No Good to Cry (21 page)

While we watched, Judd suddenly stopped his drunken gyrations, backed away, and I thought he was getting back into his car. Instead, he was looking to his left, down the street, and he let out a loud hiss. “Goddamn.”

Frankie Croix was ambling up the sidewalk from the bus stop, earbuds on, oblivious, nodding his head to music only he could hear, his gait a casual hip-hop swagger. Craning my neck, I could see him pause, suddenly conscious of Judd Snow in the driveway. Watching him.

His face got flushed as he pulled off the earbuds. He stormed at Judd, pointing a finger in his face. “Asshole.”

I could hear Liz on the phone talking to the cops. Her voice was clipped, sure. “Now.”

I threw open the front door, but by the time I hit the top stair, Judd and Frankie were hurling punches at each other, both guys slugging wildly, Frankie landing a blow to Judd's belly so that he doubled over. Frankie repeatedly kicked Judd, who howled, grabbed his shin, tottered.

Staggering, tipsy, Judd managed to pummel Frankie's face, causing Frankie to dip his head and dive into Judd's chest. They banged against Judd's car, slipped to the ground, rolled over, and Frankie crawled away, his face bloodied.

It was a spitfire skirmish that ended almost as quickly as it began. Frankie swore as he rubbed his bruised face, hunched over on the sidewalk, but looking back at Judd who careened into his car door, hobbled, bent over, started to throw up. Frankie pulled himself up and slowly moved toward the house, a triumphant look on his face—a victor's puffy smugness. He arched his back. He had a bloody nose, and he rubbed it, smearing the back of his hand. Judd, teetering, limped toward his car, dragging his injured foot, a string of “fuck you, assholes” punctuating the quiet lawn. He toppled into his seat.

He looked toward the house.

Mike and Lucy stood behind me, watching. Mike surprised me—he was holding Lucy's hand. Her head was bent into his shoulder. Hazel was somewhere inside, though through the open door I could hear Hazel's hiccoughing sob.

Judd scrunched his eyes at us. “Hazel.” A plaintive keening. “Hazel, Come on.”

Frankie was standing at the foot of the steps, but turned and gave him the finger. He raised his fist, blood stained, scraped. “Teach you, fucker, to knock me around.”

Furious, Judd returned the finger but was surprised to see blood dripping down his arm. “Fuck.”

I was suddenly aware of movement behind me. Simon appeared, slipping onto the top stair, maneuvering himself around his parents, tucking his body behind me, staring around me toward Judd. I could feel his hot breath on my arm.

“Get back in the house,” I told him. His arm jerked against my side, and I grabbed it.

He ignored me, refused to move. Instead, twisting in front of me, he yelled, “Frankie, did you kill the bastard?”

Mike grabbed his shoulders, pulled him back. “Get the hell back in the house. You hear me?”

Simon didn't move.

A car careened around the corner, blew a stop sign, and screeched to a stop behind Judd's car. Foster Judd leapt out, spun around like a wobbly top, ran toward his son while leaving his own car running. He reached for his son but was suddenly aware of the audience on the steps. His face tightened, but he turned his back to us.

His voice sailed over the street. “For Christ's sake, Judd. I knew I'd find you here. The cops said stay away, and what do you do—you come here. Did you think I didn't know where the fuck you were going? You want to be dragged to jail again?”

He circled the car, thrust out a hand and slapped Judd in the face. Already bloodied, Judd let out a wounded moan. But at that moment Foster became aware of the blood, the dirt stains on his clothing, the scraped knuckles, the torn shirt, the shattered face.

“What the hell happened? What's going on here?” Confused, he spun around, for the first time taking in the frieze on the front porch: Mike, Lucy, Simon, and me. And huddled against an evergreen near the bottom step a bloodied Frankie. “What?” He squinted. “What the hell is going on at this house?”

He looked at Frankie, a shock of recognition. “You're that punk kid…that murderer.” He laughed wildly. “Did you read the
Courant
, you loser? You're on the front page again. You and…” He glanced at Simon.

Mike bristled, took a step forward, but I held onto his shoulder. “No, Mike.”

“Asshole,” he muttered.

Lucy squeezed his arm. “Minh.”

The sudden wail of a police siren. Foster's mouth dropped as he spoke through clenched teeth to his son. “Start the fuckin' car and drive away. You don't want to be here. I'll take care of this.”

But Judd wasn't moving. “You can't have Hazel.”

His father seethed. “Damn you, this isn't the time.”

Judd was sobbing. “Every girl I ever dated you…you…move in.”

