Read Online No Good to Cry by Andrew Lanh - Free Book Online Page A

ain’t his doing. ‘But nobody’ll believe me,’ he says to me. ‘I believe you,’ I said back. And he starts to shake. My boy, shaking. He ain’t never did that. A hard nut, that boy. This black sheep. ‘I ain’t done it.’ And I told him again, ‘I will call someone who will believe us.’” He pointed a finger at me. “You.”
    Lucy tittered nervously. “Do you believe us?”
    I said nothing.
    â€œSimon don’t lie to me.”
    â€œI want to talk to Simon,” I said.
    That answer didn’t satisfy. Mike swung his body around and leaned into Hank. His voice got dark. “You talk to him.” The him was me.
    â€œWe’ll see,” I said without conviction.
    Mike folded his arms over his chest and rocked in his chair. “When he was found guilty last year, I condemned him, I yelled. I… hit him. I locked him up. He disgraced us. I wanted him to go to Long Lane because I wanted him punished. Otherwise, what are we? Ac gia ac bao .” He looked to see if I understood. You pay a price for evil.
    Hank muttered, “You reap what you sow.”
    Mike went on. “But this time I looked into his face and I knew to my soul that he was not lying to his father.”
    He stood up. We all stood up.
    â€œWe’ll find him and talk,” Hank volunteered.
    I nodded.
    ***
    Outside, Hank and I sat in the car, neither talking for a while. Bothered, I was staring back at the house, though I sensed Hank watching my profile. Through the front window I could see Lucy clearing dishes from the dining room table. Mike Tran at one point stood by the front window, looking out at us, his face pressed against the glass, probably surprised we were still there.
    â€œWell,” said Hank, impatiently.
    â€œI believe him,” I stated finally. “I think Simon was telling him the truth.”
    Hank grinned. “So do I.”
    â€œBut it’s only my gut instinct.”
    Hank laughed. “Good enough for me.”
    â€œArdolino may not agree with me.”
    â€œDid you expect him to?”
    â€œBut I think Simon is going to be the worst evidence against himself.”
    I put the car in gear, though I shot a look back at the house. In the upstairs window a face stared out from behind a curtain, half hidden but staring. “Look, Hank.” I pointed.
    â€œHazel.”
    â€œI’d like to hear her take on her brother. Maybe even Wilson’s.”
    â€œA beautiful girl.”
    Hank waved to her, a foolish gesture, I thought, but Hazel, suddenly aware of our stares, had quickly moved away. She had pulled the curtain across the window.

Chapter Six
    Little Saigon on a Sunday afternoon in April.
    Up and down Park Street cars moved, bumper-to-bumper, jockeying for parking spots. Shiny SUVS with license plates from Rhode Island and Massachusetts turned off the interstate, whole families crowded inside, a day’s excursion to shop for the week at Saigon Food Market. Husbands drank beer and played a round of pool at Ky Dien Parlor while their wives filled carts with lemongrass, mangoes, barbecued pork. Jugs of soymilk. Loaves of crisp French baguettes for ban mi pork sandwiches. Teenaged boys stood on corners, their hair primped in duck’s-ass cuts from a decade they hadn’t heard of, cigarettes bobbing in their mouths, cell phones beeping from the pockets of their baggy pants. Girls in plastic jackets flirted with them. A ripple of high laugher, someone yelling out to a friend. An old woman embraced another old woman. “Toi nho ban lam!” How much I missed you!
    â€œOh, my God,” Hank whispered. “I actually heard someone talking in English.”
    A young girl, her blond-streaked hair freshly permed, paused as she moved in front of some boys, waited for them to smile at her. To whistle, to spin around, do an exaggerated boogie-woogie two-step for her.
    They did.
    She rushed by them.
    Hank and