Night Game (13 page)

We all tried to ignore the remark, but Stinger kept rolling. He couldn’t let it alone.

“You can’t say she wasn’t asking for it. And those Dominicans have got the big macho-attitude. She should have known better than to jerk his chain that way.”

“Leave it alone, Stinger,” Gloves said. “This is none of your business.”

“It’s none of her business either,” Stinger said, then turned to me. “You should stick to writing your stupid articles, keeping the assholes in the stands coming back for more. But not you. You gotta go where you don’t belong and get in and stir it up. You’re just all bent out of shape because one of your little bobos got in trouble.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” I said. “I don’t think that Dommy killed Lucy. But that’s not because of any special relationship you seem to imagine I’ve got with him.”

I have a terrible tendency to get pompous when I get mad.

“He’s not one of Katie’s Cuties? Don’t shit me.”

“What are you talking about?” I was getting mad.

“Wait a minute,” Karin said. “You’re way off base here. Kate’s a fair reporter.”

“Thanks, Karin,” I said. “But don’t waste your breath.”

Stinger laughed—a sarcastic, incredulous sound.

“Fair to your old man, maybe,” he said. “Fair to that faggot Joe Kelsey and his girlfriend Eddie Carter. And her darling Tiny Washington. She likes niggers. And all the Dominicans. They’re niggers and spics, even better. She’s
fair
to the pitchers because she thinks they’re smarter than us. But the day she gives me any good ink, is a day I’m never going to see, because I won’t kiss her ass like the rest of you do.”

Gloves stood up and put his arm around the third baseman.

“Hey man, I didn’t think you cared,” he said, laughing. “That’s what you always say. You let your numbers speak, right? Go have your swim and cool off. We got business to discuss.”

“Well, excuuse me,” he Steve Martined, then strolled slowly over to the beach gate and out.

“He doesn’t use the pool?”

“No,” Karin said. “Haven’t you heard? Real men don’t swim in pools. He challenges the mighty ocean every day.”

“At least the not-so-mighty gulf,” I said.

“Right,” Karin said. “Big challenge.”

“He really is a jerk,” Gloves said. “It’s too bad he’s such a good player.”

Karin glared at him, but said nothing. She began to gather the coffee things from the table. I offered to help and followed her into the kitchen.

“What a pig,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “There are times I’d leave him if it wasn’t for the kids.”

“I meant Stinger,” I said, startled.

“Oh, him,” she laughed. “Him I would’ve left long ago.”

“Why does Tracy stick around?”

“Money,” she said. “Status. She grew up beautiful but poor. Being a big-league star’s wife is as good as it’s going to get. Wearing diamonds that spell out his name. Driving her little white Porsche with the personalized plates.”

“But that can’t make up for being married to someone like him,” I said.

“Tracy isn’t what you might call deep,” Karin said. “Possessions mean a lot to her, and she doesn’t want to give them up.”

“Now that she has found Jesus, you’d think that she would be renouncing all those material things.”

Karin laughed.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, loading cups into the dishwasher. “Tracy Swain is never going to get so religious she gives away her trinkets to the poor. Last year, for example, I thought she was finally going to split. Then he bought her a bunch of jewellery and her new fur coat, and she was good wifey again. Since she’s found God, though, it’s worse. You never see them touch and they hardly ever speak to each other. Sometimes it looks as if she hates him, but she seems to enjoy it, too.”

“Maybe he’s her cross to bear.”

“Yeah, the gold-plated kind,” Karin said.

“Some kind of weird relationship,” I agreed.

“Welcome to baseball.”

“Come on, Karin,” I said. “Gloves is a classy guy. Compared to other players, he’s a prince.”

“Sure, but compared to real human beings, he’s still a ballplayer. The team loyalty shit really gets to me. Stinger is a good third baseman, so we have to tolerate him? That stinks.”

She stopped, then laughed.

“Oh, don’t listen to me,” she said. “This happens every spring. We have a great winter, just the family. Then we come down here and I have to get used to the guy with the game face on. It’s always hard to adjust at first.”

“I’m sure.”

“But you’re right,” she said. “And I do love and appreciate my husband. I just sometimes wish he did something different for a living.”

“In not too many years, he will,” I said.

“With my luck, he’ll become a coach,” she said.

“Right,” I said. “The same schedule, with twice the responsibility, three times the stress, and about a tenth of the salary.”

We both laughed and went back outside. Gloves was next door with Eddie Carter and Joe Kelsey. They called us over.

“What this? An official meeting of my bobos?” I asked. “Better not let Stinger see us.”

“Clarice says the cops were here again today,” Eddie said. “There was something about another gun?”

“Oh, my Cod,” I said. “I forgot to tell you. Sorry.”

I went over the story and its possible ramifications one more time.

“When did this happen?”

“I guess when we were at the funeral,” Eddie said, then called his wife.

“It was just after you all left,” she said. “They went to Alex’s place and went through it again.”

“Did they have a search warrant?” I asked.

“I think Alex told them they could. He told me about the gun after he got back from practice.”

