Left Field

by Elizabeth Sims

  Flora slipped off her big white sunglasses and shaded her eyes. “Yes. I almost ran away with a woman who played professional ball. She was on the Kalamazoo Lassies.”

  “Really!” I was stunned. “Well…that’s quite a—revelation!”

  “She broke my heart when she left without me. She was older, and I was…young.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry, Flora.”

  “I feel good now!” She smiled a true, relaxed smile, and her whole face looked new. Her body too, for that matter. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a boxer, swung her shoulders, and in no way looked like a woman in her late fifties.

  Lou said, “It’s like she’s gnawing out of her chrysalis!”

  “Well put,” I agreed. “I’m glad to see you guys have become friends.”

  “We’re platonic at the moment,” Lou told me in a confidential tone.

  Jackie approached. “I have to talk to you.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked off toward the river, Aegean-blue this autumn noontime, running smooth. It didn’t take a genius to guess what she was going to say.

  She took a deep breath. “I—I have to take a break from our relationship.”

  “Sure, Jackie.” If I was ever prepared for a breakup, this was it. “I don’t think I’m able to really meet your needs.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, unconscious of how ungracefully that came across.

  “So who are you with now?” I pressed.

  “Carmen. I think you know that.”

  “Well, I could guess.”

  “Yeah.” We watched a brown dog snort after a gopher or something in the weeds.

  I said, “Well, I certainly wish you happiness. I get it about you and Carmen. I can’t say I understand it, but I get it.”

  Mercedes yelled, “Grinders to the bench!”

  Jackie said, “I admire you for putting a stop to Dr. Briggs. My God, what you went through that night.”

  “Thanks. Go pitch a good game.”

  She looked as relieved as if I’d been a sack of horse feed that had just slid off her shoulders. You will not be surprised to hear that the Grinders successfully defended their championship title by beating the Stubby’s Joint Wildcats, 4–2. The Wildcats played hard, but the Grinders had special heart that day. Jackie pitched well; Flora got a hit; everybody contributed. Flora didn’t have the stamina of a thirty-year-old, but she made up for it in spirit. The other Grinders seemed to take to her, and I was glad to be free of my obligation in left field.

  It’s funny, though: the women of the team seemed to truly miss me on the field. “You were a sparkplug for us,” Mercedes told me during the last changeover.

  “Plus you were entertainment,” chimed in Helen. “I’m gonna miss watching you steal third. It’s like your life depended on it, every time you tried.”

  “You guys didn’t care that I couldn’t hit?”

  Mercedes said, “Nobody can do everything.”

  After shaking hands with the losers, the team carried Mercedes around the infield on their shoulders, which she protested but gave everybody good photo ops. She looked like a laughing Cleopatra, riding up in the sunshine, golden afternoon clouds sweeping in from the west.

  Both teams enjoyed a cookout then, with hot dogs and plenty of beer to wash the dust out of our throats. I helped Christy stoke the charcoal and turn the dogs—great smell, that primitive blend of fire and seasoned meat. Then the Wildcats’ shortstop, a quiet woman named Jessamyn, approached and stood near us. I glanced over, thinking she wanted a hot dog, but her eyes were on Christy. That was all; very low-key.

  But Christy was aware of Jessamyn, you bet. She cut her gaze over once, then back to the sizzling dogs, then again, then back to the dogs as if they’d jump out of the fire if she didn’t keep them pinned down with her eyes. Christy’s hair, frizzy from the day’s humidity, billowed gently in the heat from the charcoal.

  Jessamyn clutched and unclutched her hands. I cleared my throat, and they both looked at me in desperation.

  “It’s Jessamyn, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said softly. She looked like somebody Vermeer might have painted: pale, rounded, but not a bit weak, standing there in her Wildcats T-shirt and sneakers.

  “Do you have any experience cooking hot dogs over a fire?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s lucky, because—”

  A deep voice spoke my name and a heavy hand wrapped itself around my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see God or somebody, but it was Lieutenant Sorrel. Given the ominous vibe he gave off, my stomach dropped a few inches.

  He was serious, all right; he wanted to tell me something important. The other Grinders saw him; everybody was going like, What the hell is he doing here?

  I flopped a dog into a bun and striped it with mustard, handed it to him, and took one for myself. I told Jessamyn, “Christy could use a collaborator here.” I handed her my tongs and gave her a tiny push in Christy’s direction. Christy smiled slightly at the smoking grill.

  Sorrel and I grabbed beers and went to hang out at a picnic table next to his car.

  Without preliminaries, he said, “I’m going to run for mayor.”

  I about dropped my dog. “That’s—that’s fantastic!”

