Sacrifice Fly (Raymond Donne Mysteries) Read online

  “I haven’t been avoiding anybody, Mrs. Mac.”

  “You have nothing to explain to me, Raymond. I’m just passing on what Billy said.”

  After a few seconds, and against my better judgment, I heard myself say, “Then how could I possibly say no?”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll work the first couple of hours.”

  “And we’ll see what happens.”

  “Yeah.”

  She came around the side of the bar and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you, Raymond. And if my Henry were still alive, he’d thank you, too.” She took me by the hands and stepped back. “What’s that smile for?”

  “Your Henry should have taken you into the interrogation room with him. Suspects wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  “Don’t think the idea didn’t cross his mind, young man.” She squeezed my hands. “Thank you, Raymond. And remember, it’s a school night. Last call is at eleven thirty.”

  “Go home, Mrs. Mac.”

  “Yes,” she said. “This time to stay.”

  As she passed behind Edgar, he put his hand in the air. Mrs. Mac grabbed it, gave it a kiss, and said, “Good night, Emo.”

  “What was that about?” Edgar asked as the door shut behind Mrs. Mac.

  “Billy Morris is having a party here this weekend.”

  “The Q?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The Q. And don’t get any—”

  “Oh, come on, Raymond,” he pleaded. “I will sit here at my end of the bar and keep my mouth shut. I promise.”

  “Edgar…” Asking Edgar to keep his mouth shut in a room full of cops was like asking a cat to pay no attention to the canaries at the window. “You ask one unsolicited question or bother anyone with one of your tricks, I’ll throw you out myself. You understand?”

  “Jeez, Raymond. I’m not a kid, you know.”

  “Tell me you understand, Edgar.”

  “I understand, Raymond.”

  “Good.” I ignored the wounded-puppy look. “You ready for another TJ and Bass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s on me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Chapter 5

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, JUST after eight, and the main office was already buzzing. Two unhappy kids sat on the big wooden bench with their two even-unhappier parents. Mary and Edna were working the phones. Mary was saying, “Yes, I have told them many times that you’ve been waiting for their papers. I can’t go home and do it for them.” Edna was explaining, “That’s why Mr. Thomas sent a memo home asking parents—sí, entiendo—to schedule doctor’s appointments after three o’clock. The teachers can’t teach the kids—I said that I understand, entiendo—si los niños no estan en la escuela, los maestros no pueden enseñarlos. Yes, ma’am. You have a nice day, too.”

  I grabbed the papers out of my mailbox and turned to leave, looking forward to getting to my classroom and throwing myself into the day. I had forced myself out of bed. Staying home would have just given me more time to think about Frankie and his sister. I needed controlled chaos.

  “Mr. Donne.”

  “Mary,” I said, stopping at the door.

  “The district office called for you this morning.”

  “How’re they doing over there?”

  “They still have not received your end-of-the-year paperwork.”

  “That’s because I haven’t done it yet.”

  “I told them you’d fax it over by Friday, the latest.”

  “That’s very optimistic of you.”

  “Raymond, you know how they are. What would you like me to tell them when they call back?”

  “Tell them I’m busy teaching my kids and haven’t had the time yet. But if any of them wants to come over and watch my class for half a day, I’d be more than happy to get the paperwork done.”

  “Also,” she picked up a slip of paper, “Mrs. Simpkins called wanting to know why Eric was not getting any homework.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That Mr. Donne—with rare exception—gives homework every day Monday through Thursday until the end of June.”

  “Thank you, Mary,” I said.

  “Get those forms done, Raymond.”

  I was two steps out of the office when my name was called again. Ron Thomas, the principal. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blue tie, and gray pants. One of the many former athletes turned gym teachers turned administrators in the system. This morning, he did not look happy with his career choice.

  “Mr. Donne,” he said, “I’ve gotten phone calls this morning from the News, the Post, and Channels 2 and 7.” He pulled me aside and lowered his voice. “Asking about Francisco Rivas and his father’s murder yesterday.”

  “They think it was over the weekend.”

  “What?”

  “The cops. They think Frankie’s dad was killed over the weekend.”

  “Whatever. They’re looking for information on the boy.”

  “Did you give them any?”

  “Just that he was—is—a student here in good academic standing and expected to graduate and attend high school in the fall. That is correct, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they asked for you.”

  “For me?”

  He shook his head. “Not by name, but they wanted to speak to his teacher. Seems one of the radio stations reported that the body was discovered by a schoolteacher. Was that you?”

  Some reporter got to the young cop. “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, Ray. Why the hell would you—”

  “I was looking for Frankie,” I said.

  “Great. Now the papers’ll be all over us.”

  “Don’t let them in and don’t take their calls.”

  “Right.” He rubbed his eyes. “The ELA scores are due in this week, and I don’t expect good news. It’s all I need to have the reading and writing scores of my eighth grade posted all over the papers along with the story of one of our students missing and his father murdered.”

