“I’d say not,” replied Carter. “Unless she’s a real Griffey fan. But Santos did say nephew.”
“Right,” said Michaels. “I’m hanging by Field 3, Mom. I’ll let you know when little Barney comes up to bat.”
There were bleachers along the third base line, but he chose to stand by the fence near first. Families were still coming in as the pimply teenager who was umpiring the game yelled, “Play ball!”
Michaels glanced over the crowd, then watched as the pitcher plunked the first batter with his first throw. The crowd oohed in sympathy, then cheered as the batter swallowed hard to keep from crying and jogged down to first base.
“Settle down, Danny!” shouted a mom. The pitcher ignored her, and hit the next batter.
“One more and he’s out,” said a man sitting on a lawn chair by Michaels.
“That’s the rule?” asked Michaels.
“Yeah, you can only hit two kids per inning. Safety thing.”
“I guess you save it for the ones you really don’t like,” said Michaels.
“Yeah,” said the man. “That’s my boy in left. Which kid’s yours?”
“Still on the bench,” said Michaels. “They’ll probably put him in halfway through.”
“Well, they have to, don’t they?... Hey, I know you.”
“Yeah?” said Michaels.
“Yeah,” said the man. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? So am I. Bill Stanley, 101st Precinct.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Michaels, shaking his hand. “Jim Michaels.”
“Michaels, right. Didn’t know you lived around here. And you got a kid my boy’s age? Small world.”
“Sure is,” said Michaels.
“Yeah, I remember, you were working Narcotics,” continued Stanley. “Still there?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” Stanley’s eyes narrowed. He stood by Michaels, keeping his eyes on the game. The batter popped up to third for the first out. “You don’t have a kid, do you?” Stanley said softly. “Tell me you’re not on the job right now.”
“Sorry,” said Michaels.
“Jesus, what’s going down here?”
“Just looking for someone.”
“There are children here,” said Stanley. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“We’re not going to take him down here.”
“What if he freaks?” asked Stanley. “Did you consider that?”
“We did,” said Michaels. “This is our only lead.”
“Crap, crap, crap,” muttered Stanley. “Is he at this game?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Michaels. “We were told he’s got a nephew called Junior. Latino. A pitcher.”
“Junior,” said Stanley. “I don’t know any Juniors in this game.”
The next two batters struck out. Danny had settled down. The parents cheered, including Stanley. As the kids ran to the dugout, he motioned to his son, who quickly came to the fence.
“Billy, this is a friend of mine from the force. Jim Michaels.”
“How ya doin’, Billy?” said Michaels.
“Fine,” said Billy.
“He was wondering about a pitcher named Junior,” said Stanley. “Spanish kid. Know anyone like that?”
“Junior? He’s in Majors,” answered Billy. “This is Pan-Con.”
“Which team?” asked Michaels.
“Yellowstone Tires. He’s their best pitcher. I gotta go, Coach is yelling.”
“Thanks, Billy,” said Michaels.
The boy scooted away.
“Here,” said Michaels, handing Stanley two bucks. “Buy him an extra ice cream on me.”
“My son, the snitch. His mother will be so proud.”
Michaels walked down to the league bulletin board and studied the schedules. Yellowstone Tires was playing at 10:30 on Field 1, the big one by the street. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta see Junior play at 10:30,” he said.
“You got him?” asked Carter.
“I don’t know any other Juniors, Mom. Do you?”
“Haven’t found any yet,” said Carter. “Which field?”
“Yeah, Field 1, Mom, that’s the nice one by the street.”
“Well, I think we got to keep covering the others, just in case.”
“You said it, Mom,” said Michaels. “I’ll call you when the game starts, give you a play-by-play. Put your feet up and go easy on the gin, okay?”
“If your mother is really like that, it goes a long way toward explaining you,” said Carter.
Michaels bought a pretzel from the snack shack. The first base foul line for Field 1 paralleled the street, where a pair of ice cream trucks had parked and were doing brisk business. An apartment building loomed beyond the clubhouse. Michaels picked up his cell again.
“We should have someone covering the entrance of that building,” he muttered. “Any Latino male coming out after the game ends should be tailed.”
“You don’t have enough people for everyone in Queens,” said one of the backups. “And they all seem to be here.”
Michaels sighed and hung up. A pair of three-year-olds ran screaming by him, their mothers following behind, chatting. No kid was being supervised, because every kid was safe. It was an oasis of security in the big bad city, and Michaels started hoping that he was wrong and Portillo was on his way back to wherever he was from.
The yellow jerseys of Yellowstone Tires began assembling by the field at 10:15, some tossing baseballs around, some cheering for their friends in the game winding down. There were several Latino kids on the team. A coach said something to one, and he nodded while a shorter, squatter kid dug a catcher’s mitt and a baseball from the equipment bag. They went over to the side of the field and began throwing the ball back and forth. The Latino kid threw two easy pitches to the catcher. Then he brought his left knee up close to his chin and uncoiled. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt dead center with a pop that echoed off the apartment building. Michaels pulled out his phone.
“I got Junior here,” he said. “And he’s got an arm, my friends.”
“Right,” said Carter. “Units 3, 4, and 5 to Field 1. The rest of you keep covering where you are, just in case we’re wrong.”
The early game ended, and the two teams lined up to slap palms in a display of ritualized sportsmanship. Yellowstone Tires and Wilco Hardware came onto the field to warm up. The parents of the Wilco kids gathered in the third base bleachers. Michaels grabbed a seat next to a woman who was surreptitiously reading a Harlequin romance.
“Which one is yours?” asked the woman.
“Oh, I got here too early,” said Michaels. “Gonna see my nephew play, but my idiot brother got the time wrong. So I got a couple of hours to kill.”
“That’s my Tommy playing second,” she offered.
“Good-looking kid,” he said. “Looks like you.”
“Are you one of those men who hits on divorced women at Little League games?” she asked hopefully.
“Nah, I only go for soccer moms. And they’re out of season. Who’s the kid pitching for Yellowstone? He’s got some pop.”
“That’s Javier,” she said. “His mom calls him Junior. He’s excellent.”
“Which one’s his mom?”
“I thought you only went for soccer moms,” she said, pouting slightly.
“Buddy of mine runs a travel team. He told me to scout for him while I was here. Javier might be a prospect.”
“That’s her in the yellow T-shirt,” she said, pointing to the other bleachers.
He pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned the Yellowstone supporters. A Latino woman was cheering loudly with some other moms. There were no Latino men.
The Wilco pitcher took the mound and threw his warmups. The catcher tossed the last one to second base, and then the game began. Yellowstone scratched out a run in the top of the first on three singles, the last by Javier, who was batting fifth. Then he took the mound for the bottom of the inning. He struck out the side on eleven pitches.