Striking Out (7 page)

The next couple of days revolved around the hospital. Andy spent one more night in the ward and then was moved to a semi-private room. Each day he got perceptibly better, in health, if not in disposition.

I brought him books and Scrabble for diversion, but all he wanted to do was complain about the food and insist he was ready to get out. When he wasn’t whining, he stared into space, lost in the middle distance of his gloom. He wasn’t a whole lot of fun to be with. The only time he perked up was when he felt called upon to make an effort in front of his mother, the doctor, or Jim.

I guess I was supposed to be honoured that he felt free to be bad-tempered with me. All I know is that when his mother arrived to spell me at five on Wednesday afternoon, I handed him off with pleasure. It was my last chance, too. Her husband was driving down to take her home in the morning.

When I got back to the apartment, there were messages from Jeff Glebe, my best buddy in the sports department, and Joe Kelsey, the Titan player representative, whom I’d been trying to reach for a couple of days. I called Jeff first.

“Hey, Kate, how are you? Are you on strike, too?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t drop into the office. What’s a guy supposed to think?”

“I’ve been a bit busy at the hospital, Jeff.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s really why I called. How is Andy?”

“He’s healthy enough to be a pain in the ass.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“Anything come over the wires on the strike?”

“No, I checked. Just a bunch of hand-wringing about the Great Good of the Game from every columnist in North America who ever covered a World Series. Plus various political pundits and literary types who think they know baseball, but don’t. Want me to fax stuff over to you?”

“Not if it isn’t news. And what are you columnizing on?”

“The Great Good of the Game, what else?”

“I can hardly wait. And I’ll probably drop in at the office tomorrow or the day after.”

“I’ll get the red carpet ready.”

Then I called Joe, who didn’t have any news for me either.

“I was hoping you knew something.” he said.

“What are you hearing from your people in New York?”

“The owners won’t give an inch. They figure the longer we’re out, the more paycheques we miss, the more we’ll be willing to give up.”

“Are they right?”

“No. They’re losing money too. It’s a two-way street.”

“And you’re playing chicken on it.”

“Uh huh.”

“And the fans? What about them?”

“You know the answer to that. Just write that we’re sorry, and we appreciate their messages, but we won’t go back into slavery, no matter what. We just hope they’ll understand and let the owners know how they feel.”

“Yeah, fine. Those particular clichés have been well covered. But what about you? Don’t you think you owe them something?”

“It’s not just us that owes them. It’s the owners, too.”

“Fair enough, I guess. What are your plans now?”

“I’m just hangin’ in and waiting for the phone to ring. Most of the guys have gone home with their families, but I’ve got to stand by and keep the solidarity going, know what I mean?”

The irony of a guy taking home 3.2 million dollars a year making like a speaker at a CCF picnic of my childhood didn’t escape me.

“Have you talked to any of the other guys?”

“Almost every day.”

“What about management? Have you talked to anyone from the Titan office?”

“Not for you to write about, but Ted Ferguson and I are talking. Except he doesn’t know anything either. He’s being kept out of the loop because he’s not one of the hard-line owners. They’re the ones in control of the situation.”

“So how long will you stay here? You must want to get home.”

“That’s what Sandy keeps asking me.”

Joe is the only publicly gay player in baseball. When he came out a few years ago, he assumed others would follow, but they looked at the rough ride Joe got and decided to stay in their closets until after their careers. It’s too bad. Joe has weathered his storms pretty well. The fact that he’s the player rep shows what his teammates think of him.

“Fly Sandy up for the weekend, why don’t you?”

“I wish. He’s too busy.”

I heard footsteps running up the stairs, and the door banged open. T.C. came in, shouting my name.

“Just a sec!” I called to him, then told Joe to keep in touch and hung up.

“Kate, you got to come with me. Maggie’s missing, and I think something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“You got to come. Anthony’s waiting there.”

