“Any relation to Bill? A cousin maybe, returning to the scene of the crime after so many years? Bill Buckner . . . letting the world championship roll between his legs during the legendary Game 6 of the ’86 World Series.”
“Billy. Buck. Did. Not. Lose. The. World. Series.” Jack emphasized each word. I’m certain that he would have poked me in the chest on the beat of each syllable if the train had not roared past a local station with enough speed to cause him to keep both hands on the pole.
I have seen criminal defense attorneys sum up before juries in high-stakes trials with flair and with eloquence. Imagine Darrow in his heyday. Think Cutler and Gotti. Remember Cochran arguing on behalf of that piece of crap? None of them showed the passion that Jack did defending Bill Buckner. Hell, years later, all I remembered was the tenth inning. Jack could practically tell you the entire game pitch by pitch.
“First of all, McNamara should never have taken Clemens out in the seventh with a one-run lead,” he began. “He claimed Clemens asked to be taken out because he had a blister on his finger. This man will be the AL Cy Young winner and the league’s MVP. You keep him in unless he needs immediate surgery on his pitching arm in the dugout. Besides, Clemens said that he never asked to be taken out, but only after McNamara was fired. In my opinion, Clemens was very honorable because he didn’t undermine McNamara’s authority in the clubhouse by contradicting him. When I look at how he has pitched since leaving Boston, the awards and the rings, I cannot believe that he quit. However, I confess that I have a soft spot for the Rocket. The Sox quit on him. He did not quit on Boston.”
He went on about some Italian relief pitcher named Calvin letting the tying run score in the eighth. Never met too many guys from Mulberry Street named Calvin. But then again, I thought Rudolph was a name for only Nazis and reindeers before Giuliani came along.
Jack was analyzing and dissecting the plays in the tenth inning when the 7 passed Fisk Avenue. So intent on making his points, he didn’t see the joke of talking about the 1986 Series above a street that shared the name of the great Sox catcher. “Bob Stanley had already tied the game on a wild pitch, so the damage was done before Wilson ever hit the ball toward Billy. At that point, Buckner should never have been in the game. Because his ankles were bad, McNamara had taken him out of every other post-season game in the late innings and put in Dave Stapleton for defense. What was he thinking? It was not as if Billy’s bat would be missed. He went 0-for-5 in Game 6. Nevertheless, I firmly believe that even if Billy makes that play, Wilson beats him to the bag. Billy was too beat up and Wilson was too fast . . . And, of course,” Jack added as we were about to leave the Woodside stop, “there was still Game 7. You can’t blame Billy Buck for what happened in Game 7. They would have been the champions if they’d won that game.” He paused for a breath and checked his watch when the conductor announced that the train was being held in the station.
While Jack had been commandeering facts and stats to make his point, I noticed that each platform for the local stops along this stretch of the 7 line had stained-glass windows. I could not make out the designs as the train raced by, but I was sure that they were not pictures of the Stations of the Cross. We even passed a giant red neon cross on top of a Korean church of some Protestant denomination. With each word out of Jack’s mouth, I kept thinking about that movie with Susan Sarandon and how she belonged to the Church of Baseball. Jack was certainly a member of that congregation.
When the train finally left the station, Jack said, “Buckner was the butt of a lot of jokes afterwards. But my sympathies were later with Donnie Moore.”
The name rang a bell but I couldn’t place it.
“He was the other goat of 1986. He was the relief pitcher for the Angels, who were one strike away from winning the American League pennant when Moore gave up a home run to Dave Henderson that tied the game. The Angels lost that game in the eleventh inning. They lost the next two games and the pennant. At the time I was, of course, very happy that Boston was going to the World Series. However, Moore was never the same pitcher due to physical ailments. He was hounded out of Anaheim by boorish fans and a mean-spirited front office in the middle of the 1988 season. About a year later, he shoots his wife in front of his own children and kills himself with a bullet to the head.”
