boysâyet. Thatâs clear.â
âBingo. But heâs convincedâ¦â
I broke in. âMaybe forensics will help nab the boys.â
Hank sighed. âSimonâs father is running scared and wants to talk toâyou.â
I rubbed my eyes. âWhat can I do, Hank?â
A long pause, quiet a moment. âWell, he wants you to move mountains. To prove his son innocent.â
I hesitated. âAnd is thisâ¦Simonâ¦innocent?â
Hank waited a second. âThatâs what you gotta find out.â
âWhat does Simon say?â
Hank made a tsk ing sound. âThe boy refuses to talk.â
âMakes my job easy then.â
âI promised Big Nose youâd look into it.â
I smiled. âYou were sure Iâd say yes?â
Hankâs voice rose. âI know you. Theyâre Vietnamese. You imagine sins youâre always atoning for.â
âAtoning for?â
âAnd you got a heart.â
âSo Iâm supposed to meet the family? When?â
Hank chuckled. âWell, tomorrow morning. Minh Loc Tranâeverybody calls him Mikeâhas the day off. Heâs a grease monkey. Sunday morning. Theyâll give us mi ga .â
âUs?â
âYou donât expect me to miss homemade chicken soup, do you?â A pause as he rustled papers near the receiver. âThey live in a small Cape Cod off Campfield on Milton Street in the South End.â
âTomorrow morning?â
âDidnât you hear what I said, Rick? Mi ga . Chicken soup for the Vietnamese soul.â
***
The driveway of the small Cape Cod home looked like a used-car parking lot: a rusted Dodge pickup up on cinder blocks, a decade-old Honda with a smashed-in right fender, mud smeared, and an ancient black Cadillac that might have seemed cool when Gerald Ford assumed the Presidency.
âGod, Hank,â I mumbled, âthis looks like a salvage yard.â I pointed to a vintage Jeep, primer paint slathered on the door, parked on the muddy lawn, its rear tires imbedded in dirt.
âThey got a lot of cars.â Hank did not sound happy.
âAre any of them running?â
Hank bristled. âTheyâre poor people, Rick.â
I shut up.
The house was painted a robinâs-egg blue, eye-catching, a color so brilliant the house seemed a wonderful toy lifted from a childrenâs fairy tale. The houses left and rightâin fact, up and down the curvy streetâwere cookie-cutter homes, some building contractorâs unfortunate hiccough back in the 1950s, the sameness relieved only by the different color siding.
Sitting in front, checking out the derelict cars, I sensed movement in an upper dormer window, a flash of a young face glancing out and then disappearing.
âTheyâre expecting us,â Hank said firmly. He jerked his head toward the house. âWe just gonna sit here?â
âIn a minute,â I told him. âI want you to tell me what Iâm walking intoâand why youâre being evasive.â
On the way over Hank had been uncharacteristically quiet, answering mostly in monosyllables, his clipped responses unnerving me. âDid you ever meet Mike Tran?â Iâd asked him.
âNo.â
âAnyone in the family?â
âNo.â
âChrist, Hank, help me out here.â
âGrandma knew the wife a long time ago.â
âAnd?â
âThey tend to stay to themselves.â
On and on, maddening, a scant biography that told me little. Hankâs face was unusually frozen, his eyes avoiding mine.
No, he said, they rarely attended the Tet New Yearâs parties at the VFW hall in East Hartford. No, heâd never seen them in Little Saigon or shopping at A Dong, a supermarket a mile away in Elmwood.
âNo, no. no.â
âYouâre not telling me something,â Iâd insisted, and his feckless smile convinced me I was right.
âItâs not