  “I’m tired of the corruption. I can’t do anything about it as a cop.”

  “I heard what’s coming to light about DeMedHo.”

  “It was completely crooked. Shirlene had every fraudulent scam going she could think of, and it was working. Then she got her hooks into Briggs, who’d made the mistake of thinking he could handle Vicodin. He thought he’d double down and get rid of her, grab control of DeMedHo, and be the millionaire addict who ate Detroit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Abigail Rawson was close to figuring everything out. Her death was a happy accident for Shirlene and Briggs. But that notebook has been tremendously helpful to us.”

  “I thought it might be.”

  “Briggs figured you had to go.”

  “Yeah. He’d gotten desperate to shut me up, and more and more paranoid, I guess.”

  “Definitely. His judgment had completely collapsed by that point. Do you think you might sue him in civil court after the prosecutors are done with him?”

  “Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “His net worth’s a few million, from what we can figure.”

  “Huh.”

  “Something to think about.”

  We ate our dogs as we stared out at the uninteresting Windsor waterfront. The river glided past and the breeze carried its green, damp smell. I looked over to see how Christy and Jessamyn were getting on. They stood side by side, talking inaudibly and taking turns fussing over the hot dogs. Given what Christy was facing in her life right now, it made me glad to see she was making a new friend.

  Sorrel said, “If I run, I’ll need someone to manage, you know, my media contacts.”

  I finished chewing and swallowing a large bite of hot dog, then took a slug of the cold beer. “Are you asking me to work on your campaign? Be, like, your press secretary?”

  “Yes. Will you?”

  “Lieutenant Sorrel! Hell, yes!”

  “Leon.”

  “Except do you need somebody who’ll be, uh, you know, squeaky clean? I mean, because I make a lot of mistakes and don’t play by the book all the time, you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Lillian, this is Detroit.”

  “And I don’t always ask permission.”

  He laughed. “We’ll have to talk about that.”

  “And I don’t work for free. I’ve got some car-repair bills coming up.”

  “You’ll be on the payroll, of course.”

  “Speaking of which, what kind of money do you have for a project like this? I mean—”

  “I’ve got some savings, but I’ll have to start raising money right away. Any ideas?”

  Immediately I thought of Flora Pomeroy and, well, her bank account. I
thought I could let something slip about Sorrel’s candidacy and see what her reaction would be. Seemed like she’d be glad to support a tough, honest guy like Sorrel. But I didn’t want to put all that out just yet. I said, “I do know most of the news people in town.”

  Sorrel sipped his beer. “I know. Can you get me in with Ricky Rosenthal at the Journal?”

  “You bet. Plus there’s a slumlord and a moneylender I’d like to introduce you to while you’re still a cop.”

  He gave me a penetrating look. “You love this city, don’t you?”

  Only then did it occur to me that I did love Detroit. I’d never really thought about it. Detroit had always been simply there, the place where I was born, the place I’d probably always come home to. I’d grown up hearing how magnificent the city used to be; how safe, how glamorous, how rich. But I loved Detroit. I loved its underdog spirit, I loved the river, I loved the brilliant white of the Tigers’ home uniforms against the green grass and red dirt of the ballfield.

  I hated the poverty, crime, and corruption that were threatening to ruin everything that was good.

  “Yes, Leon. I sure do love this city.”

  “Me too.”

  As we began to plan strategy, darkness settled over the city, all cool and September-gold. The mosquitoes had died off. We talked for a long time, until most of the Grinders and the Wildcats had gone home and the embers in the barbecue grills glowed soft orange in the night.

  28

  Apart from my upcoming position in Sorrel’s campaign, I had a hell of a kicker for my story for Ricky on the Shirlene Cord–Roland Briggs affair. I was busy; I gave statements about the Briggses and DeMedHo to the police, I interviewed people and wrote my story for the Journal and planned the rest of my life, but underneath it all I felt so damn sad, I can’t tell you. I missed Jackie, I missed Raquel, I missed people I hadn’t seen in years. My flat, once a refuge, my haven of peace, now seemed a cold hall of desolation. I dreaded being in it.

  I took to leaving home early in the mornings and eating breakfast at the Cracked Mug, the diner where my friend Billie waitressed. She fed me oatmeal and eggs, and I tried to get a cheerful start every day. She knew enough not to offer me another goddamned puppy.

  I drove over to the main Detroit library and worked there some days; I walked the city; I haunted the DIA. I visited my favorite little friend there, a biscuit-sized stone sculpture of an Egyptian scribe writing on a tablet—until, that is, they closed that gallery due to lack of funds. The art museum couldn’t keep the goddamned lights on. That was one travesty I would help Sorrel take on.

