Sacrifice Fly (2 page)

“Okay. Do you have his cell phone number?” I asked, remembering my own cell phone,
which was sitting in a drawer back at my apartment, unused and uncharged for over
a year now.

“No. He no give.”

This was becoming a big waste of time. “Mrs. Santos, I need to speak to someone about
Frankie’s attendance. He’s in danger of not graduating if he misses much more school.”

“No graduate?”

“Yes. No graduate. And as his legal guardian, you are—”

“No,” she said. “I am not the … I no have the,
¿como se dice?…”

“Custody?”

“Sí. La custodia.
The father,” she said with obvious disgust. “He have the custody.”

“Mrs. Santos, this is the only address the school has for Frankie. You are the emergency
contact. According to all my records, he lives here with you.”

“Sí,”
she said. “Most of the time …
Pero Francisco,
the father, he takes Frankie, and I no can do nothing.
El Derecho,
” she added. The Law. “Is best for Frankie to be here, I know.”

The blue eyes stared back at me over the chain, filling up with tears. They’re being
wasted on me, I thought.

“And you have no way to reach the father?”

“I have his … his address.”

“Can you give it to me, please?”

“Sí,”
she said.
“Espera.”

Yeah, I thought as she shut the door on me, I’ll wait. Not so long ago, I’d be waiting
on the other side of the door breathing cooler air. Maybe get a glass of water. When
I knocked on someone’s door with my nightstick—always with the nightstick—it would
be my decision whether or not I waited in the hall or entered the residence. A tip
of the hat, a certain tone of voice, and a little “Mind if I come in?” and I would
be on the other side.

I heard a door open down the hall. A woman’s voice yelled out, “Maria!” The two girls
got to their knees, shoved all the crayons into their pockets, and ran down the hall.
A few seconds later, Mrs. Santos’s door reopened. Her small hand eased through the
opening, thin gray fingers clasping a piece of paper.

“Aquí,”
she said. “Is where the father lives.”

I looked at the address. It was on my way home if I walked from here.

“You tell the father,” Mrs. Santos continued, “
es necesario que
Frankie be in school. You tell him he will be in trouble Frankie no go to school.”

“I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, Mrs. Santos. But if Frankie does not graduate,
he won’t be going to high school next year.”

She thought about that and then gave me a long look.

“You,” she said, “you are the one who got Frankie—the
scolar…”

“Scholarship,” I finished for her. “I got him the tryout for Coach Keenan, yes.”

“You watch Frankie play? He pitch real good.”

Didn’t matter how good he pitched. He flunks eighth grade, and he can kiss the free
ride to Catholic school good-bye. And it’ll be at least five years before Eddie Keenan
even looks at another kid of mine.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s very good.”

“You tell the father. No school? Trouble.”

Before I could answer, the door shut and the locks slid back into place. My conversation
with Frankie Rivas’s grandmother was over.

Chapter 2

THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED
onto the sixteenth floor and were about to shut again when a voice called out, “Hold
that, please!” I stopped the door from closing. A Hispanic woman in her mid-twenties
slid in between the doors. She was wearing black pants and a black, short-sleeved
shirt with the logo of a margarita glass over the left pocket along with
“El Azteca”
written in script.

“Who is in trouble now?” she asked me.

“Why does everyone ask me that?”

“No offense,” she said, “but a white guy riding the elevator at Clemente? Somebody
is either in trouble, or you took a wrong turn off the bridge.”

“Raymond Donne,” I said. “Frankie Rivas’s teacher.”

Her face softened. I got a smile and an offer of her hand. I took it. “Elsa,” she
said.

“How was your shopping trip with Mrs. Santos?” I asked.

“How did you…?”

“Maintenance guy downstairs.”

“Maintenance?” She laughed. “Harold pushes a wet mop around and takes a break to smoke
every ten minutes. Has plenty of time to talk, though.” She took a few seconds before
adding, “
Is
Frankie in trouble?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I’m heading over to see him at his father’s now.”

She let out a disgusted sigh.

“Your opinion of the father?” I asked.

“That man is a father when he’s in the mood. Or when he needs something.”

