Sacrifice Fly

by Tim O'Mara

  Jackson smiled. Damn, was this guy even twenty-five?

  “Twice a week,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You were looking at me wondering if I was old enough to shave, and I’m telling you. Twice a week.”

  I gave a slight nod and said, “You’re going to be fine, Jackson.”

  “Chief Donne’s talking about putting me in narcotics.”

  “That’s a place to show what you know.”

  “I know it. I just don’t think I want it that fast. Remember when you first started on the streets? The juice. The high?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Never got the chance. Chief Donne snatched me right out of the academy. Made sure I was posted at One P.P. I never got the streets I wanted.”

  “Which streets were those?”

  “Where I grew up. Bed-Stuy.”

  “Really,” I said, not trying to hide my surprise.

  “Yeah. I’m still young enough—your uncle’d say naïve—to think I can make a difference there. All the guys I ran with when I was younger? The ones who got their college, they didn’t stay around the neighborhood. That’s what they got their college for, to get out. These kids growing up there now, what do they see? Same old dealers and knuckleheads ain’t going anyplace. I want them to see me and then … I don’t know. I just want them to see someone who made it out and came back.”

  “Then why get involved with my uncle? You had to know where this was going.”

  “And be known as the black cop who said no to Chief Donne?” He smiled. “You’re a teacher, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wanna be a principal?”

  “No. I like the kids too much and have all the paperwork I can handle now.”

  “Then you feel me. I’m not saying I don’t want what your uncle’s offering, just don’t want it so quick, is all.”

  “See?” my uncle’s voice boomed as he approached. “I knew you two’d find something to talk about.”

  “Comparing notes on you,” I said.

  “My favorite topic,” he said. “I’ll call Royce for you, Raymond. You came up with a valuable piece of info he’s gonna want to know about, and you’re right. It’ll save a lot of time if it comes from me. But I will tell him how you got it.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Ray,” I said and went over to shake his hand. He just looked at it and said, “Yeah, right,” and pulled me into a hug. A sweaty one.

  “I’ll see you at the memorial service,” he said. “You driving in with Rachel or staying at your mom’s?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, not willing to tell him I wasn’t planning on attending.

  “Well, either way, we’ll see you there. And Reeny wants to have you both over for dinner. She’ll cook up a special meal for the lot of us.”

  “That’s supposed to entice me?” I asked.

  “Hey.” He gave me a playful slap on the shoulder. “She’s been taking lessons. That’s the great thing about second wives, Jackson. By definition, they know they can be replaced and are always looking for ways to improve.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Jackson said.

  “See, Raymond? I teach more than good policing. I teach life.”

  My uncle’s life lessons were often accompanied by the smell of Jack Daniels. “Whiskey and Wisdom” my mother called it.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Be well, Nephew. Don’t let those kids get the best of you.”

  “Good luck,” I said to Jackson, shaking his hand again.

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” Uncle Ray said. “Enough talk. Time to get serious here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I left them there—teacher and pupil—and found myself wondering what Royce would do with the evidence my uncle was bringing him. And where were Frankie and Milagros?

  *

  A lot can happen in twelve hours, so as I was driving back to Brooklyn over the Williamsburg Bridge, I decided to swing by the Clemente Houses again. For all I knew, Frankie and Milagros were safe and sound, the police had their father’s killer in custody, and my Uncle Ray would never have to give the hundred-dollar bill to Detective Royce. A lot can happen in twelve hours.

  I circled the block a few times before finding a place to park. I got out of the car and walked toward Frankie’s building. A small group of girls was hanging out on the concrete barrier that surrounded the small bushes. Another group—boys, about six of them—was taking turns playing daredevil, going down the steps that led to the sidewalk on their skateboards and bikes. In the waning light of the day, I could make out a figure walking in my direction. I remembered the outfit before I recognized the person wearing it.

  “Mr. Donne,” Elsa said. “Raymond.”

  “You working a late shift?” I asked, realizing too late the obvious answer.

  “They just called,” Elsa explained. “The hostess had to go home. An emergency with one of her kids, so…”

  “Any word on Frankie and Milagros?”

  “No. I was at Mrs. Santos’s when I got the call. She has not heard anything new since you were here yesterday.”

  “And she never called the police about the break-in?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Then she said, apologetically, “I have to go.”

  “Can I at least give you a ride?”

  She looked at her watch. “Thank you, but it would be quicker to take the train … because of the traffic on the bridge.”

  “Right,” I said. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “That would be nice.”

  She gave me her hand. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.

  The question took us both by surprise. “I have finals next week,” she said. “And a lot of studying and reading to get done this weekend.”

  “Finals?”

  “I’m taking some psych courses at Baruch,” she said.

  “I have to work a cop party tomorrow anyway. At The LineUp?”

  “Work?”

  I explained the situation and how I had allowed myself to be coerced into helping out Mrs. McVernon. She smiled and let go of my hand.

  “Good night, Raymond.”

  “Yeah.”

  She headed off in the direction of the subway, but before she got twenty feet away, she turned back. I was just about to unlock the driver’s side door.