I followed him down the stairs and out the door, then he rushed me to the laneway. As we rounded the corner, I saw Anthony standing by Maggie’s garage. He’s a tall, striking boy, with a face that’s broody in repose. He was dressed in the usual baggy shorts, huge T-shirt, and baseball cap askew. And, of course, the famous Rolex that T.C. covets.

“What is it you want to show me?”

“This,” T.C. said, indicating her chair, which was toppled on the ground.

I looked at it carefully. There were dark stains all over it.

“Blood,” T.C. said, rather melodramatically, I thought.

It was also splashed on her boxes, which were every which way, instead of in their usual neat arrangement.

“You’re sure that’s blood? It looks like paint.”

I stuck out a finger and touched it. It was dry, and I couldn’t tell how old the stain was.

“Whatever it is, it wasn’t there before,” Anthony said. “We found this chair for her, and it wasn’t all covered with stuff then.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Yesterday,” Anthony said. I thought. I hadn’t seen her since then either. And I hadn’t noticed her boxes when I got back from the hospital.

“Do you think we should call the cops?” T.C. asked.

“I guess we should,” I said.

“Like they’re going to care,” Anthony said, dismissively.

“You guys wait here,” I said. “I’ll call 911.”

The operator at the police emergency number didn’t seem to think that a missing homeless woman was much to worry about, but I managed to convince her to send out a cruiser. We had to wait half an hour for the uniforms to arrive, police constables Brewer and Martineau. We took them to the laneway, where the boys explained their fears.

“When did you last see her?” asked Martineau, a tall guy with sorrowful eyes, apparently the senior of the two.

“We saw her yesterday,” T.C. said.

“What’s your connection with the woman?” asked Brewer. A younger, blond man with Slavic cheekbones, small, pale eyes and a weedy moustache.

“She’s a friend,” T.C. said. Brewer looked at him and snickered.

“Funny kind of a friend for a kid,” he said. T.C. glared.

“We look out for her,” he said. “Just because we’re kids doesn’t mean we can’t care about people.”

He had a certain dignity as he said that, but he looked close to tears.

“I don’t think he meant to insult you,” I said, glaring at Brewer until he shrugged.

“Yeah, forget it, kid,” he said. “Your mother’s right.”

“Strike two,” I said. “I’m not his mother. Just a friend.”

“Kid’s got some strange friends,” Brewer muttered.

“Let’s get back to the matter at hand, ma’am,” Martineau interrupted. “Unless you’ve got something that says this bag lady didn’t just move on, there’s nothing we can do here.”

“What about the blood?” Anthony asked.

Brewer poked through one of her boxes with his night stick.

“Maybe she had a nosebleed. Or her period. Who knows?”

“Is there a problem, officers?”

We turned at the voice. A small, fine-boned woman stood in the nearest gateway. I recognized her as Dr. Janet Sachs, the gynecologist that was the target for Reverend Ken and his happy band.

“Is this your place?” Martineau asked.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Janet Sachs. Is something wrong?”

“It’s about Maggie,” I said. “I’m Kate Henry, from down the street. The garage with the blue roof.”

“Of course, I’ve seen you around.”

“And this is T.C. Parkes, who lives in my house, and his friend Anthony.”

“Pleased to meet you. What has happened to Maggie?”

“You know this homeless woman?” Martineau asked.

“Of course. I told her she could stay here for as long as she liked. I don’t have a car, so I don’t need the space. Has someone complained?”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t recall. Maybe three or four days ago. I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Ms. Henry here and her young friends seem to think that she may have come to some harm.”

Janet Sachs looked around at the chair and boxes.

“What’s this? What happened here?”

“It looks like blood,” T.C. said.

She leaned over and looked more carefully, then straightened up, shaking her head.

“I think maybe I can explain this, officers,” she said. “I suspect that this is the work of God’s Law.”

“The religious group?”

“I work at the Women’s Hassle-free Clinic at Queen and Coxwell,” she said. “As you know, we have been the target of some of the extremist anti-abortion groups. I’ve had them out in front of my house, too. Last month, they splashed cow’s blood all over the front of the clinic. This is probably the same thing.”

