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

teach the immigrant kids at Bulkeley High School.”
    â€œI know where this is going, Hank.”
    â€œYes, the embarrassment is that within one month they put the thirteen-year-old Mike Tran into the street. Dropping him off on the corner of Main and Garden. Alone on a cold winter day.”
    â€œIt happened all over America.”
    He swallowed. “I know.”
    â€œAnd the good Vietnamese hide their heads in shame.”
    Hank squirmed. “Well, Mike Tran was a hardscrabble survivor, even found friends to live with, stayed in shelters, slept under bridges, did odd jobs, grappled with the raw deal he got, drove himself, and he became a success story. A man driven to be a good American. A GED from high school, courses at a trade school on Flatbush Avenue, a good job in a garage making okay money. Honest, good, he saved his money, and he bought a house and paid his bills.”
    â€œGood for him.”
    â€œYeah. But lots of Vietnamese turn their heads away from him when he walks by. For one thing he looks too—black. Yes, those slanted eyes, that Vietnamese frame, but that mahogany skin. That hair.”
    â€œJust awful.” I shook my head.
    â€œBut a smart man, really. And a good man. He married a Vietnamese girl who could care less about him being an outcast—an orphan herself, shuttled here and there, ignored. And they had four children, high academic achievers, mostly. According to Grandma, Mike enforced strict discipline, real severe, afraid of failure. A man with a hickory stick. School first. Always. He lives in Hartford, but each kid got a scholarship to a private prep school. The oldest is now at Trinity in Hartford, Hazel is a scholarship girl at Miss Porter’s, her twin Wilson a scholarship boy at Kingswood-Oxford.”
    â€œAnd our little criminal? Simon?”
    â€œThe last of the brood, always battling his father’s whip. A bright bugger, I’m told, but a handful. The sixteen-year-old who rebelled against books and teachers and—his family. Suspensions, shoplifting, absenteeism, smart-mouthing the world. A teacher called him ‘Sy’ one day and someone morphed that into ‘Saigon Kid.’ Which he liked a lot. Rumor has it—courtesy of Big Nose—that he got a tattoo of that on his bicep.”
    â€œAt sixteen?” My voice crackled.
    â€œGod, how shockable you are, Rick. One of his buddies did it. There’s a shot of it on his Facebook page. On Instagram. I checked him out.”
    â€œDoes his father know? His mother?”
    â€œMaybe we’ll find that out now.” Hank pointed up the street. “Let’s go. They probably think we’ve changed our minds.”
    We pulled back in front of the small house and I switched off the motor. A curtain moved in that same upper dormer window and a small face glanced out, disappeared again.
    â€œDon’t mention the tattoo, Rick.”
    I smiled. “Makes him easy to identify in a police lineup, no?”
    â€œWe’re here to save him from a murder charge.” Hank’s eyes got wide.
    â€œLet’s just start with a steaming bowl of chicken soup.” I tapped him on the forearm. “Let’s move. I think everyone in the house is watching us.”

Chapter Five
    The front door swung open before we rang the buzzer. A small man dressed in a faded blue denim work shirt and dungarees rolled up over his calves stared at us, his face tight. A muscular man, sinewy. Quietly, he sized us up and then thrust out his hand, pumping my hand and then Hank’s. His palm was moist, but his grip was firm. Callused fingers, a bandage on his thumb.
    â€œMike Tran. Come in.”
    He had a gruff voice, scratchy, and his free hand held a burning cigarette, the ash ready to fall.
    But he didn’t step back, locked in that position, until a voice from behind him prompted, “Minh, you gonna stand there all day?” His eyes flickered as he turned to face