Queens Noir

by Robert Knightly

  "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 Yel lowstone 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.

  "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 took 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 its 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."

  THE FLOWER OF FLUSHING

  BY VICTORIA ENG

  Flushing

  et's get this party started!" Lily calls out to me from across the street. She's late, as usual. I've been waiting for her by the train station on the corner of Main and Roosevelt, breathing in the greasy aroma of hot dogs and frying noodles from various sidewalk carts. Sunlight washes over Main Street and its procession of festive store signs, all red and yellow with black Chinese lettering. As Lily approaches, the traffic lights change; cars brake at the crosswalk in succession, like they're bowing to her. She smiles brightly and bumps her hip against mine. I roll my eyes at her and don't bump back, but inside I'm relieved that she even showed up. Today is important: I'm determined to talk to my crush, Jimmy Lee, a junior at my school. I know he plays basketball at Bowne Park on the weekends, so I made Lily promise to come with me so that I could "run into him" there. We head down Main toward Sanford Avenue, weaving around weekend shoppers and double-parked trucks.

  "Think he'll be there today?" I ask.

  "Who? Yao Ming?" she says, her dimples showing.

  "Stop calling him that." I poke her arm. "You know his name.

  "Hey, look! There he is."

  My breath catches in my chest. I look around without moving my head, hoping that he's too far away to have heard me talking about him. We're approaching the underpass of the Long Island Rail Road station and I expect to see him perusing magazines at the newsstand, or worse, walking right toward me. But Lily points to a store window with a life-sized poster of Yao Ming, the NBA player from China, and starts cracking up.

  "Oh, reeeeally funny, Lil," I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. I exhale through my mouth, the tension in my neck subsiding. "You almost made me puke, you know."

  She's laughing so hard no sound is coming out of her mouth.

  "Um, maybe you're the one who's gonna puke. You okay?"

  She nods and gasps. I'm tempted to tickle her sides to make her throw up-she's always been sensitive like thatbut I'm too anxious to get going.

  Jimmy Lee looks nothing like the famous athlete, but he's 6'2"-way taller than most Asian guys-and he plays on the basketball team. That was enough for Lily to make fun of him. It made no difference to her that he's Korean.

  "Really, quit calling him Yao Ming. Jimmy's not even Chinese."

  "I know," she sighs. "Well, he's far from perfect. A jock. What's he going to do for you? Buy you pom-poms?" She catches her reflection in the window of a cafe and runs her fingers through her hair.

  Lily Tong is the kind of girl who makes heads turn. She's only fifteen, one year older than me, but she looks at least twenty. She's curvy like the women in the music videos, and she wears her makeup and hair like she's one too. As usual, she's dressed in something slinky: an expensive, cut-up T-shirt that keeps falling off her shoulder, low-cut jeans that hug her curves, and black pumps. Dangling off her arm is a new purse, its print of interlocking letters broadcasting its expense. Along the street, old Chinese ladies carrying plastic bags full of groceries pause from scrutinizing vegetables to shake their heads at her disapprovingly. Men gawk at her from the open backdoors of restaurants; one worker almost falls from his perch on an overturned bucket into the pile of carrots he's peeling. As usual, Lily pretends not to notice, but she lifts her chin a little bit higher, and swings her hips a little bit wider.

  I hold my head higher too, proud to be her best friend. At 51511, I'm taller than Lily, but I look like a child next to her, in my maroon tank top and green Old Navy cargo pants. Even if I had the courage to wear the kinds of clothes as Lily, everything would just hang on me loosely. My hair falls straight down in stringy strands no matter what I do to it, so I never even bother curling it like Lily does. I'm glad that I chose to paint my toenails red instead of pink; at least my feet look grown-up.

  As we turn onto Sanford, someone calls out Lily's name. We both turn around and see Peter Wong getting out of the passenger side of a gleaming black Cadillac Escalade.

  He walks up to its casually and puts his arm around Lily's shoulders. The sun glints off the rock-star shades he's wearing. He's older, in his twenties or maybe even thirties; I don't know what he's doing talking to Lily, but I figure he must know her through her father, who owns one of the biggest dim sum houses in Flushing. As a big businessman, her father knows a lot of people.

  "Dai Guo!" She smiles and kisses him on the cheek. She called him Big Brother, but the way he's looking at her is anything but brotherly. His hand lingers on her hair as he releases her shoulder. He barely looks at me when she introduces us. I know he's headed to the park too; he and his friends are always there.

  They continue walking together, Lily between its so I can't hear most of their conversation. He calls her Xiao Mei-Little Sister-and coos at her as if she's a baby. She's all giggly with him, which I think is gross. Still, I wonder what it would feel like if a guy like him paid so much attention to me, if I were that beautiful. He tells her about the kinds of things he can get for her from his "connections."

