Sacrifice Fly (Raymond Donne Mysteries) Page 3

  Royce laughed. “Pre-req for the job.”

  “Thanks, but I could use the walk.”

  “You sure? You don’t look too good.”

  “My first dead body in a while,” I said, easing myself up. “Another water, I’ll be fine.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Donne.”

  With that, Detective Royce went back to his crime scene, and I made my way home.

  * * *

  Halfway home, my knees had just about given up, so I took a seat on a bench just inside McCarren Park, more than a little angry with myself. I knew before I pushed the bedroom door all the way open what I’d find on the other side. I knew it would take me somewhere I’d been before and hoped to never go again. I should have turned around and gone home. I opened the door anyway.

  * * *

  The door to my father’s study is open. Just a couple of inches, but this door is never open. If it were up to him, my dad would put a lock on it. The Door is to be kept closed.

  I put my bag down and approach. I stop about a foot or two away.

  “Dad?” I say into the dark space between the door and the molding. “We’re home.”

  I hear my mother’s voice behind me talking to my sister, Rachel, but I’m too focused on the open door to pay attention to what she is saying.

  I curl up my right index finger and tap my knuckle against The Door three times.

  “Dad?” I try again. “We’re back.”

  At first I think the smell is some sort of cleanser. It has a bite to it that reminds me of the stuff my mom uses on the tub. The smell gets stronger when I push the door open a bit more, and now I’m reminded of the taste you get when you put a penny in your mouth.

  I think about reaching in, switching on the light, but if my dad is in there and napping, he’s not going to be happy if I wake him. Mom, Rachel, and I have been out in Montauk all weekend. Dad stayed home to get some work done, but he didn’t really want to come anyway. He rarely does.

  Maybe he brought in some food a couple of days ago and forgot about it. Maybe that’s what I smell.

  My dad is lying facedown on the floor. I turn to call for my mom, but she’s already behind me. She pushes me aside and rushes to my father’s body. I watch as she kneels down next to him, like she’s about to pray.

  “Goddamn,” she whispers. Then she looks up at me. “Raymond,” she screams as if I’ve interrupted a private conversation. “Take Rachel and go upstairs! Now!”

  Before I can protest, she gets to her feet and pushes me out of the room. The door slams in my face and I go to find my sister.

  * * *

  The smell of death stays with you. It doesn’t just get into your nose and lungs, it gets deep inside you: into your blood and your gut and your dreams. If I believed in a soul, it’d probably get into that, too. Now, under the trees of the park, the smell of Frankie’s father’s death was mixing with the smell of my father’s.

  Some doors should stay shut.

  I looked out at the park and took a deep breath. No one has ever quite explained to me exactly where Williamsburg ends and Greenpoint begins. Longtime residents of the area still argue over which streets belong to which neighborhood. The cops, they just cared whether it was the Nine-O or the Nine-Four. It didn’t really matter all that much, unless you were trying to sell your house, then Greenpoint sounded a hell of a lot better than Williamsburg. But one thing was agreed upon: right smack in the middle was McCarren Park.

  The bench I was on faced the soccer fields where a Polish team was getting ready to play an Hispanic team, the sidelines filling with supporters talking loudly in both languages. Behind me were the Little League fields—where Frankie would sometimes play—so small that, with the two games going on at the same time, the outfielders from each game had to stand side by side. Add to those the bikers, joggers, skateboarders, rollerbladers, handball players, and families looking to grab any piece of green they could find, you had yourself a microcosm of Brooklyn.

  Sitting all by itself across the street, like a neglected step-kid, was McCarren Pool, the largest public pool in the city system. It had been decades since it last opened its gates to swimmers. Every three or four years the local politicians would stand up and announce their plans to reopen and “revitalize” the pool. And after all the votes were counted, you wouldn’t hear another word until the next election. No one was quite willing to say out loud that the reason the pool had closed, and would more than likely stay closed, was because it was just about impossible to secure a pool that size that was visited by the Polish, Italians, Blacks, and the Hispanics—and where were the Hasidim going to swim? So the pool just sits there, its walls crumbling a bit more each year, weeds and trees growing from its floors. A reminder of a kinder, gentler time that maybe never really was, when swimming in a public pool meant just that.

