Ball Park

by John Farrow

  ‘Good to see you, Joe. You look better every year. My eyes, hard to believe what they see.’

  ‘What I love about you, Ezra. You talk like a nut.’

  ‘From the heart. On a sad note, I am sorry for your loss, Joe.’

  Ciampini gesticulated with a flex of his shoulders. ‘I didn’t lose my daughter. Only her husband.’

  ‘Still, that’s not right.’

  ‘Our talk is connected?’

  ‘Come into the back room. Let me lock up. Your wife is well, Joe?’

  Ezra made tea. Ciampini sat expectantly, waiting for the kettle to signal the end of their introductory catch-up. A sortie into physical grudges – the liver, the lower bowel, the esophagus – came next.

  ‘Gout in February. My God, Joe.’

  ‘I heard it’s bad.’

  ‘A wickedness. The whole of your life lives in your big toe. Now, it’s one more pill. Who can count? For the acid. Uric.’

  ‘We’re older, Ezra.’

  ‘Are we wiser yet?’

  The kettle whistled.

  Ezra served the tea and added a butter biscuit on the saucer.

  ‘How’s business?’ Ciampini asked. His tone shifted as nostalgia was put aside.

  ‘I live free. No debt. No villa in France yet, either.’

  ‘Before somebody shot my son-in-law, the surgeon, he was robbed.’

  ‘A terrible thing. We live in a city of thieves.’

  ‘You should know.’

  ‘I will deny it to the police. To you, Joe, no.’

  ‘Who else does not deny me?’

  ‘Who would? No man.’

  ‘The police. When I want to know what they know, I get answers.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Her identity is known to me, Ezra.’

  ‘Of course. You are speaking of the girl who robbed Savina. Foolish child. She had no idea who lived in the house.’

  ‘Your friendship means a lot, Ezra.’

  ‘Yours to me.’

  ‘You know the girl. You don’t hide this. I appreciate.’

  ‘We cannot call her one of mine.’

  ‘Is she not?’

  ‘She does freelance. I am in a process, the beginning, to recruit.’

  ‘I know where she lives. Do I have a good reason to send someone?’

  ‘Why do I have a feeling?’ Knightsbridge asked him. ‘The hair on my arm rises. You look for someone who is not the girl. I sit in front of you. It cannot be me you are looking for.’

  Ciampini rarely smiled, and only in response to humor. When he did so, his look was genuine. He was smiling now.

  ‘A punk is missing. Gone to ground. The police hunt him, also. Remember Arturo Maletti? You trained him before he came to me. He’s my sister’s husband’s aunt’s long-lost cousin or something.’

  ‘First, he went to jail,’ Ezra reminded him. ‘Not a kid anymore when he got out. A man, he went to you. He did not betray you then.’

  ‘He did not betray you, either. He was too old for you when he got out.’

  ‘I have no concern. I keep an age limit. The older ones grow less trustworthy when they learn too much. I do not have your resources for discipline.’

  Ciampini nodded and sipped the tea. He bit off a portion of his biscuit and chewed with evident satisfaction. Tested a finger in the air briefly. ‘I have concerns, Ezra. A surgeon with two bullets in his chest is no more a good surgeon.’

  Knightsbridge was startled. ‘He’s alive yet?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He is totally dead. Did I not mention two bullets?’

  ‘My heart goes out to Savina. The funeral, shall I attend?’

  ‘Don’t risk it. You don’t like to be seen, and photographs will be taken by police. Not important. Savina will take a new husband. Do better next time maybe. An Italian man, maybe is next. What she cannot do next time is hook up with a man like Arturo Maletti.’

  ‘Or exactly him, if I take your meaning.’

  ‘Exactly my meaning. Her next man will not be him, a punk. A standard has been set. Maybe a lawyer will be good for a change of pace. An Italian would be nice, but not Maletti.’

  Ezra nodded and caressed his left forearm. ‘How do you prevent?’

  ‘Find Arturo Maletti. The rest I take care of.’

  ‘If I trip over Arturo, a stumble in the dark, I will call you.’

  ‘I have no concerns. Even I will let the cops squeeze his balls. I hear they have a case. With me, I don’t need a case. Either way, the lost must be found. The lost staying lost I do not accept.’