His father shot forward and slapped him again. “Bullshit.”

Judd flinched, his sobbing louder.

Mike bristled. “Mr. Snow, I don't think…”

He didn't get far. Foster swiveled around, shoulders tense, eyes slatted. “Don't you talk shit to me, Tran. You got a son that spends time in juvie and…
kills
people…and…and your daughter…” His voice began ragged, broken. “Your daughter ruined my boy's life. Look at him. She made him into a boy I don't even know anymore. He could have been…been…”

His jaw went slack as a squad car pulled to a stop.

Slowly I walked down the path toward the cop, but looked back at the awful tableau on the landing. Lucy had disappeared, though Mike stood with his arms draped loosely around Simon's shoulders. Simon looked frozen. Frankie had joined them, his face still tight with anger. A large purplish bruise covered his cheek, a swollen eye.

For some reason my eyes swept up to the second floor window, the boys' bedroom, where Wilson pressed his face against the window, watching. His arms were folded over his chest and seemed to be cradling a book. But it was the look on his face that jarred me. Mouth agape, eyes unblinking, he had the look of someone who'd read about the evil in the world and was now, on this quiet suburban lawn, seeing it for the first time.

Chapter Twenty-four

Simon disappeared.

Mike Tran called me the next night, panic in his voice. “Like he goes off all the time, running the streets. I know that. I can't stop that.” He sucked in his breath. “But, you know, we sort of always knew where he was.”

“At Michael's.”

I could hear him lighting a cigarette, dragging in the smoke, exhaling. “Yeah, like we couldn't tell him, though. Lucy—she…well, a mother, you know. She calls Michael. She even calls Frankie's mom, who isn't happy but would say, yeah, the boys ain't there—or they're together.”

“But not this time? Different?”

A long pause. “Yeah.”

“How?”

“A note.” His voice broke. “He left a note.”

“What does it say?”

He swallowed. “That's what got to us. Two words. ‘Don't worry.' He didn't even sign it.”

“But maybe after that scene at your house yesterday—I mean, the police and Judd and his father and Frankie, all that insanity—maybe, he thought he'd better say something.”

“But no one knows where he is.”

“No one?”

He waited a heartbeat. “Could you do me a favor, Rick? I mean, a big favor.”

“If I can.”

“Could you check—maybe Frankie? Maybe. I don't know. Go to Russell Street? That…those VietBoyz. That JD guy. The only time we can't find him—well, we know he's
there
. I can't go there. I can't. I'm afraid of what I'll do.”

“I'll take care of it, Mike.”

After I hung up the phone, I sat on my sofa, staring at my comfortable life—the wall of old leather-bound books, the stunning lithograph by Robert De Niro Sr. of Greta Garbo in
Anna Christie
that I bought at a charity auction at the Farmington Country Club. The oil painting by French-Vietnamese artist Le Pho that I paid too much money for at Zillow's Gallery on West Fifty-seventh Street last year. A sunset in old Saigon that I tried to remember. The weathered oriental carpet under my feet. The old oak desk that once sat in a country store. Here was my careful life fashioned after I'd fled Manhattan madness and street violence. Serene, mostly, my life here, and comfortable. Chiseled out of a helter-skelter past. A faraway Manhattan. Farmington as refuge. Sitting there, surveying my room, I trembled—brutal images of Mike Tran's chaotic and troubled family assailed me. The struggling Vietnamese man who wanted the same life I had now—quiet mornings, placid suppers, loving people at his side, restful sleeps.

I phoned Hank and told him about Simon disappearing—and Mike's anguish.

“I think the boy may be running,” I told him. “Running scared.”

Hank promised he'd be at my apartment within the hour. While I waited, I jotted down possibilities. First off was Michael. A woman's voice, laughing into the phone, in the background a man's playful tease. “For God's sake, give me the phone.”

“Oh, it's you.” His abrupt beginning when he came on the line. “Did they find Simon?” Laughter behind him, a voice disappearing into another room. A door slammed.

I waited for the laughter to end. “No.”

Distracted, he spoke into the receiver. “Sorry, Rick.” A familiarity that annoyed me, frankly. Frat brothers discussing the loss of a keg of beer at the toga party on Saturday night. “I mean, my mother called and I told her I haven't seen him. But he did call me.”

“When?”

“Well…” he paused, deliberating, “early yesterday. No, during the afternoon. From the house, I guess. I wasn't here and my cell was off. He left a message, something about the craziness at the house. Frankie trashes Judd—something he celebrated, a tick in his voice—and the police blocking the street. A short message, but excited.” A deep sigh. “Like I need to know all this.”

