Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle: Three Mystery Stories (The Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries)

by Linda Barnes

  “And just what was Clay going to do to me, Ron?”

  “I dunno,” he said studying the linoleum like it was a work of art. “Man’s a fool. I guess he figured he could scare you.”

  I thought about my time in the trunk. Especially the few moments when I hadn’t known whether Clay would open it or walk away.…

  He’d done his job.

  Ron was speaking. “I think Clay’s way past thinkin,’ about me, Carlotta. I’m afraid he really wants Dee. I’m scared he’ll hurt her.” He swallowed audibly. “I guess I’m ready to go to the cops.”

  I said, “No reason to, Ron. I’ve taken care of the cops. You’re going to do something harder. Tell Dee. Every nasty detail.”

  “No.”

  “Then pack your bags and update your resumé, because she’ll fire your ass. You know she will, if I tell her.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared into the mirror like he was saying good-bye to the best part of himself.

  “Do it, Ron. Apologize. Stay with her.”

  “She’s never loved anything but the music, Carlotta.” he said, his Adam’s apple working. “She doesn’t love me.”

  “She comes back to you, Ron.”

  “She comes back.”

  “Maybe that’s her kind of love. Maybe that’s all the love she’s got.”

  “I don’t know if I can live with that,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to the pale skinny man in the mirror.

  “Two days, Ron,” I said. “You have two days to tell her, or else I will.”

  I flagged a cab and went straight to the airport. No trouble changing the tickets. Fly first class, they give you leeway.

  Dee called late the next night, woke me from a sound sleep. I suppose Ron will always be her lead guitar.

  Miss Gibson arrived via messenger. I’ve stroked her, held her, but I can’t bring myself to play her. I try, but something keeps me mute. When I touch the strings, finger a chord, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of awe.

  Maybe fear. With that precious battered guitar in hand, I guess I’m scared that I’ve come as close to the magic as I’ll ever get.

  Stealing First

  Skip the Fenway franks, the mustard squished underfoot circa Opening Day 1912, the peanuts, the stale beer. If you’re after the aroma of game day at Fenway Park, go for the scent of hope—frail hope, fervent hope, pent-up hope.

  Diluted by failure, sure, but never despair.

  The two-story Coke bottles try to steal the show, but the Green Monster dominates, along with the single red-painted seat in the bleachers that marks Ted Williams’s 502-foot home run.

  You see everybody at Fenway. The suits go for the skyboxes and the 600 Club, the Joe College types aim for the bleachers, alienating the beer bums. There are always out-of-place delights, the cotton-haired lady swearing her lungs blue in the bleachers, the scruffy misfits in the rich seats.

  Some seem familiar, but only because you’ve seen them at the park before. Me, I semi-recognize a lot of guys, and often it’s because I’ve arrested them. I had that itchy feeling a couple of times waiting in line at the entry gates on Yawkey Way, but none of the faces screamed a warning, and nobody stopped to schmooze. The gate was jammed and noisy, edgy the way it is when the hated Yankees are in town, jacking each game up to playoff intensity.

  I gave the man my ticket and pushed through the turnstyle.

  Section 27, Row 12, Seat 14, a terrific seat, third-base side, donated by a grateful client. I tried to tuck my legs behind the seat in front of me, a hopeless task for a long-legged woman. The sun beat down on two nearby kids as they fought over a “K” card, each hoping to loft it triumphantly 27 times—27 strikeouts for Pedro, the beloved ace. A woman wearing a Derek Jeter number two jersey drew a round of boos, then a round of cheers. I settled in and sipped a beer but found I couldn’t concentrate on the game, maybe because I hadn’t had a client, grateful or otherwise, in too long.

  Instead of keeping score, I found myself obsessing about crime and money and how I could deal my way in. I had only one iron in the fire, an evening appointment with Chan Liu, a Chinatown coin dealer.

  Liu’s New York partner had sent him a shipment in the traditional manner, but it never arrived. The courier got robbed at a roadside rest stop, the handcuffs joining him to his briefcase severed with a hacksaw. The crime fit a pattern, but Liu might not be aware of it, because the previous victims had been diamond merchants, not coin dealers.

