by M. D. Thomas
Jon found the Volvo, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. He started the engine but just sat, stared through the window at a minivan in front of him as the meteorologist on the radio warned listeners about the rain that was coming.
Jon was tired. The trips to Rainbow Pines bookended his day at the architectural firm where he worked as a structural engineer, the hours between spent first recovering from the morning visit then gradually shifting to steeling himself for the evening one. He talked to Lee about nothing and everything, mostly baseball of course, holding Lee’s hand and spewing words into the silence, because that’s what Dr. Kamarti said to do and because Sarah got upset if he didn’t follow orders. She said Lee needed to hear and feel them constantly since he couldn’t see them. She said it would help Lee come out of the coma sooner. She said, she said, she said. His hour up, Jon would go home and prepare his meal alone in the too silent kitchen that Lee’s voice used to fill, the ticking of the old clock over the fridge unbelievably loud. He’d cook rice and a bit of chicken or fish, make fresh kimchi from his mother’s recipe—the way Lee had loved it. He’d set the table and eat as he stared at the chairs where Lee and Sarah used to sit, as he replayed conversations they’d shared and wondered if they’d ever have more. He’d clean up, which didn’t take long since the house was barely lived in, then he’d go out to the next bar or two on the list, cap off the day with more x’s in the little green notebook. He tried to make it back home to watch at least some of the Nats game if they were playing. If they weren’t playing, he’d put on anything that would distract him. Most nights he fell asleep with the television on, wishing Sarah were there to chide him for it.
Jon started at the beginning of the notebook, scanned the names on each page until he found where he’d left off. Xavier’s Bar and Grill, just outside of Koreatown. Number thirty-nine on the list.
Gallows Road would take him straight to Xavier’s from Rainbow Pines, but—and if Sarah knew she would marvel that he hadn’t learned his lesson—Jon decided to take the scenic route that wound through the neighborhoods that melded one into the other, some nicer, some not so nice, as you moved from West Falls Church into Annandale.
Jon enjoyed riding through the neighborhoods, enjoyed avoiding the kids out on their bikes after dinner, enjoyed having to stop at every intersection. It all reminded him of before the accident. But that wasn’t really why he’d picked the route. He chose that way because it took him past the ball fields where Lee grew up.
The Annandale Recreation Association complex—four ball fields in all, in a number of sizes, with a clubhouse and a playground—was where Lee had spent the majority of his free time for the past five years. Even after joining a travel team his practices were still at the ARA complex, and whenever Lee wanted to play around with Jon, that was where they’d gone. It was like a second home to the entire family.
Since the accident, Jon went out of his way to drive by the ball fields. Most nights there were kids practicing on some or all of the fields, and most nights Jon just cruised by, slowing to a crawl and scanning the fields, remembering times he’d been there with Lee and Sarah. But on his way to Xavier’s the complex was deserted and quiet in the evening light, the green of the turf and the orange of the clay blending together in the sunlight that angled across the ground.
Not sure why, Jon slowed and turned into the parking lot by field number three, the one Lee’s team had been using for practice that spring. Since no one else was there he pulled the Volvo right up to the chain link fence by left field and shut off the engine.
Maybe it’s not a practice night…
The thought startled him because it made him realize that for the first time in years he didn’t know the schedule of Lee’s team. He’d fallen outside of the insiders.
Filled by a strange reluctance, Jon got out of the car and surveyed the field, the parts of so many games he’d watched over the years melding into one long, disordered scene. Lee getting his first hit in kid-pitch, a low drive to center field that went just inches above the shortstop’s outstretched glove. Lee hitting the ball off the tee and running to first base, his short legs churning as fast as they would go. Lee diving to grab a line-drive at shortstop, his preferred position, then leaping up to hum the ball across the infield to first base and getting out the runner who’d started for second, his first double play. The scenes went on and on, a hundred different memories plucked from a hundred different games. Tears began to slip down his face, the grief of Lee’s injuries mixed with the joy those games had given their family.
Jon walked over to the fence and leaned against it. He let the tears come, did his best to accept the pain. He might not feel any better on the other side of those tears, but they were important, reinforced what it meant to be alive. To love. So he leaned against the fence and cried, the tears and sobs lessening and then fading, leaving him feeling spent and depressed. That was okay too.
Life was perfect until I turned onto the parkway. It didn’t feel that way at the time, but it was…
The sun was just starting to touch the tree tops behind first base and the breeze had built into a gust when he noticed a kid climb the short fence that paralleled the first base line, close to where it transitioned into the higher, homerun fence that girded the field.
He probably lives in one of those houses on the other side of the complex. Lee had always wanted to live close enough to walk there, perpetually dissatisfied with the ten minutes it took to drive. Must want a little bit of play before the sun goes down, before the day’s over and homework or baths have to be done…
The setting sun was bright in Jon’s eyes so he couldn’t see the kid very well. The kid didn’t seem to notice him, but he didn’t come any nearer either. He was in his own world, tossing a ball high up in the air and then catching it again. If the boy was trying to throw the ball straight up, he was failing miserably. Every toss went wildly left or right and he would have to sprint one direction or the other to catch it before it hit the ground. It was likely on purpose, because the ball never went over the fence and never came any closer to where Jon watched in left field.
