Sacrifice Fly (8 page)

“Thank you, Raymond. Good night, Emo.”

Edgar bowed his head. “Ma’am.” When Mrs. Mac had gone, Edgar turned back to me. “Why
can’t you be that nice to me?”

“Mrs. Mac doesn’t ask a lot of stupid questions.”

“I thought teachers didn’t believe in stupid questions.”

“Yeah, a lot of people think that.” I took a bite of my sandwich, a sip of beer, and
pointed at the newspaper in front of Edgar. “Let me see the sports pages.”

Edgar knew this was my way of ending any further conversation. He sighed and slid
the paper to me. I turned right to the box scores: the only part of the paper I could
trust. Box scores don’t lie or imply, they just are, and if you know how to read them—I
mean really read them—you can get the whole story of a game you didn’t see a single
pitch of. Life would be a lot less confusing if people could just sum up their days
in little one-by-three-inch boxes.

I checked out a half dozen games before I finished my dinner. I pushed the paper away,
and signaled to Mikey for another beer. I also pointed at Edgar’s. The least I could
do was buy him a round after making him pout. He gave me a smile, and we clinked glasses.
All made up.

“So,” he said. “Whatta you do next?”

“About what?”

“The missing kids.” He lowered his voice. “And the dead guy. What’s your next move?”

“Edgar, you are this close”—I held my forefinger an inch away from my thumb—“to getting
knocked off your stool.”

I didn’t think he heard me. “You’re just going to let the cops handle it?”

“That’s what they get paid to do, Edgar. Some of them are pretty good at it.”

“Yeah, but if they don’t get anywhere by the weekend, it’s old news. Even I know that.”

He had a point there, but I’d be damned if I admitted it. Anyway, what the hell was
I going to do?

“Edgar,” I said, “I gave up my dreams of being Jim Rockford a while ago. Pretty much
after I figured out he got his ass kicked every time I watched a rerun.”

“I always wanted to be Barney,” Edgar said. “From
Mission: Impossible
.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “Grow the fuck up.”

“Here’s what I think we should do,” he went on. “First—”

“Edgar, I swear to god, if you don’t drop this, I’ll not only knock you on your ass,
I’ll ban you from the Q.”

He studied my face for a few seconds, looking for signs that I was bluffing. When
he finally summoned the courage to speak again, he said, “You wouldn’t do that. You
promised.”

“Watch me,” I said. “Leave it alone. I’m serious about this.”

We locked eyes for a bit, and then he said, “Fine.” He got off his barstool, took
back his paper, and folded it under his arm. He reached into his pocket and pulled
out a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ll pay for my own drinks, thank you very much.” And with
those final words, Edgar Martinez O’Brien spun around and exited The LineUp.

Mikey came over and said, “Damn, Ray. What’d ya say to get him to storm out like that?”

“Could have been a couple of things, I guess.”

“Well,” Mikey said as he cleared away Edgar’s unfinished beer, “if you remember any
of them, tell me so I can try them sometime.”

I managed a small grin as he placed another Bud in front of me. I felt a small sense
of regret for the way I’d spoken to Edgar, but it passed.

Can’t stand the heat? Stay the hell out of cop bars.

Chapter 7

“YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT
a cup?” I placed my coffee mug down by my grade book. “I’ve got plenty.”

“I’m fine,” Lisa King’s father said, making sure I knew he was the kind of guy who
took nothing from nobody.

He was sitting in the biggest chair I had, which was too small for him. He kept his
hands on the table, and I could see the grease under his fingernails. He wore a blue
denim shirt, “East River Boat” stitched above the left breast pocket. On the other
side was his name, “William K,” written in red script. Judging from the flecks of
gray in his short Afro, I figured he had about eight years on me. He smelled of smoke,
like someone who smokes in their car with the windows shut. I opened up the nearest
window as far as it would go and then sat down across from Lisa’s father.

“I’m not sure why Ms. Stiles called me out of work, Mr. Donne,” he said, as he looked
at his watch. “Lisa’s mom usually handles all the school stuff. Said you didn’t even
call her.”

