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

I spent hours wandering through the neighborhood, interviewing shopkeepers, stopping stragglers who sat on benches and watched the buses going by. Mug shots of Frankie and Simon in hand. Over and over—“Do you recognize these kids? The afternoon of April 12? Around four o’clock?”
    According to Ardolino, Frankie and Simon claimed they’d been wandering Little Saigon, aimless, an hour in an arcade playing video games, stopping for sodas at Le Vinh Grocery, goofing off on a bench in front of the small park off Russell. But no one remembered them. The kid in the arcade told us he was new there, so he couldn’t help. Others glanced at the photos, shrugged, and moved on.
    A wasted afternoon, perhaps, but our last destination was the VietBoyz storefront down on Russell—where, if the boys were to be believed, they’d hung out for some time. Ardolino had scoffed at that notion and told me it was a crock. Our last stop—and the most troublesome.
    Street gang members as witnesses? As alibis?
    The leader had told the cops that Frankie and Simon were there.
    No one believed him.
    â€œDown there.” I pointed.
    Perpendicular to Park Street, Russell Street was a narrow dead-end. A couple businesses on the corner. Binh Thanh Fashions. Bo Kien, a small eatery. But mostly shabby triple-decker homes dotted the street. The sidewalks were broken, littered with beat-up plastic trash barrels. A bicycle frame was chained to a streetlight post, the wheels and handlebars disappeared. A block down, a yellow-brick two-story industrial building blocked the end of the street, the second floor boarded up, plywood sheets covering the window frames. A gutter on the roof sagged dangerously, pitched downward. To the left of the entrance was a huge sign: FOR SALE. The sign was faded, peeling.
    â€œThat’s what Big Nose told me,” Hank added. “Command central for the VietBoyz.”
    â€œThis should be interesting.” I poked him.
    â€œThere’s probably an assault weapon aimed out the front door.” He poked me back.
    â€œThat’s why you’re walking in first.”
    â€œYou’ll miss me.”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    I looked up and down the street, but there was nothing to see. Russell Street had little life. An old man tottered out of a triple-decker, eyed us suspiciously, and headed away. Quiet, quiet. The building looked abandoned. I tried the front-door knob, but it was locked up tight. I knocked, waited, knocked again.
    â€œHow does a gang keep quarters in Little Saigon?” I wondered.
    â€œIntimidation?”
    I rapped again. “Who pays the rent?”
    Hank grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Rick. A pragmatic man.”
    â€œWho pays the rent tells us a lot about the folks inside, no?”
    I peered through a murky window into a dark room. A ratty sofa, an upturned chair, folding tables and chairs stacked up against a wall, and a long counter that suggested the room had been a store at one time. Etched into a tiled wall: “Tate’s Groceries. We Deliver to Your Home.”
    Well, not anymore.
    â€œCoffee?” I suggested to Hank.
    He nodded.
    Back at the restaurant on the corner of Russell and Park, we drank potent Vietnamese coffee and had triple-color dessert. Bo Kien was a tiny, family-style eatery. We tucked ourselves into the end of a long industrial table already occupied by a young family of four who sipped pho and never looked at one another: the wife tapping on a tablet, the frowning father checking his iPhone messages, and the young boy and girl absorbed in some noisy tick-tock video game on the gadgets gripped in little fists. Hank nodded at them and whispered to me, “There is no hope for the next generation.”
    â€œHank, everyone said that about your generation.”
    â€œAnd they were right. Actually.”
    The dimly lit family restaurant had mismatched tables, chairs with torn plastic,