  I knew that the cops had dealt with four similar cases in the past six months, that diamond dealers were currently sending paired couriers via devious routes. Maybe the precautions were so effective that the gang had shifted to a different target.

  The cops had pegged the first diamond heist as an inside job, but as other cases piled up, that possibility paled. Instead, it seemed that a gang had taken to cautious surveillance and patient tracking. They were opportunistic, smart, and, so far, lucky. Diamonds are small and light, easy to conceal. Coins are heavy, bulky …

  A roar brought me back to the game. Ramirez at the plate, two on base, and 33,311 rose as one, anticipating RBIs. When Manny flied harmlessly to shallow center, the crowd wilted like a deflating balloon, and I realized my two beers had caught up with my bladder.

  I excuse-me’d my way down the row, fans popping from seats like corks to let me pass, and took my place at the end of a long line of women and kids. I should have gone during the home half of the inning, but who leaves with men on base? I could have gone to the smaller ladies’ room on the third-base side, but even though the central corral is the most crowded, I always stop by to say hi to Florrie Andrews.

  When I was a cop, everybody wanted Fenway detail work. Being bottom of the pecking order, I rarely got it, but when I did, I learned to appreciate Florrie’s skill. She’s the number caller.

  Here’s how it works: Each stall has a number over the door, must be 30 of them, and presiding over organized chaos is a woman who weighs 250 easy, sitting in a rickety chair, listening to Sox radio, doing intricate hoop embroidery, and calling out the number of the next free stall with speed an auctioneer would envy. All this without seeming to glance up, ever, as though she could tell the number of the empty stall by the unique sound of its toilet’s flush.

  They all sound the same to me, but Florrie’s a pro.

  I was watching a woman in front of me switch her feet from first to fifth ballet position when I felt a tug at my sleeve and put a name to a face I’d glimpsed at the front gate.

  Moochie.

  “Hey, Carlotta, do me a favor here.”

  What he really said was “Ey, Cahlodda, do me a favah heah,” in a voice that was pure gravel.

  “Hey, Moochie, this is the wrong line for you.”

  The right line for Moochie would have ended in jail and been reserved for hairballs and losers. Moochie was a drunk and a petty thief when I ran him in. His ambition was to rob a bank so he’d get respect in stir. Never considered getting away with it.

  “Hey,” he went on. “My li’l girl heah, my niece, couldja taker in wit yas?”

  “Is she hot?”

  “Whadja mean?”

  “You steal this kid, Mooch?”

  “Ginny, baby, who’m I?”

  “Unkah Mahty.” Her frilly white blouse stopped well above baggy red pants, exposing a pudgy belly. She wore four gold bangles on her left wrist.

  “C’mon, a favah.”

  The line was moving, and the women and kids behind me shuffled restlessly. Little Ginny gazed up at me with sky-blue eyes.

  “Where should we meet you?”

  “I’ll be right here, waiting.” That’s not how it sounded, but you get the idea.

  “Twenty-seven. Sixteen. Thirteen’s wide open!” We were getting close enough to hear Florrie’s deep voice.

  “How old are you, Ginny?”

  “Four and a half.”

  Was 4½ old enough to go into a stall by herself and do her stuff?


  “Do you have any tricky buttons or anything?” I asked. “Can you pee all by yourself?”

  “Mommy says tinkle.”

  “Can you tinkle by yourself?”

  “’Course I can. I’m not a baby.”

  “Number six is free. Hey, there, Officer Carlyle.”

  “Just Carlotta, Ms. Andrews.”

  “Florrie to you, and who’s this little darlin’?”

  “Picked her up outside. Name’s Ginny.”

  “Ginny, you lake number four, right over here.”

  I was dispatched to number 17, where I returned the beer, wondering how in hell Florrie had identified me without lifting her head or missing a beat on the numbers. I met up with Ginny talking with Florrie, and we washed quickly. Everybody moves quickly in there, because they want to get out. It’s a sty, exhibit A for those who favor a new Fenway Park. Me, I think they need to renovate the bathrooms.

  Moochie wasn’t waiting.

  “Did Uncle Marty give you your ticket stub, Ginny?”

  She gave me blank blue eyes. I swiveled and surveyed the crowd: Fans hurrying to their seats, laden with junk food; smokers leaning against the walls, watching the teenage girls, tank-topped and tightly jeaned, testing their power by wiggling their hips. There was no line outside the nearby men’s room. Maybe Moochie was in there. Maybe he’d come out the door right now.

