Ball Park

by John Farrow

  For a minute, she seemed to be mustering a response, then chose silence.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re throwing my words back at me. I guess that’s what you do, being a cop.’

  Part child, part young woman. Unformed, but forming. Further dimensions resonated through her. Her responses indicated a range he couldn’t fully grasp, more was going on with her than she revealed. Her friends took her to be a conundrum. Some knew she was thieving; among others, she kept that quiet. She knew that her friends were puzzled by her. A few condemned her.

  She was right that he had thrown her own words back at her and done so as a policeman. No denying. Crooks frequently belittled arresting officers to demonstrate that the flaws in cops somehow excused their own, a continuous joust to show that no one should think themselves better than those destined for hard time.

  Still, this wasn’t a full-on interrogation. ‘Asking questions is what I do as a detective. I’m not saying I have the answers. When people ask me if I’m religious or if I believe in God, I believe in the questions. The answers? Maybe that’s why I’m a detective.’

  She seemed less antagonistic with that notion.

  ‘Speaking of questions, if you won’t tell me where you saw Maletti and won’t say who he dumped in his trunk and then released, what can you tell me?’

  She preferred to ask questions of her own. ‘Who raised you, Detective? Were your parents good, bad, or just boring?’ Her spirit was returning, clawing back to the surface from a depth.

  ‘Horses.’ He had to keep her off-guard.

  ‘Ah, you were raised by horses?’

  ‘Pretty much. Like you, I lost my mom too early. I have a great dad. We lived on a horse farm. Horses, I think, taught me everything I know. I was going to be a priest. Then a vet. Now I’m a cop. Horses guided me every step of the way. Growing up, I was as close to them as to any person. Preferred their company. Still do, in a way. Not that I’m around horses much anymore.’

  ‘Not if you live in Park Ex.’

  ‘Exactly. What you brought up: I can be religious, but to be that way I have to accept the horrors of my religion. I can be a cop, but that means I contend with the evil that men do, including colleagues. There’s a lot of criminals and other bad people in the world. Some are cops. Some are priests. You talk about nuns. In my view, even when the world is bright, the light still shines in darkness.’

  Smiling again, amused. ‘A philosopher, totally.’

  She had started swinging once more, gently this time.

  ‘And you, Quinn? What should you be?’

  ‘To be determined, no?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Cinq-Mars told her.

  He sensed that she was happy with his response.

  ‘What’s next?’ she asked in reference, he understood, to their association.

  ‘I ask tough questions. You return honest answers.’

  She dug her heels into the ground to stop swinging.

  ‘First,’ he began, ‘why won’t you tell me where you were today? People your age are like that, but your circumstances are unique. Your boyfriend was killed. Why the big secret about where you were?’

  Silence.

  ‘Perhaps what you were doing pertains to secret things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what. I thought I was asking the questions. But since you ask … you’re a thief, maybe you were out stealing the crown jewels. Or planning to knock over a bank. It’s my business to find out stuff like that.’

  ‘You don’t take this seriously?’

  ‘Of course I do. Here’s something I was seriously wondering about. In the past, you stole items of value. You sold them. How did you off-load the merchandise, Quinn? Where did you get rid of your stuff?’

  She’d had help. That had to be true. He anticipated her reluctance to share that level of information directly. To work around it, to work around her, he wanted to test the edges of what she kept hidden.

  ‘Garage sales.’ Ezra Knightsbridge had warned that the detective would be asking the question. Make him work for answers, then hand him a false one.

  ‘Good reply,’ he said. ‘One thing wrong with it. You’re not that stupid and neither am I.’

  She stared at him a moment, then smiled. ‘That’s two things.’

  ‘Shall we start over?’ he suggested.

  ‘There’s this pawnshop on Jean Talon.’

  ‘Nope,’ Cinq-Mars told her.

  ‘What do you mean, “nope”?’

  ‘I know it well. They don’t accept stolen property. Most pawnshops don’t, contrary to public perception. What else you got?’

  She would have preferred drawing this out, as Ezra directed her to do – ‘Say nothing, when he asks. He’ll push. Say nothing again.’ But this detective’s tendency was to cut to the chase. What had sounded, on Ezra’s lips, like a good plan wasn’t working out so well.

