“How’s he get the word from Ironwood to Milky over at Corcoran?”
“The women. Sonny gets conjugals. He tells his wife, probably right in the middle of giving her a pop. She leaves, tells one of the wives visiting her man in The Cork. It goes like that.”
“You got it down, man. How long’ve you been working these guys?”
“Coming up on five years. Long time.”
“Why didn’t you ever rotate out?”
Stilwell straightened up behind the wheel and ignored the question.
“There’s the bus.”
Stilwell had been right. Milky Vachon’s first stop after getting off the bus was the McDonald’s. He ate two Quarter Pounders and went back to the counter twice for ketchup for his french fries.
Stilwell and Harwick went in a side door and slipped into a booth positioned behind Vachon’s back. Stilwell said he had never met Vachon but that he needed to take precautions because it was likely Vachon had seen his photo. The Saints had their own intelligence net and, after all, Stilwell had been assigned full time to the gang for half a decade.
When Vachon went to the counter for ketchup for the second time, Stilwell noticed that there was an envelope sticking out of the back pocket of his blue jeans. He told Harwick that he was curious about it.
“Most of the time these guys get out, they want no reminders of where they’ve been,” he whispered across the table. “They leave letters, photos, books, everything behind. That letter, that must mean something. I’m not talking sentimental. I mean it means something.”
He thought a moment and nodded to himself.
“I’m gonna go out, see if I can set up a shake. You stay here. When he starts wrapping up his trash come on out. If I’m not back in time I’ll find you. If I don’t, use the rover.”
Stilwell called sheriff’s dispatch and had them contact LAPD to send a car. He arranged to meet the car around the corner from the McDonald’s so their conference wouldn’t be seen by Vachon.
It took almost ten minutes for a black and white to show. The uniformed officer pulled the car up next to Stilwell’s Volvo, driver’s window to driver’s window.
“Stilwell?”
“That’s me.”
He pulled a badge out of his shirt. It was on a chain around his neck. Also hung on the chain was a gold 7 about the size of a thumbnail.
“Ortiz. What can I do for you?”
“Around the corner my partner’s keeping an eye on a guy just off the bus from Corcoran. I need to shake him. He’s got an envelope in his back pocket. I’d like to know everything there is to know about it.”
Ortiz nodded. He was about twenty-five, with the kind of haircut that left the sides of his head nearly shaved and a healthy inch of hair on the top. He had one wrist on the top of the wheel, and he drummed his fingertips on the dashboard.
“What was he up there for?”
“Cooking crystal meth for the Road Saints.”
Ortiz picked up the rhythm with his fingers.
“He going to go easy? I’m by myself, in case you didn’t notice.”
“At the moment, he should be easy. Like I said, he just got back on the ground. Just give him a kick in the pants, tell him you don’t want him on your beat. That ought to do it. My partner and I will have your back. You’ll be safe.
“Okay. You going to point him out?”
“He’s an albino with a ponytail. Like that Edgar Winters guy.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. You can’t miss him.”
“All right. Meet back here after?”
“Yeah. And thanks.”
Ortiz pulled away first and Stilwell watched him go. He then followed and turned the corner. He saw Harwick standing on the curb outside the McDonald’s. Moving north on foot a half a block away was Vachon.
Stilwell pulled to a stop next to Harwick, and his new partner got in the Volvo.
“I was wondering where you were.”
“Forgot to turn on my rover.”
“Is that the shake car just went by?”
“That’s it.”
They watched in silence as the black and white pulled to the curb next to Vachon and Ortiz stepped out. The patrolmen signaled Vachon to the hood of the cruiser and the ex-convict assumed the position without protest.
Stilwell leaned across to the glove compartment and got out a small pair of field glasses and used them to watch the shakedown.
Ortiz leaned Vachon over the hood and patted him down. He held him in that position with a forearm on his back. After checking him for weapons and coming up empty, Ortiz pulled the white envelope out of Vachon’s back pocket.
With his body leaned over the hood, Vachon could not see what Ortiz was doing. With one hand Ortiz was able to open the envelope and look inside. He studied the contents for a long moment but did not remove them. He then returned the envelope to the man’s back pocket.
“Can you see what it is?” Harwick asked.
“No. Whatever it was, the cop looked at it in the envelope.”
