“This kid is good,” said Michaels into his cell phone.
“You’re telling me,” said Carter. “Any luck on Portillo?”
“Haven’t seen Uncle. I’ll get back to you.”
He stretched and stepped down from the bleachers. His colleagues were wandering around, pretending not to notice each other. He walked down to the street and bought an ice cream.
“Little League sure kills your diet,” he said on his cell.
“It’s our lack of will power,” replied Carter. “I’m on my fifth hot dog, and I don’t even like hot dogs. Any prospects?”
“Not yet.”
Bottom of the second. Two more strikeouts for Javier, the batters flinching at each pitch. The last one swung late and hit a weak ground ball to the first baseman, earning a cheer from the Wilco parents.
Michaels sauntered over to the first base bleachers and took a seat in the top row, giving him a good view of both the game and Javier’s mother. She kept up an animated stream of Spanish with a woman next to her, interspersed with cheers for her son and the other children. She did not look anywhere else.
The pitcher for Wilco, while not at Javier’s level, was effective after the first inning, pitching in and out of jams without allowing another run. Javier struck out the side again in the fourth, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Do you realize that we’re watching a perfect game?” marveled Michaels.
“Don’t jinx it,” warned Carter.
“Lucky bastards,” said another detective. “The T-ball game is 18 to 4 in the second, and all the runs are unearned. I’m having flashbacks.”
Word traveled, and kids and parents who were not committed to other games drifted down to watch Javier. Reluctantly, Michaels started scanning the crowd again, looking for possibilities. The ping of a bat distracted him, and he looked back at the game to see Yellowstone’s center fielder racing toward the fence. At the last second, he stuck his glove out and the ball somehow landed in it.
Both sides and all the onlookers stood and applauded the effort, Javier as hard as anyone.
“Did you see that?” shouted Michaels into his cell phone.
“Unbelievable!” said Carter. “Game-saver right there.”
Michaels stretched as the fifth inning played out. Javier was beginning to look fatigued. His pitches no longer popped, but his control was still with him. The Wilco batters were putting the ball in play instead of striking out, although the Yellowstone fielders were able to keep the perfect game going.
Only one inning left, thought Michaels. Then he saw a tall Latino male standing outside the right field fence next to a Hasid who had stopped to watch the game.
“Hey, Mom, I think Uncle Phil just got here,” he said. “Down on the street side. I’m gonna go say hello.”
“Got your back,” said Carter.
He ambled over to the fence by where the Latino stood. Yellowstone did nothing in the top of the sixth. It was still 1–0, and Javier walked slowly to the mound, the crowd cheering him on.
“Good game,” said Michaels. “That Javier is some pitcher.”
The Latino man grunted.
“It would be a shame if something spoiled his big day,” continued Michaels. “Like seeing his uncle get arrested in front of everyone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked the Latino man, turning to face him.
“Oh, sorry,” said Michaels. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Then who you talking to?” demanded the man.
“Him,” said Michaels, pointing to the Hasid. “And I suggest you give us a little space for a few minutes.”
The Hasid glanced at him with a quizzical expression, sweat running through his beard. Then his eyebrows raised slightly.
“You were the one coming through the door,” he said.
“That’s me,” said Michaels. “And I have friends all around you, so let’s keep it quiet. There are kids here.”
Portillo turned back toward the game, keeping his hands visible on the fence.
“Tell you what,” he said softly. “Let’s watch the last inning. Give me that, then I’ll go quietly.”
Birnbaum will ream me for this, thought Michaels.
“All right,” he said. “Hell, I want to see if he pulls it off.”
The first batter took a called strike. Then he glanced at the dad coaching third.
“Whadaya think, they put the bunt on?” said Michaels.
“Let him try,” replied Portillo.
The bunt was on. The kid bravely squared around in the face of the onrushing pitch. It was a chest-high fastball, and it caught the top of the bat and went straight up. The batter, the catcher, and the umpire looked at it, then the catcher took a step forward and caught it.
One out.
“He read the play,” said Michaels. “Smart.”
The next kid gritted his teeth and took the count to three and two. Then he fouled off three pitches in a row.
“He’s tired,” said Portillo. “Come on, Junior, one good one here.”
Javier brought his knee up high and whipped his arm around. The ball started chest high and broke down and to the left. The batter flailed. Strike three.
“I’m guessing he’s an El Duque fan,” said Michaels.
“Better believe it,” said Portillo. “He was so happy when the Mets brought him back.”
Wilco was down to their last licks. The batter, a muscular twelve-year-old, was the kid who had put the ball to deep center before. He swung confidently, then stepped up to the plate. He took Javier to a full count, then, like the previous batter, fouled several pitches off.
Portillo looked at Michaels and grinned through the fake beard.
“Gonna give him the hook again?” speculated Michaels.
“Just watch,” said Portillo.
Javier reared back and threw it hard, right down the middle. The batter swung and connected, a line drive up the middle. Javier stuck his glove in front of his face in self-defense and managed to catch it.
Perfect.
Javier’s team swarmed the mound and lifted him exultantly above them. His mother was screaming from the bleachers, and he pointed at her in triumph.
“Some game,” said Michaels.
“Yeah,” said Portillo, taking off the black hat and wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Okay, let’s go.”
They walked casually away from the field toward Thornton, the rest of the crew falling into place behind them. As they turned the corner, Michaels produced his handcuffs.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
Portillo complied, and Michaels cuffed him. The prisoner van pulled up. A uniform patted him down. “He’s clean.”
“Strip him when you get inside, just to be safe,” said Michaels.
Portillo turned and looked at him as they put him inside. “Thanks,” he said.
“You want me to tell them what happened?” asked Michaels.
“Nah,” replied Portillo. “It’s the best day of his life. Can’t spoil those.”
They closed the doors of the van and drove off. Carter stood by Michaels.
“How on earth did you know it was Portillo under that getup?” demanded Carter. “He looked kosher to me.”
“See any Hasids up by the seminary?” asked Michaels.
“Well, no, as a matter of fact, I do not,” replied Carter. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s a seminary, not a synagogue. Seminary’s where you learn, synagogue’s where you pray. And it’s Saturday morning. Hasids are in synagogues, not at ballgames.”
“Damn. So what happened between you two?”
“We bonded,” said Michaels. “Baseball does that... What do you say we get some lunch? I have this strange craving for bagels and lox.”