Sacrifice Fly

by Tim O'Mara

“See ya at The LineUp then?”

  “You bet,” I said, giving him a slap on the back. “I owe you four beers.”

  Chapter 22

  AN ANGRY GARBAGE TRUCK HAD interrupted a dream where I was locked in a dark room, my sister and Frankie screaming and banging on the other side of the door. According to the church clock, it was five minutes after six, and now I was drinking coffee and watching the sun rise over Brooklyn. Maybe it was the way the hazy, orange sky was slowly changing to yellow that made me think of the first—and only—time my dad took me fishing.

  *

  I was seven years old, thrilled to be riding in the backseat of my Uncle Ray’s convertible Caddy with the top down, driving toward Robert Moses State Park while it was still dark. My dad and my uncle were in the front seats drinking coffee out of extra-large to-go cups, while I drank orange juice from a pint container. We got to my uncle’s boat just as the sun was coming up. Within minutes I was decked out in a bright red life preserver, and we were pulling away from the dock. Just the guys. After a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and doughnuts, it was time, Uncle Ray said, “to get our dicks wet.” I loved it when he spoke that way in front of me, but I was careful not to let my dad see how much.

  We baited the hooks and got our lines in the water. My dad and uncle sat back in the comfortable chairs while I sat on the side, checking for any bites. After about a half hour of nothing, I started to get bored. I said something to my dad and uncle, who proceeded to lecture me on the virtues of patience as they sipped from their whiskey-laced coffees.

  “Look over the side,” Uncle Ray said. “See what’s going on down there.”

  I finished my doughnut, brushed the powder off my life jacket, and leaned over the side of the boat. “I can’t see anything,” I said.

  “Keep looking,” my uncle said. “Patience.”

  I did as I was told, leaning a bit more over the side when I felt a hand on my back. The next thing I knew I was in the water looking up at the two men I admired most: my uncle laughing his ass off, and my dad, also laughing, but not quite as hard as his brother.

  “Lesson to be learned, Nephew,” Uncle Ray said as my father helped me up the ladder. “Patience is a beautiful thing. But always watch your back.”

  *

  I thought back to last night and considered myself lucky. Breaking into the van was a stupid chance to take, but I did learn Frankie’s dad really had been planning on moving to Florida, and he’d been using someone else’s credit cards to help him get there. Another question answered, another question posed.

  Sometimes, Uncle Ray taught me later in life, you don’t know enough to know what questions to ask. I wanted to know more.

  After calling school and informing them I was still too shaken up to work, I showered and put on my suit. A call to Information told me Around the Horn Travel was located a block from the Williamsburg Bridge and would be open for business at nine. I had another cup of coffee and a bagel while wasting another hour flipping through the channels. Time to go.

  I popped a piece of gum in my mouth outside the office. I had decided not to call ahead, so John Roberts wouldn’t be expecting me, and I didn’t need bad breath adding to the list of my offenses. The hazy sky and humid breeze coming off the river got me thinking maybe today would be the day it finally rained. I was glad I’d thought to bring my umbrella. As I chewed away the coffee taste, I watched the traffic come off the Willy B and negotiate its way around the construction that was still in progress on this side of the bridge.

  I straightened my tie and entered the travel agency. It was about twenty degrees cooler inside, and there was a slight flowery fragrance. The smell of someplace one might wish to go to on vacation. The agency was one long room with four desks, two on each side, and lots of posters of places far away from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Only two of the desks were occupied, both by women: one middle-aged, white, and talking on a headset phone; the other one young, black, and seemingly free at the moment. She took off her headset, stepped out from behind her desk, and walked toward me, her white skirt floating around her.

  “Now, you,” she said, with a smile and a hint of the Caribbean in her voice, “look like a gentleman in need of a vacation.”

  “You read minds,” I said, taking her well-manicured hand.

  “And faces,” she said. “Come, sit and tell Caroline all about it.”

