Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  In actuality, the moment she crossed the field, noting the empty space to be later occupied by the corn dog stand, she was less sure. Debutante Regina with her shiny ring and ideas about how others should behave. Her Journal of Independence never anticipated being shrouded with judgment toward others. Especially the press. And not from the society pages. The same leeches that had slowly disengaged from the North Square reappeared at the edge of the field in dwindling pockets. The last stragglers hoping for a story about the shortstop’s nephew. The big papers, of course, didn’t care. Toby wasn’t a headline. He wasn’t the right color or station. He didn’t have the right education. Parker might have been a heck of a shortstop, but that didn’t earn front-page space for his nephew.

  She pushed through this sea of second-rate reporters.

  Toward Hamish . . . of all people.

  Then suddenly he was there: profile in view, hands in pockets. Her eyes brushed over him, stopped at the side of his trousers, trying to see if she could make out the slight movement of his hand shake in his pocket. How could you love someone so much yet be so befuddled by them at the same time? In the same instant that her heart clutched in anger at his calling Luca—Luca!—her breath hinged in anticipation of closing the last bit of space parting them.

  He merely led her to the back. Not a smile. They wouldn’t try the locker room, he told her, merely wait for Errol’s teammates to step outside it and answer their questions under the big blue sky. Coach had told them to watch their language around a lady too.

  Some of Errol’s teammates gave themselves away in tone. They weren’t expecting a man of Errol’s color on their team and they wouldn’t make excuses for it. And they certainly had nothing to do with his kid nephew. Wouldn’t tame or temper their disdain that someone was asking questions. Still, Reggie had to wonder if they would care enough to take action. Those who were the most put out by Errol’s appearance in the lineup seemed the least likely to spend the energy to remove him. Prejudice left a wide berth for inaction. If anything, the teammates they interviewed were too indifferent to do anything of their own volition other than talk.

  “The pen is mightier than the sword.” Reggie remembered Hamish quoting his dad. And it seemed like any jabs or steps toward violence with this lot were purely in colorful verbs.

  “I was tossing the ball off the wall and back. In my own little world. Bit worse for wear from the night before,” said one.

  Reggie and Hamish moved from him to Thornton: he was the star of the team, at least in looks and publicity potential for the papers, if not in sheer talent. Golden-haired, sun-licked, broad-shouldered, and suited to the uniform. If the papers took the time to snap a photo of the Patriots, it was with him as the emblem: cleft in his chin, sparkle in his blue eyes, all-American kid. He had the wholesome milk-and-cookie accent too. From the South. Florida, to be exact. Reggie listened to him go on about the orange trees in his mama’s yard before breaking into the questions. Each answer somehow looped back to him like a boomerang. Throughout the tedious emittance of hot air, Reggie wished she and Hamish were in one of their dances of perfect rapport. She wanted desperately to throw him a look to catch and volley, a glimmer that said, “I see you. I’m with you. This man is about as deep as the puddle I crossed to get here.”

  Instead, she stood sentry at his side, rocking a little on her oxfords and too aware of his obvious stillness. Stiff and subdued, about to blend into the backdrop. She might not have known he was alive had he not coughed and posited the first question to the next player.

  Stevenson. He held a rather egotistical grudge against new Soxer Ted Williams merely for being better than himself. Of course, in Stevenson’s viewpoint, it was the talent scouts’ fault for only watching Parker. Yes, it was quite obvious the scouts were enamored by Parker. Stevenson was adamant (so adamant his opinion was bookended by rather creative cursing) that Parker was a waste of time. Still, his anger didn’t result in a vehemence that would suggest a bullet meant for Errol’s head.

  Reggie verified her assessment by glancing at Hamish in periphery. Were Stevenson lying, Hamish’s fingers would have lodged under his brace in a quick succession of counts. Instead, his brow was furrowed, dimple and mouth evened into a straight line. He almost looked like the shy, vulnerable man she met in the pastry line at Mrs. Leoni’s. She could imagine him like that. Almost. Until the pinging of her memory conjured up the same blue eyes, same full mouth that told her he had taken justice into his own hands. Maybe Bricker was dead because of it.