  This must be real tough for you, I thought.

  Ron calmed down and said, “You used to be a cop, Ray. Are they going to be here?”

  “They’ll want to see his records, talk to his friends.”

  “We have to allow that?”

  “They’re not the papers, Ron. Yes, you have to allow that.”

  “Shit.”

  “I need to grab some coffee before the kids show up, Ron.”

  Before I could do that, my boss grabbed my shoulder. “When they get here, could you sit in? You know how these guys think. You could answer their questions … better than I could.”

  “If you think it’ll help, Ron, sure.”

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  On my way downstairs, I was almost run over by Elaine Stiles, the school counselor. She was carrying a box filled with manila folders.

  “Raymond,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face while balancing the box on her hip. “Hi. Sorry. I’ve got to run these records over to the high school. Then back here for the special ed rec … Oh my god, did you hear about Frankie’s father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, huh? Did they find Frankie yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do they think he’s—?”

  “He’s officially reported as missing. Along with his sister.”

  “Right. His sister.” She looked at me and then at the box she was carrying. “I got to go. But, hey, when I get back I need five minutes to talk about Lisa King.”

  “Only five?”

  “Something’s up. I’m trying to get her into a high school other than … you know where … but I’m getting no help from her, and less from her parents.”

  “What can I do?”

  “That’s what the five minutes are for. ’Bye.”

  A minute later, I opened my classroom door. Almost eighty degrees outside and they still had the heat on in the buil
ding. Something about having to use up the school’s oil allotment for this year or we wouldn’t get the same for the next. I opened the windows, got the fan going, started a pot of coffee, and went over to my desk to finish grading the previous day’s math quizzes. So far, only two of my kids had passed. Eric Simpkins was not one of them. Must have been all the homework I wasn’t giving.

  I finished the papers, poured myself a cup of coffee, and went back to my desk to wait for the students. Ten minutes later, nine of my eleven kids had shown up. No Lisa King. Again. And, of course, no Frankie.

  After Eric put his things away in the back closet, I called him up to my desk.

  “What’s up, Mr. D?” he asked.

  “Got a call from your mom this morning, E.”

  “Yeah? What she want?”

  “She wanted to know why I stopped giving homework.”

  He pursed his lips, thought about it, and said, “Where she get that idea?”

  I pulled out some work he had handed in the day before and held it out to him. “Your work’s been getting sloppier lately, E. Doing it on the playground or the lunchroom?”

  He shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

  “You can’t do that and expect to get it done well. The lunchroom’s too loud and the playground … You need to do it at home, where it’s quiet.”

  “No offense, Mr. D, but you ain’t never been to my house.”

  “For the rest of the year, Eric, you do your homework at home. And your mom signs it.”

  “Ahhh, Mr. D. I ain’t no second grader.”

  “So don’t whine like one. You broke one of my big rules, E. You used me in a lie. Now you pay the price.”

  “Damn. That ain’t—”

  “Isn’t,” I corrected him. “It isn’t fair, and I don’t care. Take it like a man. In six weeks—less—you’ll be out of here for good.”

  That brought a smile to his face. “Ah ight,” he said. Then he added, “Damn, kids in the yard were saying something about Frankie’s pops.”

  “Sit down,” I said. “I was just about to talk to you guys about it.”

  * * *

  “Divide both sides by three.”

  Dougie raised his hand. “Why divide? Can’t we just subtract?”

  “If the unknown—the variable, N—is being multiplied by three, then you have to do the opposite to get it by itself.”

  Dougie looked around at the other kids. None of them looked back.

  “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “What’s two times three, Dougie?” I asked.

  “Six.”

  “Six divided by three?”

  “Two.”

  “So, we’re back to two.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but…”

  “Whatever N is, if it’s being multiplied by three, I can get it by itself by dividing by three.” I gave the class a hopeful look. “We call that…”

  “Isolating the variable,” a small voice from the back said.

  “Thank you, Annie. Isolating the variable. And whatever I do to the left of the equal sign, I’d better do to the right.” I put my arms out and turned my hands palms up. “Balance.”

  The bell rang, end of the period. The boys jumped up. They had gym next.

  “Whoa!” I said. “Me. Not the bell. You’ll finish the problems on page two forty-eight. At home,” I added, my eyes on Eric. I looked at my watch, then at the class.

  “You may go.”

  The kids had been gone for about ten minutes and I was on my third cup of coffee, when Elaine Stiles walked into my room.

  “Got any more of that?” she asked.

  I pointed to the machine in the back. As she went over to it, I allowed myself to admire the way her skirt fit, and how it exposed just enough of her tanned legs from above her knees down to the low-cut leather boots she wore. Hard to believe this woman is fifteen years older than I am and has a daughter who’ll be in college next year. She returned with her coffee, smoothed out her skirt, and sat in the chair next to my desk.

