No Good to Cry

by Andrew Lanh

  Now, watching the two brothers, I was intrigued by the difference. Wilson was on the edge of his seat, his neck stiff, his chin jutted forward, eyes locked on the screen, a boy determined to win. But Simon sat back, a lazy posture, his fingers moving slowly but deftly on the console, almost indifferent. On the screen a nerdy kid with cowlick and buckteeth ambled home from school. Suddenly the boy hurls away his books, the buttons on his white dress shirt pop open, his eyeglasses morph into some sort of laser goggles, and muscles bulge. A superhero. Pop pop pop—street corner bullies dropped, one after another, exploding into bits. Simon and Wilson were yelling out—“I got this one.” “No—me.” Sashaying hookers with mile-high hair had something to say about the loss, but they were also summarily dismissed. A puff of smoke. Gone. “Yes, yes, yes,” roared Wilson, excited. Simon gave up, sitting back.

  Simon waved the jewel box in the air, dismissing it. “Junk,” he mouthed.

  I caught a glimpse of the title on the slick jewel box: KILL POWER 3: THE REVENGE OF EINSTEIN.

  “It ain’t like real life, Wilson,” Simon said to his beaming brother.

  Wilson snapped back, “Yeah, like you know street life.”

  Suddenly Wilson shut off the PlayStation and the TV screen went black.

  Simon was seething, and I sensed that he resented losing to Wilson. “You live your dumb life through a book.” He assumed a tough-guy posture, pulling his lips together. His head swiveled, and I realized he knew I was standing in the doorway. “I got friends who can fuck up your life.”

  The line bothered Wilson, who squinted at his brother. “What?” Then, quietly, he muttered, “Yeah, but they’re already starting with your life.”

  At that moment Wilson spotted me.

  He turned to face me but looked sideways at his brother. The two started some teenaged boy guffaw that was half-pretense, half-boyish glee.

  “Shit.” Simon was looking into my face.

  Wilson poked him in the shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes is here.”

  Simon moved quickly, slamming the door in my face.

  Back downstairs, defeated, I shrugged my shoulders as Mike watched me. The three of us ate a quiet lunch, then sat in the living room making small talk. Silence from upstairs. Every so often Mike’s eyes checked the staircase.

  ***

  When the front door opened and Liz and Hazel walked in, Liz sought my eye. I must have looked panicky because inadvertently she grinned. I read her mind—as she could always read mine. Hers now said, blatantly—Sometimes there is no escape clause for the harried investigator.

  But what thrilled was Hazel’s lively face. Her eyes danced around the room. Doubtless buoyed by Liz’s rousing cheer, Hazel was smiling. No, smiling is too anemic a word—Hazel bubbled.

  “Everything okay?” Lucy asked, anxious.

  Liz nodded as Hazel looked warmly at Liz. “Yeah, okay. Liz helped me to see that even though I’ve been with him so long…but Liz…anyway, Judd…something is…She stopped. “I’m gonna allow myself to be happy.”

  Liz wagged a finger at her. “Those are my words, Hazel. Remember that. You still have to make them your own words.”

  Mike looked confused, but pleased.

  He started to say something, but suddenly we heard high-pitched yelling from outside. It echoed off the walls. Growled curses, fury, sputtered grunts. A rat-a-tat volley of fuck yous. We rushed to the front window, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, peering out.

  Hazel sucked in her breath, trembled, and reached for Liz, who draped her arm across her shoulder, whispering something in her ear.

  Judd Snow had pulled his car up into the driveway. The driver’s side door of the red Audi was wide open, and he leaned against a fender, as if gaining his balance. The car was mud-splattered, as if he’d driven it through spring puddles, careless, crazy. Streaks of dirt smeared the windshield, but he’d switched on the wipers, which left an arc of clean glass.

  He stumbled away from the car and pivoted toward the house. A bellowing voice. “You called the fucking cops on me, Hazel. You think I want those yokels from Avon knocking on my door? My dad…he’s pissed.” A torrent of nonsense syllables, slurred, nasty.

  “A goddamn drunk. Christ.” Mike’s hand touched Hazel’s arm, and she started.

  “Come out, Hazel. Right now. You get in this car and…” His voice broke, a sloppy sob. “You and me…you know. Come on. Now. Fuck them all.” He slumped backwards against the car. His voice grew shrill. “Right now. You hear me. Right now. I’m not gonna wait here forever.” A heavy sigh. “I’m not gonna let you walk away from me. I’m sick of people walking away from me. You hear me?”

  He swung his fist in the air, as if battling an enemy.

  Gasping, Hazel pulled back away from the window, swallowed by her father’s arms, hugging her, drawing her into the room. I looked at Liz and mouthed one word: Police. She nodded, reaching into her purse for her cell phone, headed into the hallway.

  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.