  ‘There’s this guy down on Notre Dame.’

  ‘East or West?’

  ‘Ah, East. Yeah, East. No! West. I’m not sure. I get my directions mixed up.’ Already her lie was crumbling, and she was only getting started.

  ‘Let’s say it’s Notre Dame West for now. Who?’

  ‘Do I have to say?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You understand. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘For who? Not for you.’

  She delayed, then she said, ‘What do you mean, not for me? Who else?’

  ‘We’ll get to that.’

  ‘Get to what? Look, I’m answering your question, all right? I’m putting my life at risk here.’

  ‘A tad overly dramatic, no?’

  ‘You think so? When my boyfriend is dead?’

  He conceded her point. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Look, you have to promise not to tell. Never tell. The guy I sell to scares the shit out of me. He works out of a bar called Dino’s. Us thieves, we show up in the backlot behind it. He comes out.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Rabbit. He’s sort of Russian. But he speaks French.’

  ‘Do you speak French, Quinn?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Do you know what a snowflake is?’ he asked her.

  They were both rotating slightly on their swings.

  ‘Excuse me? A snowflake’s a flake of snow. No two are alike but I don’t know who checks.’

  ‘You’re a snowflake, Quinn.’

  ‘Excuse me? Because I’m blond? Up yours.’

  ‘If you went to Dino’s, if you met Guy Lappin …’

  She shot a glance at him because he knew the man’s name although she hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘And if you tried to sell him stolen property, you would not have come through the experience unscathed.’

  Lacking confidence in her reply, she tried it out anyway. ‘Who says I didn’t? Maybe I was molested a little.’

  ‘With the people we’re talking about, Quinn, there’s no such thing.’

  The lie wasn’t her own, and she presumed that that’s why she was failing at it so badly. ‘If I’m not telling the truth, then how do I know about those people? Think about it. How do I know about Dino’s, or the Rabbit?’

  ‘Excellent question. It’s not everyday knowledge. Only someone with deep experience would know the details. So, maybe someone gave you the story. That’s what I’m thinking. Am I getting warmer?’

  She declined to say.

  ‘Did he invite you into his little back room?’

  ‘Who?’ she asked, but she knew who he meant. What she really wanted to ask him was ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Let me tell you about the man you know as Ezra Knightsbridge,’ Cinq-Mars said, mentioning his name before she did. ‘He’s protective of young thieves, but only to a point. His people are loyal, but with him everybody has a shelf life. That’s his pattern. How else can someone run a gang of juvenile thieves decade after decade and, except for Ezra himself, everybody stays young? My advice? G
et out before you’re twenty. On your own terms, not on his.’

  Quinn was alternately studying the sand at her feet, drawing patterns with the toe of a shoe, and looking back toward her friends. She was listening, though. Cinq-Mars could tell that he had her attention.

  ‘With Ezra – who has his virtues, cops leave him alone for a reason – with him, if you’re on the inside, you’ll never know if you’re being protected or being set up to be sold out. If he feels the need to sell someone out, Ezra sticks a “For Sale” sign on the sidewalk. He’ll hammer it home. Then wait for the highest bidder. Keep your eyes peeled. You’ll see it for yourself someday.’

  She finally had to ask, even though the question itself constituted an admission, ‘How did you know?’

  Cinq-Mars was glad she asked. He wanted to include her, to gain her trust through mutual knowledge. He was willing to give something back in the hope that she’d offer a nugget in return, now or another time. ‘Everybody in the business – cops, crooks – they have their ways. Anyone who’s been successful, and Ezra’s been amazingly successful, has their signature ways. Ezra teaches his recruits how to explain things should someone ask. Trying to sic cops on the Rabbit is one he’s pulled before. But it gives him away. If a thief blames the Rabbit, we can count on Ezra being behind that person. Anybody who worked for the Rabbit would never, ever, not for a second, give him up. Most people value their skin too much.’

  ‘Their skin,’ Quinn repeated under her breath.

