one was a direct hit.” He mimed a fist connecting to the side of my temple. Instinctively I jerked back, which made him laugh.

“What happened, Detective?”

A disingenuous smile. “Maybe Saigon sez…may I take a giant step toward prison?”

“Tell me what happened.”

The waitress placed a bottle of beer on the table, waited, looking at me, but I shrugged her off. Ardolino took the paper menu that was wedged between an old-fashioned jukebox player and a crusty sugar container and skimmed the offerings. His finger drummed the laminated paper. “I can't decide if I'm hungry or not.”

“Detective, come on.”

He dropped the menu and locked eyes with mine. “It's the same goddamned M.O., Rick. You know what I'm saying? Listen to me. This old man, Christ, he had a cane no less, half-blind fucker, and he's hobbling in broad daylight down the sidewalk. He just left his daughter's house. She works as a school aide—you saw her fall to pieces. Every afternoon a walk—for his health. Doctor's orders. So he'll live to a hundred-and-ten. Like anyone wants to in this town. Anyway, he's making his way slow and sure, baby steps, and he's down here on Whitney. Just down from the shops. Here on a stretch where the welfare apartment houses are. No one around. Well, maybe one person. Maybe. Suddenly—and this is from that one person—two figures in black come running breakneck speed, weaving in and around parked cars, yelling and laughing, and the old man, startled, I guess, he stops to wait for the dumb kids to run past him. Instead one of them sucker-punches the old fart in the side of the head. Like he planned it. Heavy-duty punch, mind you. And they run off.”

“The witness saw this?”

He nodded and took a long sip of his beer, wiped the beer foam off his lips. “Think I'll have the pastrami grinder.” He signaled the waitress and gave the order. “Make it to go, darling. The missus misses me when I'm late at work. Women die from loneliness, Rick.” A huckleberry smile that broke at the edges. “Write that down. Seen that looker who dumped you in New York. I should write a manual and give it to you.”

“Yeah, twenty-four words or less.” Impatient, I leaned forward. “Detective, the witness?”

“A woman who just entered the foyer of her slum housing, for some reason looks back out, sees two young guys, both dressed in black hoodies, running. She sees one of them slam the old guy so she dials 911. Babbling in Spanish, of course. Sees them running, turning that corner toward Sisson, she thinks. End of story.”

“She never saw their faces?”

“What do you think?”

“Then why do you assume it's Simon and Frankie?”

He finished the beer, smacked his lips. “Ain't you been listening to me? Doesn't this sound like a certain story you and I been through before?”

“C'mon, Detective. You and I both know there's no evidence the attack on Ralph was done by Simon and Frankie.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked. “Why did you break every speed law getting to the scene of this crime? A simple public citizen posing as a voyeur?”

“You know why I'm here.”

‘That's what I said—Simon and Frankie.”

I was getting frustrated. “We're talking in circles.” I watched his face. Something was going on—a mischievous grin, a twinkling eye, his tongue rolling over his lips.

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

“What if I told you that I got proof firsthand?”

My heart sank. “What?”

He took his time, fiddling with the empty beer bottle, pulling at the lapel of the raincoat, gazing around the room.