Queens Noir (21 page)

Sleepy six-year-olds wearing primary-colored jerseys and black
pants over cups they wouldn't need for several years waddled
up the hill to the T -ball field. Older children warmed up on
the larger fields while their parents unfolded a wide variety of
collapsible chairs. The caretaker trundled the chalk spreader
from field to field, leaving foul lines in his wake. The tiny green
snack shed's shutters opened, and the smell of coffee and hot
dogs began to permeate the atmosphere. Michaels bought his
first cup of coffee and promised to pace himself. There were
going to be no bathroom breaks today.

International League. Pan-Continental League. Major
League. Grandiose titles for small players, wearing their spon sors' names with pride. T -Bone Diner. Hancock Law. Fast
Break-that was the best name for a team, Michaels thought.
A basketball team, but still. He wandered around, listening in
on coaches' instructions, looking for Junior.

"It's a beautiful day for a ballgame," came Carter's voice
over his cell phone. "Let's play sixteen."

A burst of Spanish chatter caught his attention. A family
had settled in to cheer their daughter on. A young woman,
a young man, an older woman. The man had a beard. In the
brief glimpse he'd had of Portillo, he hadn't seen a beard. He
had a vague impression of height.

"Girls generally don't get named Junior, do they?" he asked
into his cell phone.

"I'd say not," replied Carter. "Unless she's a real Griffey
fan. But Santos did say nephew."

"Right," said Michaels. "I'm hanging by Field 3, Mom. I'll
let you know when little Barney comes up to bat."

There were bleachers along the third base line, but he
chose to stand by the fence near first. Families were still coming in as the pimply teenager who was umpiring the game
yelled, "Play ball!"

Michaels glanced over the crowd, then watched as the
pitcher plunked the first batter with his first throw. The crowd
oohed in sympathy, then cheered as the batter swallowed hard
to keep from crying and jogged down to first base.

"Settle down, Danny!" shouted a mom. The pitcher ignored her, and hit the next batter.

"One more and he's out," said a man sitting on a lawn
chair by Michaels.

"That's the rule?" asked Michaels.

"Yeah, you can only hit two kids per inning. Safety
thing."

"I guess you save it for the ones you really don't like," said
Michaels.

"Yeah," said the man. "That's my boy in left. Which kid's
yours?"

"Still on the bench," said Michaels. "They'll probably put
him in halfway through."

"Well, they have to, don't they? ... Hey, I know you."

"Yeah?" said Michaels.

"Yeah," said the man. "You're a cop, aren't you? So am I.
Bill Stanley, 101st Precinct."

"Oh, yeah," said Michaels, shaking his hand. "Jim Michaels."

"Michaels, right. Didn't know you lived around here. And
you got a kid my boy's age? Small world."

"Sure is," said Michaels.

"Yeah, I remember, you were working Narcotics," continued Stanley. "Still there?"

Yup.

"Huh." Stanley's eyes narrowed. He stood by Michaels,
keeping his eyes on the game. The batter popped up to third
for the first out. "You don't have a kid, do you?" Stanley said
softly. "Tell me you're not on the job right now."

"Sorry," said Michaels.

"Jesus, what's going down here?"

"Just looking for someone."

"There are children here," said Stanley. "What the hell
are you thinking?"

"We're not going to take him down here."

"What if he freaks?" asked Stanley. "Did you consider
that?"

"We did," said Michaels. "This is our only lead."

"Crap, crap, crap," muttered Stanley. "Is he at this game?"

"I don't know," admitted Michaels. "We were told he's got
a nephew called Junior. Latino. A pitcher."

"Junior," said Stanley. "I don't know any Juniors in this
game."

The next two batters struck out. Danny had settled down.
The parents cheered, including Stanley. As the kids ran to
the dugout, he motioned to his son, who quickly came to the
fence.

"Billy, this is a friend of mine from the force. Jim Michaels."

"How ya doin', Billy?" said Michaels.

"Fine," said Billy.

"He was wondering about a pitcher named Junior," said
Stanley. "Spanish kid. Know anyone like that?"

"Junior? He's in Majors," answered Billy. "This is Pan-Con."