  ‘I hope he trips over me, or me over him. Then I can help.’

  ‘Good.’ Ciampini cocked an ear toward the radio. ‘Is that Andor Toth? I have the same record! But mine has scratches.’

  ‘Exactly him.’

  ‘A favorite.’

  ‘I thought more of him when he was younger.’

  ‘You’re too critical. But when he played with Toscanini …’

  ‘What the young can do. He was eighteen, then. I have a concern, Joe. Forgive my impertinence, please. No disrespect. But what if Maletti didn’t do it?’

  ‘Which murder we’re talking about?’

  ‘Either. Both. None.’

  Joe Ciampini took a moment to think. Even after he made up his mind, he was willing to reconsider a position. ‘Are you saying a terrible thing to me, Ezra?’

  Knightsbridge put his cup down and spread his hands apart. A gesture of reconciliation. ‘Only we think the best of our children. At times, disappointment knocks on the front door.’

  ‘I’m aware,’ Ciampini conceded, ‘that Savina can be a bitch. But even if Maletti is innocent of these two whacks, the both, does that make him an innocent man?’

  Ezra was sifting for a nuance – he would not be given more – for verification. ‘If it looks like Maletti did a terrible murder,’ Ezra postulated, ‘then to be accused is just. If he did not, he is a man who can stand being accused.’

  ‘Always I enjoy talking to you, Dezi. In prison, nobody could understand us. Except us.’

  ‘The girl? She will be a good recruit for me, I predict.’

  ‘Send her to me, Ezra. We will talk. I can find her myself, but better if you send her.’

  ‘What will you talk about?’

  ‘I will ask her where is my baseball?’

  Ezra expressed his curiosity the way many dogs and other creatures do, by tilting his head. ‘Baseball?’

  ‘It’s my baseball. That stinking surgeon bag of shit was not supposed to lose it for me just because he got robbed. He stole it from me, the stinking hacksaw, the limp prick. The least he could do after that was keep it safe.’

  ‘A baseball. Any old baseball?’

  ‘Jackie Robinson signed. For Old Sal. Remember him?’

  ‘A special baseball,’ Ezra said. ‘I will keep my eyes peeled.’

  ‘Your eyes are important, Ezra. You know the thief who stole it. Get me the girl for talking to, and my ball back real quick.’

  ‘For you, I will do my best. My utmost.’

  ‘Track it down. Get me the girl so I don’t need to trouble myself. Police are talking to her. They hang around. Why? That is a difficulty for me, that they hang around. A Night Patrol guy. If she comes to me on her own, not so difficult. You see? Be quick, too. That I will respect.’

  ‘For me – forgive my request – you can do one thing. A small thing. For old times’ sake, Joe. For all the good years.’ Ciampini waited. ‘Leave the girl alone.’

  Joe Ciampini remained silent. Not a good sign. He asked, ‘She’s a good recruit?’

  ‘Her father is Jim Tanner. Remember him?’

  Ciampini nodded. ‘The circle turns inside a wheel. The mother I remember, too.’

  ‘Everyone remembers the mother.’

  Ciampini gave it more thought, then said, ‘Get me the baseball. The girl, we’ll see. If you spot that skunk Maletti slinking around, if you get word … If we find him and the ball, then the girl �
�� so young, her mother’s daughter – we can forget.’

  After Joe Ciampini departed, Ezra Knightsbridge went behind the counter in his shop to process the talk. If he gave Joe the baseball outright, Joe would kill him. Possession of the baseball combined with knowledge of what it meant led to death, he knew that much. He was one of the few who had knowledge of what that baseball signified. Given the possible scenarios, Ezra did not believe he should be the one to die. A better outcome was warranted.

  He could not allow the girl to fall into Ciampini’s hands, either. If she did, she’d talk, reveal who possessed the baseball. He needed to keep the girl safe, if he could. Worst case, he’d adopt Ciampini’s old strategy. The girl would be his zinc, to be sacrificed. He’d endeavor to avoid that, up to the point where he might be given no choice.

  Raising Horses

  (A snowflake in summer)

  Dusk sheltered the streets and tree-lined avenues of Park Extension as smaller children begrudged being called home. Older ones congregated on street corners or in parks or slouched off looking for trouble. Young adults also banded together.