“Grandmother says Frankie’s been with him for a week and a half now.”

“That’s longer than usual. I guess he needed something bad.”

The doors opened, and Elsa and I stepped out into the lobby. We both spotted Harold
on the other side of the glass door, outside finishing up a cigarette. We exited the
building, and the heat slapped me in the face.

“Elsa,” Harold said. “You know Mr. Donne here?”

“We just met.”

“You be careful what you say ’round him, girl.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “Used to be a policeman.”

Elsa gave me a long look and said, “Really?”

Harold said, “Yup. Take care now.”

Elsa and I walked to the street. I turned to the left. She was going the other way,
toward the J and M subway trains.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Donne.”

“Same here.”

“Are you going to bring Frankie home?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, because it sounded better than “I don’t know.”

“Then maybe we will see each other again.”

“Maybe,” I said, pointing at the logo on her shirt. “Say hi to Maria for me.”

“You know Maria?”

“My first assignment was Midtown North. She took good care of us.”

Elsa smiled and said, “I’ll tell her.”

*   *   *

I got about a block before getting light-headed. I needed water an hour ago. The air-conditioning
in the corner bodega felt so good I wanted to stay for a couple of hours. I bought
a large bottled water and stepped back outside before I changed my mind.

By the time I got to the next corner, my water was gone. I tossed the bottle into
an overflowing trash basket and waited for the light to turn. A couple of guys were
sitting on milk crates in front of the laundromat, their boom box blaring what passed
for hip hop these days, and drinking out of brown paper bags. First day the temperature
hits ninety, it’s summertime in the ’Burg. Don’t make no difference what the calendar
says. Time to kick it. Worry about the rules come winter. Bad time to be a cop. Or
a schoolteacher. The two caught me looking at them; the one on the left reached down
and lowered the volume on the radio.

“You see something you like?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You looked familiar,” I said. “Sorry.”

The other guy said, “Maybe you the one look familiar. Cop.”

I shook my head as the light went green. “Have a nice day,” I said.

“Fuck you, five-oh.” They both laughed and bumped fists. I crossed the street, not
missing my old job one bit.

The Williamsburg Bridge was in full rush-hour mode as I walked under it. Cars and
trucks crawling in the direction of Manhattan, the traffic coming into Brooklyn not
much better. The subway just ambled along. Back in the days when my knees worked the
way they were supposed to, one of my favorite things to do was to take my bike over
the bridge into Manhattan and ride along the other side of the East River. On the
way back, I’d stop in the middle and watch as the river traffic flowed by and listen
as the cars and trucks hummed along.

I got to the fenced-in parking lot on the corner of Rivas’s block. It wasn’t too long
ago that the blocks around here would be filled day and night with the smell of sugar
from the Domino factory by the river. For over a hundred years it stood there, the
largest sugar factory on the planet. It was bought a couple years ago by some brothers
from the Dominican Republic, two of the richest landowners down there and heroes to
the people in this neighborhood. The kind of guys who wielded enough power in this
country that they could get the president on the phone and talk about sugar tariffs
and federal tax breaks and political contributions. The same guys who sold the place
off to real estate developers a while back, leaving a few hundred neighborhood folks
out of work.

Man, this block used to smell sweet.

Frankie’s dad lived in one of an identical pair of adjacent buildings across the street
from where I stood. At least they used to be identical. The one on the left sported
new windows, flower boxes, and a recent paint job. The one on the right had what must
have been the original windows—even from across the street, I could see they didn’t
sit right anymore—and a paint job at least a decade old. I found myself wondering
how much more in rent the tenants in the one on the left paid. Frankie’s dad lived
in the one on the right.

I crossed over, stepped up to the buttons, and buzzed. No answer. I tried again. No
answer. I reached over and tried the front door. Unlocked. I climbed the three flights
up to Rivas’s apartment. My knees were throbbing and ready to call it a day. I knocked
on the apartment door, waited half a minute, and knocked again with my umbrella. The
sound reminded me of my nightstick. I did it again. In the middle of my third attempt,
a door behind me opened.

