Queens Noir (20 page)

"He wasn't going anywhere, anyways," said Michaels.
"We'd like him alive and talking."

"Don't worry, that's what we do," replied the surgeon.
"Welcome to Gunshots 'R' Us."

He vanished through the doors. Carter tugged on Michaels's arm.

"What?"

"I figure that adrenaline rush you've been coasting on is
about to run out," said Carter. "Let's get you looked at before
you crash and get all whiny with it."

Cracked rib, said the ER nurse. Cracked rib, said the X-ray
tech. By the time an actual doctor came by and peremptorily taped him up, the formal diagnosis was an afterthought.
The doctor pulled out a prescription pad, then looked at him
quizzically.

"How much do you want it to not hurt?" he asked.

"What's the tradeoff?" asked Michaels.

"You have any desire to be awake anytime in the near
future?"

"Actually, I do," said Michaels. "But give me something
for when I need to sleep without screaming."

The doctor scribbled something. "You're a lucky man today," he said as he handed it to him.

"I guess I am," said Michaels. "Not really feeling it yet."

He walked out of the ER. Carter was waiting for him.

"They told me you got a cracked rib," he said.

"So I heard," said Michaels. "How's our boy?"

"Still in surgery," said Carter. "And Birnbaum's here."

"He wants to debrief us?"

"That's one way of putting it."

Birnbaum's moods were measured on the Richter scale.
From the looks of his complexion, which was veering into the
deep-purple end of red, there was major activity happening
along his faultline.

"Routine execution of a search warrant, that's what you
said," he fumed. "That is what you said, isn't it?"

"Yes, captain," answered Carter.

"And now I got an escaped cop-shooter with no description," said Birnbaum. "Wonderful. Let's call the Post and share
our little victory."

"I didn't really get shot," explained Michaels. "I got shot
at. The bullet did not technically enter my body."

"And my foot will not technically connect with your ass,"
retorted Birnbaum.

"We did get twelve keys of coke off the street," pointed
out Carter. "And one guy to charge them against."

"Oh, that was good work," said Birnbaum. "Did he put up
a struggle as you put the cuffs on, or was he too busy bleeding
on the floor? Get Portillo, and then I can start sticking medals
on someone.

He stormed away.

"Ain't no winning with this one, is there?" said Carter.

The surgeon came out. "You need these for evidence or
something?" he asked, holding out his hand. There were two
bullets in it.

"Yeah, thanks," said Carter. "How's the patient?"

"He'll live, but he won't be out of a wheelchair until someone figures out how to reconnect spinal cords."

"That sucks," said Michaels. "How long until he wakes
UP?"

"Should be soon."

"Okay, doc, thanks," said Michaels. He turned to Carter.
"So now that they've sewed him up, let's go see if he's willing
to spill his guts."

"Not until I talk to him about his condition," said the surgeon. "He hears that from me, not from you."

"Look, doc, this is a serious case here," said Michaels. "We
got a shooter on the run."

"My house, my rules," replied the surgeon. "I'll let you
know when I'm through."

About fifteen minutes later, he came out and gave them a
nod. They went inside. The man was stretched out on a bed,
a number of different monitors beeping and blinking around
him. He was staring up at the ceiling, but rolled his eyes toward the two detectives as they pulled up a couple of chairs to
the bed. One of his hands was handcuffed to the siderail.

"How's it going, John?" asked Michaels.

"Who's John?" whispered the man.

"That's how they got you listed," said Michaels. "You're
John Doe 375 until they find out your real name. Sorry about
your situation. Guess your partner figured he didn't want you
talking."

"I'm not talking," said the man.

"Look at that loyalty, will you?" beamed Michaels.

"Impressive," said Carter. "Gets shot in the back by his
own boy, and still won't give him up."

"John-screw that, give me a name," said Michaels.
"We'll have it by tonight with the fingerprints, so you might
as well."

"Santos," said the man.

"Okay, Santos, nice to meet you. Here's the thing," said
Michaels. "We took twelve keys out of the floor in the bedroom. That puts you deep into A-1 felony weight, which in
real terms means a whole lotta years to life. Not only that, you
get charged for what your buddy Portillo did when we came
in the door."

"What do you mean?" wheezed Santos.

"I mean two counts of attempted murder in the- Hey, I
guess it's first degree, isn't it?"

"He was shooting at police officers," said Carter. "Hit one.
That makes it first degree in my book."

"So that makes it another whole lotta years to life consecutive to the first whole lotta years to life," continued Michaels.

"I didn't shoot anyone," protested Santos.

"Yeah, but it's this whole acting-in-concert thing," said
Michaels. "Legal stuff, but I'm saying it means you go down
for everything here."

"He's not my partner," said Santos.

"Then you shouldn't give a shit what happens to him,"
said Michaels.

"I wouldn't," added Carter.

"You see, here's what I'm saying, Santos," Michaels continued. "We can give up on him and let you take the weight,
and that's a win for us. We go on to the next case, and you go
upstate into maximum security ..."

"That's on account of it being a violent felony," explained
Carter.

"Where you will spend the rest of your life not being able
to walk, piss, shit, or ... which one am I missing?"

"Fuck," said Carter.

"Oh yeah, fuck," said Michaels. "On the plus side, when
you get gang-banged, you won't feel a thing. You could get
some reading done while it's going on."

"You are going to be one well-read man," said Carter.

"But, as you might have figured out by now ..." started
Michaels.

"Because you are an intelligent individual ..." said Carter.

"There is a way of making this situation a whole lot easier."

"Portillo," said Santos.

"That's right."

"And you give me what? Witness Protection Program?"

