Sacrifice Fly (32 page)

*   *   *

“So what are they?”

“Plain old Social Security numbers, my friend.” Rich had been at his desk when I got
him on the phone just after three thirty. “You got some DOBs, and they match with
the SSNs, and this ain’t no class project, Ray. What is this?”

I hate lying to friends, but Rich worked for the DA, and I didn’t want him involved
in anything that might cause him grief at work.

“One of my kids,” I began my lie, “said he found the papers on his way to school.
He thought it looked like it might be something, and he knows I used to be a cop,
so he gave it to me. I thought I’d have a little fun and play detective for him. But…”

“Yeah,” Rich said. “A big but. Either your kid is lying to you or you’re lying to
me, and I don’t wanna know which. I have access to this kind of info, and I doubt
a junior high kid could pull it off, but it’s not a great leap to having someone’s
Social and their DOB, getting their name and residence, and causing some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Absolutely.”

“I guess you could mess with their benefits. Find out when their checks come in. I
mean, according to the DOBs, these are seniors we’re talking about. The SSNs are also
their Medicare numbers. Instead of using the three-two-four combo, they use a five-four
setup. Bottom line, it’s information you don’t want other people having, you know
what I mean?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll tell the kid to forget it. That I lost the papers.”

“That’s a good idea, Ray. In fact, it’s such a good idea, I wish you’d have come up
with it before you faxed this shit to me. Now, what about those beers?”

“I’ll call you.”

“I’ll try to find something to keep myself busy until you do. You talk to Rache yet?”

*   *   *

I got back to my apartment just after four and had enough time before my date with
Caroline to take a shower, turn up the AC, and try to doze off in front of the repeat
of last night’s Yankee game. They still lost, and I was still awake. I checked my
answering machine. Two messages. Rachel had called from L.A. and said the trip wasn’t
as bad as she thought it would be, but she’d still prefer to be back home. Of course,
I could make it up to her if I just cut out my immature bullshit and show up at our
dad’s memorial service next week.

“We’ll have dinner when I’m allowed to come home,” she said, “and we’ll talk more
about it then.”

The second call was from my mother, who had also heard from my sister, and how was
Rachel ever going to find a man when she spent all this time gallivanting—my mother
actually used the word—around the country?

“Anyway,” my mom concluded, “call me when you get the chance. I’m thinking of heading
down to Florida after your father’s service and could use some help with the train
arrangements.” My mother hated flying about as much as she hated my sister being single,
and don’t get her started on grandkids. “Nice to hear you had a visit with Uncle Ray.
Call me.”

I erased both messages and thought about changing the outgoing message to one that
invited only those who did not want to talk about my father’s goddamned memorial service
to leave a message.

The notebook I had taken from Roberts’s last night sat on my coffee table. I leafed
through the pages. Initials and numbers. I wanted to see if I could connect the names
with the buildings Ape and Suit visited last night, but I didn’t have much time before
my date. I found Edgar’s phone number and got his voice mail. I read off the addresses
of the buildings and asked him if he could find out who owned them or managed them
or both. I added that if he couldn’t do it, I didn’t know who could. After hanging
up, I took the notebook and put it inside my school bag.

I checked my closet for something appropriate to wear for a first date. All my clothes—of
which I did not have a lot—seemed suddenly very boring. I opted for my only clean
pair of jeans and a red, long-sleeved shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up.

Styling, Mr. D.

Chapter 27

SHORTY’S BAR AND GRILL WAS
located on a corner not far from Roberts’s travel agency. The wave of urban renewal
that had swept through this section of Williamsburg had stopped a few blocks shy of
this place. Small businesses stood vacant, and some of the buildings had plywood where
the windows should have been. Men in suits and women in dresses walked by quickly
on their way to the subway and on to homes in other, better parts of the city. A few
were probably on their way to the Long Island Rail Road and back into suburbia.

On the front door of Shorty’s was a sign advertising
LIVE JAZZ
on Friday and Saturday. A gust of cool air greeted me as I entered and made my way
to the bar. It was dark inside; the kind of lighting that took a minute for the eyes
to adjust to and didn’t exactly invite newcomers. The aroma of hamburgers cooking
hung in the air. I remembered skipping lunch that afternoon, grabbed the stool nearest
the door, and hoped Caroline would show up soon.