  The cusp between late adolescence and early adulthood was a precarious tightrope. Quinn Tanner divided her time between these two clans. Teens her own age looked up to her. Young men who were older thought of her as someone within their purview. Knowing the score, young women tolerated her status.

  In Park Extension many streets bore bold French names. Champagneur. D’Anvers. L’Acadie. Querbes. Jean Talon. Saint Roch. These ran adjacent to streets reflecting a Scots and English heritage. Bloomfield. Ogilvy. Stuart. Hutchison. Ball. Wiseman. A mishmash of centuries-old allegiances. Those who gathered in Ball Park represented a broader world than that of the ancient battling nations of France and Great Britain. Kwang-Sun. Rahim. Padmini. Hideaki. Tomas. Dawida. Sanjay. Youthful men and women in a new world that proffered an open invitation to be explored. A world as baffling as it was inclined toward promise; a venture contradictory in its inducements and perils.

  On that evening, Quinn separated from both those who were older and those younger, drawn toward a man who moved gently forward and back sitting on a swing. ‘Need a push?’

  ‘I’ve seen kids do this thing,’ he replied. ‘They stand on the swing. Get it going higher until they’re parallel to the ground at both ends of the arc. Then they try a 360-degree spin, to go right over the top. It’s impossible, except some do it. A few nearly kill themselves.’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ Quinn remarked. ‘I was the only girl who could do it then, at that time. I was ten or so. Maybe all the kids go over now, once they’re strong enough.’

  ‘Doubt it. I agree with you, though – create a daring game, someone will take on the risk. I’m not surprised you did.’

  ‘Ah, is that an insult?’

  ‘A neutral observation, Quinn.’

  ‘You bet. Are you hassling me, Mr Detective?’

  Cinq-Mars liked the way she could suddenly turn direct and challenging.

  ‘I’m sitting on a swing. Minding my own business. How is that hassling you?’

  ‘You’re here. You’re a cop. You’re keeping an eye on me. I call that hassling. My friends are wondering who’s the guy in the suit.’

  ‘You came over on your own.’

  ‘Because I know who you are. Are you following me around?’

  Rather than answer, Cinq-Mars began to swing a little. It felt pleasant. Quinn chose a swing two down from his and sat. She merely rocked and rotated on hers, at times imperceptibly.

  He let his feet drag in the sand, slowing to a stop.

  She made her case. ‘How do I explain you to my friends? Oh, he’s a guy who follows me around because he thinks I’m a thief or a murderer, probably both.’

  ‘You are a thief.’

  ‘They don’t all know that. Although apparently a rumor is flying around the block at the speed of light. The point is, they don’t know you’re a cop. Yet. It’ll break up the party when they find out.’

  ‘What’s the rumor?’

  ‘Why was Dietmar in his car in the Town of Mount Royal? Why was he on the other side of the fence? Where was I? The Gazette mentioned a robbery nearby. Some of my close friends know I steal. They’re asking stupid questions that maybe aren’t so dumb. Like did I kill Deets? I bet it’s discussed behind my back. God. Your being here does not help with that.’

  ‘Relax, Quinn. Tell them I’m investigating the death of your boyfriend. They might want to pitch in, help us out.’

  An argument that made sense, although barely. She chose not to concede the point.

  ‘My fault,’ she said. ‘Deets getting killed.’

  ‘Only true if you killed him. I only blame the killer.’

  ‘You say. I say different.’

  She looked straight up. Quinn gripped the swing’s galvanized chains and leaned back, looking at the sky. She let her head fall further so that she was gazing at the street upside down through the steel fence. As though her world had been turned upside down and she was adjusting to it. Upright again, she stood on the swing, bent her knees, flexed her thighs and drove her hips. She reared back on the chains then released the tension, gaining momentum, and swung back and forth. She went higher, leveling off when she gained about sixty degrees beyond center. Her blond hair flowed off her head when flying up, then over her face on the descents. An anger, a resentment, a dismay returned, reminiscent of her time on the mountain when she wept and crawled within herself in grief and loathing. This experience was not the same; having been through it once, she’d been inoculated from its repetition. Other latent emotional stimuli found traction, though. Cinq-Mars could see in the force that she applied through her arms, torso and legs, down into her feet, that this was not merely a physical performance. An inner fury was expressed. She was driving to go over the top, to do a 360.

