Sacrifice Fly (28 page)

He stepped toward me and stuck out his hand. “John Roberts.”

“This is Detective Raymond,” Caroline said, speaking for me while handing her boss
a couple of tissues. Then in a whisper, “He’s here about Francisco.”

“Really?” Roberts said, unable to hide his surprise. He rubbed his eyes. “I thought
I’d covered … all that with the other detective. Royce, was it?”

“Yes.” I released his hand. I should have corrected him about being a detective, but
I decided to wait. “I have a few questions and hope you can spare me a moment.”

“Shoulda called me on my cell. I had a lot of spare moments over the East River.”
He picked up his case. “Come on into my office, Detective. I think I can give you
a few.”

“Thanks.” I gave Caroline a smile as I followed Roberts. We passed the white woman,
who was talking on her headset. She gave me a brief smile as Roberts opened his office
door.

“Come on in,” he said. “Excuse the mess. We’re in the process of giving me more space
back here.” I stepped inside. The mess he was talking about was some wallboard, boxes
filled with stuff that I guessed used to be on the walls, and a few gallons of paint.
The room had no windows, only an air conditioner built into the back wall, which Roberts
switched on. To the right of that was another dress shirt hanging in a dry-cleaning
bag. The man was prepared. “Gonna knock the walls down and take over some of the main
area there.”

“Why not expand out?” I said, pointing to the back door.

“It’s an alley. Not part of my lease.”

I nodded. “How long had Mr. Rivas worked for you?”

Roberts put his briefcase on his desk. “On and off, five years. He wasn’t a regular
employee.” He took the clean shirt off its hook and tore open the plastic bag. “I
used him for odd jobs, some maintenance, some travel I didn’t want to do.”

“Where’d this travel take him?”

“Caribbean mostly, sometimes Florida.”

“He ever mention anything about
moving
down to Florida?”

“Not to me.” Surprised. “Why?”

“How about a Felix Villejo?” I tried. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No,” Roberts said. “Should it?”

I shook my head. I could tell by the look on his face, he had no idea what I was talking
about. “Something someone said,” I explained. “Nothing important.”

“No offense, Detective, but if it’s not important…”

“You know, Mr. Roberts,” I said. “I never actually said I was a detective.”

Roberts draped the shirt over his chair. “Excuse me? You told Caroline—”

“I told her I had some questions about Rivas. She assumed the rest.”

“And you didn’t correct—” A small smirk crossed his face. “You pulled this same shitty
routine with my wife.” He snapped his fingers. “Raymond. Donne. You’re the schoolteacher.”
I stayed quiet long enough for him to add, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I paused. “I’m trying to find Frankie, Mr. Roberts.”

“Oh, please. That’s the same line of crap you fed my wife. Impersonating a police
officer is what you’re doing. Trespassing, too.” He reached into his desk, pulled
out a business card, and picked up his phone. “Why don’t I call Detective Royce and
see what he has to say.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He laughed. “Damn right, you’d rather I didn’t. How dare you harass my family like
this and treat us as … Jesus … treat us like suspects.” He slammed the phone down.
“You’re not even a goddamned cop, and you’re treating us like we’re hiding something.
Coming to my home, into my business.” He pointed his finger at me. “Something’s wrong
with you.”

“I’m trying to find Frankie,” I repeated. “I thought if I learned a bit about his
father, it might help me figure out where he went.”

“His father,” Roberts said, “was a sinking ship. The only reason I gave him work was
because no one else would, and he was … family. My wife felt sorry for his kids, so
I threw him some work now and then and held my breath he didn’t screw it up. And look
what happened.”

“Are you saying his death
was
related to the work you gave him?”

“See?” he said, sticking his finger in my face now. “You’re— Get the fuck out of my …
business, or I swear to God I’ll call Royce and have you locked up.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Roberts,” I said.

“Go back to your real job, Mr. Donne.”

I left his office and headed right out the front door to the street. The temperature
seemed to have gone up ten degrees. I took off my jacket and thought about all the
shit I had waiting for me back at school. Maybe I could swing by, say I felt better,
get a half day in. Damn it. More time wasted.