“Right,” I said, ignoring his point. “And I am sorry to cut into your day like this,
but we have some concerns about Lisa that we felt might be better addressed with you.”

He considered that with a nod and a grimace. “She step into it again?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him. “Exactly.”

I had decided earlier to start off with the academics, then work up to the big stuff.

“Well,” I began, “it’s not one particular incident, it’s more of a series of…” This
is why I don’t dance. I’m not good at it. “We’re afraid that Lisa might have to repeat
the eighth grade, Mr. King. Or at the very least, attend summer school.”

His eyebrows pushed upward and then came back down into a tight squeeze, which caused
his whole face to wrinkle.

“I don’t … her mother told me she was doing good.”

“She was,” I said. “Well enough to pass, anyway. But the last five or six weeks”—I
turned my grade book around so he could read it as my finger ran across a series of
x’s and zeros—“she hasn’t been handing in any homework, she’s been late or absent
nearly every day, and she’s going to have trouble meeting the state standards on the
tests.”

Mr. King blinked a few times before saying, “I heard something about that on the news.
What’s that mean? ‘Failure to meet state standards?’”

“Every eighth grader is required to demonstrate a certain level of proficiency on
the…”

I could practically smell the bullshit coming out of my mouth. “The city is no longer
promoting eighth graders if they don’t meet the levels set by the state on the reading
and math tests.”

“But I saw her report card,” he said. “She passed everything, right?”

“Those are the grades I give, Mr. King. And she barely passed. She keeps up the way
she’s going, she will fail the fourth marking period and end up back here again next
year.”

We sat in silence as he thought about that, the look on his face telling me that I
was just one more person in his life telling him shit he didn’t want to hear.

“She here today?” he asked.

“She showed up at nine thirty.”

“Nine thirty.” He bit his lower lip. “She left the house before I did, and I leave
at eight. Don’t take no hour and a half to get to school.” He closed his eyes and
made a visible effort to control his anger. “Lemme get this straight, now. You’re
telling me that if she starts passing and getting her ass to school on time, she’ll
move on to high school?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” I said. “Yes.”

“Then that’s what she’s gonna do. I’ll see to that.”

He started to get up, but I wasn’t done. “That’s not all, Mr. King.”

“Jesus,” he said as he sat back down. “Something else?”

“Lisa came in yesterday with a bruise above her left eye.”

“Told me she got that in gym. Volleyball hit her.”

“Lisa doesn’t participate in gym, Mr. King. She never comes prepared and has to sit
in the bleachers with her homework.”

He shook his head. “So she fails gym. That gonna leave her behind?”

“That’s not the point,” I said and waited, like I used to do behind the two-way mirror,
watching the detectives go after a guy. It wouldn’t take long, I thought.

“Then what is the…” Here it comes. “Ah, no. You didn’t call me in here to talk about
Lisa’s grades.” As he stood up he pushed the table hard enough to make a little coffee
splash over the side of my cup. I stayed seated as he leaned over and placed his hands
back on the table. “You think I hit my little girl?”

I thought about getting up, but wasn’t sure if he’d take that as a challenge. So I
sat there and spoke in an even tone designed to remind him whose meeting this was.
“She got that bruise from somewhere, Mr. King.”

“Not from me.” My first thought was that he wanted to come at me over the table. Or
at least flip the damn thing. “I know you all think you know what happened at the
house last year, and maybe you do. Some of it, anyways. But you don’t know everything.
I never…” He slapped his hands down on the table, making me jump back a bit. A small
stream of coffee made its way to the edge of the table. Mr. King took half a minute
before he continued, calmer now. “I made a lot of mistakes last year,” he said. “But
I ain’t never hit my little girl.”

“No,” I said. “Just your wife.”

“Yeah,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “Lisa told me you used to be a cop.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I know how you all think. Think just because my lips’re moving, I’m lying.”

“You have a lot of experience with cops, Mr. King?”

“Give me that bullshit. I grew up in this neighborhood. I was getting rousted by the
cops when you was still playing Little League with all your little friends out in
the ’burbs. Yeah, Mr. Donne, I got plenty experience being looked at like I’m lying.
But you ain’t no cop anymore.” He slid his chair gently under the table. “So I guess
I’ll be going now.”