“Where did it come from?” I asked. “Do you know any details?”

“Some kid found it in the water yesterday,” Clarice said. “Can you imagine such a thing? He took it home and hid it in his room. He was only ten years old. His mother found it this morning and called the police. Alex says it looks like Dommy’s gun. But so did the other one.”

“It was a .38, right?” Gloves asked.

“Cop gun,” Eddie said. I made a note to check what the Sunland police use.

“Well, it all gets curiouser and curiouser,” I said. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll keep in touch. I’m talking to the mother tomorrow.”

“Thanks for everything, Kate,” Karin said.

I went past Stinger’s place on my way out. Tracy was sitting at her patio table, painting her nails with purply-pink polish, while reading a matching leather-bound bible. She greeted me distantly, then went back to her project.

I walked past the steps leading up to Flakey’s place to the parking lot, past the ground-floor back entrances. The guy in the coverall I’d talked to the first time I had been there was putting garbage into a large bin at one end of the building.

“Mr. Bonder?” I asked, coming up behind him. His body tensed, and he turned. His was a bitter face, lined heavily under thinning grey hair, slicked back. He wore glasses and looked to be in his late fifties. It’s hard to tell with Florida faces, hides tanned in decades of sun.

“Looking for something?” he asked.

“You are Mr. Bonder?”

He grudgingly admitted his identity, and I introduced myself.

“Were you here the night the murder happened?”

“I’m always here,” he said. “Except Sundays when I go see my boy.”

“Yes, I heard he wasn’t well,” I said. “I’m sorry. He was there last week, was he?”

“Who told you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, regretting my loose tongue.

“It’s none of your business, anyway, my family. What do you want? I’ve seen you here before.”

“Last week,” I agreed. “I’m a reporter for a newspaper in Toronto.”

“A reporter,” he said, then spat.

“I guess you see a lot of things around here,” I ventured. “You know what’s going on.”

“I mind my own business,” he said.

“What about the party last Friday?” I plowed on. “Were you there?”

“They don’t give invitations to the employees,” he said, dragging out the last word sarcastically.

“Did you see anything that went on?”

“I might have looked out once or twice,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep, with all that noise. Saw her dancing and carrying on.”

“Lucy?”

“Shameless. Dancing pert’ near naked, far as I could see.”

“You’re talking about the murdered girl.”

“Some would say she got what she deserved,” he said.

“Would you say that?”

He stared at a point over my right shoulder.

“None of my business.”

“Did you happen to notice when Lucy left, that night?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“Was the gate to the beach open?”

“Not by me.”

“Do you have the only key?”

“Tenants have ’em, too,” he said, still looking over my shoulder.

“What about security? Who is in charge of locking it at night?”

“Last person to use it.”

This line of questioning was getting me nowhere. I tried another tack.

“How long have you been the superintendent here?”

“Five years.”

“So you’ve known some of these players for all that time?”

“Some of them.”

“Do you decide who gets which apartment?”

“What if I do?”

“Nothing. I just wondered how you decide who gets what.”

“Some of them have favourites. The ones here longer get their choice.”

And the ones who grease the super’s hand, probably.

“Which are popular ones?” I asked.

He shrugged; a small, stiff gesture.

“Ground floor for them with children and them who like a party, I guess. Upstairs for them who want some privacy.”

“Are there a lot of parties?”

“Seems like a lot to me.”

“With outside people or just among the players?”

“Sometimes it don’t seem like they know whose apartment is whose, they’re in and out so much. Not how I was brought up to be. But I wasn’t a millionaire athlete, wasting my life.”

This outburst of information seemed to startle Bonder. He looked around, bemused, then wiped his hands on his pants and picked up a rake that was leaning against the wall.

“I have to get back to work,” he said, then put his mouth into a grotesque parody of a smile.

“It’s been nice talking to you,” he said.

I stopped at the Publix on the way home and bought a frozen mini-pizza and some salad stuff for dinner. I wanted an evening alone to prepare for my interview with June Hoving, and to try to make some sense out of everything I had learned.

When I got to my room, I turned on the oven, changed into sweats, and poured myself a glass of wine before calling down for messages. I needed the fortification. There were ten of them: Jake Watson (twice), the city desk, Andy, Cal Jagger (twice), Esther Hirsch, Hugh Marsh, Gloves, and Sally Parkes.

Duty first. I called Jake, filled him in on what was going on, and told him to pass it along to the city desk. Jake said that city side was worried about photographs for the feature. I promised to get hold of Bill Spencer.

Going for pleasure next, I tried Andy, but couldn’t reach him, so I called Sally and caught up with news from home. Elwy, my beloved cat, had been to the vet for an ear infection and was put on a strict diet of dry food that costs twice as much as the canned food he loves. There had been another snowstorm the day before, covering the first shoots that had come up in the garden during a three-day thaw, God’s annual Toronto joke. Sally had met a promising man at a benefit for some native arts organization. It was a comforting phone call. I didn’t tell her about what I was involved in. She would only worry.