"Not likely," said Michaels. "But we could just charge you
with the drugs, and there's a lot of flexibility in the sentencing. Even probation comes into play if your info is good."

"I can get out?"

"We could drop it down a grade or three depending on
the level of cooperation we get," explained Michaels. "This is
Queens. We got a deal going with the Narcotics DA. Doesn't
mean you can go back to selling, but yeah, you can get out."

Santos lay there, his eyes closed. "Am I ever gonna
walk?"

"Not according to your doctor," said Michaels.

"Fuck Portillo," said Santos. "Fuck him up bad."

"We'll do our best," promised Michaels. "So what have
you got?"

"His sister's kid," said Santos. "He's in Little League.
He's a pitcher. Portillo was always bragging on how great his nephew is. He was talking about going to see him pitch on
Saturday. There's a playoff game. He wouldn't miss it if every
SWAT team in the world was after him."

"When? Where? What's the sister's name?"

"I don't know," said Santos.

"What's the nephew's name?" asked Carter.

"Portillo just called him Junior."

"And that's all you got? There are a thousand Little League
fields in this city. How we gonna find the right one?"

Santos thought for a second. "Jews," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"He came back from this one game, I think it was last
Tuesday night, and he was laughing about seeing all these
Jews lining up for a bunch of school buses. He thought it was
the funniest thing he ever seen."

"Jews in New York," muttered Michaels. "Well, that
should narrow it down."

"You got him yet?" asked Birnbaum when they entered his
office.

"We know where he's gonna be, sort of," said Michaels.
He summed up their information.

"That's it?"

"Yeah, so far," said Michaels. "Doesn't really help. There
are a lot of baseball fields and even more Jews to track down.
Not sure how to narrow this one down in time."

"Maybe by asking the only Jew in the room, who has risen
to his position of authority over you shmucks by means of
superior intelligence," said Birnbaum.

"Enlighten us, captain," said Carter.

"When you or I say Jew, we're talking about a whole
range of things," said Birnbaum. "But if a guy named Portillo is laughing about seeing Jews on a bus, he's means old-school
Jews. I'm talking Hasids here."

"Those guys in the black coats and hats with the beards
and the curly things on the sides," said Michaels.

"That sensitivity training really paid off for you," sighed
Birnbaum. "Yes, those guys. Lubavitchers, Satmars, whichever sect, that's probably who he was talking about."

"So we're looking at Williamsburg or Crown Heights?"
guessed Carter.

"Not necessarily," said Birnbaum. "They've branched out
into a lot of neighborhoods. But if they're getting on school
buses, it probably means either a synagogue or a seminary.
Start calling precinct captains-those guys should be able to
tell you if there are Hasid places near Little League fields."

"We're on it," said Michaels.

A few hours later, Carter hung up his phone and sighed.
"Damn, when Cap's on, he's on. Got a likely from the 112."

"Forest Hills?" said Michaels.

"Forest Hills, Rego Park," answered Carter. "Proud home
of the Forest Hills Youth Athletic Association, which is in
Rego Park. They have their own fields on Fleet Street, and
first round of playoffs is this Saturday."

"And?"

"Around the corner on Thornton, there's a Hasidic seminary. School buses line up to take the students back to wherever they live. The Captain at the 112 says they sometimes
got complaints about the street getting blocked."

"Let's go take a look," said Michaels.

They drove to Fleet Street. There was a high mesh fence
bordering the sidewalk, a concrete bunker of a clubhouse on
the right. It was Friday, around noon, and the field was being mowed by a guy on a large riding mower. There was an old
railroad bridge, overgrown with bushes and trees, and abandoned tracks ran along a path off the street, parallel to the
left field line. Signs from local sponsors decorated the outfield
fence.

"Looks doable," said Carter.

"Harder than it looks," countered Michaels. "There's another field there."

They strolled through the gate and up a hill. Sure enough,
a second baseball diamond was set up above the first, and they
could see two more past that one. A path stretched between
Fields 3 and 4, running to residential neighborhoods in both
directions.

"What's past that field?" asked Carter.

"Let's take a look."

There were woods, and a clearing. The tracks continued
in that direction, heading toward a tunnel by the Long Island Rail Road tracks. A commuter train roared by as they
watched.

"Someone's been having a party," observed Michaels,
pointing to some empty beer bottles and crack vials scattered
around a fallen tree.

"Our boy, or just the locals?" wondered Carter.

"Who knows? This could be a nightmare. We got three
street entrances, the whole woodland frontier at the back,
four fields going simultaneously for however many games, one
very dangerous and armed cop-shooter, and civilians everywhere. Child civilians at that."

"Portillo spooks, there could be some bad headlines on
Sunday," said Carter. "Shoot-out at a Little League game.
Won't do anyone any good."

"We're gonna need a big team. Let's talk to the captain."

Saturday morning at 6:00 a.m., Michaels handed out satellite
photos of the field that he had downloaded. "First games are
at 8:30. Four fields going, and a new game every two hours
until sunset. Every field will have two dozen kids, and three
times as many family members watching. We're looking for
a phenom, a Latino pitcher called Junior, and when we find
him, we narrow down on that location and look for his uncle.
We got twenty-five cops here. I want a car at the two side entrances at Thornton and Alderton, four guys up in the woods
near the old railroad tunnel, two cars at the main entrance,
and the rest of its wandering the location. If you see him, just
phone it in. We'll grab him once he leaves. We don't want
him to start anything when there's kids everywhere. Everyone
got their cell phones charged up? We'll be keeping them on
walkie-talkie mode."

"Won't that look kind of obvious?" asked a cop.

"Every parent on that field is gonna be giving play-by-play
to Grandma," said Michaels. "We'll fit right in."