With a sigh, Jack continued, “Anyway, I couldn’t believe that when Moore’s suicide became public, a reporter called Buckner to ask whether he considered killing himself after the 1986 Series. Billy said, ‘Of course not. It’s only a game.’ I can never decide whether that’s a cheery or depressing thought.”
“Depends on the day, my friend,” I said. He went quiet as the train pulled into Junction Boulevard and 103rd Street.
I tried to keep the conversation casual for the rest of the ride, just bar talk between strangers, but I could tell that Jack’s thoughts were drifting away again. He agreed with a curt “yes” that the Zambrano-for-Kazmir trade was the biggest heist since Lufthansa. I asked him who he was going to the game with, when the windows of the subway suddenly darkened. Trees densely filled with leaves surrounded the car, blocking the sunlight. It was as if, for a minute or two, the subway had left the trestles above Roosevelt Avenue and plunged into a forest. Just as suddenly, the train emerged from the tree cover and Shea, all blue, gray, and orange, appeared in front of a slowly setting sun, a stunning joyful sight. I never got an answer to the question, only a curious stare.
Even before the subway came to a full stop at the Willets Point station, the chants of “Let’s Go Mets!” could be heard. When the doors opened, everyone in the car poured out onto the elevated platform and made their way to one of the metal stairways, freshly painted a puke-green color. I was right behind Jack as we left the car. As distant and formal as when I first addressed him, he turned and said, “Nice speaking with you. Enjoy the game.” He headed off toward the stairs and began to blend into the crowd, anxious to meet his friend.
I yelled at him over the head of a father holding the hand of his young son: “Jack, wait up! Let me give you my card and I definitely want to get yours.”
He reluctantly stopped, letting people pass him to get to the staircase. We stood by a large green garbage can so we would be out of the way. He pulled a thin gold case out of his pocket to take out a crème-colored business card. I fumbled with a frayed leather case that dropped between my feet. I squatted down to pick it up, watching Jack stare at the diminishing crowd on the platform and impatiently tapping the business card against his thigh. I also removed the ice pick that was taped to the inside of my right calf and concealed it under my sleeve. The platform was now empty except for the stragglers at the top of the staircases. A quick glance across the tracks at the Manhattan-bound platform found only a teenaged couple too busy making out to notice a pair of middle-aged guys exchanging business cards.
Jack again said goodbye and turned to walk away. But he stopped beside one of the black wooden benches on the platform when he saw that the name of his boss, the name of his friend’s father, was printed on the business card I had given him.
I could imagine the confused look on his face as the handle of the ice pick slipped down into my hand. I focused on my target. There is a small indentation at the base of the skull, just below the Velcro strap of a baseball cap and aligned, in this case, with a cartoon pair of red socks. A blade thrust into this depression will sever the spinal cord from the brain. Your muscles go limp so you cannot run away. You cannot breathe so you cannot cry for help. You go into shock as your blood pressure drops to nothing. You become unconscious with barely another thought. Death is almost immediate if an expert wields the ice pick. I am an expert.
I caught him as he began to fall like a puppet whose strings had been cut. I placed him on the black bench, arranging the body so that the Mets fans exiting the next trains would think that he was just waiting to board. I took his wallet, card case, and BlackBerry so that the cops would have the always popular and distracting motive of robbery to think a
bout. I put the Post from my back pocket in his lap so that Jack appeared to be reading the sports page with Pedro on the cover. I left the ice pick there with no prints and no trail back to me. I was halfway down the stairs before the next train pulled in.
When I came up on the Manhattan side of the platform, the young couple were still at it hot and heavy and wouldn’t have noticed me if I had shot Jack with a .45. Standing in the evening breeze, I could see the body on the bench. The latest trainload of fans was hurrying down the puke-green stairs to get to the game. No one was giving him a second look. The starting lineups were about to be announced.
Jack’s mistake was thinking with the head between his legs, not the one on his shoulders. People with assets worth in excess of eight figures don’t care who or what you fuck so long as you are discreet. When the details of your sex life appear on the disapproving lips of some dried-up matron whose name is in the Social Register, or in a blind item in a sordid tabloid gossip page, those people might take their assets to another investment boutique. But that’s just money. There is always more money to be made somewhere.