Funny how they all do that, Jon thought, all those kids who loved the game more than they loved anything else. Most of the ones who didn’t—the ones whose mothers and fathers wanted them to be good at sports or just wanted them to have the experience of playing for a team—had already been weeded out by Lee’s age, tired of the heavier practice loads or the harder games. Once the kids started pitching the games got pretty boring—the kids didn’t get many hits, there were a lot of walks, a lot of steals. Many kids quit at that point, leaving only the ones who drove themselves or those whose parents forced them to play on even when they no longer cared for the game.
Jon watched the kid run around the outfield for a few more minutes. At first the sight had been a bitter reminder of happier days—bitterness for the lost present, for Lee’s lost future. But the longer he watched the kid play, the more content he felt. Not happy—not that—but content in the moment. It was the first time he’d felt that way since the accident.
Jon decided to watch one last toss and then leave, suddenly anxious to get to the next bar on the list. The kid threw a wild one, the ball moving toward the center field fence, and he had to sprint to get it, not looking at the ground in front of him at all. Jon was certain the kid would come up short, the ball thrown too far. But then the kid did something amazing. At the last possible moment he dove forward, stretched out above the ground, his glove extended, his eyes still glued on the ball. An instant later the kid came down hard enough that his hat fell off. But he caught the ball.
Not many kids that dedicated, Jon thought, and he smiled as the kid ran around in circles thrusting his arms into the air. That boy and Lee would have gotten along fine…
Xavier’s Bar and Grill was located on the Columbia Pike near the edge of Koreatown, close to the heart of Annandale, sandwiched between a decades-old dry-cleaners shop named Hwang-Cho’s and
a Verizon store that had a grand opening banner strung across the facade.
Jon drove past the place frequently but had never noticed Xavier’s in the middle of the bland strip mall. That had become a common theme on his trip through the list. Apparently he wasn’t very observant when it came to restaurants and bars, a realization which shouldn’t have been a surprise given that he and Sarah had never been big on eating out or drinking.
He parked the Volvo a few storefronts down and walked inside at half-past eight to find the long bar stretching down the left side of the restaurant nearly full and the tables on the right only slightly less crowded. Three large flat-screens mounted above the liquor bottles and beer taps were tuned to sports channels and the space was filled with music and conversation as wait staff moved among the tables and the two bartenders—one a woman—served the stool-riders arrayed before them.
The woman tended the far end of the bar but there was nowhere to sit there, so Jon walked to the near corner and claimed an empty stool between a young couple whose faces were only inches apart as they talked and an older man who stared glumly ahead, his hands wrapped around a half-full glass of beer that was nearly the same dark color as his wrinkled skin. All three ignored him. The male bartender—his black hair high and tight above a jaw that was obscured by a luxuriant black beard—approached a moment later and asked, “What can I get for you?”
“Budweiser.”
“Bottle or tap?”
“Whatever’s cheaper.”
The man left without giving any indication as to his opinion of the order and Jon turned his attention to the other end of the bar where the woman hustled back and forth. Her skin was powder white, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of red. She was thin bordering on bony and wore a black t-shirt above tight black pants. She could’ve changed her hair color since the accident, and he wasn’t close enough to see if she had a tattoo on her face, but he would’ve remembered that skin. Not even headlights in the background could’ve made skin that white appear the caramel shade he saw in his dreams, both waking and asleep.
“You want to start a tab?” the bartender asked as he placed a glass of amber beer before Jon on a cocktail napkin.
“No, thanks,” Jon said as he pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the man, who took it and returned a moment later with change. Jon stuffed a few dollar bills back in his wallet, left the rest for the bartender, then picked up the glass and took a gulp of the beer. It was cold and bitter as he swallowed.
Certain it wasn’t her, Jon drank half the beer, went out to the car and flipped open the little green notebook to the page with Xavier’s Bar and Grill where he added the date, the time, and yet another little x.
Thirteen
HARVEY
“Your warrant for Mack came through,” Dan Robertson said. He loomed behind his desk, every inch the defensive lineman he’d been back in his college days, his neck still as thick as his head, his jaw big enough to stop a runaway train. “How soon can you execute it?”
“If I can get the men I need, then probably in a day or two, no more,” Harvey said as he rocked back in his chair. There was no channeling Harv around Robertson—his boss would see right through the act.
Harvey respected Robertson. Lately he’d come to fear him. Robertson—who passed up a chance at professional football because he didn’t think it was intellectual enough—had an uncanny ability to sniff out problems.
“Make it a day,” Robertson said as he ran his hand through his short, thick hair. “This scumbag Mack has been running too long and I don’t like giving him any extra time to get a whiff of what’s coming. You know how they are. Like goddamn wild animals, all instinct.”
