Sacrifice Fly (42 page)

“Did you know Francisco had two head wounds when the cops found him?”

“I did not know,” she said. “And I don’t wish to hear about it now.”

“Yeah,” I continued. “One was a bloody nose. Most likely from a punch, the cops think.
Broke the nose. Not enough kill him, just bleed a lot.”

Anita put her hand on her stomach and closed her eyes. “Please,” she said. “You are
making me sick.”

“The other one,” I went on, too tired to care, “was a wound to the head just above
the left ear. Made by an unidentified blunt instrument.”

“Please,” Anita said. “Stop.”

“My guess is, someone got real pissed off at Rivas, picked up something like a baseball
bat, and clocked him in the head. Not enough to kill him, but enough to cause some
internal bleeding.” This was all making sense to me now. Frankie told me that when
he was on the roof he had seen the van pull away. But that was a half hour after his
dad sent him up there. What if Anita had showed up before Ape and Vega? “Follow that
up with a punch to the nose,” I said, “and, well … we all know how that turned out.”

Anita locked her eyes on me, and I watched as they filled with tears. She had a decision
to make: deny everything or come clean. She wiped a tear away before saying, “I just
wanted to talk to Francisco. To tell him—to explain to him—what he was doing to my
husband. To our family.”

“That was a pretty big risk.”

“He stole from John. From Elijah Cruz. Elijah was holding John responsible.” She paused
to take a breath. “I just wanted Francisco to return what he had taken.”

“And?”

“And he laughed at me. He said that no woman was going to tell him what to do. He
denied stealing. He said I could look around if I wanted to. But that it would do
no good. And anyway, if he did steal, it was
business
, and what did I know about that?”

“Your husband knew it was Rivas?”

“Yes, but he couldn’t prove anything. Even if he could, what could he do? Go to the
police? There was no way out.”

“That’s exactly the thought he should have had before getting involved with Cruz.”

“You don’t know,” she said. “How could you know? The pressure my husband was under.
Trying to do what was best for his family. That’s why he did what he did. Why I did
what I … It just got out of our control.”

“That would be a hell of a lot more convincing if you weren’t living in a house worth
half a million dollars, Mrs. Roberts. It’s not like your husband was stealing to put
food on the table.”

She took a step toward me. “How dare you! Do you have the slightest idea what a man
like my husband would do for his family?”

“And look how well things turned out.”

“Those people in there,” she pointed at the glass door, “they think you are quite
the hero. You got Frankie home. You…” She gave me a look of disgust. “You are not
the man they think you are, Mr. Donne.”

“Mrs. Roberts,” I said. “I only know if your husband had done the right thing, Frankie
and Milagros might not be grieving the loss of their father.”

She tried to think of something else mean to say to me, but came up empty.

“But don’t worry,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“You’re not … you won’t say anything?”

“To whom? The cops or your family? Who are you more afraid of?”

She took a moment before answering. “What is it you want from me, Mr. Donne?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much is your silence going to cost?”

I couldn’t believe this woman. “You think I want money?” I almost laughed. “You’ve
been living away from Brooklyn too long.”

“Why else would you keep quiet?”

“Frankie knows who’s responsible for killing his father,” I said. “He’s got someone
to hate for the rest of his life. He doesn’t need you in that group. You’re family.”

I turned to go inside. My hand was on the door when I heard Anita crying behind me.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she said.

“Your husband’s facing some serious charges. I’m sure he has a lawyer?” She nodded.
“Contact him tomorrow. Tell him everything you know about John and Cruz, and what’s
on that disc Royce has. With Cruz dead and your husband’s cooperation, it’ll probably
go smoother.”

A bad thought crossed her face. “Will John go to jail?”

“That’s where they put criminals, Anita.”

She winced and put her hand on her pregnant stomach. “We’ll have to sell the house,”
she said. “Where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” I said, moving to the door. “You may have to come back home.”

I went inside without either one of us saying another word. Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s
mother were at the kitchen table sipping from their cups. Elsa was leaning against
the sink.

“I’m going to go home now,” I said to the three women.

Mrs. Santos eased out of her chair and walked over to me. She took my hands in hers
and gave them a weak squeeze.

“Gracias,”
she said. “Thank you.”

I squeezed back. “You’re welcome.” We stood there for a few seconds, her eyes filling
with tears. Before mine did the same, I said, “I’ll see you at graduation, Senora.”

“
Si, maestro.
Soon.”

“Good.” I let her hands go.

“I’ll walk you out,” Elsa said, getting a look from the two older women. “I have to
get ready for work anyway.”

I said good-bye again and let Elsa lead me by the elbow toward the front door. We
stopped when we heard the bathroom door open.

“Mr. D!” Frankie said. He had a towel around his waist, and his wet hair was slicked
back. “You going?”

“I gotta get some sleep, Frankie. I could probably use a shower, too.”

“Gimme a minute, and I’ll walk ya down,” he said, and disappeared into his bedroom.

“Frankie’s going to walk me down,” I said to Elsa. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“No,” she said. “I think he wants to talk to you alone.” She opened the door and turned
back to me. “What were you and Anita talking about?”

“Her role in Frankie’s and Milagros’s future,” I said. “I think she’s going to be
more involved from now on.”

“I thought I heard her raise her voice.”

