Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  “No comments from the peanut gallery,” Reggie snapped.

  “These men are not appropriately attired to receive a lady,” Errol said. “So, unfortunately, I cannot see them wishing to join you.”

  He said everything so gently, so eloquently. It clashed with the colorful language funneling from the open door and the jokes from the players beside them.

  One exclaimed curse caused Hamish to flinch.

  “And obviously the language leaves a lot to be desired,” Errol added. “Joe! Joe, can you come over here?”

  A short, balding man with a broom under his arm made his way in their direction.

  “Will you make sure that none of these louts bother Miss Van Buren if she is to wait here for a moment?”

  “Why don’t you just go get our seats, Reg?” Hamish asked.

  Reggie shook her head and noticed Errol did the same.

  “Over there,” he whispered, inclining his head to a row of lockers and a bench Reggie could see through the crack in the door, “is my locker. If I tell Joe here”—he turned to the janitor with a smile—“to keep the door open a smidge for the fresh air, who knows what you might be able to hear while we’re talking. From the other players.”

  Reggie smiled. “I like the way you think.” She looked to Hamish. “Why didn’t you think of this?”

  Hamish tugged at his collar and frowned.

  She smiled at Errol. “Keep a few juicy details for me, will you?”

  “Next time, I promise we’ll meet somewhere a little more inclusive to a lady such as yourself. Now, Joe! You’ll be a gentleman, won’t you? Guard our fair lady here.” Errol’s teeth shone brightly.

  It took Reggie a few moments to realize that Joe didn’t speak at all. He smiled warmly and made sure the door was open more than a slice. Reggie leaned in, making out Errol and Hamish’s voices as best she could.

  One of the sluggers was still practicing his swings, more fervently the moment a crowd of giggling women peered through the link fence at his activity. He stretched to their advantage, the lines of the muscles in his chest and arms on full display.

  He winked at Reggie as he sauntered by her, swinging the bat by his side.

  “Move, little man.” He sneered at Joe.

  She rolled her eyes for Joe’s benefit. “What a charmer.”

  Then she blocked out the sound and swell of the pregame moments as best she could and leaned into the open door to catch Hamish’s voice amidst the din.

  * * *

  “Who’s this, Parker?”

  “A friend.”

  “You can’t just bring friends back here, you know.”

  “I know, but I have Ed’s permission.”

  “More special treatment, huh, Parker?”

  “Not sure it’s as much special treatment as my asking nicely, Derek.”

  Hamish studied Errol’s calm demeanor. While the other men threw towels and spouted ribald jokes and used words that were shockingly a noun, adjective, and adverb all at the same time, Errol merely showed him his home space in the locker area. “When we’re on the road, we all have our crates and cases. Ed calls it our dunnage because he’s obsessed with those big old ships.”

  Hamish mentally created a roster of possible suspects while Errol unbuttoned his shirt and replaced it with his jersey. He didn’t stretch like the others. Nor did he engage with the antics Hamish saw firsthand. Rolled towels flew through the air and stories about conquests ricocheted off the tin lockers. Steam wafted from the nearby showers as a man Hamish recognized as an outfielder splashed his teammates, using his water canteen as a projectile missile.

  “You don’t warm up?”

  “I do everything at home. I usually show up as close to the first pitch as possible.” He rolled his shoulders. “I don’t belong here, Hamish. I know they don’t want me here.”

  Hamish studied the large gap between Errol’s locker near the exit and the commotion and camaraderie of the other team members. He clutched his right hand. The room looked a lot like the playground at school while he was growing up, staying away, doing his homework at home or hiding in the library. But he was smart enough to recognize the difference between his situation and Errol’s. Hamish chose to keep to himself, while Errol marginalized himself for the privilege of being a part of this world in any way possible, even from the sidelines.