  “I guess I have to eat sometime,” she said.

  I smiled. “You know The LineUp?” I asked.

  “I know where it is, yes,” she said.

  “Meet me outside about six?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Good. I’ll see you there.”

  “Good night.”

  “You, too,” I said and watched her walk away.

  Before heading to Queens, I drove over to the river and watched the sun set behind Manhattan. I sat there in the car, thinking about fathers, sons, and missing kids. I rolled down all the windows; a cool breeze was coming off the river. It almost felt like it was ready to rain.

  Chapter 12

  “THERE’S A LOT OF ROOM BACK here, Mrs. Mac.”

  We were standing in the rectangular area outside the back door of the bar. My best guess put it at about fifteen feet by forty, a bit smaller than my last apartment.

  “We used to use it all the time,” Mrs. McVernon said. “Years ago. We had four or five tables back here. Then we started getting complaints from the neighbors.” She pointed up at the windows above us. “So, we started using it for storage. Yesterday, the Freddies cleared out everything. Threw it in the garbage or stored it downstairs. I don’t know why I hold on to things. They cut back the bushes and weeds, too. It was a mess. Now…”

  “It looks great,” I said. “Billy’s food come yet?”

  “This morning. And he sent over those two grills.”

  I looked at the “grills”—
two halves of an old oil drum that had been turned over, filled with coals, and propped up on metal braces. Billy. Real “down-home” cooking, Brooklyn–style.

  Mrs. Mac put her hand on my head, pulled it down, and gave me a kiss on the temple. “This means a lot to me, Raymond. Thank you.”

  “Thank me when it’s over,” I said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  Half past noon, the first guests were arriving and gathering around the pool table. The Freddies had placed a huge piece of plywood over the table and covered it with a red, white, and blue cloth. This is where the plates, cups, and assorted munchies were laid out. The cooking would be done outside, the eating inside at the booths or the bar. Mikey and I were behind the bar, and Gloria started taking orders for drinks. Mikey would do anything that required mixing. I’d work the taps and bottles.

  I was handing a tall, shaven-headed guy two Buds. “You don’t remember me, do ya?” he asked. I studied his face for a few seconds and was about to apologize when he said, “I used to have hair.” He ran his hand over his scalp, scratched the hair on his chin, and smiled.

  “Neal O’Connor,” I said. “What’s with the lid?”

  “I was losing it anyway, so I figured I’d give Mother Nature a hand. So this is what you’re doing now, huh?”

  “Part-time,” I said. “I’m a schoolteacher now.”

  “The fuck you are. Really. Whatcha doing with yourself?”

  “I’m really teaching now, Neal. Not too far from the precinct.”

  “Shit.”

  “You still working out of the old house?”

  “No,” he said. “Got transferred over to the other side of Brooklyn. Sheepshead Freakin’ Bay. The ’burbs. Guess I spoke English too good to stay in the ’Burg, y’know?”

  “Right,” I said. “I heard they’re making a lot of changes over there.”

  “For the worse, man. They want it, let ’em have it.” He grabbed his two beers without having to explain who “they” were. “See ya next round, Ray.”

  “You bet.”

  A group of six—four men and two women—got my attention from the opposite side of the bar. The guys all wanted Buds; the women, vodka cranberries. Mikey was busy down at the other end wrestling with the blender, so I put the mixed drinks together. One of the guys tried to hand me some money. I waved him off.

  “Billy says the first five hours are on him,” I explained. “If you’re still standing after that, I’ll be glad to take your money.”

  “Thanks, man,” the guy said and tossed a five on the bar.

  “Thank you.” I pocketed the bill. A few more guests like that, and I’d have dinner with Elsa paid for.

  “Ramón!”

  I turned and looked into the face of Victor Rodriguez. Victor had grown up on the streets of Williamsburg and started at the precinct a year before me. He showed me the ropes, taught me the difference between mofongo and mondongo, and clued me in to which bodegas had stashes of Cuban cigars in the back. He leaned over the bar and pulled me into a head hug.

  “¿Como estás, Ramón?”

  “I’m good, Victor.”

  “Bueno.” He turned to the woman next to him. “This is my fiancée. Alice. Alice, this is Ray. From the house.”

  Alice was tanned, skinny, and in her mid-twenties. She was wearing cut-off denim jeans and a red shirt tied so that you could see her flat midsection. Alice looked like she’d just walked off a farm in Iowa.

  “Nice to meet you, Alice,” I said. “How’d you get stuck with this guy?”

  “We met at Coney Island,” she said, grabbing Victor by the elbow. As much as her appearance said Midwest, her voice said Brooklyn, born and bred. “He chased away some lowlifes who were bothering me.”

  “You should have seen what she was wearing, Ray,” Victor said, shaking his hand as if he’d just touched a hot stove. “A priest would have bothered her.”

  “Be good,” Alice said, giving Victor a playful slap to his upper arm. “Nice to meet you, Ray. What precinct are you at now?”

  I told her I was a teacher now, and Victor added, “Ray got hurt on the job. He mistook a fire escape for a diving board and—”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Life’s like that sometimes,” I said. And then to Victor, “You’re not still at the house?”