  Reggie blinked back toward Stevenson just as he was explaining how he could never tell Toby and his uncle apart from a distance.

  “They look the same. They all look the same.”

  At first, Reggie was irked with the brush that painted everyone of Errol’s race together. Then something tickled her nose and tingled her fingers. It could have been a terrible mistake.

  “I don’t think any of them did it.” Hamish’s right hand was deep in his pocket. He was addled by something—she could tell by his dozen different ways of hiding a shaking hand—but she also knew that when he was counting over his heartbeat, it was more serious.

  “I overheard some fellow talking to Joe about a kid. Toby, I assume.”

  Hamish and Reggie exchanged a glance. “What were they talking about?”

  “Just that it wasn’t working. That it wasn’t worth the effort.”

  “The pranks weren’t worth the effort?” Hamish translated.

  “I don’t know.”

  Reggie tugged him away from the ball players. Hamish dug in the grass with the toe of his shoe.

  “We can keep doing this. But my instinct says we’re off base here.”

  “A pun?” Reggie raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s something bigger at play.”

  “Another pun?” Now both of Reggie’s eyebrows reached to her hairline.

  “I have instincts. It was what made me a good . . . no . . . what theoretically would have made me a good lawyer. My instinct is that we can question every ball player until the cows come home but there is not enough jealousy or vengeance to lead to a dead nephew.” Hamish adjusted his glasses. “Reggie. These guys play every game for a break. Would they really waste it for the prospect of a jail cell? Sure, they might rough Errol up or toss a few things in his locker, but kill a kid?”

  “In the heat of the moment?”

  Hamish looked in the direction of the locker room, then over the bleachers and stands. Then in the direction of the kiosks shaded by umbrellas striped like candy canes. “My instinct tells me no.”

  “Your instinct also called Luca Valari,” Reggie muttered.

  Hamish ignored her. “When Esmeralda is awaiting trial and execution for the attempted murder she didn’t commit, it’s like a storm cloud is hovering over her wherever she goes.”

  “Thank you, Hamish. You’re so uplifting these days.”

  “I am just expressing my mood.”

  “I miss the days when you did everything you could to cheer me up.”

  “Did I?” he asked, his eyes blue and bright like stars.

  She nodded. “You did.”

  “I might need to pick a happier book,” he said.

  “Might.”

  They were silent the rest of the stroll to the field, stopping at the corn dog stand only to see it occupied.

  * * *

  “Uncle’s off.” The lanky kid smacked gum while tending to a customer. “Too many reporters with questions.”

  Reggie bought two Cokes and told him to keep the change.

  Hamish accepted the drink she offered him. Soon they were in their seats and the first of the lineup began taking the plate.

  Errol Parker strolled and swung at nothing.

  “Sad,” Hamish said after another swallow. “Errol would have loved to have the cameras snap in his face for the moment he was signed for the Red Sox. Like a regular Ted Williams: spirited to the field in the blink of an eye.”

  Reggie played w
ith the condensation on her Coke bottle.

  The camera bulbs flickered and flashed. Passersby yelled their retorts, and not too far away, just a slight, savory jaunt in the warm sunshine, Hamish figured the Christian Patriots were nearby, doling out ivory pamphlets like precious flowers, smiles wide and eyes glistening. He was going through the motions without passion or drive.

  Hamish and Reggie watched from just behind home plate, leaning forward from the first bleacher. Errol’s sister would not find time to find her way to the office, they’d learned, even though Reggie assumed she would have appreciated the privacy. Instead, Errol sent word that she would meet them at the game. That even though Errol would be preoccupied on the field, she would benefit from having a familiar face near.

  When a figure slid next to him in dark glasses with a hat pulled over her face, Hamish felt a wave of compassion.

  “Mrs. Morris?” he asked.

  She gave a quick nod and slowly sat beside Reggie.

