Ball Park

by John Farrow

  ‘With luck like that, I can handle the day shift. Go beyond six weeks.’

  ‘I’ll fry if I see the sun again,’ Touton remarked. ‘It’s been so long. Write, kid, tell me how it feels.’

  He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty. Probably the designation would never change in his mentor’s vocabulary, which was fine with him.

  ‘Do you know what’s amazing?’ Touton asked.

  ‘No. Tell me what’s amazing.’

  ‘You’re still alive. Usually the naive ones are flushed first.’

  ‘I’m sure we usually are.’

  The repartee didn’t bother him. He expected to be needled.

  ‘So,’ Captain Armand Touton pronounced, ‘we part company.’

  ‘It’s not that I want to leave the Night Patrol, you know that.’

  ‘You want a variety of experiences on the job. Work under different captains.’ He switched to a mock hush. ‘Do you know, I don’t have to let you go? I can keep you right where you are. I have that power.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Nodding, Touton returned to his normal voice. ‘Once or twice men announced to me they were leaving the Night Patrol to see if I’d object. To see if I loved them so much, I’d never let them go. What happened? Hunh. I always let them go. You won’t get a reaction out of me, either. A boy should snip his mother’s apron strings, begin his life as a man. But also a man should shake the hand of his mentor at a certain point and say, “Enough. Your influence, appreciated, but what else is there?”’

  ‘Your influence has been appreciated, Captain.’

  ‘But?’ Touton’s toothy grin shone above his solid rock of a chin, picking up the red of the exit sign.

  ‘But … what else is there?’

  ‘Good question. You’ll find out. That’s my answer.’

  ‘I have another question,’ the junior detective put forward. He sipped again, and the captain gladly joined in. ‘I know you had a say with respect to my next posting.’

  ‘Who said? I know nothing about it.’

  ‘Like I believe you. I’m confused. Why choose Giroux for me?’

  ‘Not saying I did. Since you ask, if I did pick him, why not?’

  Cinq-Mars swished his drink in the snifter. He did not usually undertake the ritual or feel the need to be hesitant around the other man, yet he lifted the glass to his nostrils and inhaled. Touton stared him down. The two men were close enough, and had shared experiences together, both defeat and triumph, that their mutual accord remained perpetually present. Even when the captain was on a rant or had a bone to pick with him, both men knew they’d risk their lives for each other if conditions warranted. Both had proven it. Such as the time they confronted the Cubans.

  ‘I’ve heard things, Armand. He might not be on the up-and-up.’

  ‘The up-and-up? I thought you were gung-ho about your new posting. A day-time cop now. You wanted new experiences.’

  Cinq-Mars knew the man was having him on but couldn’t figure out why. ‘Your BS aside, do you want me to rat out Giroux? I’m not keen on it. Bad cops bore me.’

  ‘Who says he’s a bad cop?’

  The question seemed serious. Fraught with nuance. And yet illogical.

  ‘Now you’re playing with me.’

  Touton opened his palms to suggest otherwise. ‘Maybe a crooked cop can be a good cop. I know for damn sure that a virtuous police officer can also be one hell of a lousy cop.’

  ‘OK,’ Cinq-Mars conceded, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘OK what?’

  ‘You’re setting me up to fail? Is that it? Either that or you’ve set me up for reasons only you know. I need to figure it out for myself. Is that it?’

  ‘Isn’t it always the way? Hey, Émile. It’s nice to talk about the future like this. Guess what? That’s not why we’re here. I invited you in to chat about the past. At least, to drink to it. Here’s to the Cubans!’

  ‘Sure. Here’s to the Cubans. Why drink to them in this dungeon?’

  ‘You don’t like the atmosphere?’

  ‘Not so much.’ Is this when the gang leaps from the shadows?

  ‘You hate the place,’ Touton remarked. ‘I like it here. Hey, we’ve had our days, no? In here and elsewhere?’

  The old guy was striking a nostalgic note, not his usual tune.

  ‘A few, Captain.’

  Armand Touton turned pensive. He took up his glass and observed the amber fluid in the light of the red exit sign as though mesmerized. Cinq-Mars pegged him to be stalling, and prayed – quite literally, prayed – that their colleagues would not be arriving with showgirls. Please, God, no dancing girls.

