“Well, they have to, don’t they? . . . Hey, I know you.”
“Yeah?” said Michaels.
“Yeah,” said the man. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? So am I. Bill Stanley, 101st Precinct.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Michaels, shaking his hand. “Jim Michaels.”
“Michaels, right. Didn’t know you lived around here. And you got a kid my boy’s age? Small world.”
“Sure is,” said Michaels.
“Yeah, I remember, you were working Narcotics,” continued Stanley. “Still there?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” Stanley’s eyes narrowed. He stood by Michaels, keeping his eyes on the game. The batter popped up to third for the first out. “You don’t have a kid, do you?” Stanley said softly. “Tell me you’re not on the job right now.”
“Sorry,” said Michaels.
“Jesus, what’s going down here?”
“Just looking for someone.”
“There are children here,” said Stanley. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“We’re not going to take him down here.”
“What if he freaks?” asked Stanley. “Did you consider that?”
“We did,” said Michaels. “This is our only lead.”
“Crap, crap, crap,” muttered Stanley. “Is he at this game?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Michaels. “We were told he’s got a nephew called Junior. Latino. A pitcher.”
“Junior,” said Stanley. “I don’t know any Juniors in this game.”
The next two batters struck out. Danny had settled down. The parents cheered, including Stanley. As the kids ran to the dugout, he motioned to his son, who quickly came to the fence.
“Billy, this is a friend of mine from the force. Jim Michaels.”
“How ya doin’, Billy?” said Michaels.
“Fine,” said Billy.
“He was wondering about a pitcher named Junior,” said Stanley. “Spanish kid. Know anyone like that?”
“Junior? He’s in Majors,” answered Billy. “This is Pan-Con.”
“Which team?” asked Michaels.
“Yellowstone Tires. He’s their best pitcher. I gotta go, Coach is yelling.”
“Thanks, Billy,” said Michaels.
The boy scooted away.
“Here,” said Michaels, handing Stanley two bucks. “Buy him an extra ice cream on me.”
“My son, the snitch. His mother will be so proud.”
Michaels walked down to the league bulletin board and studied the schedules. Yellowstone Tires was playing at 10:30 on Field 1, the big one by the street. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta see Junior play at 10:30,” he said.
“You got him?” asked Carter.
“I don’t know any other Juniors, Mom. Do you?”
“Haven’t found any yet,” said Carter. “Which field?”
“Yeah, Field 1, Mom, that’s the nice one by the street.”
“Well, I think we got to keep covering the others, just in case.”
“You said it, Mom,” said Michaels. “I’ll call you when the game starts, give you a play-by-play. Put your feet up and go easy on the gin, okay?”
“If your mother is really like that, it goes a long way toward explaining you,” said Carter.
Michaels bought a pretzel from the snack shack. The first base foul line for Field 1 paralleled the street, where a pair of ice cream trucks had parked and were doing brisk business. An apartment building loomed beyond the clubhouse. Michaels picked up his cell again.
“We should have someone covering the entrance of that building,” he muttered. “Any Latino male coming out after the game ends should be tailed.”
“You don’t have enough people for everyone in Queens,” said one of the backups. “And they all seem to be here.”
Michaels sighed and hung up. A pair of three-year-olds ran screaming by him, their mothers following behind, chatting. No kid was being supervised, because every kid was safe. It was an oasis of security in the big bad city, and Michaels started hoping that he was wrong and Portillo was on his way back to wherever he was from.
The yellow jerseys of Yellowstone Tires began assembling by the field at 10:15, some tossing baseballs around, some cheering for their friends in the game winding down. There were several Latino kids on the team. A coach said something to one, and he nodded while a shorter, squatter kid dug a catcher’s mitt and a baseball from the equipment bag. They went over to the side of the field and began throwing the ball back and forth. The Latino kid threw two easy pitches to the catcher. Then he brought his left knee up close to his chin and uncoiled. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt dead center with a pop that echoed off the apartment building. Michaels pulled out his phone.