  “Actually, Caroline,” I said, very aware of her smooth, dark fingers and orange nails, “I’m here on a different kind of business. I was hoping to speak with your boss.”

  “John,” she said, taking her time slipping her hand out of mine. “Mr. Roberts will not be in until later this morning. Was he expecting you?”

  “Only if he shares your gift of mind reading. I’m here about his nephew … his wife’s cousin. Frankie.”

  “Oh. Have you found him?”

  “No,” I said. “No, we ha—he’s still missing. I wanted to talk to Mr. Roberts about Frankie’s father, Francisco, Senior.”

  “He’s dead,” Caroline blurted out. “But I guess you know that.”

  “Of course.”

  “I read in the paper they got his sister back.”

  “Yes, she’s staying with her grandmother for the time being.”

  “Thank Jesus for small blessings,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Raymond.”

  “Well, Detective Raymond, I can tell you a thing or two about Francisco.” Just as she finished the offer, I heard the door open behind me, and Caroline’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” she said, her hands smoothing out her skirt, “you’re in luck. Mr. Roberts is early.”

  I turned to see a man who already seemed to be in the middle of a very bad day. John Roberts’s hair was slicked back by sweat, the same sweat that was soaking the upper part of his light gray dress shirt. He had given up on the tie and jacket, and held them in the same hand that carried his briefcase. He was shorter and heavier than I had expected and about ten years older than his wife. To his credit, when he noticed me talking with Caroline, he put on his game face, grinned, and said, “Next time I’m gonna skip the bridge all together and jet-ski on over. I’d get here earlier and drier.” He put down his briefcase. “Morning, girls.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Roberts,” the two women said.

  He stepped toward me and stuck out his hand. “John Roberts.”

  “This is Detective Raymond,” Caroline said, speaking for me while handing her boss a couple of tissues. Then in a whisper, “He’s here about Francisco.”

  “Really?” Roberts said, unable to hide his surprise. He rubbed his eyes. “I thought I’d covered … all that with the other detective. Royce, was it?”

  “Yes.” I released his hand. I should have corrected him about being a detective, but I decided to wait. “I have a few questions and hope you can spare me a moment.”

  “Shoulda called me on my cell. I had a lot of spare moments over the East River.” He picked up his case. “Come on into my office, Detective. I think I can give you a few.”

  “Thanks.” I gave Caroline a smile as I followed Roberts. We passed the white woman, who was talking on her headset. She gave me a brief smile as Roberts opened his office door.

  “Come on in,” he said. “Excuse the mess. We’re in the process of giving me more space back here.” I stepped inside. The mess he was talking about was some wallboard, boxes filled with stuff that I guessed used to be on the walls, and a few gallons of paint. The room had no windows, only an air conditioner built into the back wall, which Roberts switched on. To the right of that was another dress shirt hanging in a dry-cleaning bag. The man was prepared. “Gonna knock the walls down and take over some of the main area there.”

  “Why not expand out?” I said, pointing to the back door.

  “It’s an alley. Not part of my lease.”

  I nodded. “How long had Mr. Rivas worked for you?”

  Roberts put his briefcase on his desk. “On and off, five
years. He wasn’t a regular employee.” He took the clean shirt off its hook and tore open the plastic bag. “I used him for odd jobs, some maintenance, some travel I didn’t want to do.”

  “Where’d this travel take him?”

  “Caribbean mostly, sometimes Florida.”

  “He ever mention anything about moving down to Florida?”

  “Not to me.” Surprised. “Why?”

  “How about a Felix Villejo?” I tried. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No,” Roberts said. “Should it?”

  I shook my head. I could tell by the look on his face, he had no idea what I was talking about. “Something someone said,” I explained. “Nothing important.”

  “No offense, Detective, but if it’s not important…”

  “You know, Mr. Roberts,” I said. “I never actually said I was a detective.”

  Roberts draped the shirt over his chair. “Excuse me? You told Caroline—”

  “I told her I had some questions about Rivas. She assumed the rest.”