  "I already have a Prada bag," I hear her pouting. "Can you get me a Louis Vuitton?" She pronounces it Loo-iss Voy-tahn.

  As we near the entrance to the park, we can hear people on the basketball court, the slap of rubber on cement followed by occasional grunts and metallic dunks. The park, or Bowne Playground as it's officially called, is divided into sections separated by chain-link fences: The basketball court takes up the most space and is flanked by a kiddie playground and a treelined yard where old men pass their retirement days on its benches, reading Chinese newspapers or feeding pigeons. I scan through the trees for a glimpse of Jimmy, but I can't recognize his voice over the faraway laughter of children.

  We reach the yard first and I see Peter's friends therefour guys and three girls. Most of them go to my school, seniors reputed to be gangsters. They have claimed the concrete chess tables set in the corner, but instead of chess pieces, there are mah-jongg tiles. Despite the heat of the day, the guys are in black and have spiky hair like Peter, and the girls wear their hair long and carefully frozen into voluminous curls. They're all smoking cigarettes; I wonder how smart that is, given all the hair spray in the air. Snippets of Cantonese, Mandarin, and Fujianese rise from their conversation.

  I recognize one of the guys from my algebra class. He's a few years older, but he's in my class because he doesn't speak much English. We've never talked to each other, so I just kind of nod at him. He gives me a strange look, as if he recognizes me but doesn't know why.

  To my dismay, Lily follows Peter to the girls' table, where a new game of mah-jongg is about to commence. It's hard to look away from the mesmerizing whirl of pink and green, as pretty manicured hands shuffle and stack the jade tiles expertly.

  "You play MJ?" Peter is actually addressing me as well as Lily.

  "Uh, not really." I learned how to play from watching my mom and aunts, but I couldn't see myself doing it, here, with them. It strikes me as just so Chinese. I mean, sure, I'm Chinese, but not the same way they are, or even the same way Lily is. I was born and raised on Thirty-Ninth Avenue, but my neighbors were Dominican and Jewish, not just Chinese. My parents work in Manhattan's Chinatown and commute from Flushing on the dollar vans, my mom to a doctor's office and my dad to a TV repair shop. I grew up hearing almost as much Spanish as Chinese, whereas Lily's parents made sure that she stayed immersed in Chinese culture and cultivated friendships only with Chinese kids.

  Lily nudges me and ans
wers that of course we play. Peter motions for one of the girls at the table to make room for us as he goes to join the guys at the other table. One of the guys hands Peter something wrapped in a crumpled paper bag, from which he takes a swig. The girl, a senior I don't know, scoots right over and starts resetting the table, scowling at Lily. She's not the only one scowling, but Lily isn't fazed.

  I look through the chain link to the other side of the park and finally spot Jimmy on the ball court. His brow is furrowed with intensity, his muscular arms outstretched as he motions for Eric Martinez, another junior, to pass him the ball. Eric responds, twisting away from his guard and whips the ball to Jimmy, who in one smooth motion catches it and shoots it into the basket for a three-pointer. Despite myself, I cheer along with the folks on the other side of the fence, which gets me strange looks from my seatmates, Lily included.

  I lock eyes with Lily and talk to her under my breath.

  "Are you coming with me or not?" I tilt my head ever so slightly toward the court.

  "No! I'm staying here." She presses her lips into a fine line and whispers, "You should stay too. Forget about Jimmy. This is cool." She accepts a Newport cigarette from a spiky-haired senior whose name I still don't know.

  "Fine. I'm going to go watch the game." I get up, nod at the table, and walk away. There's a large enough crowd over there that I feel comfortable heading over by myself. I take a seat at the edge of the bleachers. By now I'm so irritated with Lily that I don't even have time to get nervous when Jimmy plops down next to me. He has a towel wrapped around his neck and his cheeks are flushed.

  "Hey! What are you doing here?" He is speaking to me. He knows who I am.

  "Oh, you know, just visiting a friend." I look down and tuck my hair behind my ear. If I were Lily I would look up at him through my eyelashes and flirt. But I'm not, so I focus on how red my toenails are.

  "You mean those gangsters over there are your friends?" He jerks his head in their direction. A few of the guys are talking with some Latino kids from the neighborhood. They all stand stiffly in a semicircle, menacing expressions on their faces. Peter seems to be negotiating with their leader, a dark, stocky guy with a shaved head and an oversized basketball jersey. They all relax when Peter and the guy shake hands, which they do in a hip-hop sequence: fists up, they grasp each other's hands as if they're going to arm wrestle, yank themselves toward each other, and bump chests. As their palms separate I catch a glint of light off little plastic bags.