Stilwell continued to watch through the field glasses. Ortiz had now let Vachon stand up and was talking to him face to face. Ortiz’s arms were folded in front of him, and his body language suggested he was attempting to intimidate Vachon. He was telling him to get off his beat. It looked pretty routine. Ortiz was good.
After a few moments Ortiz used a hand signal to tell Vachon to move on. He then returned to his car.
“All right, you get back out and stay with Milky. I’ll go talk to the cop and come back for you. “
“Gotcha.”
Ten minutes later the Volvo pulled up next to Harwick at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Harwick climbed back in.
“It was a ticket to a Dodgers game,” Stilwell said. “Tonight’s game.”
“In the envelope? Just a ticket to the game?”
“That’s it. Outside was his address at Corcoran. With a return that was smeared. Not recognizable. Postmark was Palmdale, mailed eight days ago. Inside was just the one ticket. Reserve level, section eleven, row K, seat one. By the way, where is Vachon?”
“Across the street. The porno palace. I guess he’s looking for —”
“That place has a back door.”
Stilwell was out of the car before he finished the sentence. He darted across the street in front of traffic and through the beaded curtain at the entrance to the adult video arcade.
Harwick followed but at a reduced pace. By the time he had entered the arcade Stilwell had already swept through the video and adult novelty showroom and was in the back hallway, slapping back the curtains of the private video viewing booths. There was no sign of Vachon.
Stilwell moved to the back door, pushed it open, and came out into a rear alley. He looked both ways and did not see Vachon. A young couple, both with ample piercings and drug-glazed eyes, leaned against a dumpster. Stilwell approached them.
“Did you just see a guy come this way a few seconds ago? White guy with white hair. An albino. You couldn’t miss him.”
They both giggled and one mentioned something about seeing a white rabbit going down a hole.
They were useless and Stilwell knew it. He took one last look around the alley, wondering if Vachon had merely been taking precautions when he ducked through the porno house, or if he had seen Stilwell or Harwick tailing him. He knew a third possibility, that Vachon had been spooked by the shakedown and decided to disappear, was also to be considered.
Harwick stepped through the back door into the alley. Stilwell glared at him, and Harwick averted his eyes.
“Know what I heard about you, Harwick? That you’re going to night school.”
He didn’t mean it literally. It was a cop expression. Going to night school meant you wanted to be somewhere else. Not the street, not in the game. You were thinking about your next move, not the present mission.
“That’s bullshit,” Harwick said. “What was I supposed to do? You left me hanging. What if I covered t
he back? He could’ve walked out the front.”
The junkies laughed, amused by the angry exchange of the cops.
Stilwell started walking out of the alley, back toward Vine, where he had left the car.
“Look, don’t worry,” Harwick said. “We have the game tonight. We’ll get back on him there.”
Stilwell checked his watch. It was almost five. He called back without looking at Harwick.
“And it might be too late by then.”
At the parking gate to Dodger Stadium, the woman in the booth asked to see their tickets. Stilwell said they didn’t have tickets.
“Well, we’re not allowed to let you in without tickets. Tonight’s game is sold out and we can’t allow people to park without tickets for the game.”
Before Stilwell could react Harwick leaned over to look up at the woman.
“Sold out? The Dodgers aren’t going anywhere. What is it, beach towel night?”
“No, it’s Mark McGwire.”
Harwick leaned back over to his side.
“All right, McGwire!”
Stilwell pulled his badge out of his shirt.
“Sheriff’s deputies, ma’am. We working. We need to go in.”
She reached back into the booth and got a clipboard. She asked Stilwell his name and told him to hold in place while she called the stadium security office. While they waited, cars backed up behind them and a few drivers honked their horns.
Stilwell checked his watch. It was forty minutes until game time.
“What’s the hurry?”
“BP.”
Stilwell looked over at Harwick.
“What?”
“Batting practice. They want to see McGwire hit a few fungoes out of the park before the game. You know who Mark McGwire is, don’t you?”
Stilwell turned to look at the woman in the both. It was taking a long time.
“Yes, I know who he is. I was here at the stadium in ‘eighty-eight. He wasn’t so hot then.”
“The series? Did you see Gibson’s homer?”
“I was here.”
“So cool! So was I!”
Stilwell turned to lock at him.
“You were here? Game one, ninth inning? You saw him hit it?”
The doubt was evident in his voice.
“I was here,” Harwick protested. “Best fucking sports moment I’ve ever seen.”