  ‘Émile, here’s some news …’ Touton leaned his weight forward onto his elbows and powerful forearms. ‘A few hours ago I submitted my resignation. I’m retiring. Calling it a career. Game over.’

  Cinq-Mars sat there in silence. Stunned.

  ‘Idiot. Say something. Wish me well.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ He was obviously dead serious. ‘Why?’

  Touton shrugged. ‘Older. Tired. We’ve had these fights, you and me. You don’t believe I had the right to beat the crap out of some guys. My way of doing things is coming to an end, Cinq-Mars. You know it. This will surprise you – I know it, too. Being a cop is going to be different. You’re part of the difference. You’re our future man. Me, I can’t beat people up anymore. The public wants a stop to it and let’s face it, I’m too damn old for that stuff. These days, I have to be careful beating up a bad guy because he might lay me out.’

  ‘Doubt that,’ Cinq-Mars assured him, then went mute. He knew that Touton hadn’t laid a hand on anyone in at least five years. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was adapting to the times. Still, his reputation went before him and the old mythology was permitted to stand. He continued to look the other way when cops under him chose the rough stuff, as long as their purpose was true.

  Cinq-Mars acknowledged the irony of the moment. He sensed its importance and gravity. This was a legitimate changing of the guard. He’d still be a green detective, while the one cop who had set the tone, the one guy whom both criminals and the just feared equally, would be absent. Everything would soon be transformed.

  Often opposed to the man’s methods, he still admired the hell out of him. They were separated by the times, the culture. What bound them together was an uncompromising interest in protecting citizens against criminals.

  ‘My fists aren’t up for the battle anymore,’ Touton reiterated. ‘I’m turning things over to your brains.’

  ‘I’ve got a long way to go.’

  Touton acknowledged that with an expression close to being a grimace. ‘Longer than you know, Émile. Who knows if you’ll survive? Not everyone does. I wanted to have a drink together to give you a final word of advice.’

  A waiter – perhaps in response to a signal from Touton that Cinq-Mars had missed, or earlier instructions – put two more snifters of Glenfiddich on the table, doubles, and absconded with the empties.

  ‘Of course.’ Cinq-Mars exhaled. ‘I’m still in shock.’

  Touton leaned in, spoke barely above a whisper. ‘Cops don’t get along, within departments, or between forces. You know that.’

  ‘Lay of the land.’

  ‘Unless,’ Touton stipulated, ‘individual cops within the department and between forces form close personal ties.’

  ‘I should develop relationships with good cops, you’re saying?’

  ‘Relationships,’ Touton scoffed. ‘Sounds like you’re sleeping together. Close connections, Cinq-Mars. Use my words. If you’re going to be the cop you want to be, you need those connections. I know it’s bugged you from time to time that you were connected to me. You think it’s given you an unfair advantage. Émile, stick this through your thick, innocent skin. You need an unfair advantage. A cop like you, in this world, you won’t survive, you won’t be allowed to survive, unless you develop the close connections I’m talking about.’

 
‘To people in high places.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I won’t say that. I’ll say this. Find people you can trust and find them in various places. High, low, in the middle, everywhere. Cops and crooks, both. Connect with them. You’re a loner, we know that, but you cannot go it alone. Otherwise, you won’t survive. I don’t mean that you won’t be promoted or not get the good cases. I mean, Émile, that you will not survive.’

  Touton gave him a penetrating gaze, to drill down on the premise that he was not being metaphorical in any way. That he was talking about life and death.

  Cinq-Mars clued in to that.

  ‘You could, of course, not bother,’ Touton went on. ‘Be an ordinary cop. That’s safer all around. I’d advise it, except I’m not sure you’re capable of doing that.’

  Cinq-Mars wanted that deep gaze off him. He understood it too well. ‘Captain, here’s to your retirement.’

  They clinked glasses again.

  ‘Enough with the inconsequential stuff,’ the younger cop put forward, ‘like your retirement and my death. Why have you stuck me with Giroux?’