A trio of black men was seated at the other end of the bar under a TV set. They all
glanced my way, considered me for a few seconds, and then went back to their conversation.
I pulled a twenty out of my pocket, placed it in front of me, and cleared my throat.
Again, the group looked at me. One of them rose and took his time walking around the
bar and then down to my end. He was about my age, thirty pounds too heavy, with a
short Afro and a goatee that was mostly gray. He picked up a rag and wiped down the
area in front of me.

“Can I do for ya?” he asked without really meaning it.

“What do you have on tap?”

He turned to his friends, smiled, and made a big show of looking all around and even
under the bar. “Don’t seem to have a tap, sir.”

“Well, then,” I said with a smile of my own, “what do you have in a bottle?”

“Don’t have no tap,” he said again, “guess everything we got’s in a bottle.”

That brought a round of laughter from his buddies. I chuckled along with them and
looked at the selection behind the bar. A hand-written sign by the clock said all
domestic beers were three dollars from four to seven. I had two minutes left. “I’ll
just take a Bud Light.”

He nodded and said, “Bud Light. For the Man.”

He spun around, headed back to his pals, and resumed his conversation. I guessed “the
Man” was just going to have to wait for his beer. I busied myself by perusing the
selection of top-shelf liquor, recalling the ones I’d had the pleasure of tasting
and ranking them in order. After about five minutes, the bartender remembered my beer
and brought it over to me.

“That’ll be four dollars.”

I looked up at the sign. “Don’t I have a few more minutes of happy hour left?”

He looked at the clock, took my money, and shook his head. “Happy hour’s over.” He
went over to the cash register, broke the twenty, and returned with my change. “Enjoy.”

I raised my bottle. “Thanks.”

After a few minutes, the door behind me opened. The men at the other end looked up
and waved. The bartender walked over with a lot more energy than when I arrived. “Caroline!”

Caroline slipped into the seat next to me as the bartender placed a napkin in front
of her and leaned over for a kiss.

“Willy,” she said, placing her hand on my arm. She was wearing a tight-fitting flowered
shirt that showed off her well-tended midriff and a pair of equally tight white pants.
The come-away-with-me look that I was sure only a handful of travel agents could pull
off. “I hope you’ve made my friend Raymond feel at home.”

“Whyn’t you tell me you was a friend of Caroline’s?” He offered his hand.

“I didn’t want any special treatment,” I said. “You know, being ‘the Man’ and all.”

He smiled at that. “Caroline?”

“The usual, Willy.” He went to get her drink. Caroline asked, “What was that about?”

“Just getting to know the regulars. I guess you come here often, huh?”

“Willy’s my cousin. Shorty was my uncle. Hope you didn’t feel uncomfortable waiting.”

“Not the first time I’ve been the minority.” I adjusted myself in the stool to better
face her and get the full effect. “Excuse me for saying so, but you smell wonderful.”

She gave me a practiced giggle. “I prepped before locking up the shop. Not every day
a girl gets to have dinner and drinks with a respectable schoolteacher. You are respectable?”

Before I could answer, Willy returned with Caroline’s drink. “Whiskey sour for the
lady.” He put a dollar bill in front of me. “Forgot that last drink was on happy hour.”

“No harm,” I said. “Put Caroline’s on mine, would you?”

“Caroline don’t pay for drinks here.” He leaned in close. “Sorry about that before.
Thought you mighta been a cop.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

He straightened up. Then, seeing the look on my face, he broke into a huge grin and
tapped the bar with his finger, and then pointed it at me. “That’s a good one. Got
yourself a funny friend here, Caroline.” Willy shook his head. “‘What makes you think
I’m not?’ That’s good. Anything else I can get you two, you let me know.”

“Those burgers smell good,” I said.

Caroline nodded. “Willy may not be the best—or friendliest—bartender in the city,
but he does make a good cheeseburger.”

Willy slapped the bar. “You two grab a table, and I’ll bring a couple of platters
out.”