  “And you didn’t correct—” A small smirk crossed his face. “You pulled this same shitty routine with my wife.” He snapped his fingers. “Raymond. Donne. You’re the schoolteacher.” I stayed quiet long enough for him to add, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I paused. “I’m trying to find Frankie, Mr. Roberts.”

  “Oh, please. That’s the same line of crap you fed my wife. Impersonating a police officer is what you’re doing. Trespassing, too.” He reached into his desk, pulled out a business card, and picked up his phone. “Why don’t I call Detective Royce and see what he has to say.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He laughed. “Damn right, you’d rather I didn’t. How dare you harass my family like this and treat us as … Jesus … treat us like suspects.” He slammed the phone down. “You’re not even a goddamned cop, and you’re treating us like we’re hiding something. Coming to my home, into my business.” He pointed his finger at me. “Something’s wrong with you.”

  “I’m trying to find Frankie,” I repeated. “I thought if I learned a bit about his father, it might help me figure out where he went.”

  “His father,” Roberts said, “was a sinking ship. The only reason I gave him work was because no one else would, and he was … family. My wife felt sorry for his kids, so I threw him some work now and then and held my breath he didn’t screw it up. And look what happened.”

  “Are you saying his death was related to the work you gave him?”

  “See?” he said, sticking his finger in my face now. “You’re— Get the fuck out of my … business, or I swear to God I’ll call Royce and have you locked up.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Roberts,” I said.

  “Go back to your real job, Mr. Donne.”

  I left his office and headed right out the front door to the street. The temperature seemed to have gone up ten degrees. I took off my jacket and thought about all the shit I had waiting for me back at school. Maybe I could swing by, say I felt better, get a half day in. Damn it. More time wasted.

  “Now you really look like you need a vacation.”

  I spun around as Caroline took one last drag from a cigarette, dropped it to the sidewalk, and stepped on it with an expensive-looking shoe.

  “Was John able to answer your questions, Detective Raymond?”

  “I’m not a detective, Caroline. I’m a schoolteacher.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “I knew you were too cute to be a police officer. But, excuse me for asking, what are you doing here asking questions about Francisco?”

  “I’m Frankie’s teacher.” As if that explained everything. “I don’t know, to be honest. I’m just trying to…”

  “You’re just trying to help,” she finished for me. “That is good of you.”

  “Yeah, but I think I just ran out of helpful ideas.”

  Caroline walked over to me and took my hand. “Perhaps,” she said, “I can give you some ideas, Mr. Raymond.”

  “Donne,” I said. “Raymond Donne.”

  She rubbed her orange-tipped thumb over mine. “Are you getting any good ideas?”

  “One or two.”

  “Good. I work late tonight, but tomorrow would be a very good time for you to ask me to dinner, so I accept.”

  “What time should I ask you for?”

  “Seven would be nice,” she said. “Meet me at Shorty’s.” She took her hand back and pointed down Broadway. “It’s under the tracks. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

  “I know it.”

  “Good. I have to get back to work now, Raymond.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  “Yes. You will.” She turned back to the travel agency. As she opened the door, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure I was still watching. She smiled and waved good-bye with a wiggle from those wonderful fingers.

  Chapter 23

  THE COMBINATION OF AIR-CONDITIONING, unlimited iced coffee, and a page of box scores kept me in the diner longer than I had wanted. The thought of having free time when I really wanted to be out doing something for Frankie would have driven me crazy if not for this game I play when reading the box scores: I try to find which pitcher had the best game the previous night based on innings pitched, base runners allowed, and earned runs. I do the same with hitters by checking the in-game batting average, on-base percentage, and runs batted in. Unfortunately, both showed up on the team that played the Yankees last night, blowing them out by six runs. By the time the waitress dropped the check in front of me, it was early afternoon.