I didn’t respond.

“You look different.”

“I look tired.”

“No, that’s not it,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, but it will come to me.”

“Let me know when it does.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” She stepped into the hallway.

“That’d be nice,” I said as the door closed.

“You talkin’ to yourself, Mr. D?”

“Yeah, Frankie. Don’t sneak up on people like that. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Ahh,” he said, pulling the door open for me. “You ain’t that old.”

We got to the elevator, and Frankie pressed the down button. He looked as tired as
I felt. He’d lost a few pounds, and a few stray hairs were growing on his chin. When
did that happen?

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Kinda all messed up inside, you know? I’m tired as shit,
but I’m glad like anything to be home.
Home
, home. With my grandma.”

“You didn’t like hanging at your dad’s?”

“For a weekend, yeah. Maybe a week over the summer, but…” He stopped for a bit, losing
his thought. “Your dad still alive, Mr. D.?”

“No,” I said. “He died when I was about your age. Heart attack.”

“You cry a lot … after?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I guess.”

“I been crying like a girl. Not in front of Milagros, though. After I got her to you.
And not around my grandma, either. But…”

“It hurts,” I said for him. “It hurts a lot, Frankie.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay to let people know that,” I said, wishing someone had told me that. Maybe
they had. We stepped inside the elevator.

“You know what hurts the most?” he said. “That my dad’s not gonna be around to see
me get older, you know? Become a real baseball player. A man.” He touched the button
for the lobby and, without turning around, said, “Is it okay to be angry at somebody
who’s dead?”

You’re asking the expert on that subject.

“I mean, my dad’s dead, and I’m sad and all, but I’m angry, too, ’cause I think he …
he didn’t have to do them things that he did that…” Frankie started crying.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s okay to be angry.”

“This was gonna be it,” Frankie said through the tears. “He promised this was gonna
be the last time. He was gonna have enough money to take me and Milagros to Florida,
he said. We was gonna move there soon as he got all his stuff together. It was gonna
be the last time and then…” The elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened onto
the lobby. Frankie ran his hands over his eyes, wiping away the tears but not the
evidence that they had been there. “How you getting home?”

“My friend—Edgar—he said I could have his car for a while.”

“Good.” We stepped out of the building and into the empty common area, where I’d almost
been run over by the kid on the bike twelve days ago. “I ain’t gonna be in school
tomorrow.”

I thought about pushing it, but took a long look at Frankie and decided against it.
“Okay,” I said. “Tuesday then.”

“My dad’s church,” Frankie continued, “they’re doing a service for him in the morning,
and then we’re going to the cemetery after that.” We took a left out of the courtyard
to where I had parked Edgar’s car.

“Something bothering you, Frankie?”

He looked at the ground and said, “You cry at your dad’s funeral, Mr. D?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I didn’t…” I started and tried again. “I stayed outside on the steps of the church.
I was too angry to go inside. I didn’t want to hear … I don’t know. I didn’t want
to hear the bullshit.”

“All that god stuff? People saying good things about your dad?”

When did this kid get so insightful?

“Yeah.”

“But didn’t you have something to say?” Frankie asked.

“To whom?” I asked.

“Didn’t you have something to say to your dad?”

We got to Edgar’s car, and I pulled the keys out of my pocket.

“Like what?” I asked the fourteen-year-old kid in front of me.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s why I’m askin’ you. You been there and
done that, I thought.”

“You thought wrong,” I said. My tone made Frankie take a step back. My hand closed
tightly around the car keys. “I felt pretty much the way you do now, Frankie. My father’s
death was…” I found myself searching for the right word. “… avoidable. I’ve had a
lot of problems dealing with that.”

“How did you? Deal with it?”

“I became everything he wasn’t,” I said.

“Like a cop?”

“Especially like a cop.”

“That help?”

“Not as much as I thought it would. Not at all, to tell the truth.”

Frankie looked at me for a few seconds, digesting the spontaneous philosophy lesson.
He stuck out his fist, and I met it with my own.

“See ya Tuesday, Mr. D,” he said.

“You better,” I answered. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you again.”

He smiled and turned away. I got in behind the wheel and started the car. Instead
of shifting into Drive, I rolled down the driver’s window and shut my eyes for a while.
It would take me no time at all to get to my place. As much as I wanted that ten minutes
ago … I thought about what Frankie had said, and what I had said, and suddenly I didn’t
feel like going home, dealing with the mess left by Vega and Ape. I called Edgar.
He picked up after one ring.

“Yeah?” he said.

“When do you need the car back?” I asked.

“Not until tomorrow if you really need it. Got plans?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror at Frankie walking away. “I’ve
got one more thing to do. Someone I need to say good-bye to. You mind?”

“No, Ray, not at all.”

I thanked Edgar, closed up the phone, and pulled away from the curb. About a minute
later, I had to roll up my window and turn on the wipers.

It had finally started to rain.

About the Author

TIM O’MARA is a teacher in the New York City public-school system. Raised on Long
Island, he now lives in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen with his wife and daughter.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SACRIFICE FLY
. Copyright © 2012 by Tim O’Mara. All rights reserved. For information, address St.
Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover art by Marc Yankus

ISBN 978-1-250-00898-5 (hardcover)

e-ISBN 9781250008992

First Edition: October 2012