"Which team?" asked Michaels.

"Yellowstone Tires. He's their best pitcher. I gotta go,
Coach is yelling."

"Thanks, Billy," said Michaels.

The boy scooted away.

"Here," said Michaels, handing Stanley two bucks. "Buy
him an extra ice cream on me."

"My son, the snitch. His mother will be so proud."

Michaels walked down to the league bulletin board and
studied the schedules. Yellowstone Tires was playing at 10:30 on
Field 1, the big one by the street. He pulled out his cell phone.

"Okay, Mom, I gotta see Junior play at 10:30," he said.

"You got him?" asked Carter.

"I don't know any other Juniors, Mom. Do you?"

"Haven't found any yet," said Carter. "Which field?"

"Yeah, Field 1, Mom, that's the nice one by the street."

"Well, I think we got to keep covering the others, just in
case.

"You said it, Mom," said Michaels. "I'll call you when the
game starts, give you a play-by-play. Put your feet up and go
easy on the gin, okay?"

"If your mother is really like that, it goes a long way toward explaining you," said Carter.

Michaels bought a pretzel from the snack shack. The first
base foul line for Field 1 paralleled the street, where a pair
of ice cream trucks had parked and were doing brisk business. An apartment building loomed beyond the clubhouse.
Michaels picked up his cell again.

"We should have someone covering the entrance of that
building," he muttered. "Any Latino male coming out after
the game ends should be tailed."

"You don't have enough people for everyone in Queens,"
said one of the backups. "And they all seem to be here."

Michaels sighed and hung up. A pair of three-year-olds
ran screaming by him, their mothers following behind, chatting. No kid was being supervised, because every kid was safe.
It was an oasis of security in the big bad city, and Michaels
started hoping that he was wrong and Portillo was on his way
back to wherever he was from.

The yellow jerseys of Yellowstone Tires began assembling by
the field at 10:15, some tossing baseballs around, some cheering
for their friends in the game winding down. There were several
Latino kids on the team. A coach said something to one, and
he nodded while a shorter, squatter kid dug a catcher's mitt and
a baseball from the equipment bag. They went over to the side
of the field and began throwing the ball back and forth. The Latino kid threw two easy pitches to the catcher. Then he brought
his left knee up close to his chin and uncoiled. The ball hit the
catcher's mitt dead center with a pop that echoed off the apartment building. Michaels pulled out his phone.

"I got Junior here," he said. "And he's got an arm, my
friends."

"Right," said Carter. "Units 3, 4, and 5 to Field 1. The
rest of you keep covering where you are, just in case we're
wrong."

The early game ended, and the two teams lined up to
slap palms in a display of ritualized sportsmanship. Yellowstone Tires and Wilco Hardware came onto the field to warm
up. The parents of the Wilco kids gathered in the third base
bleachers. Michaels grabbed a seat next to a woman who was
surreptitiously reading a Harlequin romance.

"Which one is yours?" asked the woman.

"Oh, I got here too early," said Michaels. "Gonna see my
nephew play, but my idiot brother got the time wrong. So I got
a couple of hours to kill."

"That's my Tommy playing second," she offered.

"Good-looking kid," he said. "Looks like you."

"Are you one of those men who hits on divorced women
at Little League games?" she asked hopefully.

"Nah, I only go for soccer moms. And they're out of season. Who's the kid pitching for Yellowstone? He's got some
pop.

"That's Javier," she said. "His mom calls him Junior. He's
excellent."

"Which one's his mom?"

"I thought you only went for soccer moms," she said, pouting slightly.

"Buddy of mine runs a travel team. He told me to scout
for him while I was here. Javier might be a prospect."

"That's her in the yellow T-shirt," she said, pointing to the
other bleachers.

He pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned the Yel lowstone supporters. A Latino woman was cheering loudly
with some other moms. There were no Latino men.

The Wilco pitcher took the mound and threw his warmups. The catcher tossed the last one to second base, and then
the game began. Yellowstone scratched out a run in the top
of the first on three singles, the last by Javier, who was batting
fifth. Then he took the mound for the bottom of the inning.
He struck out the side on eleven pitches.