“Now you really look like you need a vacation.”

I spun around as Caroline took one last drag from a cigarette, dropped it to the sidewalk,
and stepped on it with an expensive-looking shoe.

“Was John able to answer your questions, Detective Raymond?”

“I’m not a detective, Caroline. I’m a schoolteacher.”

“Ahh,” she said. “I knew you were too cute to be a police officer. But, excuse me
for asking, what are you doing here asking questions about Francisco?”

“I’m Frankie’s teacher.” As if that explained everything. “I don’t know, to be honest.
I’m just trying to…”

“You’re just trying to help,” she finished for me. “That is good of you.”

“Yeah, but I think I just ran out of helpful ideas.”

Caroline walked over to me and took my hand. “Perhaps,” she said, “I can give you
some ideas, Mr. Raymond.”

“Donne,” I said. “Raymond Donne.”

She rubbed her orange-tipped thumb over mine. “Are you getting any good ideas?”

“One or two.”

“Good. I work late tonight, but tomorrow would be a very good time for you to ask
me to dinner, so I accept.”

“What time should I ask you for?”

“Seven would be nice,” she said. “Meet me at Shorty’s.” She took her hand back and
pointed down Broadway. “It’s under the tracks. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“I know it.”

“Good. I have to get back to work now, Raymond.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

“Yes. You will.” She turned back to the travel agency. As she opened the door, she
glanced over her shoulder to make sure I was still watching. She smiled and waved
good-bye with a wiggle from those wonderful fingers.

Chapter 23

THE COMBINATION OF AIR-CONDITIONING
, unlimited iced coffee, and a page of box scores kept me in the diner longer than
I had wanted. The thought of having free time when I really wanted to be out doing
something for Frankie would have driven me crazy if not for this game I play when
reading the box scores: I try to find which pitcher had the best game the previous
night based on innings pitched, base runners allowed, and earned runs. I do the same
with hitters by checking the in-game batting average, on-base percentage, and runs
batted in. Unfortunately, both showed up on the team that played the Yankees last
night, blowing them out by six runs. By the time the waitress dropped the check in
front of me, it was early afternoon.

With baseball heavily on my mind, I remembered what day it was and that Frankie had
told me this was a practice day for his traveling team over at McCarren Park. The
practices ran from three thirty until six. Maybe the coach could spare me a few minutes.
He knew Frankie as well as anyone. It was worth a shot, even if it was a long one.

I got to McCarren Park a little before three thirty. Students from Automotive High
School were crossing Bedford Avenue to the park side, paying little mind to the buses
or cars that shared the road. Some of the kids cut through the park. Others went left
or right, depending on which subway they were taking home.

I walked over to the ball field as a stocky Hispanic man dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt
dumped the equipment bag he was carrying at home plate. I heard the disappointing
sound of aluminum hitting aluminum. Metal and baseball don’t mix. The man pulled out
a bat and a few balls. A boy about Frankie’s age dragged a red cooler over to the
fence, then ran out to the shortstop position. He did some deep knee bends and a few
stretches. After a minute or so, the man standing at home plate yelled, “You ready?”

“Yeah,” the shortstop said, raising his glove above his head and then touching it
flat to the ground. “Go.”

The coach’s name was Herrera, and the boy was his son, Rafael. Frankie had told me
he didn’t like the kid much because of the conceited way he carried himself. It seemed
like every coach wanted his son at shortstop, and every coach’s kid thought he belonged
there.

Herrera tossed a ball into the air and proceeded to smack hard grounders at his kid
at the rate of about one every fifteen seconds. Rafael would scoop each one up just
as smooth as someone serving ice cream and then toss the ball toward the backstop.
One of the grounders hit a rock or something on its way to the kid and he picked it
off his hip and waved his glove in the air. Maybe he did belong there.

“I don’t need no show,” the man yelled. “Jus’ get the ball back in, Rafi.”

“Having a little fun, Dad,” the shortstop said. “Coach.”

“Save the fun for some other time. This is baseball. Move in another five feet.”

Rafael did as he was told, and his dad smashed a one-hopper that the kid took off
the shoulder. He grimaced, but made no sound that I could hear.