  I got up and walked over to the Avenue to grab a hero at the pizza place. By the time I got home, the Yankee game would be on and, with any luck, I’d be asleep by the fifth inning. As I waited by the window for my food, the old Polish man walked by. Dressed in his usual green plaid jacket and black pants—no matter the season—he was yelling out his usual crazy Polish rant. I used to get a smile out of his act until the guy I bought kielbasa from told me that his loud rants were usually about the family he’d lost to the Germans in the concentration camps. I wondered what he smelled when he went to bed.

  I took my hero and began the five-minute walk down to my apartment. The Avenue was packed: people shopping for dinner, some for clothes, and others running into the local hangouts for a quick drink before going home.

  Shit. It was Tuesday. I’d promised Mikey I’d take his shift tonight. I looked at my watch. Seven thirty. I went over to the car service around the block and lucked into a driver just getting on duty. Two minutes and five dollars later, he dropped me off at The LineUp.

  Chapter 4

  EMO THE MOLE’S REAL NAME was Edgar Martinez O’Brien, and Edgar was as proud of his Puerto Rican–Irish heritage as he was of the job that had earned him his nickname. I poured him a pint of Bass and placed it next to his can of tomato juice as he fiddled with his cell phone.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said and raised his glass to toast. “Five, seven, four.” Which, to those of us in the know, meant that Edgar had five years, seven months, and four days until he could collect his pension from the New York City Transit Authority. Edgar did communications work for the subway system. “Nice surprise seeing you here on a Tuesday, Raymond.”

  “Helping out Mikey,” I said. “He’s got a big date.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Edgar said. “With which hand?”

  He looked around to see who was laughing. No one. Kevin and Petey—two ex-cops who’d put their papers in on the exact same day over four years ago—just gave him blank stares and went back to watching the weather on the silent TV above the bar.

  Edgar cleared his throat and lifted his cell phone. “Wanna see something cool?”

  “Not in the mood right now, Edgar.”

  “Watch.” He ignored my response. “I mean, listen.”

  He motioned with his head to where Nicky G was on the pay phone, leaning against the wall, the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, and the racing form folded under his arm. Edgar pressed a few buttons on his cell and then held it out to me.

  “Get a load of this.”

  “Edgar, I’m busy. Just—”

  He pushed the phone at me. “Just listen. Geez.”

  I took the phone to shut him up and put it to my ear.

  “Honey,” a raspy voice said. “I sweartagod, I just got here. I’m gonna grab a quick burger with the boys—maybe watch a few innings—and come right on home.”

  Nicky G lying to his wife. And I was listening to it on Edgar’s cell phone.

  I handed the phone back to Edgar. “Nice trick,” I said.

  “Trick?” He grabbed the phone. “Took me half an hour to set that up. Had to get special wiring, a miniature—”
>
  “It’s also illegal, Edgar.”

  “Illegal, shmillegal. I’m just having some fun.”

  “Don’t let any of the guys around here in on your fun. Or Mrs. Mac. They might take your fun away from you.”

  Edgar folded up his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. He took a sip of Bass and replaced it with a little tomato juice.

  “Whatsa matter, Ray?” he asked. “Bad day with the kiddies?”

  “School was fine. Leave it alone, Edgar.”

  I reached under the bar, pulled out the Daily News and handed it to Edgar, knowing the sports section had a better chance of shutting him up than I did. As he flipped to the back pages, I went down to the other end of the bar to tend to the two twenty-something ladies who were finishing up their light beers.

  “Two more?”