  ‘The Rabbit would peel yours off your bones for dickering on a sale. You, Quinn, would not last. Ten nasty men would do unimaginable things to you for free. They’d only promise to be violent. Then ten very gross men would pay to do the same. They’d want their money’s worth. Then the Rabbit would hook you on heroin, what’s left of you, and sit you down to map out your future. He’d set you up with clients around the clock—’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘I’m not making this up. You have to know this.’

  ‘I get it. Ezra said I should never go there.’

  ‘I’m sure he did. That doesn’t mean you never would. If you ever go down there, all I can do after that, all your dad can do, is pick up the pieces. Are you getting this?’

  ‘I got it already. Will you stop?’

  ‘First, what can you tell me? Where were you today? Who were you with?’

  He waited.

  ‘You think you shocked me, Detective. But I got shocked today, big time. Did you know that in Montreal nuns took in orphans, and if they weren’t baptized they refused to call them by their names? Only by a number?’

  Cinq-Mars knew the story and was familiar with the orphanage/convent in question. Why was she relating the tale? What did it have to do with her?

  ‘Quinn, did you meet someone who used to be a number?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s given himself a name now. Calls himself Leonard. He ran away early, so he never learned what his real name is.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Skinny little runt. Nervous. He’s all right, though.’

  ‘Interesting. Do you know what his number was?’

  ‘He won’t say. I can’t blame him for that.’

  Cinq-Mars thought a few things through. ‘We might be able to find it.’

  ‘Find what? His number?’

  ‘His name.’

  ‘Really? He says you’d need a lawyer.’

  ‘I might have the right connections without one.’

  He had something to give to her now that surpassed anything she hoped for. Her chin lifted and dipped slightly, as if a nod was being vocalized, and somehow constituted a signed agreement.

  Cinq-Mars stood. He dusted off the seat of his trousers. ‘I’m off, Quinn,’ he announced. ‘Nice talking to you. We’ll meet up again.’

  ‘One thing.’ Already she wanted to return the favor. ‘You asked me to check out my old boyfriends and Dietmar’s ex-girlfriends. I’ll do that. But I was thinking, maybe you should check out the woman’s boyfriends. We know about Arturo Maletti. Who says he’s the only one? She had Maletti in the sack while her husband was off saving lives at the hospital. That tells me she’s no saint. The husband, if he knew, might’ve been jealous, right? But what if she had more than the one lover? People think that boys are demons and girls are angels. But I’m a thief, right? Maybe this woman is more like me, wilder than anyone thinks.’

  What counted was not to accommodate a new line of inquiry but to acknowledge her willingness to help. ‘Worth looking into.’

  ‘Can I ask a favor?’ The girl, it would appear, grew increasingly demanding as their connection evolved. He liked that. ‘Dietmar’s funeral is tomorrow.’ Quinn dipped her shoulder to indicate her friends on the other side of Ball Park. ‘I heard through the grapevine that I’m not welcome. His family blames me. No surprise. Can you go instead? Tell me about it? This sounds crazy, but maybe you could … sort of go there in my place. You know? In a way.’

  An emotion which went unexpressed underscored her plea.

  ‘It’s breaking my heart,’ she admitted.

  ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘I read the obit. I know where it is.’

  They shook hands. The girl was unaccustomed to the ritual. She never greeted her friends or parted with a handshake. This one felt weighted, significant. Separating for the night, Cinq-Mars believed he’d made progress. The time had come to talk with Ezra Knightsbridge. That old fossil would not be easily broken down. A reconnaissance mission had to be devised with care.

  Missing Werewolves

  (Mother Superior’s numbers)

  Half-asleep, Émile Cinq-Mars put the phone to his ear. A voice brayed at him with the persistence of an alarm clock. It took time to distinguish one word from another.

  ‘Get down here, punk,’ Captain Armand Touton commanded. He recited an address.

  ‘Why are you calling me?’

  ‘Aw, kid, am I waking you? Sorry. Let me put it to you a different way. Get your lazy butt the hell down here fast!’

  Cinq-Mars struggled to read the hands on his bedside clock. ‘This is when I sleep, Captain. I work days now.’

  ‘Kid, if you work nights, you work nights. The bad guys are busy then. If you work days, you work day and night. Notice the difference. You want to be here.’