  “I shower at home. I stretch at home. I keep a wide berth.” He opened his locker wide and showed Hamish the inside. Hamish figured that was why they needed to go into the locker room and leave Reggie outside. Not that he would hear anything but that he could see the scene. But Errol’s locker was bare. No mementos of family or pictures. No rabbit’s foot or extra hat. Just a plain bottle of water and an apple. And no evidence of any recent prank. “I keep everything in a knapsack. I don’t even carry money on me other than a bill I keep tucked in my shoe. I used to, but even locked, someone always found a way to crowbar in.” Hamish shifted at a word he made out on the locker door, murkily smudged with soap as if scrubbed within an inch of its life.

  “This, I am used to.” Errol followed Hamish’s sight line. “That’s followed me my whole life, and I knew it was part of the risk I took playing. But the pranks got worse.”

  The aforementioned bloody heart. A chicken’s foot. A decaying fish. Hamish listened intently, his stomach souring, his heart racing at the cruelty of someone—maybe even someone in the batting lineup. Hamish wondered about someone from an opposing team, but it would be too difficult to pin down. He had spent the morning looking through the schedule from the past season and a half, and there wasn’t a concrete rhythm to whom they played and when.

  “I will change my world by playing this game, Hamish. And maybe I’ll change it for a few other people too. My nephew for one.” Errol’s face changed whenever he spoke of Toby.

  “He loves to watch you play?”

  “My sister doesn’t want him to. She thinks it is a bad example. Toby should focus on school and keep out of a public spotlight.”

  “She doesn’t approve? I think you would be a wonderful role model for Toby.”

  “I want to invite Toby for a weekend when I get my new place. We’ll see a game at Fenway. Eat lobster. We’ve done it before, but I’ve always had to get him back. He’s a good kid. Hardworking. But I want to keep an eye on him a little more. Before he gets into a good school.”

  Hamish smiled. “He wants to get into a good school or your sister wants him to?”

  “He wants to. He has always had a mind of his own. An enviable work ethic. His father left when he was a baby. But she is so wonderful with him. My parents help, of course.” Errol was fingering his towel. “And I do what I can.” He paused. “Broke my heart when he was roughed up. Such a good kid.” Errol retrieved a picture from his wallet. In other open lockers pictures were proudly on display. Errol didn’t even trust leaving a picture of his nephew inside. “Here . . .”

  Hamish didn’t want Errol to know he had seen Toby. It wasn’t his secret to tell that he had seen him with Pete Kelly. Had dropped him off to meet a client at the Parker House.

  “Handsome face. I’ve seen him before.”

  “Isn’t it?” Errol was proud. “Doesn’t surprise me you’ve seen him. Does odd jobs across the river. Gives me something to slug for. Every time I hover between second and third, I conjure up that kid in my head. Remember holding him as a baby. And I can do it.” He chuckled.

  “Do what?”

  “Anything. It’s amazing what you can come up with when you know someone is watching you as if you could spread wings and fly.”

  Chapter 7

  Hamish handed Reggie a Coke. She switched the carton of popcorn to her other hand to handle the soda.

  “The team assumes that the manager gives Errol preferential treatment.” Hamish settled into his seat.

  Reggie swallowed a kernel of popcorn and extended the box to Hamish. He took a few pieces and tossed them in his mouth. “And what does Errol think?”

/>   “Errol treats people well. Even those Neanderthals we saw outside the locker room. I think if he is shown any preferential treatment it is because of his potential. His friend Mark . . . There—first baseman.” He watched Reggie settle her eyes on a large blond man digging his cleat into the dirt. “Said that it’s Errol who draws the crowds. And that there’s a few scouts from the major leagues who have expressed interest.”

  Reggie watched the first baseman for a few silent moments, then stood and shuffled as a couple found and moved to the adjacent seats.

  “I suppose it’s not easy for any scout to make a case for Errol.”

  “It isn’t. And that’s why the Red Sox haven’t grabbed him yet. Any other player in the world who can play like that . . .” He spread his hands.

  “Is he really that good?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone faster on the field. Baseball is a lot about strategy. But it isn’t a whip-neck speed of a game. It takes tactics. Errol has both. He is a tactical player. But his instincts . . .” Hamish set his Coke bottle down by his feet and stretched his arms out a moment before folding them with a smile. “For him to be able to anticipate a ball coming from anywhere on the diamond but also to predict what action will happen where.” He whistled slowly. “That’s why you have to keep your eyes open. Always.”