  “Please,” said the one on the right. “Do you know if those two officers from last Tuesday night will be coming in tonight, Ray?”

  Last Tuesday? It took me the same amount of time to get their beers as it did for me to remember last Tuesday night.

  “Mullins and Glass?” I said. “I don’t know. They may be with their girlfriends.”

  “They got girlfriends?” the one on the left said.

  “That didn’t come up in conversation?”

  “No,” the one on the right said. “It did not.”

  “Must have slipped their minds.” I looked over my shoulder. “You want me to see if Edgar’s available?”

  “Emo?” they both whispered. “When we want a date with a cop wannabe, we’ll let you know,” the one on the left said and then slammed the bills in front of her. “Could you give us some quarters for the pool table, Ray? I feel like slapping some balls around.”

  I did as they asked and got a couple more for Petey and Kevin. Nicky G—now finished lying to his wife—was also finished with his burger. I put another vodka tonic in front of him. Back at the other end, Edgar was tapping the newspaper.

  “You see the San Diego game last night?” he asked.

  “I don’t have satellite.”

  “Gotta get that package, Ray. Great investment. You should talk to Mrs. McVernon about putting one in here. I could even install it if she wants. Be great for business.” He tapped the page again. “Guy pitched a complete game shutout. Eighty-four pitches.”

  “Eighty-four pitches?” I said.

  “Yep. Bee-you-tee-full.” He closed his eyes. “That’s … nine point three pitches per inning. Talk about getting the job done.”

  “How’d the other guy do?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The other pitcher. How’d he do?”

  Edgar moved his finger along the bottom of the box score and said, “Heh. Pitched a three hitter, struck out six. Walked none. Tough loss.”

  I nodded. A good pitcher will do that. Your opposite number’s up there on the mound throwing bullets, you’d better come out with your A game.

  “Hey, that reminds me,” Edgar said. “Mets’re on. You mind?”

  I grabbed the remote from under the bar and switched the TV to the Mets game.

  “I’m keeping the sound off, though.”

  “No problem, Ray,” Edgar said. “It’s only the Mets. Geez, what is the matter with you tonight? You sure you didn’t have a bad day at work?”

  “My day was fine, Edgar.”

  “Bull dinkey. C’mon. You can tell me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’re the only one around here tells me anything.”

  I looked into Edgar’s desperate eyes and felt like going back to the other end of the bar. Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “I was over on South Third and Driggs today, looking for one of my students.”

  “Isn’t that the block where the cops found a DB this afternoon?”

  “How did you…?” Edgar had a police scanner. Also illegal. “I called it in.”

  “You? Called in a DB?”

  “The DB…” I said, “… the dead body was my kid’s father.”

  “Shit,” he said. “They know who did it?”

  “Not unless I missed something in the last couple of hours.”

  “You find the kid?”

  “No.”

  “Think he did it?”

  “See, Edgar,” I took the remote and put it back under the bar, “that’s why no one around here tells you shit. You run your mouth too goddamned much.”

  He raised his hands, put a sad look on his face, and said, “Sorry.”

  The sound of beer bottles hitting the bar came from behind me. One of the ball-slapping ladies was holding up two fingers. When I walked the two beers over to her, she said, “And two shots of Jack.”

  I poured them and told her the round was on me.

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “To apologize for men everywhere.”

  She looked at the two shot glasses and smiled. “It’s a start.”

  I went back to work. Busy work: moving the bar rag around, washing out pint glasses, and cutting up lemons and limes. All the while, keeping one eye on the floor behind the bar. One overlooked spill or piece of ice and I could find myself on my knees and calling it an early night. I looked over at the ball game and then at Edgar, who was giving me the wounded-puppy look.

  “I’m sorry, Ray,” he said. “You know I get excited about this stuff. I don’t know the kid, I just—”

  “Okay, Edgar. Relax. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. It’s been a long day.”