  Nope.

  Ginny’s damp hand tugged me down to the level of her mouth.

  “Can I have cotton candy? Pink?”

  “Does your mom let you cat that stuff?”

  “Unkah Mahty promised.”

  While we waited in line, I kept an eye peeled for Moochie. He’d been wearing a plaid shirt over a white tee, jeans, a bright-yellow Harvester cap.

  “Ginny, do you remember where you were sitting?”

  She twisted her mouth in concentration. “Near the man with the big red finger.”

  They sell them at souvenir stands: Big red styrofoam “We’re number one” fingers. You see them waving all over the stands.

  I saw Moochie out of the corner of one eye, opened my mouth to call his name, shut it quickly.

  “Ginny, come with me.”

  “I want cotton candy!”

  “I’ll get you two cotton candies. Later. Promise.” I reached down and picked her up. Her bracelets jangled. “Whoa, how much do you weigh?”

  “I’m not fat!”

  She wasn’t. I pushed my way into the bathroom via the exit door, past nasty glances from the waiting line.

  “Florrie, keep an eye on her, OK?”

  By the time I pushed my way out, I’d lost him. I was standing on tiptoe, calculating the best way to get help from security, when I saw the top of Moochie’s hat disappear down the runway, a bad-news bum on either side, one behind him, probably holding a blade.

  My hands rummaged my backpack for a weapon. Not a gun. No way would I bring a firearm to Fenway, what with seats glued together like kernels of corn. While I searched, I gave chase. Not that Moochie was a prince, but if they croaked Unkah Mahty under the stands, I’d be stuck explaining it to little Ginny.

  Fenway Security used to wear navy blazers and stick out like pimples. Now they wear khakis and do the background fade. Where the hell were they? My fingers found a cylinder and yanked out a flashlight, too big for brass knucks, too small for much else. I shoved it back.

  A vendor strode by, waving a 6-foot-long stick dotted with pastel blobs of cotton candy. I grabbed it and ran.

  The goon squad was hustling Moochie toward an exit. I flanked them on the left, whirled, and thrust the cotton-candy stick into the guts of the two advance men. The knife man, temporarily confused—surely a woman wouldn’t—turned to help out his buddies. I spun Mooch around, hand on his shoulder, and yelled: “Run!”

  I knew he was fast, because I’d chased him, but this was the first time Moochie and I had sped together with a common goal: to lose the three goombahs. Security’s got eyes, I told myself as I raced by a souvenir stand; they’ve got walkie-talkies. Help was on the …

  “This way!” Moochie grabbed my hand and yanked. We careened up an alley and emerged in the lower right-field box seats, half-blinded by sunlight, plunging down shallow steps toward the playing field.

  “Get security!” I hollered to an usher.

  “Hell,” he screamed after me, “I called ’em twice. They got fights all over the stands. Damn Yankees, what do they expect?”

  Our pursuers weren’t as dumb as I’d hoped. They split their forces, two and one, blocking retreat or advance. I turned to Mooch, but before I could speak, he vaulted the fence into what the broadcasters call “canvas alley,” near where they store the tarp used to cover the field when it rains.

  OK, Mooch! The ground crew would be there, burly guys on speaking terms with security. I followed as fast as I could. The outlook seemed to be brightening, when one of the goombahs on our tail got a bright idea.

  “He stole my wallet!” he yelled. “Stop him!”

  We were running like crazy and looked guilty as hell.

  “What did you steal, Mooch?” I addressed his fleeing back.

  The ground crew was trying to stop us, but Mooch still had tricks in his bag. He hit the floor and rolled like a barrel, tripping a crew member. Another one seized him; he squirmed but stayed stuck. I saw Bozo the Knife close his hand over Moochic’s collar.

  “Cough it up.” He was red-faced. “Punk, you better have every single—”

  Moochie spat, and the other guy punched. Moochie kicked, and the other guy danced, holding onto his knee and jumping around in pain. We had a round of free-for-all bare-knuckle boxing, some fans disapproving, more standing and cheering. Someone raised the universal rallying cry: “Yankees suck! Yankees suck!”