  “I am so sorry about your loss,” Hamish heard Reggie say.

  “You try your best to raise a child right. And you cannot help when they turn in a different direction.” The woman folded her hands in her lap.

  Hamish couldn’t see her face, and because he hadn’t turned to greet or speak to her, due to Reggie’s warning hand on his knee, Reggie listened carefully and silently for a break in the woman’s voice, but it was plain and cut through the bustle of the stands with intensity rather than volume. Reggie spoke softly, but not so softly Hamish couldn’t hear. “I feel horrible for what happened.”

  “He aims too high.”

  Hamish took in Jean Morris’s posture from his seat over: shoulders raised like armor, feet firmly planted on the ground. “Your son found him a wonderful role model.”

  “To return day after day to be ridiculed and humiliated?” Jean shook her head slightly. “Why not choose a safe occupation? Not draw attention to yourself. Not set yourself up for failure.”

  Reggie picked at her skirt. “You don’t blame him.” It hovered between a question and a statement.

  Hamish leaned over Reggie’s shoulder in an attempt to hear more clearly.

  “I wonder if my son would have thought he had to work for those men. He talked about Cincinnati, but I thought that was a dream he would grow out of. He wanted Errol to pay attention to him. And Errol did. But I can’t help wondering if all of this might have been avoided if Errol had chosen a respectable job. A working man’s job.”

  It was clear the boy’s mother had little evidence or understanding about her son’s job with Kelly.

  * * *

  After the game, Hamish walked silently beside her as they left, plenty of space between them and the exits of other attendees. Reggie turned her head over her shoulder to see Errol join his sister.

  She wanted to look up and talk to Hamish. But she flicked her eyes away. We all do stupid things when we’re upset, she reminded herself, then wondered why she held him to a different standard. He was too human.

  Maybe that was what bothered her so much. That he couldn’t be expected to hold to everything she expected of him. That he couldn’t be her conscience because for all of his inherent goodness, he was just a man. As fallible as she was.

  Beside her, he was muttering something.

  “Speak up, Hamish.”

  “‘He took great pains to conceal his deafness from the general notice and normally succeeded so well that he had even come to deceive himself. Which is, as it happens, easier than one might think. All hunchbacks hold their heads high, all stammerers make speeches, all deaf people talk quietly.’ It’s a quote.”

  “What does it have to do with anything?”

  “You can make yourself believe a great many things about the choices you make, Reggie.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was an apology. Or if she wanted it to be. Or if his reciting quotes meant he was drawing away from her. He didn’t see her far on Pleasant Street. Rather, he let her go. She resisted the urge to check and see if he was watching her, and soon the lilacs near the fence and the crickets hiding in the long grass and the lure of her comfortable screen door were all she saw.

  Chapter 18

  Hamish’s father told him more than once in his childhood that news could turn a man’s stomach. Not just the facts, but the position.

  “Every paper has a bias, Hamish. We try to be balanced. But the scales tip and we cannot remove the perspective.”

  Hamish knew his father, especially when he traded in the title of reporter to be an editor, attempted to allow all voices to be heard. He wondered, fingers shaking as he lifted the Christian Patriots pamphlet, how his father could sift through so many lines of hate and imbalance and still keep a level head. For his father had told him countless times about similar societies during the Great War. When Hamish was a baby. When his father still had to report to Toronto City Hall as an immigrant alien.

  People will always want a scapegoat. An enemy. Another tidbit from his father he learned spending life with newsprint on his fingertips, trying to make sense of the columns from a world he hid from. Hamish pinched his fingers over his nose. The war at home luring his school chums and changing the shifting face of his country had to be so much more political than a few insidious pamphlets.

  Hamish studied the pamphlet again. It had been read intently. Hamish wasn’t sure if Nate had been studying it or internalizing it. He seemed too smart for the latter. He was never one to take things personally, but rather to assess the situation and look through a lens of balance and logic.