“I got Junior here,” he said. “And he’s got an arm, my friends.”
“Right,” said Carter. “Units 3, 4, and 5 to Field 1. The rest of you keep covering where you are, just in case we’re wrong.”
The early game ended, and the two teams lined up to slap palms in a display of ritualized sportsmanship. Yellowstone Tires and Wilco Hardware came onto the field to warm up. The parents of the Wilco kids gathered in the third base bleachers. Michaels grabbed a seat next to a woman who was surreptitiously reading a Harlequin romance.
“Which one is yours?” asked the woman.
“Oh, I got here too early,” said Michaels. “Gonna see my nephew play, but my idiot brother got the time wrong. So I got a couple of hours to kill.”
“That’s my Tommy playing second,” she offered.
“Good-looking kid,” he said. “Looks like you.”
“Are you one of those men who hits on divorced women at Little League games?” she asked hopefully.
“Nah, I only go for soccer moms. And they’re out of season. Who’s the kid pitching for Yellowstone? He’s got some pop.”
“That’s Javier,” she said. “His mom calls him Junior. He’s excellent.”
“Which one’s his mom?”
“I thought you only went for soccer moms,” she said, pouting slightly.
“Buddy of mine runs a travel team. He told me to scout for him while I was here. Javier might be a prospect.”
“That’s her in the yellow T-shirt,” she said, pointing to the other bleachers.
He pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned the Yel- lowstone supporters. A Latino woman was cheering loudly with some other moms. There were no Latino men.
The Wilco pitcher took the mound and threw his warmups. The catcher tossed the last one to second base, and then the game began. Yellowstone scratched out a run in the top of the first on three singles, the last by Javier, who was batting fifth. Then he took the mound for the bottom of the inning. He struck out the side on eleven pitches.
“This kid is good,” said Michaels into his cell phone.
“You’re telling me,” said Carter. “Any luck on Portillo?”
“Haven’t seen Uncle. I’ll get back to you.”
He stretched and stepped down from the bleachers. His colleagues were wandering around, pretending not to notice each other. He walked down to the street and bought an ice cream.
“Little League sure kills your diet,” he said on his cell.
“It’s our lack of will power,” replied Carter. “I’m on my fifth hot dog, and I don’t even like hot dogs. Any prospects?”
“Not yet.”
Bottom of the second. Two more strikeouts for Javier, the batters flinching at each pitch. The last one swung late and hit a weak ground ball to the first baseman, earning a cheer from the Wilco parents.
Michaels sauntered over to the first base bleachers and took a seat in the top row, giving him a good view of both the game and Javier’s mother. She kept up an animated stream of Spanish with a woman next to her, interspersed with cheers for her son and the other children. She did not look anywhere else.
The pitcher for Wilco, while not at Javier’s level, was effective after the firs
t inning, pitching in and out of jams without allowing another run. Javier struck out the side again in the fourth, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Do you realize that we’re watching a perfect game?” marveled Michaels.
“Don’t jinx it,” warned Carter.
“Lucky bastards,” said another detective. “The T-ball game is 18 to 4 in the second, and all the runs are unearned. I’m having flashbacks.”
Word traveled, and kids and parents who were not committed to other games drifted down to watch Javier. Reluctantly, Michaels started scanning the crowd again, looking for possibilities. The ping of a bat distracted him, and he looked back at the game to see Yellowstone’s center fielder racing toward the fence. At the last second, he stuck his glove out and the ball somehow landed in it.
Both sides and all the onlookers stood and applauded the effort, Javier as hard as anyone.
“Did you see that?” shouted Michaels into his cell phone.
“Unbelievable!” said Carter. “Game-saver right there.”
Michaels stretched as the fifth inning played out. Javier was beginning to look fatigued. His pitches no longer popped, but his control was still with him. The Wilco batters were putting the ball in play instead of striking out, although the Yellowstone fielders were able to keep the perfect game going.