  “I hope he does something wonderful tonight,” Reggie said, watching Errol to the side of the bullpen swinging his bat in anticipation in the lineup. “For my first time at a baseball game.”

  “He loves his nephew.”

  The Patriots battled the Hartford Hurricanes and were already up 3–0 in the second inning. Hamish assumed Nate would be listening through the grainy static of the one radio station that carried the league. As much as he knew his friend would have enjoyed the tour and the proximity to the players, his heart accelerated watching Reggie take in the action around them. She was stepping into the world that was so often his safety zone: the sound of the bat forcefully meeting the ball and sending it far in the air. The collective din of the stands, the squeak of the bleachers, the organ pounding out jingles and ditties and chords to inspire spectator fervor. The shifting scoreboard and communal enthusiasm. The smell of popcorn and beer and, as in tonight’s game, the inimitable scent of almost-summer: grass and something in the air that overtook the salt and yeast of the vendors’ carts and gave way to the most alluring type of nostalgia.

  Reggie watched intently. “Wait! Why is the ump making the call?”

  “Because he’s not safe.”

  “Of course he’s safe!” She was adorably riled. “I see him!” She pointed with such passion she nearly poked the man in front of them. “He’s on the base.”

  “His foot has to touch the base, Reg. That’s why the umpire is looking into it. Sometimes it’s really close and a tough judgment call.”

  The tough judgment call inspired several vehement boos and dissent from the stands, Reggie’s voice joining the mounting din. She soon was on her feet, waving her hands around. Hamish chuckled.

  “Excuse me.” Hamish and Reggie looked a few rows down to a man shuffling to his seat. A second later, the man adjusted his downturned canvas hat and Hamish recognized Walt Bricker. Something crept over the back of Hamish’s neck and he lightly held Reggie’s elbow, pushing her back so Bricker could shove by.

  Reggie forgot about the ump’s call, focused on waiting for Bricker to take his seat before exchanging a dark look with Hamish.

  Hamish nodded. Bricker was slightly inebriated. If it wasn’t clear from his uneven stance, then it was from his scent. Errol crossed to face the pitcher.

  He could feel Reggie tense with excitement beside him at the prospect of Errol’s swinging in the lineup.

  Parker swung at a foul on the first, dug his toe into the plate, and loosened his broad shoulders. There was such intense concentration on his face; Hamish could feel it even from their elevated place in the stands. He was a competent, if unreliable, slugger and he was smart enough to know it. Sure, he had power enough when he hit the ball, but somehow his preternatural ability to anticipate another player’s move when he was between bases didn’t always translate to the pitcher. Hamish watched the pitcher deftly signal the catcher behind him. Tension was high and escalated when Bricker began yelling obscenities about Parker’s race. Errol had taken a moment to regroup with a practice swing, and the action left a silence over the bleachers that Bricker’s deep voice could easily surmount.

  “Sit down!” Reggie growled, standing and ignoring the looks of the patrons shushing her and asking her to stop blocking them. “Some of us just want to watch a baseball game.”

  Bricker turned to look up at her in the space between a couple in front of Reggie and Hamish.

  “If you like, I will come down there and push you back into your seat.”

  Hamish tugged at her sleeve. “Reggie, it’s not worth it.”

  “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you? No manners, either. Leaving me the other night.”

  “The only side I am on is sitting and watching baseball without a cad like you spewing filth that has nothing to do with the game.” She sniffed. “You were a fiend the other night and I wasn’t going to be party to it.”

  “Can you lovebirds take your argument elsewhere?” an annoyed patron spat.

  Reggie fumed. “Sit down!”

  Bricker stiffened and a nerve in his neck twitched. Hamish’s first inclination was to rise and take the dispute from Reggie, but he had learned several times in the past few months that she was more than capable of fighting her own battles. More still, she tended to like Hamish more when he stepped aside and let her handle herself. Finally, Bricker sat down, but he didn’t even make it through the inning before standing up again and shoving his way again over the bleachers.

  “I despise him!” Reggie seethed.