Caroline led me to a booth along the wall. There were two framed pictures hanging
on the paneling, both of black men playing the trumpet. Caroline tapped the one closest
to me.

“He played here,” she said. “In the early sixties. Said my uncle made the best ribs
he’d ever had.” She saw the look on my face. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

I shook my head. “Not unless he played for the Yankees.”

“Sonny Rollins?”

“If you say so. I never quite got into jazz to be honest.”

“Jazz is not something you ‘get into,’ Mr. Donne.” She ran a red fingernail along
the frame. “Jazz is something that gets into you. Into your essence. Slowly … and
over a long, long time.”

A warm sensation hit the center of my chest. “You make it sound … very Zen-like.”

“Damn. I was trying to make it sound like sex.”

I took a long sip of my Bud. “That, too.”

She laughed, and after a while Cousin Willy came over with two plates filled with
sweet potato fries, pickles, and the biggest cheeseburgers I’d ever seen.

“You two can get started on these,” he said. “I’ll be over in a bit with a coupla
more drinks for ya.” Before he left, he gave me a wink and a big slap on the shoulder.
Buddies.

Between bites, she spoke more about jazz, and I filled her in on some of the finer
points of baseball. After half an hour, I’d finished my second beer and barely half
of the burger. I pushed my plate away and leaned back.

“Don’t worry,” Caroline said. “Willy’d be disappointed if you actually finished the
whole thing.”

“He may have spoiled breakfast for me tomorrow.”

“He’ll be happy to hear that.” She reached into her bag and took out a pack of cigarettes.
She slid one out and passed it under her nose. “So that poor boy is still missing?”

“Going on two weeks now.” I got Willy’s attention behind the bar and stuck two fingers
in the air. “How well did you know the father? Francisco Senior.”

“Too well.” She took a final sip of her sour and whirled the ice cubes around. “Man
didn’t walk so much as he slithered, know what I mean?” She gave me a fake shudder.
“Man made my skin crawl every time he came into the office.”

“Which was how often?”

“Too often. Except near the end … near the time he was killed.”

Willy came by with our drinks. As he was clearing the table, he asked, “Anything else?”

“Just two more of these in a bit,” Caroline said. Then to me, “That okay with you?”

I nodded, detecting the beginning effects of alcohol on her. “Absolutely. Thanks,
Willy.”

After he left, Caroline said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. How come—you
being a schoolteacher and all—you’re so interested in Mr. Francisco Rivas?”

“I’m more interested in getting Frankie home,” I said. “Knowing more about the father
might help me do that.”

“Shouldn’t the cops be doing that?”

“Cops got a lot on their plate. Besides, how high on their list of priorities do you
think a dead sleazeball and his missing son rate?”

She smiled. “You gotta point there.”

“And you were so eager to talk to me about him because…?”

“Like you said, I figured somebody’s gotta be lookin’ out for that kid. I’m impressed
that you’re taking the time to do that.” She picked the cherry out of her whiskey
sour and placed it up to her lips. “Anything else you care to impress me with?”

“Maybe later,” I said, as the cherry disappeared into her mouth. “What exactly did
Rivas do for Roberts?”

“Mostly just building maintenance. Upkeep. Even did that sleazy.”

“How do you mean?”

“One time,” she said, “the boiler at one of Mr. Roberts’s apartment buildings goes
out. He sends Rivas over to see what he can do to fix it. Rivas comes back saying
it’s more than he can handle. Mr. Roberts gives him a few hundred dollars to give
to the regular repairman. Next day, Rivas says it’s done. That’s it.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“A week later, the thing blows again. Did a lot of smoke damage to the lower units.
Mr. Roberts called up the repairman to chew him out. Turns out the guy was never called
to the job. Mr. Roberts finds out that Rivas had his own guy, some loser friend, come
in and patch up the old one while Rivas pockets the money. That’s what I mean by sleazy.
If there was a dollar in a bucket of cow shit, you’d find Rivas’s hand in it.” She
put her fingers over her mouth in an exaggerated motion. “Excuse my language.”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

She touched my hand. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to powder my nose.”