When we were done, Sally passed the phone to T.C.

“Kate, why aren’t you writing?” he asked. Unlike Sally, he reads the sports pages religiously.

“I’m working on a feature for the weekend,” I said.

“What about Domingo Avila? Did he really do it?”

“His friends don’t think so,” I said.

“Why don’t you catch the real killer, Kate? You can use the book I sent for your birthday!”

“Thanks, T.C.,” I said. “I’ve got enough problems being a sportswriter.”

He pumped me for ten more minutes about the fates and fortunes of the Titans under their new manager before I could get him off the phone.

“I miss you, Kate,” he said. “So does Elwy.”

“I miss you all, too,” I said. “I’ll see you in a month. Take care of Elwy, and give your mum a hug for me.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you soon. I love you.”

“Me too. Bye.”

I put the pizza in the oven and slipped a tape into the machine. Ray Charles and Merle Haggard singing, “There’s no place like home and it’s lonesome in my little hotel room.” Perfect.

Country music is my secret vice. I’ve developed the taste over years on the road with the team.

I am a radio listener, mainly. At home, it’s the CBC, with its peculiar blend of information, music, and silliness, always searching for the elusive Canadian identity. American radio is another matter.

I used to go up and down the dial in each new city for a station which played tolerable music and had decent news reporting. This proved to be impossible. The music was either Top Forty rap and crap, or insipid music-of-your-life and Barry Manilow. I finally settled on country, because it’s mainly melodic, tailor-made for lonely hotel rooms, and you can find a country station in every city in the American League—except New York and Boston, where I settle happily for jazz. The news reporting is pretty lousy and the announcers are right wing, but I tell myself that I’m taking the pulse of the Real America.

I allowed myself five minutes of maudlin with Ray and his friends, then got to work.

For half an hour, I sat at my computer and made notes of all the conversations I’d had since the funeral, cross-referencing into several files: one of each of the people I’d talked with, and two general ones where I put the information that could link with Lucy’s death, filed under motive and opportunity.

When the buzzer went, I checked the oven. The pizza appeared to be ready, if not particularly appetizing. I put a quick salad together and put the pizza on a plate, poured another glass of wine, and sat down. For company, I picked up T.C.’s book.

I skipped the chapters on finding missing persons and following paper trails and went to the good stuff: how to tail a suspect and how to set up a surveillance. The latter chapter advised bringing something along to pee in. That was all very well, but I wasn’t sure whom to surveil. There was also a chapter on finding things out from going through suspects’ garbage, which sounded intriguing, if unpleasant.

I was mercifully taken away from reading about surgical gloves, and instruments for sorting through eggshells and used tampons, by the phone. It was Esther Hirsch.

“I’ve just come from seeing our client,” she said. “He is very grateful to you and his friends and asked me to tell you.”

“Great,” I said. “Meanwhile he’s still sitting in jail with a bunch of real criminals, probably being raped or something.”

“Calm down, Kate. First of all, I think he can take care of himself. He is a big tough boy, agreed?”

“Well, yes.”

“Secondly, we have managed to get him in safe custody, away from the general population.”

“That’s great. Can I go see him?”

“No, it’s a very restricted list. Counsel and family.”

“But his family’s in the Dominican Republic,” I began. “No, wait a minute. Alex Jones is a second cousin or something. Does that count? Could he get in to see him?”

“Maybe it could be arranged.”

“Who should he contact?”

“Just give him my number.”

“Okay. What else did Dommy have to say?”

“That he is completely innocent,” Esther said. “That he has no idea what happened that night. There’s more. Nothing that needs following right now.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Some interesting stuff has turned up about our friend Detective Sergeant Barwell,” she said. “Not to do with Lucy, but it certainly speaks to his character.”

“I’ve got some pretty juicy stuff, too,” I said. “Directly related to Lucy. But you go first.”

“It’s just that there have been a couple of complaints about him to the department. One was for sexual harassment of a suspect. Another for assault. He was cleared both times, but six years ago he was suspended for six months for falsifying evidence in a drug case.”

“Not a good cop,” I said.

“You might say so,” she said. “What have you got?”

I told her about Dick Teensy and the date rape. She swore.

“Why does none of this surprise me?” she asked. “We had better get together.”

“Let me get my stuff in order and do the interview with June, first,” I said. “We’ll do it tomorrow night.”

“Why don’t you come to my place for dinner?” she asked. “I’ll get Cal, too. It would be a bit more private than meeting in restaurants, and I don’t think you probably want us to be seen at your place.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “How about seven?”

“Perfect,” she said.

“But don’t go to any trouble,” I said.

“I love cooking,” she said. “It’s my Jewish-mother genes. And how often do I have people to feed?”

“If you’re sure,” I said.

“And if you have any more stuff for me to dig out, feel free to call. I never go to bed before midnight.”

“You’re terrific,” I said.

“Hell, no,” she said. “I’m just having fun.”

While I was at the phone, I called Alex and gave him Esther’s number. Then I tried Andy. Still no answer. I left a pathetic message on our machine and went back to work.