It becomes trouble when whispers and innuendos reach the ears of your boss. It becomes real trouble when, after a little snooping and a little window peeping, he learns you are screwing his college freshman son. It becomes big trouble when you tell your boss that you are the only thing that keeps his firm from being a comical relic on The Street and that, if he continues to interfere in your personal life, you will take his business and his son. Blood and money are very personal. That’s when, through a middleman or a cutout or a guy who knows a guy, I get a call.
But who knows? Maybe it wasn’t a mistake to fall for the kid. If they had baseball in common, that would have been plenty for Jack. His error was not how he used his mouth with the kid, but opening his mouth to the father. It was the blow-up, not the blowjobs. My mother often said: Be careful because a big mouth will always get you in trouble.
A Manhattan-bound local pulled in and I got on. Below me, a young man waited outside of Shea Stadium with two tickets for tonight’s game that wouldn’t be used. Probably wearing a brand new Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
Jenny put a Guinness in front of me while NY1 played on the plasma screen over the wooden bar at my local Woodside pub. I could see some reporter standing with Shea in the background, but with the sound low and the jukebox blaring Bono, I couldn’t hear anything. Because it was the top of the hour, I figured he was not reporting on the outcome of the game.
“Can you believe it?” Jenny said. “They had this story on before. Some poor guy is going to a ballgame and gets stabbed to death. You can’t ride the subway anymore without some wacko trying to kill you with a knife. First that kid from Texas gets stabbed in the chest. And I get the creeps just thinking about that poor guy and the handsaw. I’m taking buses everywhere from now on.”
“More importantly, love, did the Mets win?”
She slapped my hand playfully. “You’re bad.” She walked to the other end of the bar where a couple was signaling for a refill.
Yes, tonight I think I am.
BAGGAGE CLAIM
BY PATRICIA KING
JFK Airport
Read. Just keep reading. She had to try to lose herself in the story. Let it block out the shaking and shuttering. She gripped the book with sweating hands. She rubbed her knee. There was no way in this cramped space to ease the throbbing.
The man in the seat next to her was sleeping. He had changed places with a Hasid who had refused to sit next to a woman. When this new guy first sat down, he had scared her. He looked like an Arab. His pockmarked skin gave him a sinister appearance, and she had tried not to think of him in such a prejudiced way. He had a nice smile. But hijackers could smile.
“Are you going home or do you live in the UK?” She had worked up her courage to question him while she waited behind him in line for the loo. She kept saying “loo” now, after a week with the people in the London office.
“Home,” he had said. That smile again. It did look kind of threatening. “I’m from the Bronx, and I can’t wait to get back.”
The accent was unmistakable. Bronx, for sure. He was probably Puerto Rican. “Me too. Riverdale.” She tried to smile back at him. The last word came out sounding apologetic. People from the real Bronx hated Riverdale; she was sure of that. It shamed her to have suspected him. He seemed so benign now. He could be a victim, not a terrorist.
The plane touched down with a jolt that woke him.
She wiped her palms on the rough fabric of the seat. Rivulets of rain ran over the window glass.
“Welcome to JFK,” an intimate and humorous voice began over the loudspeaker. “If I hadn’t just spent nearly eight hours cavorting with all of you on this plane, I would think we were still in London, given this gloomy weather.”
Friday. The traffic would be awful. And she had her car in long-term parking. The Triboro Bridge would be backed up. And the rain would make it worse.
She got her black rolly down from the overhead bin and waited in the aisle to get off the plane.
“Thank you for flying Virgin Atlantic,” they said by way of goodbye.