  My hand finally found the right cylinder, different in shape and heft. I let fly with as generous a spray as my finger could coax from the can. The knife guy bent double.

  “She maced me!”

  Hairspray’s better than mace any day, plus you don’t need a license for it.

  “Now you did it. They’ll kill me,” Moochie said.

  Can you believe it? I’m trying to help the guy, and he turns on me.

  “Go back to your buddies, then. Give ’em what they want.”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ what’s theirs.”

  “Then what …”

  “They’ll kill me!”

  I was thinking maybe I’d help them, when Moochie bounded over the fence and headed screaming toward the pitcher’s mound. He stared back over his shoulder. I quickly glanced around and understood why. Bozo had traded the knife for a handgun. His eyes were streaming tears, and his aim was less than steady.

  I followed Moochie’s lead. Up and over. Best and quickest way to attract a cop at Fenway: jump onto the sacred field.

  The grass was so green, so seamlessly, achingly green. I zig-zagged, racing for the bullpen. Damn idiot wouldn’t fire in front of 33,000 witnesses.

  Cops poured out of the visitors’ dugout, out of the home bullpen.

  “Wow,” Moochie said. “Ah’m go in’ ovah, shake hands wit No-mah.”

  I tackled him, and the crowd roared.

  “Stay put, moron.” My sentiments exactly, but the words belonged to a cop.

  “Watch out!” I said. “The other guy had a gun.”

  “Shut up. Ya gonna come quietly, or we gotta carry ya?”

  Surrounded by 20 cops, I felt as safe as the president. Thank God one of them recognized me as they hustled us into the stands.

  “Hey, you lose a bet, Carlyle?” I’d never been so glad to see Kevin Devine in my life. His round beefy face looked downright handsome.

  “You know her?” the big cop behind me asked.

  “Private heat.”

  “Low-grade felon. Jumped the freakin’ fence.”

  “Kevin, tell this genius to let me talk.”

  “No excuses for jumping the fence.” The big cop’s jaw looked like
he’d smiled once, years ago.

  I stared him down. “Where’s your day job?”

  “D-4.”

  I raised my voice. “Anybody here work Majors?”

  “Me. I do. What?”

  I turned the charm on a middle-aged guy with a crew cut. “Get this hard case to cut me some slack, and I’ll give you a great collar.”

  Moochie picked that moment to say: “Hey, wheah’s da kid? Whadja do wit da kid?”

  I ignored him in favor of the crew cut. “You know those diamond jobs? The coin job last week?”

  “Him?” He shot Moochie a look.

  “Yep. Meet the dumbest member of the gang.”

  Moochie tried to grin. “Hey, Cahlodda, that’s a good one. Hey, officer, she don’ know what she’s talking …”

  “He’s got the stuff,” I assured the cop.

  “On him?”

  “Yous c’n search me.” Mooch lifted both arms in surrender.

  I said, “Why don’t we go get little Ginny first?”

  “Nah, let her wait,” Moochie said quickly. “I don wan’ her see me like dis, wit cops and all.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked the crew-cut cop.

  “Brady. Harry.”

  “Well, Harry Brady, there’s a little girl in the bathroom with Florrie Andrews. Must be carrying 20 pounds of metal in her pants.”

  Moochic made a noise like a punctured tire.

  I rounded on him. “What the hell kind of uncle are you, Moochie? Planting stolen merchandise on your niece.”

  “Howdja …?”

  “I lifted her up. She’s only 4 years old!”

  Moochic shuffled a minute, staring at his feet. When it came, his voice was low, confidential. “OK, so how long ya figure I’ll be insider?”

  It was almost like Moochic didn’t mind getting nabbed, not on a classy coin job.

  When a policewoman searched little Ginny, she found a quarter of Chan Liu’s missing coins stashed in plastic bags in her saggy pockets. So I didn’t keep my evening appointment in Chinatown, and I didn’t get the job—but I collected a sizable reward, and the Sox won, 2-1, 11 innings.

  Doesn’t get any better than that.

  About the Author

  Linda Barnes is the award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries. Her witty private-investigator heroine has been hailed as “a true original” by Sue Grafton. Barnes is also the author of the Michael Spraggue Mysteries and a stand-alone novel, The Perfect Ghost.