Stilwell just looked at him.
“What? I was here!”
“Sir?”
Stilwell turned back to the woman. She handed him a parking pass.
“That’s for lot seven. Park there and then go to the field level gates and ask for Mr. Houghton. He’s in charge of security and he’ll determine if you can enter. Okay?”
“Thank you.”
As the Volvo went through the gate it was hit with a volley of horns for good measure.
“So you’re a baseball fan,” Harwick said. “I didn’t know that.”
“You don’t know a lot about me.”
“Well, you went to the World Series. I think that makes you a fan.”
“I was a fan. Not anymore.”
Harwick was silent while he thought about that. Stilwell was busy looking for lot 7. They were on a road that circled the stadium with the parking lots on either side denoted by large baseballs with numbers painted on them. The numbers weren’t in an order he understood.
“What happened?” Harwick finally asked.
“What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ “
“They say baseball is a metaphor for life. If you fall out of love with baseball you fall out of love with life.”
“Fuck that shit.”
Stilwell felt his face burning. Finally, he saw the baseball with the orange seven painted on it. A dull emptiness came into his chest as he looked at the number. An ache that he vanquished by speeding up to the lot entrance and handing the lot monitor his pass.
“Anywhere,” the monitor said. “But slow it down.”
Stilwell drove in, circled around, and took the space closest to the exit so they could get out quickly.
“If we catch up with Milky here it’s going to be a goddamn nightmare following him out,” he said as he turned the car off.
“We’ll figure it out,” Harwick said. “So what happened?”
Stilwell opened the door and was about to get out. Instead, he turned back to his partner.
“I lost my reason to love the game, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”
He was about to get out again when Harwick stopped him once more.
“What happened? Tell me. We’re partners.”
Stilwell put both hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead.
“I used to take my kid, all right? I used to take him all the time. Five years old and I took him to a World Series game. He saw Gibson’s homer, man. We were out there, right-field bleachers, back row. Only tickets I could get. That would be a story to tell when he grew up. A lot of people in this town lie about it, say they were here, say they saw it.. .”
He stopped there, but Harwick made no move to get out. He waited.
“But I lost him. My son. And without him . . . there wasn’t a reason to come back here.”
Without another word Stilwell got out and slammed the door behind him.
At the field level gate they were met by Houghton, the skeptical security man.
“We’ve got Mark McGwire in town and everybody and their brother is coming out of the woodwork. I have to tell you guys, if this isn’t legit, I can’t let you in. Any other game, come on back and we’ll see what we can do. I’m LAPD retired and would love to —”
“That’s nice, Mr. Houghton, but let me tell you something,” Stilwell said. “We’re here to see a hitter, but his name isn’t McGwire. We’re trying to track a man who’s in town to kill somebody, not hit home runs. We don’t know where he is at the moment but we do know one thing. He’s got a ticket to this game. He might be here to make a connection and he might be here to kill somebody. We don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to find that out if we’re on the outside looking in. You understand our position now?”
Houghton nodded once under Stilwell’s intimidating stare.
“We’re going to have over fifty thousand people in here tonight,” he said. “How are you two going to —”
“Reserve level, section eleven, row K, seat one.”
“That’s his ticket?”
Stilwell nodded.
“And if you don’t mind,” Harwick said, “we’d like to get a trace on that ticket. See who bought it, if possible.”
Stilwell looked at Harwick and nodded. He hadn’t thought of that. It was a good idea.
“That will be no problem,” said Houghton, his voice taking on a tone of full cooperation now. “Now this seat location. How close do you need and want to get?”
“Just close enough to watch what he does, who he talks to,” Stilwell said. “Make a move if we have to.”
“This seat is just below the press box. I can put you in there and you can look right down on him.”
Stilwell shook his head.
“That won’t work. If he gets up and moves, we’re a level above him. We’ll lose him.”
“How about one in the press box and one below — mobile, moving about?”
Stilwell thought about this and looked at Harwick. Harwick nodded.
“Might work,” he said. “We got the radios.”
Stilwell looked at Houghton.
“Set it up.”
They were both in the front row of the press box looking down on Vachon’s seat. It was empty, and the national anthem had already been sung. The Dodgers were taking the field. Kevin Brown was on the mound, promising a classic matchup between himself, a fastball pitcher, and McGwire, a purebred slugger.
“This is going to be good,” Harwick said.
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