  The entire set of swings vibrated with the power of her fury.

  ‘Quinn,’ Cinq-Mars cautioned, quietly. He didn’t want to pick up the pieces.

  She went beyond ninety degrees from nadir and fought for greater velocity. She’d not been this tall or heavy when performing the trick in the past. When she flung herself upward to try to complete the circle, gravity yanked her back to earth. The chain lost its centrifugal tension and she hurtled downward. Not a full-on crash. She pulled out of her free fall, yanking hard on the chains and twisting, her bottom thumping the seat. Quinn reinvigorated the motion to try again, attempting to will the full force of her propulsion to fly, fly, circle the moon, and when she released herself again, she went higher, out to the limits of her arc before she collapsed back, head first as she hurtled down and past the swing’s supporting bar, spinning in the descent, crashing at the bottom, yet still holding onto the swing before bouncing up erratically then falling off. She grunted. Plopped on the ground, she fought off the wildly gyrating swing seat. It smacked her once, hard. Finally, she reached back, snagged it.

  Half the people in the park were staring at her. Cinq-Mars didn’t stir. The girl might be bruised, but she was alive and OK. He permitted her the dignity of recovering on her own.

  Cross-legged, she took her time, then pulled herself up and brushed off her jeans. She sat on the swing and offered her pals a comforting wave.

  ‘I missed,’ she lamented.

  ‘I know how it feels. Unable to do stuff you’ve done before.’

  ‘Not the same,’ she said. ‘You’re old. I’m young.’

  ‘We’re both younger than we will be. Older than we once were.’

  ‘Quite the philosopher,’ she said.

  ‘Point is I’m not old,’ he corrected her.

  That made her smile. ‘You are to me.’

  They sat on the swings in the deepening gloom of the evening.

  Street lights flickered on.

  ‘I asked you to check on a few things, Quinn. Uncover anything?’

  She nodded. ‘Arturo Maletti is one bad dude. A piece of royal crap. I found that out firsthand.’
>
  Not completely firsthand, he would learn, and only from a distance. Still, she’d seen him in action. He was more than surprised. He had expected she’d not come up with anything.

  ‘He drove this guy around in his trunk to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Where’d you see him, Quinn?’

  ‘Downtown.’

  ‘Where downtown?’

  ‘Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘Who was the guy in the trunk?’

  ‘A stranger.’

  ‘Did you meet this stranger?’

  ‘Doesn’t concern you, really.’

  ‘You met this person? You talked to him?’

  ‘Yeah? So? It’s nothing that concerns you.’

  Like pulling teeth. ‘What happened, if anything, that concerns me?’

  A dribble of details. He got the impression that she’d had an adventure. She seemed affected and was quieter within herself. In her piecemeal retelling, her usual spiritedness was noticeably subdued.

  ‘You religious?’ she asked out of the blue.

  Something had happened that day, Cinq-Mars was convinced.

  ‘Treacherous question, Quinn.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘No matter what anyone answers – yes, no, or only in a foxhole – the other person has no clue what that person really believes or feels. The short answer is yes. But you have no idea what I mean by that. You? Religious?’

  ‘Not anymore. My mother was.’ She shot a glance his way, indicating that she had something to confide. ‘I’m Catholic. I’ve known nuns to be OK as people. Maybe a little weird. I’ve known them to be mean, too, but more like grouchy. In school, one of them enjoyed giving detentions. She set the record. Today I found out they can be evil.’

  What had she learned?

  ‘Priests, too,’ Cinq-Mars concurred. ‘Cops, as well. We’re just people. Put a robe on a man, that doesn’t make him a saint. Give a man a badge and call him a policeman, he’s not necessarily a defender of justice. Ultimately, people are who they are because they are who they are.’

  She was thinking, he could tell.

  ‘That sounds like a rationalization,’ she concluded.

  ‘That’s human, too,’ Cinq-Mars said. Whatever was going on with her, he understood that she was testing him. ‘I’m sure you’ve rationalized being a thief.’