“That’s what happens when you show off,” Herrera said. “Here’s another.”

Just as promised, the ball took a bounce about two feet in front of Rafael, and the
kid practically hit the ground getting out of the way. He looked at his father, who
just picked up another ball and tossed it up in the air, this time catching it.

“Why you move, Big Man? Afraid you take one in that pretty face?”

I could hear Rafael’s voice crack as he said, “Okay, Coach. I get it. No more. Please.”

Herrera looked at his son with disgust and waved him back to the shortstop position.
“You think about that next time you put on a show.”

“Yes, Coach,” Rafael said, looking down and testing the dirt with his toe.

I bought a bottle of water from the vendor behind the backstop and took a seat in
the bottom row of the third-base-side bleachers. The coach gave me a five-second appraisal
through the fence and went back to hitting balls at his son. The wind picked up a
bit, and a small, brown tornado formed behind second base. The kid glanced over at
it, and a sharp grounder skipped on past him into centerfield.

“You got one minute to get that ball and the other two you missed back to the plate.
And pay attention. You wanna watch dust fly, you can do it from the bench.”

As Rafael sprinted after the errant balls, his dad went over to the cooler. He walked
with a slight limp. He squatted down like the catcher I figured he used to be and
pulled out a can of something. I walked over to him.

He acknowledged me as he rose with an almost inaudible grunt, popped the pull-tab
on his soda, and said, “Don’t tell me. You’re a major league scout slumming it.”

“No.” I laughed. “But if I were, I’d be pretty impressed with that boy of yours.”

“He’s gettin’ there. Gotta learn to keep his eye on the ball, though.”

“People tell me the same thing,” I said, looking for a smile. It didn’t come, so I
stuck out my hand. “Raymond Donne.”

He shook it and said, “And…?”

“I’m Frankie Rivas’s teacher.”

“Oh, yeah. You the guy got him into Our Lady.”

“Frankie got himself into Our Lady. I just made sure the right guy saw him.”

“Keenan,” he said, as if recalling an old wound.

I nodded. “Eddie’s been a friend for a few years. Does a good job with that team.”

“I’d do a nice job, too, I had that church money backing me up.”

“I don’t think Our Lady spends a lot of money—”

“They hand out some juicy scholarships, though, huh?” he said, taking a long sip from
his drink. We both watched as his son raced toward home plate with the errant balls.
“Give ’em out like winning lottery tickets to those white boys in Queens.”

“Have you ever played against Our Lady, Mr. Herrera?”

“In tournaments, yeah. Why?”

“Then you know that they’re a pretty mixed team.”

“Mostly white, though.”

I reminded myself I had not come here to get into an argument. Rafael came over and
handed the balls to his dad. He was breathing heavily but smiling as he looked at
me.

“This is Mr. Donne, Rafi.”

“Frankie’s teacher?” the boy asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pleased that Frankie had mentioned me to the team.

“They find him yet? The cops?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet. That’s sort of why I’m here.”

Herrera gave me a look. “I don’t get that.”

“Did the police talk to you, Mr. Herrera?”

“Over the phone, yeah. Called me at work. Asked if I’d heard from Frankie, when’s
the last time I seen him. Stuff like that.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Mechanic.” He gestured across the street with his thumb. “Went to Automotive twenty
years ago. Played ball for them. Almost won the city one year.”

I nodded like I was impressed. “Were you able to tell the police anything helpful?”

He thought about that for a few seconds. “Helpful? Like what? I found an address on
a piece of paper? Frankie once told me if he’s ever missing, call this secret number?
Who the fu— Why are you asking me all these questions? You’re a teacher.”

“I’m trying to find something the cops may’ve overlooked. If I can bring them something
they missed, it might jump-start them a bit.”

He shook his head.

“Go run a few laps, Rafi. Before the others get here.”

Rafael was about to object, but the look on his dad’s face told him he’d better not.

“Yes, Coach,” he said and ran off.

“You,” Herrera said after his son was out of earshot, “are one nosy son of a bitch.”

“I’m just trying—”

“To stick your nose all into Frankie’s life.”