“Did you call him back?”

“No. I just assumed he was playing reporter and a lot of what he said was, well, embellished. He's always trying to get my attention—to notice him.”

My mouth was dry. “And he always seems to fail.”

He clicked his tongue. “That's not fair, Rick. It isn't. I told you I let him sack out on my sofa when he's running from home.”

“So you don't know where he went?”

Irritated, his voice clipped: “I told you.” Then, softening, “I suggested Frankie, but…”

I broke in sharply. “No.”

“Look, I have to run. There are people here.” Then he regretted his words. “I
am
concerned. I read the
Courant
about the…the attack on Whitney. I'm not heartless, Rick.”

“If he calls you…” I began, my voice cold.

“I'll have him call you. I promise.”

The line went dead.

When Hank arrived, bounding up the stairs two at a time and ignoring Jimmy's insistent demands from inside Gracie's apartment where the door was wide open—“Where the hell you rushing to? A fire?”—he confided that Jimmy was sitting in a chair near the doorway, injured foot up on an ottoman, but facing the hallway.

Hank chuckled. “Planning his escape.” Then, sheepish, “I didn't stop to talk.”

“You better say hello.”

Hank smiled. “I figured we'd be interrogated, you and me, on the way out.”

I walked to the front window, gazed down at the street. A quiet afternoon, one lone girl walking by with her schoolbooks. I turned back to Hank. “I'm hoping he's all right, Hank. That he hasn't done anything stupid. Probably not—he's not with Frankie. Supposedly. It's just that…well, yesterday had to be traumatic for any kid.”

Hank watched me grab my jacket. “Where to, then?”

I shrugged, helpless. “Where would a teenage boy go when he's running from his family?”

“To a girl's house.”

I shook my head. “No. You've seen him. A baby.”

“He's sixteen. Don't underestimate the hormones of a teenage boy.”

“A baby.” I debated my move. “Mike wants us to check out Russell Street. We will. But first let's check out Frankie's place. Just in case someone is lying to Mike.”

Hank persisted. “At sixteen I would run to a girl's house. One I was sweet on.”

I punched him in the shoulder, grinning. “Yeah, but unlike you, Simon doesn't like to set himself up for quick rejection.”

Hank's eyes glistened. “Ouch, Rick.” He preened, stretched his head toward the small mirror I had hanging over a sideboard. He exaggerated his grin. He tapped his flexed bicep.

“Come on. Let's go.”

With a passing hello to Jimmy—“No one tells me anything and Hank here runs by me like I'm a pest”—we left the house. Jimmy's voice followed us out the door, though I also heard Gracie's demand that he lower it. “What neighbors?” he bellowed. “Rick? You call him a neighbor?”

“Why would Simon leave a note this time?” Hank wondered.

“Let's find out.”

“This may be a wild goose chase,” Hank said as he drove into Frog Hollow and pulled up in front of Frankie's apartment house. The front door was cracked open, a brick wedged in place, the buzzer in the lobby disconnected. We trudged up the two flights of stairs, stepping past graffiti-smeared walls, a burnt-out light bulb on the second floor landing, and rapped on the door. No answer. I knocked again. From inside the garbled cough of a smoker, a spat-out “goddamn,” and the sound of feet dragged across a hardwood floor. The door squeaked open, and Doris Croix, her head wreathed in cigarette smoke and a narcotic haze, peered out.

“Christ, what is it? Can't I get a little sleep?”

I leaned in, and she jumped back, startled. “Mrs. Croix.”

“Oh, it's you.”

“We're looking for Frankie and Simon.”

The hallway light made her face waxy, grayish. Looking up into the light, she blinked her eyes rapidly, and then squinted. “Somebody already called. Earlier.” A harsh, unhappy laugh. “Woke me up then, too. Frankie left with his brother some time ago. And no, they said nothing about Saigon. Is something happening?” For a moment her eyes widened. “Is Frankie gonna be taken in again?”

I didn't answer. “Where did your boys go?” I asked.

But she was already closing the door. Through the closed door, she muttered, “Jesus Christ. I had more peace when he was at Long Lane juvie.”

In the car, fuming, Hank said, “Well, she may get her wish again—for all she gives a damn.” His knuckles drummed the dashboard nervously. “Well, I don't think Simon is with his buddy.”

“Not if Frankie is with Jonny.”

Hank grinned. “Okay, Sherlock, where to next?'

