Fair Trade

by Dustin Stevens

  Shifting to the side, I underhanded the ball toward the dugout, sending it bouncing twice before being scooped up by our batboy, a young kid in a Pawtucket Red Sox uniform that was at least two sizes too big.

  Behind him, vendors hawked peanuts and popcorn, sodas and hot dogs, their voices carrying through the warm fall air.

  One day soon, I hoped to get the call. I hoped that the Red Sox needed me to come and patrol left field for them, standing before the mythical Green Monster, feeding off the energy of forty thousand rabid fans.

  But for the time being, I was content. I missed Mira and my mama and all the other things that I had left behind, but if I couldn’t be with the ones I loved, at least I got to do something I loved.

  And minor league baseball for me was a love, of that there was no denying.

  Pulling my cap low on my forehead, I focused on the mound. Throwing for us was a big lefty, a farm kid from Kentucky with a wicked accent and even more wicked slider. Arriving just a few weeks prior, he’d moved up the ranks faster than anybody in the organization, a virtual lock to be gone by the start of spring.

  But for the time being, we were enjoying having him around, a veritable ace on the hill.

  At the plate, the catcher for Scranton-Wilkes settled in, getting into his batting stance. Swinging the barrel forward a couple of times, he coiled himself tight, waiting as the pitcher went into his windup.

  Rocking back, he cocked his knee toward his chest before driving forward, flinging the ball at the plate.

  Wasting no time, Chatman stepped into it, stabbing the barrel of the bat at the ball. Making square contact, the ball leapt off the end of it, a low liner charging hard for the dreaded triangle between myself, the shortstop, and center field.

  “Shit,” I muttered, pushing off my back foot and sprinting forward. Arms pumping, I watched as the ball hung suspended, easily clearing the infield, headed hard for the open patch of grass to my left.

  Sprinting with everything I had, I tracked it through the air, closing the gap between us, my singular focus on getting to the spot before the ball did. Air seized tight in my chest, a low grunt escaped my lips as I pounded out three more hard steps before launching myself through the air.

  Extended parallel to the ground, I stretched as far as my body would allow, arm at full length, my obliques and serratus muscles straining to give me one extra inch.

  The webbing of my glove sagged just slightly as the ball slammed home. The crowd erupted on cue, the sound there and gone as I came crashing to the ground, my full weight landing on my outstretched shoulder.

  In such a vulnerable position, there was no way to brace myself, no chance of breaking the fall as I hit hard, sliding a few feet before coming to a stop.

  Just as there was no way to deny the popping sound that it had made when I landed.

  Or the agony that traveled my entire left side, my arm limp as I lay on my stomach, gasping for air.

  Chapter Five

  “I’m sorry I called and woke you,” I say, glancing across to Jeff Swinger. I then roll my glance over to Emily Stapleton and add, “And I’m sorry he called and woke you.”

  In response, Swinger raises a hand, waving off the comment. Beside him, Stapleton stares my way.

  “The next time you apologize, I’m going to hit you,” she says. “Just like the next time you don’t call me, I’m going to hit you.”

  I can feel my eyebrows rise slightly at the statement, easily the most aggressive I can ever remember her making. Rocking back an inch, I glance over, just long enough to show my surprise and to receive the fact that she isn’t kidding.

  Understood.

  “I said the same thing to him not two hours ago,” Angelique adds, stepping up along the side of us, turning our trio into a quartet. Huddled into a small cluster, we are still tucked into the corner of the Paradise Valley cafeteria, though the onset of morning means our time here is fast coming to a close.

  Already, bleary-eyed doctors preparing for the backend of a double shift have started shuffling in, looking for their jolt of liquid caffeine. At any moment, eager young interns will start filing through, ready to get their day started.

  And with them will come every possible permutation in between, from hospital staff to concerned family members needing somewhere else to be.

  Which means we now need somewhere else to be as well.

  For much of the last hour and a half, the group has sat motionless, enduring a stilted conversation that still leaves quite a bit to be delved into. Some basic questions have been answered, but just as many more remain.

  We are all tired and frustrated, feeling the strain of the last week, of the truncated timetable we now have inside the hospital.

  Glancing to each of the people in our small group, I can see each of them staring intently back at me. Meeting them one at a time, I raise my palms, conceding the point they are trying to make.

  “Okay, I get it. We’re all in this together. Nothing happens without at least somebody else knowing about it.”

  Right now, that is the best I can do. The situation seems to be evolving too fast, the disparate directions too many, to ever keep everyone completely apprised.

  Just like earlier, it wasn’t that I was excluding Stapleton, it was that I only had time to make one phone call.

  And it wasn’t like I didn’t know Swinger would instantly call her anyway.

  “Speaking of which, it would probably be best if you guys both gave Angelique your phone numbers,” I add, my friends each nodding in agreement.

  Beside me, Angelique presses her lips into a tight line, the closest we’re going to get to a straight affirmation.

  Turning at the waist, I leave the logistical discussion behind, shifting my focus to the pair of women behind us. After the night we’ve all been through, they both wear it plainly on their features, Valerie appearing concerned, her grandmother exhausted.