  With baseball heavily on my mind, I remembered what day it was and that Frankie had told me this was a practice day for his traveling team over at McCarren Park. The practices ran from three thirty until six. Maybe the coach could spare me a few minutes. He knew Frankie as well as anyone. It was worth a shot, even if it was a long one.

  I got to McCarren Park a little before three thirty. Students from Automotive High School were crossing Bedford Avenue to the park side, paying little mind to the buses or cars that shared the road. Some of the kids cut through the park. Others went left or right, depending on which subway they were taking home.

  I walked over to the ball field as a stocky Hispanic man dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt dumped the equipment bag he was carrying at home plate. I heard the disappointing sound of aluminum hitting aluminum. Metal and baseball don’t mix. The man pulled out a bat and a few balls. A boy about Frankie’s age dragged a red cooler over to the fence, then ran out to the shortstop position. He did some deep knee bends and a few stretches. After a minute or so, the man standing at home plate yelled, “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” the shortstop said, raising his glove above his head and then touching it flat to the ground. “Go.”

  The coach’s name was Herrera, and the boy was his son, Rafael. Frankie had told me he didn’t like the kid much because of the conceited way he carried himself. It seemed like every coach wanted his son at shortstop, and every coach’s kid thought he belonged there.

  Herrera tossed a ball into the air and proceeded to smack hard grounders at his kid at the rate of about one every fifteen seconds. Rafael would scoop each one up just as smooth as someone serving ice cream and then toss the ball toward the backstop. One of the grounders hit a rock or something on its way to the kid and he picked it off his hip and waved his glove in the air. Maybe he did belong there.

  “I don’t need no show,” the man yelled. “Jus’ get the ball back in, Rafi.”

  “Having a little fun, Dad,” the shortstop said. “Coach.”

  “Save the fun for some other time. This is baseball. Move in another five feet.”

  Rafael did as he was told, and his dad smashed a one-hopper that the kid took off the shoulder. He grimaced, but made no sound that I could hear.

  “That’s what happens when you show off,” Herrera said. “Here’s another.”

  Just as promised, the ball took a bo
unce about two feet in front of Rafael, and the kid practically hit the ground getting out of the way. He looked at his father, who just picked up another ball and tossed it up in the air, this time catching it.

  “Why you move, Big Man? Afraid you take one in that pretty face?”

  I could hear Rafael’s voice crack as he said, “Okay, Coach. I get it. No more. Please.”

  Herrera looked at his son with disgust and waved him back to the shortstop position. “You think about that next time you put on a show.”

  “Yes, Coach,” Rafael said, looking down and testing the dirt with his toe.

  I bought a bottle of water from the vendor behind the backstop and took a seat in the bottom row of the third-base-side bleachers. The coach gave me a five-second appraisal through the fence and went back to hitting balls at his son. The wind picked up a bit, and a small, brown tornado formed behind second base. The kid glanced over at it, and a sharp grounder skipped on past him into centerfield.

  “You got one minute to get that ball and the other two you missed back to the plate. And pay attention. You wanna watch dust fly, you can do it from the bench.”

  As Rafael sprinted after the errant balls, his dad went over to the cooler. He walked with a slight limp. He squatted down like the catcher I figured he used to be and pulled out a can of something. I walked over to him.

  He acknowledged me as he rose with an almost inaudible grunt, popped the pull-tab on his soda, and said, “Don’t tell me. You’re a major league scout slumming it.”

  “No.” I laughed. “But if I were, I’d be pretty impressed with that boy of yours.”

  “He’s gettin’ there. Gotta learn to keep his eye on the ball, though.”

  “People tell me the same thing,” I said, looking for a smile. It didn’t come, so I stuck out my hand. “Raymond Donne.”

  He shook it and said, “And…?”

  “I’m Frankie Rivas’s teacher.”

  “Oh, yeah. You the guy got him into Our Lady.”

  “Frankie got himself into Our Lady. I just made sure the right guy saw him.”

  “Keenan,” he said, as if recalling an old wound.