  The end table lamp made Hamish’s tossed coat shimmer like liquid and the books on the opposite table look like a leviathan in shadow. Hamish ran his finger over the pamphlet, watching the slight shudder of his fingers, then set it aside. He couldn’t imagine Luca being prejudiced. Luca didn’t have time. He wanted to stay ahead in the life to which he was accustomed. Luca would entertain batting for the Yankees before he would affiliate with a political party.

  Hamish rose, letting the pamphlet fall between the sofa cushions. The part of his brain that normally wondered about Reggie’s reaction to a next step was conveniently turned off.

  He retreated to the kitchen and picked up one of the battleship games he and Nate had played. He pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil and drew a new grid himself. Might need to practice so when Nate was better they could play at the hospital. Letters down and numbers across. Nate’s little dots. Very precise too. Hamish squinted at a sequence of marks in one of the grid boxes. He nudged his glasses up his nose and stared.

  Then he retrieved an old grid he had crumpled from the side table and smoothed it. Nate had a pattern of playing the same moves, but always with a meticulous strategy for the placement of his little dots. The time he took to play the game always annoyed Hamish. At first he figured Nate put the same careful strategy into it as he did into his chess games. Then something fizzed like the nearly burnt-out bulb in the kitchen lamp.

  Nate didn’t leave any paper trail as to the transactions he made in the North End. But he might have made another kind of trail. Hamish made a cup of tea, pulled some leftover lemon cannoli from the fridge, and began to crack a code while part of his brain ran over the following: Kent was at Pete Kelly’s; Nate was alone at the office and someone wanted something Nate had—badly. Hamish nibbled at a piece of cannoli. Phil had been in contact with Luca. Luca had given Hamish a phone number. It was from New York but could always be patched to somewhere else. He put Luca and Nate together a moment in his mind and hated where it led him: to similarities. Both respected men who never told everything about their enterprises. That inspired fierce loyalty. Nate was the center of the North End, knowing everyone, matching people with services so they could bypass crooked landlords and property owners. Luca had the same magnetic ability to build a world around him.

  One side of the world, Hamish knew from newsreels and papers, was fighting a war. The other side was inching toward that war. His country was already wrapped
up in it, but his adopted home was not. But what might people do for this world? First, he smoothed the manifest found in Toby’s pocket over the table. Cluster. Fuze. Shell. Carbine. Munitions. His father had lost his hearing in a case involving black-market shipments between Toronto and Chicago. But that case had been during the last war with anarchists at the helm. But what might people do nowadays for munitions? To make a buck? Were they simply invested in the war overseas—or the war that might meet them any day?

  Hamish swallowed the last bite of cannoli and threw the wax paper away.

  * * *

  When Reggie arrived at the Van Buren and DeLuca office, she stopped and ran her fingernail over her name. Hamish’s too. She had been so proud. The office rent had been purchased by her grandmother’s pearls, thus Reggie’s insistence that her name be listed above Hamish’s. A stupidly childish whim. She looped the V with her finger while putting herself in his shoes and wondered if she wouldn’t have done the same thing. Something drastic when the rug was pulled out from under her. She fingered the locket she wore daily. Its translation meant “Breathe. Hope.” A gift he had given her when they opened their office.

  Inside the office, he was not alone. Mrs. Leoni’s daughter was with him, a young woman who had a huge crush on him. It had deepened when Hamish was able to stop her mother’s landlord from jacking up the rent price so she could afford to keep baking and selling the best cannoli in the North End at the intersection of the North Square and Prince Street. He wasn’t giving Rosa a full smile. She hadn’t seen one of Hamish’s full smiles since the night of her disastrous engagement party.

  Reggie crossed the floor and greeted Rosa. She was a sunny-faced, pleasant-looking young woman. Reggie got the impression she was seeing a carbon copy of Mrs. Leoni several years before in Rosa’s bright black eyes and luscious dark hair. She was twisting a strand of it around her finger with all the flirtatious subtlety of Claudette Colbert stopping a car in the road with a hiked-up skirt in It Happened One Night.