  Staring at them, I wish there is something I can tell them to make it easier. Some promise of things being okay. A bit of optimism to help them get past the combined shock of Mira’s passing and people showing up at their door with ill intentions.

  But I know just as surely, I can’t. Even trying to would be bullshit, an attempt more to make myself feel better than of actually helping them.

  None of us know how to handle what is happening at the moment.

  Probably won’t for quite some time.

  “Moving on, I think the bigger question right now is what to do with these two,” I say. Shifting back to the group, I make sure my voice is lowered, seeing as Angelique and Stapleton both glance back to the table.

  “The house is out,” Swinger says, beginning with the most obvious. “The Wolves will still be looking for them.”

  He’s right, on both points. They definitely already have a name and address on the Ogo’s. My visit with Hiram might have put them off for the time being, but it won’t be enough to make them stop.

  Somehow, they don’t seem the sort. Especially not after what happened last night.

  “Mine too,” I say. “They already had my wife’s name, tossed our house. If they haven’t figured out who I am yet, it’s only a matter of time.”

  Nobody bothers reacting to this. Like Swinger, I’m just snatching at the easy stuff, getting it out of the way.

  “What about my place?” Angelique offers. “We have plenty of space.”

  She doesn’t add that is because her husband and daughter are both gone. That her son is now also out of the house, residing in a room not a hundred yards from where we’re standing. Or that putting a young woman like Valerie in the space that was once Mira’s will likely be extremely difficult.

  But she doesn’t have to. Because we all already understand it, and for those reasons, there’s no way I would ever let that happen.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but-“

  “And this is San Diego,” Angelique adds, “even if they did somehow know my last name, there are thousands of Martinez’s
in the area. They’d never be able to check on them all.”

  Both points are accurate, but it doesn’t matter. Of all the feelings that have permeated my thinking in the last week, the one that stings the most, lingers the longest, is the notion that I didn’t protect my wife. I had a responsibility. I even had an inkling something wasn’t right, and I suppressed it.

  And because of that, she is gone.

  There is not a chance in hell I’m running a similar risk with her mother, this woman being one of a very small handful left in the world that I can consider family.

  No matter how many times she offers.

  “I’m actually thinking someplace even a little further out,” I say.

  “The place where you’re staying,” Swinger says, jumping ahead.

  “Yeah,” I reply, nodding grimly. “Little concrete dive out in the middle of nowhere. One other room is used, and I’m pretty sure that’s by the owner.”

  Swinger raises his eyebrows slightly, an unspoken signal that he might not be in love with the idea, but he sees the merit in it.

  “Very quiet,” I add. “We’ll be able to hear a motorcycle engine – or anything else for that matter – coming for miles.”

  Glancing to Stapleton and Angelique, I can see from the unease on their faces they aren’t crazy about the notion, but like myself, they don’t have another suggestion right now either.

  We have devolved into what the Navy calls a strictly touch situation. A point in time when underwater where things become so dark, all we can do is inch along, feeling with our hands, piecing together things as best we can.

  I don’t like any of this, but it’s all we have.

  “Okay,” Angelique says, “but there’s just one more problem you need to figure out first.”

  “What’s that?”

  Turning her head toward the table, she takes in the two women, their defensive postures, the lowered din of their voices as they sit deep in conversation.

  “Convincing them to go with you.”

  Chapter Six

  Detective Malcolm Marsh stands in the living room of his condo in Imperial Beach staring out through the picture window that comprises the entire western side of the spread. Sitting right on the coast, there is nothing between him and the water save a pane of glass, a thin concrete walkway, and fifty yards of sand. Grains of the latter still cling to his ankles and calves as he stands with a bottle of water in hand, using a towel to wipe away beads of perspiration from the top of his smooth head.

  Already stripped free of the fleece he’d been wearing, he can feel the cool morning air passing through the crack at the bottom of the window, picking at the perspiration on his skin. His eyes pinched tight against the glow of the rising sun dancing off the water, he looks without really seeing, processing things in his mind.

  The condo in Imperial Beach is nice. At over a thousand square feet, it is spacious, sits right on the water, has a phenomenal view. Most people in the city would kill for a place like it. Or to even rent a room like one of his.

  But it isn’t La Jolla. Isn’t even Del Mar or Solana Beach or one of the other spots further up the coast. The sorts of places that raise eyebrows, people instantly knowing what is meant when he says he lives on the waterfront in one of those towns.

  That he is someone important, somebody doing quite well for himself.

  A black man in his mid-thirties, Marsh is on a trajectory. Working as a detective and owning the home he now stands in are solid foundations, they are directly in line with where he’s supposed to be right now, but they aren’t the end goal.

  Not by a long shot.

  Glancing to the clock on the wall, Marsh steps away from the window. His pupils dilate as he leaves behind the bright sun, tiny pops of light lingering behind his eyelids with each blink. Stepping across his living room, he goes straight for the coffee table and takes up his cellphone.

  “One minute after seven, he’ll be up,” Marsh whispers.