“Jesus,” a man’s voice said. I turned, and for the second time that day, a pair of
eyes looked at me from over a chain lock. “Ya gonna wake the dead with that knocking.”

“I’m looking for Francisco Rivas,” I said. “Senior.”

“He buzz you in?”

“Front door’s unlocked. I think it’s busted.”

“Shit. Again?” The eyes watched me a little longer, and the voice said, “You a cop?”

I caught the aroma of marijuana coming into the hallway and said, “No.”

“He owe you money?”

“I’m from his kid’s school.”

“Milagros?”

Frankie’s sister. I’d forgotten she lived with the father.

“Frankie’s.”

“Christ,” he said. “About time.”

I took a step closer. “What’s that mean?”

“Been hanging around here all week. During school hours. Almost took my head off throwing
that damn ball against the front of the building. You the truant officer?”

“I’m from the school. You know if he’s home?”

“The kid or the father?”

“Either one.”

“Not answering, huh?” I didn’t justify that with an answer, and it took a few seconds
for him to say, “Oh, yeah. Why else would you be—”

“Have you seen Mr. Rivas around lately?”

“Two, three days ago maybe. Maybe longer. You sure you ain’t a cop?”

I took another step toward his door. “If I were,” I said, “what would stop me from
entering your apartment and locating the source of that smell?”

“Ever hear of a warrant?”

“Sure, I think it was right after the lecture on reasonable cause.”

“Shit,” he said. “Hold on a second.” He shut the door, and when he opened it again
he handed me a key. “Here. Rivas had a habit of forgettin’ his.”

I took the key. “Just like that?”

“Hey. You either a cop, one of his lowlife friends, or from the school, like you said.
Any way I play it, ain’t no positive for me carrying on this conversation. Rivas gives
ya shit about that key, tell him you told me you was a cop, and reasonable cause and
shit. You can also tell him to keep the damn thing.”

Without waiting for a response, he shut the door. I knocked on Rivas’s door one more
time, and when I again got no answer, looked at the key in my hand. Technically, what
I was about to do was breaking the law. However, I didn’t see myself getting into
any real trouble, as all I wanted to do was verify that no one was at home. Then at
school the next day, I could call the attendance guy and report Frankie’s absences.
If Rivas was home, I’d talk my way around why I had his key and opened his door. After
all, he was the one keeping his kid out of school. If he were angry enough to call
the cops on me, he would be opening himself up to some unwanted scrutiny.

I stuck the key in the lock and turned. I eased the door open, let go, and waited
for it to swing fully open.

“Mr. Rivas?” I called. “Frankie?”

Silence. Still in the doorway, I looked at the room in front of me. To my left, there
was a couch with a crumpled sheet and blanket tucked behind the cushions and hanging
over the front. A sleeping bag with a pillow was on the floor, halfway under the coffee
table, which was covered with fast-food wrappers and half-empty soda bottles. The
smell of stale smoke and a cheap air freshener hung in the air. The windows were closed,
the air conditioner silent.

No one had been here for days.

I took my umbrella and hooked it around the leg of the coffee table. I pulled it toward
me and used it to make sure the door didn’t swing back and close on me. A cop I used
to work with got stuck in an apartment with a pit bull once. Swore the place was empty.
It took him thirty seconds and four bullets to get the dog off his leg. Last I heard,
he was spending his early retirement in a reclining chair, a remote control in one
hand and a can of beer in the other.

I waited and listened for a few seconds—a small hallway off to the right, a dining
table to my left—before I stepped into the living room. Against the far wall, directly
under the painting of a smiling Jesus touching two children on their heads, was an
entertainment center with a flat-screen TV, VCR, DVD, and CD players and enough movies
to start a rental service.

I walked into the kitchen. All the drawers and cabinets were open. The floor was a
mess of silverware, broken plates and cups, a blender, and a toaster oven. The refrigerator
door was covered with schoolwork, a postcard from some place that had palm trees,
and a child’s drawing of a white house with a red barn along its side. I opened the
fridge: half a loaf of bread, a jar of jelly, and a container of milk, which I opened.
It was beginning to turn.