  “I need to talk to you about Lisa, but this thing with Frankie has got me…”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  I told her about my day yesterday. When I had finished, she said, “Oh my god, Raymond. That must have been horrible.”

  More than you know. “It was.”

  “What are the police doing about Frankie and his sister?”

  “Treating them as missing children. They do what’s called a mobilization, a search from the last known location and work out from there. They’ll check the parks, vacant buildings.”

  I left out the part about the river, but Elaine’s face filled with concern as she considered the possibilities.

  “They don’t think they’re…”

  “They’re considering all possibilities, Elaine. That’s all I can tell you.” I took a final sip of coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket. “Lisa King?”

  “Lisa King,” she began, “has not been accepted to any of the high schools to which she applied.” I knew that. “She’s been wait-listed for a couple, but I’m not getting my hopes up. I can try and maybe get her into one of the alternative sites, but I need more from her and her family. If something doesn’t happen soon, she’s going around the block.”

  “Around the block” was the euphemism for the high school that the local kids went to when they were not accepted to the ones they applied to. Its claim to fame was that it was one of the first city schools to have permanent metal detectors installed at the entrances.

  “Why no help from home?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need your help.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve called the father and asked him to come in.”

  “Is he back with the family?”

  “It seems like it.”

  Lisa King’s mother had kicked the father out last year and filed a restraining order against him. Seems that Mr. King had a taste for alcohol and believed that more was better than less. When he tied one on—every two weeks or whenever payday was—he’d get angry and take it out on his wife. Mom finally had enough after Lisa stepped between the two of them one time and ended up missing a week of school. That’s what it takes sometimes. Now he was back home.

  “He said he’d be in tomorrow,” Elaine said. “Around ten. I checked your schedule. You’re free that period.”

  “Is his wife going to be with him?”

  “I don’t know. She’s working now. Does it matter?”

  “Probably not. I’d just like to see the two of them together. Get a feel for the dynamic.” Elaine smiled. “What?” I asked.

  “You,” she said. “‘Dynamic.’ You sound like a counselor.”

  “Right.” I paused for a few seconds. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Raymond.” She stood up, looked over at my blackboard, and said, “Algebra this late in the year?”

  “They have to at least see it before they go to high school.”

  She turned to leave and stopped when she got to the door.

  “He’s going to be fine, right?” she asked. “Frankie?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll see you later, Elaine.”

  After she left, I went to the board. All those equations. Variables. Unknowns.

  I picked up the eraser and wiped them away.

  * * *

  My class was on the ground floor, and with the windows open I was constantly wiping dust and soot from every flat surface in the room. I’d start in the back by the sink and work my way forward. There wasn’t much of a graffiti problem. My kids had me for five subjects, five days a week, and each one had his or her own desk. It’s not like they could write stuff and get away with it. The worst I had to deal with was numbers from math problems, checking the spelling of words, and the random doodles of the eighth-grade mind. Until I got to Frankie’s desk.

  The
upper-left section of Frankie’s desk was covered with his autograph, one right on top of the other: FRANCISCO RIVAS, JR.

  I’d told him that, as much as I appreciated and encouraged his self-confidence, I’d appreciate it more if he’d practice in his notebook.

  “Ahh, Mr. D,” he said last time we had this talk, “you should be thanking me.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked.

  “When I’m pitching for the Yanks and you’re still teaching here, this desk’ll be worth some serious green. You can sell it, make enough to get some good tickets to watch me play.”

  “You’re going to make me pay to watch you pitch?”

  “I can’t be asking the boss for tickets all the time. Got a family to think about.”

  “Until that day comes, try to keep my desks a little cleaner. You make the Yankees—hell, you even make the Mets—you can come back here and write on every single desk I’ve got.”

  “I’m gonna do that, Mr. D,” he said. “You watch.”

  I left Frankie’s autographs alone and sat down at his desk. I’d do that from time to time, get a feel for what my students were seeing. I reached inside and pulled out his spiral notebook. I began flipping through the pages and saw more autographs, pictures of baseballs, the N and Y interlocking to form the Yankees insignia. On the inside of the back cover was a photo of a large, white house with a smaller structure—a garage, maybe a barn—off to the side. Underneath the photo were listings from a real estate section for houses up in Ulster County in the half-million-dollar range. Frankie had written SIGNING BONUS on the bottom of the page.

  I placed my palms down on his desk and shut my eyes. I could see his father’s body, the yellow flower on his sister’s bloodless book bag, the near-empty refrigerator. I picked my hands up and slammed them down on the desk.

  “Goddamn it!”

  I don’t know how long I sat there with my eyes closed, but when I opened them again, Lisa King was standing just inside the doorway, her book bag hanging over her shoulder.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I looked at my watch. “Nice of you to join us.”

  She shrugged. “Slept late.”

  “Did you sleep through the last two days?”

  She shrugged again, went over to her desk, and placed her bag on the seat.

  “What we got now?”