“You could be right,” I said. “Maggie said the other day that she’d kept some of the God’s Law people away from your yard.”

“Obviously they came back,” she said. “What a nuisance.”

She turned to me.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the disruption in the neighbourhood. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to stop them until we get the anti-harassment legislation passed.”

“Don’t worry about the rest of us. I’m sorry that those bastards are putting you through this.”

She raked her fingers through her fine dark hair.

“Comes with the territory, I guess.”

She turned to Martineau.

“If you don’t need me anymore, I should go back in and see to the kids.”

“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” he said.

She went back through the garden gate.

“I guess that explains everything,” Martineau said.

“But what about Maggie? She’s still missing,” T.C. said.

“She’ll turn up,” he said, starting to walk back up the lane, Brewer right behind him.

“Why don’t you boys straighten things up here,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I followed the policemen.

“Look, are you sure you can’t have a look for her? She’s never just disappeared before.”

“Lady, if we spent our time looking for missing bag ladies, who would catch the bad guys?” Brewer said.

“Any more evidence turns up, you be sure to let us know,” Martineau added. “Until then, there’s nothing we can do.”

I gave up finally, and stood and watched them get into the cruiser. As Martineau opened the driver’s side door, I heard him commenting on Anthony’s watch to his partner.

“Wonder where he stole it at,” Brewer laughed.

I went back into the laneway and found the boys. They’d picked up Maggie’s chair and put it back where it had been and were straightening up the boxes.

“The police might be right, you know,” I said. “Maybe she’s just gone away.”

“Without telling us?” T.C. asked.

“Maybe the God’s Law people scared her away,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. Andy knows someone who works at one of the women’s shelters. I’ll find out where she is and go and talk to her. Maybe she’ll be able to help.”

Anthony picked up the last box and put it on the pile.

“You think her stuff will be safe here?” he asked.

“I don’t think she’s got anything worth stealing,” I said. “Do you?”

“She always worries about her boxes,” T.C. said.

“Maybe we could put them in your garage,” Anthony said.

“If you can fit them, go ahead,” I said. “But if she comes back, she’s going to freak out. Why not leave it until tomorrow?”

I left the boys debating and headed home to call Andy.

“Is your mother still there?” I asked him.

“No. She left half an hour ago.”

“Are you all right by yourself or do you want me to come back?”

“Actually, Jim’s here.”

“Good. How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine, I guess. He brought the cribbage board, so I know he’s ready to lose some money.”

“Any news on the SIU investigation?”

“It looks like it’s going to be all right. Stimac told him not to worry about it.”

“Tell him I’m glad.”

“Okay. I’ll tell him. Got to go.”

“Hang on a second,” I said. “I need the number of that woman you told me about. Your old girlfriend who runs the shelter.”

“Moira Bell. Just a friend. What do you want to talk to her about?”

“Maggie’s gone missing. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“I don’t know her number, but the shelter is called Sisterhood or something like that. It will probably be closed by now, anyway.”

I was flipping through the phone book.

“There’s no Sisterhood. There’s a SisterLink on Gerrard. Would that be it?”

“That’s the one.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“You too,” he said.

I got the SisterLink answering machine and left a message explaining who I was. Moira Bell called me back almost immediately.

“I’m working late on a grant application, and happened to hear your call,” she said. “You say you’re a friend of Andy Munro’s?”

“Yes, we live together,” I said, pointedly. “He suggested you might be able to help me.”

“I was sorry to hear about the shooting. Is he going to be all right?”

“He’s fine. He suggested you might be able to give me advice about a homeless woman who lives near here. Actually, she’s disappeared. I’m trying to find her.”

“I can’t help you right now, because I’ve got to get this application in the mail tonight, but maybe you could come in tomorrow and I’ll see what we can do.”

We agreed on eleven the next morning. After I hung tip, I went to the kitchen, opened a beer, and heated up the three-day-old Chinese food.