“Russell Street, Hank. Where I knew we'd end up. Two birds with one stone, I hope. JD may know something—God, I hope Simon is there, for once—and I want to get in contact with Diep and Khoa.”

“Why?”

“Their story is connected with Frankie and Simon. And I swear they were near the attack on Whitney Street, idling in that Toyota. Maybe Simon is with them.”

“That's not good news.”

“I don't think anything to do with that pair can be good news.”

“I don't trust a guy with a tattoo that wraps around his neck.”

“Even if it's a good-luck dragon?”

“I don't care if it's a four-leaf clover inside a horseshoe.”

But the Russell Street storefront was closed, though I noticed a dim light somewhere at the back of the room. Peering into the plate-glass window that hadn't been scrubbed in ages, I detected ghostlike movement. I waited. I knocked. Suddenly bright light flashed throughout the room as an overhead light was switched on. A shadowy figure paused at the back, then disappeared, then reappeared near the front door, standing to the side, looking out, suspicious. The door opened. JD stood there, his face stony and his clothing rumpled. A shirt hastily donned, some military-style olive green fatigue, but left open so his chest showed. A landscape of tattoos. Curlicues, arabesques, Chinese symbols, daggers, the patchwork quilt of a drunken sailor. An irregular heart with one word:
Toi
. Green lettering. Crime. Another word below that.
Tien
. Money. Across his navel, jagged letters.
DOA.

“Yeah?”

“We're looking for Simon.”

“He ain't here.” A thin smile. “Every time you come here you ask the same question.”

I moved closer. “Well, one day maybe you'll give me the right answer.”

He yawned. “He ain't here.”

“Was he here today? His family's worried.”

He scratched his stomach absently. ”They have a lot to worry about.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means nothing.” He started to turn away.

“Have you seen Frankie?”

He was already closing the door but stopped, deliberated. A quick glance toward the back room. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, yes. Him and his brother, Jonny. Looking for T-Boy.”

“Where's T-boy?”

“You got a lot of questions.”

“And still no answers.”

He grinned at me, though when Hank grumbled, the grin disappeared. “You got the cop with you.”

“He's my protection.”

“Low rent,” JD said, but there was a curious humor in his tone. I watched Hank, who spotted it. He actually smiled.

“Is Simon with them?”

“God, no. Saigon don't like Jonny, and Jonny don't like Saigon. Jonny don't like most dudes.”

“So you can't help me?” I looked into his face.

“No.”

“One more question. I'd like to talk to the brothers. Diep and Khoa. Joey and Kenny.”

His body stiffened. “Them?” He took a step backwards. “I ain't too keen on them boys.”

“Why's that?”

A quizzical smile. “Shit. Another question. Man, you got a truckload of them.”

I laughed. “And still no answers. Look, JD, I'm looking for Simon. He's in trouble. Two men dead now. Help me out, okay?”

He watched me closely for a minute. “Diep and Khoa are trouble. They moved up from Bridgeport, gun-happy, talking smack, acting like wild cards, telling me what's what, and they impress the boys with shit. We don't want them around here. I told them to stay away.” A wide, happy grin. “Our revolution wants brains, not trigger-happy punks.”

“Brains?” From Hank.

JD considered him for a while, a burning stare, his head nodding up and down. “You heard me.” But then he looked at me. “They buy off the kids with cash and…ugly promises. They
scare
them. That ain't my style.” He waved his hand behind him. “The VietBoyz got a code. It ain't your code, but it's a code.”

“I believe you.”

“Well, that's nice for me then.” Sarcastic, his tongue running over his lower lip. “So I ain't seen them around here lately because they bring the cops here. Now and then”—he paused, looking over my shoulder into the street—“they bump their piece-of-shit car up to the door,
boom boom boom
, but they ain't scaring nobody. And I don't know where they hanging out, and I don't give a damn. Don't push it.”

“I want to find Simon.”

“Then you better look somewhere else.”

With that he closed the door quietly. In a second the overhead light switched off, plunging the room into darkness. A shadow drifted across the room, disappearing into the backroom. I heard a girl's high soprano, a laugh that only stopped when JD barked, “Shut the fuck up.”

She did.

In the car I turned to Hank. “I don't know if he's telling us the truth. But it's clear he's not a friend of Diep and Khoa.”

“Who knows where Simon is?”

“C'mon, Hank. Any ideas?”

He was smiling. “Yeah. The mall.”

I pointed a finger at him. “The mall.”

A teenage boy's miraculous mecca. Nirvana for the wandering kids with bus tickets or their father's cars. Fast food courts and video arcades and girls walking by. Lots of girls.