The walk to Passport Control went on forever. The specter of having to drive over the bridge haunted her. Suppose she got stuck in traffic in the middle of the bridge with her heart beating out of control. She would have to get off. She would have to. This started back in October of 2001, returning from Washington on a Sunday night—at dusk on a misty evening, driving along, sipping the latte she had picked up at the rest stop. The bottoms of her feet had gotten sweaty when suddenly there was the Delaware Memorial Bridge— the double span sticking up above some light fog. It would have looked pretty, if it hadn’t frozen her heart. She couldn’t drive up there.
She had moved behind a blue Volkswagen Passat in the middle lane and hung onto the steering wheel for dear life. She had stayed behind that car and couldn’t look left or right until they got through the toll on the other side. Heart still pounding, she had pulled over at the first opportunity. It was almost an hour before she could get back on the road.
A few months later, she had gotten lost trying to get back to Manhattan from Newark without driving on the Pulaski Skyway. Worse and worse. Two weeks ago, she had driven down through New Jersey and gone through the Lincoln Tunnel and back up to the Bronx, just to avoid the George Washington Bridge. So ashamed, she hadn’t even told her sister. But when she finally mentioned it to Roger, who was hardly a close friend, he immediately asked, “Did this start after 9/11?” The idea had shocked her.
“Go to line twenty-seven.” The short, sharp-faced African-American woman at Passport Control jabbed a finger in the direction of a booth.
The officer’s face was round and kind, but he looked at her with hard, searching eyes. She handed him her passport. He scanned it and watched the screen, then handed it back with a perfunctory, “Welcome home.”
The baggage was slow. The rain, she guessed. The Hasidic guy stood near her, waiting. The rainy weather made her knee worse. She tried to keep her weight off it.
On 9/11 she had been down in Soho, getting physical therapy. She hadn’t gone to the office that morning. A lot of people weren’t at work for odd reasons. They were late. They called in sick. She had heard a lot of stories like this. A woman who went to pick up her new eyeglasses and never got up there. A guy from Jersey whose little girl had cried and said, “Daddy, don’t go.” The father had stopped so long comforting his kid, he missed his train. The kid had saved her father.
Her knee had saved her. By rights she should have been on the ninety-seventh floor.
After her therapy appointment, while icing her knee, she felt the gym go quiet. They were all staring at the burning skyscraper on the TV, asking each other, “Which building?” “What kind of plane?”
Her office would be flooded with light. On such a sunny day, the intensity of the light always made her giddy. Working up there made you feel important, even if
all you did was put numbers into spreadsheets all day. Gerry and Margaret, sitting at their desks, would be silhouetted against the windows on a day like this. Like ghosts. Only black. Only they couldn’t be sitting. Not with this going on in the other tower.
She stood, gazing at the burning building, completely silent, feeling guilty that she was thinking about how much it would hurt her knee to be walking down all those stairs with them. The second plane hit. “Terrorists,” was all she said. She went and put on her clothes.
She had a portable radio in her gym bag. Only one station was broadcasting. One tense male voice.
On her way out, she glanced over at the knot of people gathered in front of the big TV near the treadmills and Stair-Masters. Radio to her ear, she left without looking at the screen.
Out on Broadway, the air was acrid with smoke and stung her throat. People streamed up the sidewalks. Ambulances and firetrucks careened south toward the towers. An EMT vehicle with the words Valley Stream Rescue Squad on its side went screaming by. How the hell could they have gotten here so fast?
A crowd gathered around her. “What are they saying?” A short guy in a snug gray suit pointed to the radio. She held it out to him. The battery was weak and the street so noisy that he had to put his finger in his opposite ear to hear it. Two big African-American women with tears streaming down their faces stopped and asked for news. She just shrugged and gestured to the guy holding her radio.
One of them was sobbing uncontrollably. “They are jumping out of the top floors.”
They couldn’t be. No one would do that. Gerry wouldn’t do that. Harry Ardini wouldn’t do that. She looked at the other woman, who just nodded and pulled her friend away, up Broadway.
She pictured the wide expanse of her office. The fichus tree next to her chair burning. The light from it shining in the frame on her desk. Her sister’s picture smiling through the bright red reflected flames.
New York City Noir Page 89