  Hamish, though, was focused on Errol. It was clear to Hamish from the player’s determined stance and rigid muscles that he heard—and was carefully ignoring—every verbal jab and slur from Bricker’s direction. Then the magic happened: the pitcher took a calculated step from the plate and pummeled an underhand toss that sped in a perfect spiral, meeting the sweet spot of Errol’s bat with a thwack.

  After the game they waited for Errol by the locker room door. He was the last to leave.

  “No pranks tonight,” Errol said with a smile. “I can’t decide if that’s the calm before the storm or because they know I hired some investigators.”

  “I’m glad for that. Do you think that your having detectives will be enough to scare the perpetrator?” Reggie asked. It was a word she always was deliciously confused by. Too many p’s. Hamish had heard her practice it too.

  Errol walked them well in the direction of the subway station, Charlestown becoming more familiar to Hamish: a new friend he was mapping. One of narrow streets and hiccups of hills. Colonial-style housing. Few windows were spared patriotism in a series of stars and stripes. Bunker Hill, the neighborhood’s compass—as integral to the character of the place as the Old North’s steeple he could just make out across the river as they neared the bridge.

  Errol left them, and Reggie and Hamish fell into silence.

  “I could walk you home,” he said. She had come farther than her residence.

  “It’s just a few blocks.” Nearby a dog barked, skidded over, and circled her leg. Reggie reached down to pet it. The dog loved the touch, tongue lolling. “And I have a guard dog if need be.” She laughed. It almost cut the tension that buzzed when it was just the two of them, but not quite.

  Hamish nodded. His eyes were on her lips. He blinked away. But she was a magnet drawing him back: to freckles and slightly parted lips and a nose slightly scrunched in delight at the dog’s licking her hand. He wanted to brush a curl from her forehead and trace his mouth over her. He wanted to pull her close, uncaring of what Charlestown thought, and keep her with him, as part of him, close and certain, to still his heartbeat, fingers intertwined to stop the slight
shudder of his right hand.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened at the Top Hat?” Reggie asked.

  “Reggie, I need to know that there is some part of you that . . .” He stopped, closed his eyes, searched for a word. His heart said thrills. Is there some part of you that thrills to me? It was from that song “If I Didn’t Care.” Then why do I thrill? He certainly thrilled around her.

  “There’s some part of me that never wants to lose my dearest friend.” She shifted a little. “I should head home. Busy day learning all about baseball.” She tried to lighten her tone, but it didn’t work.

  In the end she turned and waved and he watched her skip a little before setting off at a jog back to her boardinghouse.

  When he turned onto his street, he felt the strangest prickle on his neck. As if someone was behind him.

  “Phil?” he mouthed to the darkness. But the shadow he would testify to seeing was taller than Phil. Broader. Kent? Hamish clicked his tongue. He was becoming ridiculous, like a jittery criminal in one of Reggie’s movies. If Kent was following up for his dearly departed friend Suave, then wouldn’t he just find Luca? Luca was the one who spared Frank Fulham. This was his cousin’s problem.

  Inside, Nate was surrounded by papers, a pencil tucked behind his ear. “Well, young DeLuca.” And there was a smile too.

  Hamish breathed a sigh of relief. This was far preferable to the Nate who had been preoccupied with constant business lately.

  Nate waxed on about Cyrus Dallin. The sculptor had won a contest to create a statue of Revere in his youth in the last century and been offered quite a lot of money for it. Nate knew every last detail. A series of unfortunate happenstances, not to mention Dallin not being given his due either professionally or monetarily. And, of course (Nate’s favorite sticking point), the ill-thought scheme to place the Revere statue in Copley Square—far from the North End where the lantern hung in the Old North Church and Revere’s trusty steed galloped in the direction of Lexington and Concord on that fateful April night.

  “Would you have the patience, young DeLuca? To wait for something for decades—something that you wanted? We want change right away. We want things to happen in our time right when we want them to so we can see the results of our work. I think of the big temples and cathedrals. Like Notre Dame! The sculptors and builders who died before ever seeing their finished product. And poor old Cyrus Dallin . . .” Nate played with a button on his vest.