  “No, no. I should be apologizing to you. I mean, it’s your student out there, missing.” He looked up at the game, and with his eyes still on the TV, he said, “What’re you gonna do now?”

  “About what?”

  “About the missing kid. His old man getting killed.”

  “Edgar, you miss out on the last five years of my life? I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But what? You think this is—” Just over Edgar’s shoulder, the front door opened and Mrs. McVernon walked in. What was she doing back here? I came in over an hour ago and she went home. She gave me a small smile and gestured with her finger for me to join her at the other end of the bar. Maybe she came in to save me from Edgar.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “I need a favor,” she said, fingering the small gold replica of her dead husband’s badge that hung from a chain around her neck. She did that whenever she wanted to remind her audience of her husband. “It’s a big one, I’m afraid. So you feel free to just say no.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just got a phone call from Billy,” she said.

  It took me a second. “Morris?”

  “Yes.”

  “And…?”

  “You know he has his yearly barbecue with the boys?”

  My old partner’s “Q” was the social event of the spring for about fifty or sixty cops each year. I’d missed the last couple.

  “Yeah,” I said, not wanting to talk about it. “What about it?”

  “Well … it’s this Saturday … and he’s having work done on his house that’s lasting longer than the contractors said.”

  I nodded. I looked down the other end of the bar, hoping a thirsty customer would give me a way out of this conversation. No luck.

  “So,” Mrs. Mac continued, “he wants to have the Q here.”

  “Here?” Christ. “What’d you tell him?”

  “That I would get back to him after I worked out the details.”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Mac. You’d need to clear out the outside area for the grills,” I said.

  “The Freddies will do that,” she said, referring to the twin Dominican brothers who worked the kitchen for her and whose parents showed little imagination when it came to naming their baby boys. “Billy said he’d have all the food delivered here and I can order enough beer to handle the extra business.”

  “Sounds like a good deal, Mrs. Mac.”

  “Yes,” she said, again playing with the miniatu
re badge.

  “But…?”

  “I want … I need … you to work it for me.”

  “I don’t work on Saturday,” I said, a bit too harsh.

  “That’s why I’m asking for a favor, Raymond.”

  “Mikey’ll be here. You won’t need me.” And I don’t need this.

  “That’s not true, Raymond,” she said. “You know those boys. You can handle them. Make sure things don’t get too … rowdy.”

  Right.

  “Mrs. Mac,” I said. “I haven’t seen Billy—or ‘the boys’—in a long time.”

  “He said five years.”

  “You had a long talk with Billy, Mrs. Mac.”

  “I’m sorry to ask, Raymond, but it would mean a lot of money for the bar, and I love those boys dearly, and my Henry would roll over in his grave if he knew I missed an opportunity to help Billy out.”

  This woman could give lessons in guilt. Her Henry graduated from the police academy with my uncle about a hundred years ago. As Uncle Ray worked his way up the ladder, Henry McVernon stayed on the streets, eventually making detective. A couple of years back—not long after he’d bought The LineUp—it caught up with him in the form of a massive heart attack. Just like my father. I wasn’t the only ex-cop who picked up a weekly shift at the place to help his widow keep it going. No wages, just tips. And now a favor. A big one.

  “You don’t think Mikey can handle it?” Why should she? I didn’t.

  “He’s coming in early, but no, not by himself. I need you.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, Mrs. Mac, but I don’t think I’d be too comfortable around all those guys.”

  “Like I said, Raymond. Feel free to say no.”

  I thought I just did.

  “Mikey’ll work the bar?”

  “With a little help from you. I hope.”

  “And Gloria’s going to be here?”

  “She’s bringing her sister. The Freddies will do the cooking.”

  It sounded to me as if Mrs. Mac had already said yes to Billy.

  “You told Billy that you’d be asking me to work it?”

  “He couldn’t have been happier,” she said. “In fact, he says it will help ‘dispel the idea’ he’s had that you’ve been avoiding him.”