"This kid is good," said Michaels into his cell phone.

"You're telling me," said Carter. "Any luck on Portillo?"

"Haven't seen Uncle. I'll get back to you."

He stretched and stepped down from the bleachers. His
colleagues were wandering around, pretending not to notice
each other. He walked down to the street and bought an ice
cream.

"Little League sure kills your diet," he said on his cell.

"It's our lack of will power," replied Carter. "I'm on my
fifth hot dog, and I don't even like hot dogs. Any prospects?"

"Not yet."

Bottom of the second. Two more strikeouts for Javier, the
batters flinching at each pitch. The last one swung late and
hit a weak ground ball to the first baseman, earning a cheer
from the Wilco parents.

Michaels sauntered over to the first base bleachers and took
a seat in the top row, giving him a good view of both the game
and Javier's mother. She kept up an animated stream of Spanish
with a woman next to her, interspersed with cheers for her son
and the other children. She did not look anywhere else.

The pitcher for Wilco, while not at Javier's level, was effective after the first inning, pitching in and out of jams without allowing another run. Javier struck out the side again in
the fourth, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

"Do you realize that we're watching a perfect game?" marveled Michaels.

"Don't jinx it," warned Carter.

"Lucky bastards," said another detective. "The T -ball
game is 18 to 4 in the second, and all the runs are unearned.
I'm having flashbacks."

Word traveled, and kids and parents who were not committed to other games drifted down to watch Javier. Reluctantly, Michaels started scanning the crowd again, looking for
possibilities. The ping of a bat distracted him, and he looked
back at the game to see Yellowstone's center fielder racing
toward the fence. At the last second, he stuck his glove out
and the ball somehow landed in it.

Both sides and all the onlookers stood and applauded the
effort, Javier as hard as anyone.

"Did you see that?" shouted Michaels into his cell phone.

"Unbelievable!" said Carter. "Game-saver right there."

Michaels stretched as the fifth inning played out. Javier
was beginning to took fatigued. His pitches no longer popped,
but his control was still with him. The Wilco batters were putting the ball in play instead of striking out, although the Yellowstone fielders were able to keep the perfect game going.

Only one inning left, thought Michaels. Then he saw a
tall Latino male standing outside the right field fence next to
a Hasid who had stopped to watch the game.

"Hey, Mom, I think Uncle Phil just got here," he said.
"Down on the street side. I'm gonna go say hello."

"Got your back," said Carter.

He ambled over to the fence by where the Latino stood.
Yellowstone did nothing in the top of the sixth. It was still 1-0,
and Javier walked slowly to the mound, the crowd cheering
him on.

"Good game," said Michaels. "That Javier is some pitcher."

The Latino man grunted.

"It would be a shame if something spoiled his big day,"
continued Michaels. "Like seeing his uncle get arrested in
front of everyone."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked the Latino
man, turning to face him.

"Oh, sorry," said Michaels. "I wasn't talking to you."

"Then who you talking to?" demanded the man.

"Him," said Michaels, pointing to the Hasid. "And I suggest you give its a little space for a few minutes."

The Hasid glanced at him with a quizzical expression,
sweat running through his beard. Then his eyebrows raised
slightly.

"You were the one coming through the door," he said.

"That's me," said Michaels. "And I have friends all around
you, so let's keep it quiet. There are kids here."

Portillo turned back toward the game, keeping his hands
visible on the fence.

"Tell you what," he said softly. "Let's watch the last inning. Give me that, then I'll go quietly."

Birnbaum will ream me for this, thought Michaels.

"All right," he said. "Hell, I want to see if he pulls it off."

The first batter took a called strike. Then he glanced at
the dad coaching third.

"Whadaya think, they put the bunt on?" said Michaels.

"Let him try," replied Portillo.

The bunt was on. The kid bravely squared around in the
face of the onrushing pitch. It was a chest-high fastball, and it
caught the top of the bat and went straight up. The batter, the
catcher, and the umpire looked at it, then the catcher took a
step forward and caught it.

One out.

"He read the play," said Michaels. "Smart."

The next kid gritted his teeth and took the count to three
and two. Then he fouled off three pitches in a row.