Only one inning left, thought Michaels. Then he saw a tall Latino male standing outside the right field fence next to a Hasid who had stopped to watch the game.
“Hey, Mom, I think Uncle Phil just got here,” he said. “Down on the street side. I’m gonna go say hello.”
“Got your back,” said Carter.
He ambled over to the fence by where the Latino stood. Yellowstone did nothing in the top of the sixth. It was still 1-0, and Javier walked slowly to the mound, the crowd cheering him on.
“Good game,” said Michaels. “That Javier is some pitcher.”
The Latino man grunted.
“It would be a shame if something spoiled his big day,” continued Michaels. “Like seeing his uncle get arrested in front of everyone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked the Latino man, turning to face him.
“Oh, sorry,” said Michaels. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Then who you talking to?” demanded the man.
“Him,” said Michaels, pointing to the Hasid. “And I suggest you give us a little space for a few minutes.”
The Hasid glanced at him with a quizzical expression, sweat running through his beard. Then his eyebrows raised slightly.
“You were the one coming through the door,” he said.
“That’s me,” said Michaels. “And I have friends all around you, so let’s keep it quiet. There are kids here.”
Portillo turned back toward the game, keeping his hands visible on the fence.
“Tell you what,” he said softly. “Let’s watch the last inning. Give me that, then I’ll go quietly.”
Birnbaum will ream me for this, thought Michaels.
“All right,” he said. “Hell, I want to see if he pulls it off.”
The first batter took a called strike. Then he glanced at the dad coaching third.
“Whadaya think, they put the bunt on?” said Michaels.
“Let him try,” replied Portillo.
The bunt was on. The kid bravely squared around in the face of the onrushing pitch. It was a chest-high fastball, and it caught the top of the bat and went straight up. The batter, the catcher, and the umpire looked at it, then the catcher took a step forward and caught it.
One out.
“He read the play,” said Michaels. “Smart.”
The next kid gritted his teeth and took the count to three and two. Then he fouled off three pitches in a row.
“He’s tired,” said Portillo. “Come on, Junior, one good one here.”
Javier brought his knee up high and whipped his arm around. The ball started chest high and broke down and to the left. The batter flailed. Strike three.
“I’m guessing he’s an El Duque fan,” said Michaels.
“Better believe it,” said Portillo. “He was so happy when the Mets brought him back.”
Wilco was down to their last licks. The batter, a muscular twelve-year-old, was the kid who had put the ball to deep center before. He swung confidently, then stepped up to the plate. He took Javier to a full count, then, like the previous batter, fouled several pitches off.
Portillo looked at Michaels and grinned through the fake beard.
“Gonna give him the hook again?” speculated Michaels.
“Just watch,” said Portillo.
Javier reared back and threw it hard, right down the middle. The batter swung and connected, a line drive up the middle. Javier stuck his glove in front of his face in self-defense and managed to catch it.
Perfect.
Javier’s team swarmed the mound and lifted him exultantly above them. His mother was screaming from the bleachers, and he pointed at her in triumph.
“Some game,” said Michaels.
“Yeah,” said Portillo, taking off the black hat and wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Okay, let’s go.”
They walked casually away from the field toward Thornton, the rest of the crew falling into place behind them. As they turned the corner, Michaels produced his handcuffs.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
Portillo complied, and Michaels cuffed him. The prisoner van pulled up. A uniform patted him down. “He’s clean.”
“Strip him when you get inside, just to be safe,” said Michaels.
Portillo turned and looked at him as they put him inside. “Thanks,” he said.
“You want me to tell them what happened?” asked Michaels.
“Nah,” replied Portillo. “It’s the best day of his life. Can’t spoil those.”
They closed the doors of the van and drove off. Carter stood by Michaels.
“How on earth did you know it was Portillo under that getup?” demanded Carter. “He looked kosher to me.”
“See any Hasids up by the seminary?” asked Michaels.