  Having not the slightest doubt, he scrolls through his recent call history, finding the number he is looking for and pressing send. A moment later, he hears it connect as ringing begins.

  Working out of the Central District of the San Diego Police Department, there is never a shortage of things to keep a detective busy. Assigned to the late-afternoon and evening shift, rarely is there a time when there isn’t an altercation, a drug bust, a domestic violence dispute, or a dozen other things to keep him occupied.

  Every day, he shows up, prepared to diligently work his way through them. Dressed in a suit, perfectly coiffed, he is more skilled than most in how to play the game. Knows perfectly well that perception often matters much more than reality. That plugging away, even in a place as seemingly desperate as the Central District, will one day get him noticed.

  But there’s nothing wrong with keeping an eye out for something that might help speed things along.

  Something like the shooting of Mira Clady in Balboa Park a few days prior.

  The phone rings nearly a half-dozen times before it is picked up. There is no immediate response over the line, nothing but a few heavy breaths, the sound of the freeway running beneath tires audible in the background.

  “Hello?” Marsh asks.

  “Who is this?” a male voice responds. Wariness plain, the man sounds exhausted, as if he has been awake all night.

  Warning flags begin to wave in Marsh’s mind, as bright and unmistakable as fireworks in the night sky.

  “This is Detective Malcolm Marsh. Is this Kyle Clady?”

  Another heavy breath is heard, this one more of an exhalation. “Good morning, Detective. How are you?”

  “Are you...” Marsh begins before pulling back to start anew. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Clady replies. “Just tired. Couldn’t sleep. You understand.”

  Marsh himself can’t. He’s never lost someone especially close to him, has none of the moral qualms that plague some of his coworkers.

  Everyday, he goes to work, does everything he can for the people of San Diego. And every night, he returns home and sleeps easily, leaving it all behind until the next shift.

  The fact that he is now even thinking about Mira Clady, is reaching out to her husband, speaks more to the possibilities the case presents for him personally than any attachment to it professionally.

  “I do,” Marsh replies, “and I apologize for calling so early, but my partner and I received some news last night that couldn’t wait.”

  The news he is speaking of can definitely be attributed more to his partner’s insistence on checking every camera throughout Balboa Park, though now that it has presented itself, Marsh is not about to let it pass.

  The parks of being the lead detective.

  “The blanket,” Clady replies.

  “No,” Marsh replies, “that is still at our lab undergoing forensic analysis. I’ve asked that it be fast-tracked, but in a city the size of San Diego...”

  This time it is his turn to leave the end of a statement dangling, presupposing that Clady will pick up where he is going with it. As a Navy SEAL, he should have been through more than his share of dealing with bureaucracy.

  “We were able to pull an image from one of the cameras on the other side of the park,” Marsh says. “Taken just a few minutes after the incident, it looks like it could be the guy you described.”

  He doesn’t bother pointing out that they ran the man through the system, already tracking down a name and an extensive criminal history. Those types of things will wait for later, when Marsh can get Clady into the precinct, watching him receive the news personally.

  On the other end of the line, there is no response. Nothing more than terse breathing, the sort of thing Marsh would expect.

  “Can I get you to swing by the precinct later this morning and see if you can identify the man?”

  Chapter Seven

  The Ogo ladies were absolutely insistent on two things upon our arrival to the Valley View Inn & Suites, the s
orely misnamed motel that has been my home for the last five nights. A decision having nothing to do with amenities, or proximity, or even recommendation from another living soul, I myself ended up there because it is a long way from my actual home.

  The one I bought and shared with my wife. The same place I now can’t set foot in without being reminded of some new tiny aspect of her, something I haven’t thought about in ages.

  Like the way she loved wearing my old threadbare sweatshirts around the house, nothing but tan legs sticking out the bottom. Or the smell of her shampoo. The specific brand of tea she liked to drink.

  To say nothing of a million other things, all threatening to reduce me to tears without warning.

  Pulling up in front of the dusty low-slung structure, all concrete and faded paint, I could see the expressions on their faces. Mirroring my own from a few days earlier, they each stared forward, practically seeing the camera crew for a low-budget horror movie starting to set up before making their demands.

  One, they would be staying in the same room together. Two, they would be paying for that room themselves.

  The first, I had fully expected. Fran’s lack of English proficiency, the scene at their house the night before, the fact that they barely knew me, was all enough for them to want the added security of being together.

  The second point surprised me, but after the argument that had ensued in the hospital cafeteria over whether they were coming at all or not, I knew better than to object. In that first instance, I had only managed to come out on top through the help of my friends and mother-in-law. This time, I wasn’t nearly as well equipped, content to let them make any requests they wanted.

  Just so long as they stay here, tucked away and safe from the Wolves or whoever else might be looking for them. The list of things on my plate is plenty long already without needing to play bodyguard as well, the call I’d received on the way out just one more thing.

  The morning sun is barely above the horizon as we step away from the front office. Shining bright from the east, it lands flush against my right side, that eye closing tight to keep it at bay. Already, the threat of a warm day is at hand, none of us saying a word as we head across the parking lot toward the opposite arm of the motel sprawl.