“Lisa got that bruise from somewhere, Mr. King,” I said again.

He stopped and then turned back.

“I know what you people say,” he said. “Folks don’t change. Some asshole hits his
wife once, well, he’s just gonna keep on hitting her.” He took a breath. “I did hit
my wife. Once.” A small smile crept onto his face. “You don’t do nothing hurtful to
that woman twice. She threw my ass out and told me not come back. Ever. And she meant
it.”

I stood, the safety of ten feet and the table between us, my heart still beating a
bit too fast.

“What’s your point, Mr. King?”

“You know why people don’t change?”

“Tell me.”

“’Cause they ain’t got no reason to. Plain and simple. They ain’t got no reason.”
He slapped his hand against his chest. “That’s what makes me different. I got a reason.
And I’m changing.” He stopped for a few seconds, deciding whether to keep the conversation
going. “After a few months outta the house, I called my wife. Said, ‘What’s it gonna
take? You let me back home?’ And she told me.” He held out his thumb. “‘Stop drinking.’
I said I could do that.” He extended his forefinger. “‘Get some counseling.’ I’m doing
that.” The middle finger. “‘You don’t never raise a hand to me again.’ I said I could
do that, and I’m keeping that promise. I am keeping that promise.” He turned the fingers
into a fist and placed it over his heart. “That woman and those girls? That’s my reason
to change. I almost lost them once, and that’s not gonna happen again.” He filled
his chest up with air and let it out slowly. “You can either believe that or not.
That’s up to you all.”

We stood there, looking at each other. I was waiting to see if he’d leave, now that
he’d had his say. He was waiting for me to challenge what he said.

“I didn’t call you in here to cause you grief or bring any more trouble into your
house, Mr. King. But my first responsibility here is to Lisa.”

He nodded. “Mine, too. I’ll find out where she got that bruise and…”

“And what?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Yet. But I will protect me and mine.”

“You understand we’re required by law to call in any suspicion of abuse.”

“Figured you’da done that by now.”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

That seemed to surprise him. “And what’d you decide?”

Good question. You gave a good speech, I thought. But, like you said, I’m used to
people lying to me.

“We’ll let you know,” I said.

“You do that,” he said and headed toward the door just as Elaine Stiles was coming
in. It took her a moment to realize who he was.

“Oh, Mr. King,” she said. “I thought I had missed you.”

“You did,” he said as he slipped past her and out of my room.

From the doorway, Elaine gave me a questioning look.

“That went well,” I said.

She stepped over to the table. “What happened?”

I went over the conversation with her. How I started with Lisa’s grades and ended
with asking about the bruise above her eye.

“Ray,” she said when I was done, “did you talk to him as a teacher?”

“As opposed to what?”

“The cop thing you do.”

“What cop thing?”

She shook her head. “You squint your eyes just a touch and lean forward. Then you
lower your voice and talk. Real. Slow.”

“You’ve seen me do this?”

“Whenever you feel the control is slipping away and you have to take it back.”

“Elaine,” I said, “with all due respect, don’t talk to me like I’m one of the kids.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m just asking how you spoke to him.”

“I told him about our concerns and our responsibility to call in any suspected abuse.”

Elaine waited before going on. I grabbed a couple of paper towels and wiped up the
coffee from the table and the floor.

“Do you think he hit Lisa?” she asked.

“Are you asking me as a teacher? Or as someone who does that ‘cop thing’?”

“Come on, Ray. I didn’t mean any—”

“He said Lisa told him she got that bruise from a volleyball in gym.”

She smirked. “Lisa’s biggest risk in gym is getting a paper cut.”

“I told him that. That’s when he got defensive on me. I don’t know, Elaine. There’s
a part of me that thinks he’s being straight. My gut says no, he didn’t hit Lisa.”

“Is she in today?” I nodded. “I’ll talk to her. See what she has to say now that we’ve
met with her dad.” The bell rang. “I’d hate to make that phone call and we’re wrong.”

“Or,” I pointed out, “we don’t make that phone call and we’re wrong.”

“Yeah,” Elaine said. “There’s that, too.”