“Well, no, as a matter of fact, I do not,” replied Carter. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s a seminary, not a synagogue. Seminary’s where you learn, synagogue’s where you pray. And it’s Saturday morning. Hasids are in synagogues, not at ballgames.”
“Damn. So what happened between you two?”
“We bonded,” said Michaels. “Baseball does that . . . What do you say we get some lunch? I have this strange craving for bagels and lox.”
THE FLOWER OF FLUSHING
BY VICTORIA ENG
Flushing
Let’s get this party started!” Lily calls out to me from across the street. She’s late, as usual. I’ve been waiting for her by the train station on the corner of Main and Roosevelt, breathing in the greasy aroma of hot dogs and frying noodles from various sidewalk carts. Sunlight washes over Main Street and its procession of festive store signs, all red and yellow with black Chinese lettering. As Lily approaches, the traffic lights change; cars brake at the crosswalk in succession, like they’re bowing to her. She smiles brightly and bumps her hip against mine. I roll my eyes at her and don’t bump back, but inside I’m relieved that she even showed up. Today is important: I’m determined to talk to my crush, Jimmy Lee, a junior at my school. I know he plays basketball at Bowne Park on the weekends, so I made Lily promise to come with me so that I could “run into him” there. We head down Main toward Sanford Avenue, weaving around weekend shoppers and double-parked trucks.
“Think he’ll be there today?” I ask.
“Who? Yao Ming?” she says, her dimples showing.
“Stop calling him that.” I poke her arm. “You know his name.”
“Hey, look! There he is.”
My breath catches in my chest. I look around without moving my head, hoping that he’s too far away to have heard me talking about him. We’re approaching the underpass
of the Long Island Rail Road station and I expect to see him perusing magazines at the newsstand, or worse, walking right toward me. But Lily points to a store window with a life-sized poster of Yao Ming, the NBA player from China, and starts cracking up.
“Oh, reeeeally funny, Lil,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. I exhale through my mouth, the tension in my neck subsiding. “You almost made me puke, you know.”
She’s laughing so hard no sound is coming out of her mouth.
“Um, maybe you’re the one who’s gonna puke. You okay?”
She nods and gasps. I’m tempted to tickle her sides to make her throw up—she’s always been sensitive like that— but I’m too anxious to get going.
Jimmy Lee looks nothing like the famous athlete, but he’s 6'2"—way taller than most Asian guys—and he plays on the basketball team. That was enough for Lily to make fun of him. It made no difference to her that he’s Korean.
“Really, quit calling him Yao Ming. Jimmy’s not even Chinese.”
“I know,” she sighs. “Well, he’s far from perfect. A jock. What’s he going to do for you? Buy you pom-poms?” She catches her reflection in the window of a café and runs her fingers through her hair.
Lily Tong is the kind of girl who makes heads turn. She’s only fifteen, one year older than me, but she looks at least twenty. She’s curvy like the women in the music videos, and she wears her makeup and hair like she’s one too. As usual, she’s dressed in something slinky: an expensive, cut-up T-shirt that keeps falling off her shoulder, low-cut jeans that hug her curves, and black pumps. Dangling off her arm is a new purse, its print of interlocking letters broadcasting its expense. Along the street, old Chinese ladies carrying plastic bags full of groceries pause from scrutinizing vegetables to shake their heads at her disapprovingly. Men gawk at her from the open backdoors of restaurants; one worker almost falls from his perch on an overturned bucket into the pile of carrots he’s peeling. As usual, Lily pretends not to notice, but she lifts her chin a little bit higher, and swings her hips a little bit wider.
I hold my head higher too, proud to be her best friend. At 5'5", I’m taller than Lily, but I look like a child next to her, in my maroon tank top and green Old Navy cargo pants. Even if I had the courage to wear the kinds of clothes as Lily, everything would just hang on me loosely. My hair falls straight down in stringy strands no matter what I do to it, so I never even bother curling it like Lily does. I’m glad that I chose to paint my toenails red instead of pink; at least my feet look grown-up.
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