  ‘Give me the address again.’

  The North End. Traditional Mafia turf. He could be there in a jiff.

  He showed up in his blue Volkswagen Bug wearing a T-shirt and jeans that looked as though he’d nipped them off a clothesline. He extended his badge to bully past an outer cordon. At the entrance to a lower duplex, Night Patrol detectives expressed surprise at seeing him again.

  ‘Missing the werewolves, Cinq-Mars?’

  ‘Break any big cases lately?’ another cop asked. ‘The Penny Candy Gang – work that one yet? Tough tit, I hear. A mean pack of eight-year-olds.’

  He gingerly stepped around blood smears and a man’s naked body before locating Captain Touton. ‘Hope you got an alibi hanging off your ass, kid. People you talk to lately end up on the floor.’

  ‘I never spoke to this guy. Who is he?’

  ‘Arturo Maletti. Soon to be in a body bag.’

  He looked back at the corpse in wonder. ‘I’ve been looking for him, but never had the pleasure. He’s been lying low.’

  ‘Too low.’

  Totally nude, the dead man lay across the floor on a shaggy cream carpet. A pair of bullet holes dotted his torso. Blood that had flowed freely stuck to the fibers.

  ‘An arrest? Witnesses? Leads?’

  ‘Who’s that lucky? Dead of night. Not wearing pajamas. Not his house, and the tenant’s away. You tell me who woke him.’

  ‘Forced entry?’

  ‘Best guess, he answered to a pal. Connected like he is, he let his own assassin through the door. Never figured he’d be the next tattoo on the man’s dick.’

  ‘Looks like a camera-free neighborhood.’

  ‘That, and folks around
here sleep soundly. Not a single insomniac on the block. Got to be a record.’

  ‘Knowledgeable people,’ Cinq-Mars surmised.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘If nobody’s talking, their mouths are staying shut for a reason. Not a good idea to talk.’

  ‘You can shut yours, too. Some of us have a job to do.’

  ‘Am I in your way? I’ll move.’ He took a step to his left. ‘You brought me in, Armand,’ he reminded his boss.

  ‘Thank me later. Give the dead guy a once-over. Then we’ll talk. I got something on my mind bigger than your fat head.’

  That talk interested him more than the specter of Arturo Maletti prone on the floor. The man’s demise was neither the stuff of nightmares nor a revelation. A simple, reasonably tidy, assassination. His secrets gone. Another minor victim in the simmering feud between rival gangs over the local and international drug trade. Montreal stood in a pivotal position on the map: the high point on a triangle, one side of which ran due south to New York, the other west through Toronto to Chicago. Gang operatives who preferred to work beyond the jurisdiction of the FBI found the city convenient for managing global transactions. Out of the country, out of mind. Intricately connected to the New York mobs, usually by birth, Montreal Mafiosi took advantage of their geography. Still, internecine battles waged. Arturo Maletti had been stung by gunfire. Another foot soldier. Another footnote.

  Initially, Cinq-Mars had nothing to contribute to any discussion regarding Maletti’s death. Until he broke off his examination, then he did. He waited for Touton to free himself up and come over.

  ‘Whatcha got, kid?’

  ‘Quick. Precise. Directed. Professional. One curious feature stands out.’

  ‘Spill.’

  ‘Two to the chest. One to the belly, off to the left, catching the liver. One to the heart. Almost the exact pattern to the inch that hit our surgeon, Dr Shapiro. Who might have been a moving target, as with him the shot to the heart missed slightly.’

  ‘Why you’re here, partly. Are you driving that shitty Beetle of yours tonight?’

  ‘It’s not shitty. I like my Bug.’

  ‘Sorry. Meant to say shiny. Let’s take it out of here.’

  At a St-Hubert BBQ, part of a local chain, Touton ordered a whole chicken. He counted on the two of them demolishing it easily. Cinq-Mars raised the objection that he no longer took his meals in the middle of the night, which proved untrue. Over the course of their talk, he gnawed on a leg, ate a breast with his knife and fork, then picked away at a wing and the remains of the carcass. They ate and dissected the gangland slaying.