  “No, transferred to Coney Island. Made detective. Told you my last name would come in handy one day.”

  “You did.” I considered telling him about my visit to Royce the other day, but decided against it. “What can I get you two?”

  “Bud and a vodka cranberry.”

  After putting their drinks up, Victor handed me a ten. I explained the first-five-hours rule, and Victor put a couple of singles up on the bar. I slid them back.

  “Not from you, Vic.”

  “All right, maestro. I’m going to walk my Alice around these cabrones, and then you and me are having a drink. And I won’t take no for that.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. Have fun. Alice.”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes opening bottles and pouring pints. When I finally had a chance to look up, the place was packed, and Edgar was sitting at the end of the bar under the TV set. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt with a matching baseball cap and had the look of a kid on the first day of a carnival. I poured him a Bass and placed a can of tomato juice next to it.

  “Your best behavior, Edgar.”

  He raised his right hand like a boy scout and said, “Promise.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an index card. “Hey, I gotta show you something.”

  “Later. I’m working here.”

  “This is important.” He waved the card. “Yesterday—”

  “Later,” I repeated and walked down to the other end of the bar. Mrs. Mac was over at the food table straightening up. She glanced over at me, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. If I had any lingering doubts about helping her with the party, they were erased. Taking care of cops was what Mrs. Mac did best.

  A roar and a round of applause turned all of our heads toward the front door where Billy Morris was making his entrance. The triumphant host—his loyal wife, Susie, by his side—raised his hands in victory as he was patted on the back and high-fived. He made a big deal out of checking his watch and yelled, “Y’all got four hours left before you’re buying your own. So stop cheering and start drinking, ’cause at five o’clock, I stop buying, ya cheap coppers!”

  Another cheer went up, and Billy accepted a bottle of Bud someone thrust into his hand. He took a big sip and looked over at the bar. When our eyes met, he pointed at me. I stepped out from behind the bar where Billy took me into a bear hug and then quickly backed off.

  “I’m not hurtin’ ya, am I, son?”

  “I’m okay, Billy,” I answered. “Just keep me off my knees.”

  “Your knees,” he said, “are the last place I’d wanna see you.” He held me out by the shoulders and grinned. “Boy, you don’t look so bad. Could afford to drop a few, but … Where ya been hiding yourself?”

  “I’ve been busy, Bill. School, rehab…”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Rehab. Muscles said he ain’t seen you since you were released from the hospital. You seeing another physical therapist?”

  Billy Morris knows everything. “I’ve been busy,” I repeated.

  He had a look in his eyes that told me he was thinking about pushing the issue, but settled for “Whatever.” He turned to his wife. “You remember Susie?”

  “Absolutely.” We kissed hello. “How are you, Susie?”

  “Good,” she said, although her tone said something else. “The work on the house is taking longer—and costing more—than we had hoped. But somebody”—she looked at her husband—“keeps making the job bigger.”

  “And somebody wanted a hot tub. I tell ya, son,” Billy said, “I ever have six months to live, I wanna hear it from a contractor. Anyway, we are here now, and we are ready to party. How long you gonna be behind the stick?”


  “A few more hours. It’s still too busy to leave Mikey by himself.”

  “Let me make the rounds. Then we’ll do some catching up.” He looked at me again and shook his head. “Damn, it’s been a long time.” Billy Morris took Susie by the hand and walked to the back of the bar. He was right. It had been a long time. I was starting to feel better that Mrs. Mac coerced me into this. I missed these guys, the buzz I got just being around them. I’d almost forgotten about the buzz. I got behind the bar just in time to be greeted by a flustered Mikey.

  “Damn, Ray,” he said. “I gotta take a leak, man.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, just headed off in the direction of the men’s room. I served a few more rounds of drinks, collected a few more tips, and watched as Edgar made a production of fanning himself with the index card. I brought another pint over to him. “Okay,” I said. “What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

  He handed me the card. “I had a busy day yesterday. Very busy.”

  I looked at the card. It had a set of numbers and letters on it.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “Some kind of code you’re working on?”

  Edgar leaned forward and said, “I swung by the Clemente Houses and Rivas’s block yesterday.” He lowered his voice. “While I was working.”

  Great. “So?”

  “So, that’s a plate number belonging to a vehicle I observed outside the houses at…”—he pointed at some other numbers at the bottom of the card—“… oh-seven-hundred, thirteen-thirty-hundred hours and down the block from Rivas’s at twelve-hundred.”

  I looked at my watch. “Edgar, I’m going to kick your ass out of here at fourteen-hundred hours if you don’t get to the point.”

  He smiled. “Why would this vehicle be parked outside the Houses and down the block from Rivas, Ray?”

  “Because he lives or works in the neighborhood?”

  “Maybe.” He pointed at the plate number. “A white van. No markings on the outside.”

  “So it was a contractor working in the area. Someone making deliveries.”

  “Nope. There was always at least one guy sitting inside. Sometimes two. They were waiting for something. Or”—he paused for effect—“somebody. And, come on, Ray. It was outside both places.”