  One morning during a lull at the café, Billie leaned a freckled arm on the counter and studied me. “Lillian, you’re depressed.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You’re not even drinking your coffee.”

  It was true; even my favorite stimulant seemed irrelevant. “I try to count my blessings,” I told her.

  That night as I picked disconsolately at a microwaved potato and a can of sardines, craving something—something—my door buzzed. The sound was harsh in the night silence. “Oh, Christ.” What waited out there for me? Some drama? A drunken Jackie, having quarreled with Carmen? Lou or Mercedes or somebody wanting to take me out for an ice cream cone?

  I trudged down the stairs to find Billie standing on the porch in her red car coat and rolled 1950s hairstyle. “I need a drink, and you’re always open,” she said, smiling.

  “Hey, girlfriend. Get in out of the cold. Come on up.”

  She followed me, and I realized she must have hidden a small crate on the dark porch, then picked it up when my back was turned.

  “Oh, Billie.”

  She set the crate on the rug as I shut the door. “Please listen.”

  “Billie.”

  “Please listen.”

  “Billie.”

  “I’m not leaving until you listen.”

  I thumped my butt to the floor and she did the same, shielding the crate with her body. I was so focused on my own trip that I didn’t even offer to take her coat.

  “Lillian, remember when you dropped Todd off with me before you went out to Iowa or wherever it was that time? Looking for that woman who you—uh—”

  “Idaho. Yes. The woman I killed.”

  “Well.” My friend sat cross-legged, her off-duty flower-print skirt spread across her knees. Her face glowed with warmth and enthusiasm. I always liked Billie’s upbeat spirit. She really wanted this to work out, whatever it was. “Well, I had another rabbit in the house at the time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A female.”

  “Yeah?”

  She waited for it to hit me. It did. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me, Billie. I’m not gonna fall for this.”

  “It’s true, Lillian. They mated. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but you know I can’t always keep track of everybody under that roof of mine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “What for? I messed up. I thought you’d gotten Todd neutered. You were so broken up about him, you couldn’t let me say anything.”

  I glanced at the crate. “So you’ve got one of his kids in there? I can’t believe this, Billie.”

  She reached and opened the crate. “This is Todd’s grandson.” She brought out a small, plain, brown rabbit with black eyes and quivering whiskers.

  He looked around, nervous, sniffing. Then he looked at me steadily. My hands reached out by themselves. I scooted over and received the bunny, who twitched only once or twice as my hands encircled him. As my left forearm was rotating to support his hindquarters, he suddenly stretched his neck and bit my index finger hard. Billie gasped, but I said, “His grandpa bit me in that exact finger when I first met him. Get me a towel from the kitchen, please.”

  I kept hold of the rabbit, and he relaxed.

  I wrapped up my finger with the towel. There was something so right about this creature, as if we’d been cabin mates at camp, or shared a cubicle for years in some horrible corporation. I knew this rabbit. And surely it was my imagination, but the rabbit seemed to know me.

  “What’s his name?” I asked Billie.

  “He doesn’t have one yet. He’s only three months old. He’s weaned, by the way.”

  This rabbit needed a name; he needed me. I closed my eyes and thought for a long moment. I opened my eyes. “Tommy,” I said. “Tommy.” The bunny glanced up at me, then snuggled into my arm.

  After a minute I got up and fixed a couple of drinks. The three of us hung out for a while. Then Billie said goodnight and went home.

  __________

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  About Elizabeth

  Elizabeth Sims is the author of the Rita Farmer Mysteries, the Lambda and GCLS Goldie Award-winning Lillian Byrd Crime Series, and other fiction, including the standalone novel Crimes in a Second Language, which won the Florida Book Awards silver medal. Her work has been published by a major press (Macmillan) as well as several smaller houses, and she’s written short works for numerous collections and magazines. She publishes independently under her personal imprint, Spruce Park Press.

  In addition, Elizabeth is an internationally recognized authority on writing. She’s written dozens of feature articles on the craft of writing for Writer's Digest magazine, where she’s a contributing editor. Her instructional title, You've Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams (Writer's Digest Books) has been specially recognized by National Novel Writing Month and hundreds of other web sites and bloggers. She has taught creative writing at Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota, Florida, and when time permits, she teaches at conferences and workshops around the United States.

  Elizabeth earned degrees in English from Michigan State University and Wayne State University, where she won the Tompkins Award for graduate fiction. She's worked as a reporter, photographer, technical writer, bookseller, street busker, ranch hand, corporate executive, certified lifeguard, and symphonic percussionist. Elizabeth belongs to several literary societies as well as American Mensa.