  That broke the mood. Touton laughed lightly. Yet quickly grew serious again. ‘First, yes, I stuck you with him, Émile. You’ve been on the Night Patrol. Nobody within the department messes with anybody in my group. Starting tomorrow, you no longer have that protection. You’ll be tested in different ways. Other cops will be suspicious. Giroux will be. There’s no point trying to drop you into a safe environment. You wouldn’t learn a thing. Giroux has a reputation. That he’s corrupt. Inside the department, he has another reputation. Do you know what it is? Probably not. Did you know, he used to be on the Night Patrol with me? He was once one of my guys.’

  Cinq-Mars didn’t know that and shook his head.

  ‘Like you, he wanted out. To spread his wings. How did that work for him? Find out for me. How did Giroux get along after he left our group? After he saw the sun rise? What became of him? There, my last command to you.’

  No dancing girls. No ribald detectives out to party and humiliate him. A more serious turn had been addressed, and Cinq-Mars grasped the privilege he’d been granted. Other than the necessary superiors, he was the first person to hear about the end of Armand Touton’s illustrious career. Touton speaking to him first was meant as a singular act of friendship and respect.

  ‘Who’s taking over the Night Patrol?’ Émile asked.

  ‘Disappointed you didn’t hang around long enough to take command?’

  That outcome would never have been in the cards. He was too young, even though Touton was around his age when he formed the patrol. Back then, the captain’s war record was worth a hundred years of service.

  ‘No one takes over,’ Touton revealed. ‘The Night Patrol will be disbanded.’

  ‘What? No way. Why?’

  Touton’s smile was lined with sadness. ‘I had power, Émile. I was only a captain, but what chief would go against me? What politician? You see? That can’t be allowed to happen again. All the chairs will be rearranged. So that a cop like me, a good cop with real power, will never be allowed inside the force again. You see? Change. No more cops beating up the bad guys. A small part that becomes a big rationale. At least, no more beating them up without bothering to hide it. Other, more important, changes are coming. The bureaucrats within the department are taking over. Remember this, Émile. My power didn’t come from my fists, even though I like to say so and many cops think so. The bad guys thought so, too. Close connections – that’s the real power. Crooks and cops, both. Various forces. The bureaucrats can’t do anything about that. Keep every connection secret, keep them strong and close, Émile. Only then will you be the cop you’re meant to be.’

  Cinq-Mars was onside with that. ‘All right, I’ll drink to close connections.’

  ‘You start tomorrow?’

  ‘At the crack. I hear there’s something called a sun that comes up in the morning.’

  ‘Good. First day on the job, show up hungover.’

  ‘Ah, boss. Come on.’

  ‘You come on. I’m retiring. You’ll let me drink alone?’

  He could not do that, of course. At the 3:00 a.m. closing hour the door was shut to patrons. They stayed behind, drinking on, singing a few tunes, which is why Touton had brought him to this ridiculous cavern. He had a connection there, an allowance to drink after hours and sing absurd songs until the cows came home.

  Or until Detective Émile Cinq-Mars reported for his new assignment.

  The next day awaited him, the next rung in his career as a cop. He’d be lucky if he showed up merely hammered, polluted, and sick, and not rip-roaring drunk.

  As the fates and Armand Touton decreed, he wasn’t that lucky.

  The Getaway Boy

  (A significant discovery)

  When searching for a district to plunder, Quinn Tanner failed to consider the obvious. Home to thirty thousand souls, Park Extension was a quarter-mile wide by three-quarters of a mile long. The community’s poor were hemmed in on every side. The southern border terminated at railway tracks and a protective fence. An underpass served as the sole entry-and-exit point. Tracks and fences demarcated the eastern boundary, penetrated only by a pair of underpasses. A footbridge over the tracks to the Major League baseball field provided access to pedestrians, as did subversive cutouts in the railway fence. A dozen lanes of traffic, submerged and elevated in a labyrinth of veers and circles, made escape north trepidatious by car, suicidal on foot. Boulevard de l’Acadie’s six lanes, a chain-link fence, and a stout hedge made the western limit nearly impenetrable. People were permitted to walk through two gates in the western frontier, while cars and trucks had to rumble down to busy Jean Talon to enter or exit the opposing territories. Park-Exers called the fence their Berlin Wall and took note that they lived on its east side.

  On a walk, Quinn stopped, stared, and damn near kicked herself in the shin. As a child, she’d accompanied her mother selling tins of cashews for a Christmas charity on both sides of the fence. In Park Ex, the poor bought their nuts. Over the fence, the wealthy shooed them off their stoops as if they were contaminated rabble.

  She’d witnessed her mother’s humiliation.

  Ever since, Quinn ignored everything on the western side of the fence.

  But now? She was a thief. She’d been taught to never swipe anything on her own turf. Why not cross an enemy line? A significant discovery.

  She scouted the affluent neighborhood. Found various targets. Cased them. Selected one. Executed a dry run. Trained her new boyfriend. And finally the time came to put him to the test.

  ‘Meet me in the park tonight, Deets.’

  ‘What park?’ he asked.

  Boys. Were they all such morons?

  ‘Ball,’ she reminded him.

  She could feel him tensing up.

  ‘Show up at ten or so,’ Quinn directed.

  ‘I know, park a few blocks away.’

  ‘When we leave—’

  ‘People will think we’re going to your place.’

  ‘And remember, Deets—’

  ‘I know, gas up.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Quinn maintained a weather eye. The forecast predicted clear skies and cool air. Perfect. The moon would come up bright, ideal for scrounging around in the dark.

  The husband of the lady she targeted worked at night. In the skinny phone book for the Town of Mount Royal, the prefix ‘Dr’ preceded the name at this address. A hospital guy, maybe. Worked the late shift. Home alone, his wife turned off the air-conditioning before she went to bed when the night air cooled, opening windows on the top floor. Quinn could not enter by the second story; yet with a boost she could slip in through an open window onto a staircase between the floors.

  No one played ball at Ball Park. The playground was intended for small fry, with swings and teeter-totters, sandboxes, merry-go-rounds, and monkey bars. A ten-foot iron fence prevented kids from running into traffic. The grounds spanned the short distance between
Bloomfield and Avenue de l’Épée, and a third of the greater distance between Jarry and Ball Avenue – hence the park’s name.

  At night, the park transformed into a hangout for older teens and twenty-somethings. Dietmar and Quinn talked to friends there, then departed at midnight on foot. They bundled into Dietmar’s car and headed to the rich man’s land.

  She could tell that he was nervous.

  ‘Take it easy, Trucker. Drive slow.’

  He obeyed.

  A drive-by. The woman of the house typically parked her car in the garage, next to a small boat. When he was home, the husband’s vehicle remained conspicuous in the driveway, displaced by the boat. The absent spouse at night was Quinn’s main reason to choose this house and, as hoped, his car was not in sight.

  Deets parked adjacent to the hedge and fence that bordered Boulevard l’Acadie. Folks often parked there to walk through a gate to a hardware store or to the convenience store on the other side. The car blended in.

  Deets helped her out. He was to be her ladder.

  They walked arm-in-arm. Part of their disguise, Quinn said.

  They kissed. ‘Is this part of the disguise?’ he asked.

  ‘Anybody behind me? You look. On the streets? In a yard?’

  She held him in her arms while he studied the lay of the land over her shoulder.

  ‘Nope.’

  His instinct was to creep into the yard.

  ‘Are you trying to look like a thief? Look like you live here, you moron.’

  ‘I asked you before. Stop calling me a moron.’

  ‘Then straighten up.’

  A slight stoop persisted.

  Under the staircase window, Deets stuck his head between Quinn’s legs and lifted her onto his shoulders. Balancing herself with her palms against the wall, she eased herself up until she stood on his shoulders. They had practiced the maneuver. From that height, she took a box cutter out of her hip pocket and cut two slits in the screen. One on each side. Low down. She reached in and pulled the latches on each edge of the screen and it plopped out. She passed the screen down to Deets, who, wobbling with her on his shoulders, took it in his right hand and dropped it on the ground. Quinn pulled herself up and, half-in, half-out of the window, kicked her feet like a swimmer as she squirmed inside.