Harvey knew. If Mack got wind that something might be going down he’d clean house within hours and lay low for a while. “Tomorrow then.”
“Good,” Robertson said. “Get your plan to me for approval as soon as you’ve got it ready.”
“Will do,” Harvey said. He started to rise but Robertson gestured him back into his chair. Harvey sat again, tried to ignore the sudden tightening of guts that had barely loosened since seeing the kid the day before.
“Can you believe that sky?” Robertson said, jutting his massive jaw toward the office window and the dark clouds that were flowing by. “Weather guys are saying it’s a bad one coming. Storm of the century bad or some shit like that.”
Harvey didn’t answer. He knew Robertson well enough to know that his boss didn’t really want a response.
Robertson leaned back in his chair. His office walls had the usual framed degrees and commendations, but the desk was bare except for a phone, a computer, and a cup of coffee. Most of the higher-ups had papers everywhere, some of them even had files stacked across their desks like mountain ranges. But everything Robertson heard or read went in and stayed in. Whenever Harvey worried about getting caught skimming, it was Robertson that made him nervous. Not Dave or Costillo. Not Internal Affairs. Robertson.
“How’s everything been going, Harvey?”
“Well enough,” said Harvey as his guts tightened farther. “It’s been slow lately, but maybe this operation with Mack will turn things around.”
Robertson shook his head, his voice as amiable as his face. “It’s all wrong. The shit is out there. People are using as much as ever. But it’s harder and harder to nail the dealers. I don’t know if they’re getting smarter or we’re getting dumber. It sucks for you guys. I know you prefer it when there’s more busts going on.”
“Costillo certainly does,” Harvey said, wondering if Robertson knew something. If he did, would he tip Harvey off about it? Maybe. Robertson was different than everyone else he knew in the department.
“I can understand it. It’s easy to get your rocks off busting down scumbag’s front doors and then taking all the drugs and cash they’ve worked so hard to get. Compared to that, who would want to sit around this dump all day with their thumb up their ass? There are times I wish I could take down a few doors again.”
“You could ask for a demotion. Get back on the front lines.”
“Shit. My wife would let me get a mistress before she agreed to that.”
“Just a thought, boss.”
“A daydream. Ah, well. Get the hell out of here and get this thing set up, Harvey. I want this problem wrapped up as soon as possible.”
Harvey nodded as he got up and left the office. He couldn’t help but wonder if Robertson was talking about Mack or about him.
“Tomorrow, huh?” Dave said an hour later as they sat across from each other at the Macho Burrito where the salsa was divine and the fajita’s big and cheap.
“Robertson’s worried Mack is going to get wind of the operation.”
“No way. I heard him on the tape,” Dave said around a mouthful of peppers and beef. He always ate too much, too fast. His waistline was proof of that. “Fast Freddie was good. That douchebag Mack doesn’t have a clue.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Harvey said. He hesitated, then added, “Robertson acting weird to you lately?”
“Dan Robertson is always weird. Nothing new about that. Why?”
“He seems wound up.”
“Probably cause the chief has been up his ass about how few busts we’ve made,” Dave said as he set his fork on his empty plate with a clang. “This is the slowest I’ve been through in years. If it doesn’t pick up soon, the shit is gonna start rolling downhill and you and I are gonna get creamed by it.”
Harvey shook his head. “Nah. We’re just not getting much information.”
Dave belched and wiped his chin with a napkin. “Then maybe we need to hustle a bit more, Harvey. I can’t afford a demotion, I tell you that. You’ve met my wife, right? Short little Polish thing that likes shoes and clothes? If I take a pay cut, she’s gonna get cranky, and when she gets cranky you know what happens?”
“What, Dave?”
“Kaboom!” Dave said as he threw his hands up in the air, a tortilla chip flyi
ng across the table. “The lid blows off, Harvey. She goes ape and I get the sharp side of her tongue. Do you know what that’s like for me, Harvey?”
“Like any other day?”
“Ha. Funny guy.” He shook his head and took a swig of his Pacifico. “Nah. Whatever’s up with Robertson doesn’t matter. We gotta turn things around, Harvey. Us. Soon.”
They went dutch on the meal and Harvey headed outside into the cloud-dim afternoon while Dave went to the head. The man never could leave a restaurant without taking a piss.
When Harvey pushed through the tinted glass door, bell jingling and miniature sombrero swinging, the kid was sitting on the hood of the Cherokee, his feet on the front bumper. It was a solid fifty feet away, but Harvey knew right away it was him, would’ve known even if the kid wasn’t tossing that damn baseball up in the air over and over.
He almost yelled at the kid to scram, but something held him back. He glanced around the strip mall parking lot, but the only other people visible were the ones driving past on the street. Hackles up, he started toward the Jeep.
The kid had on the same blue cap with a red P and was wearing a white Pirates jersey above his blue jeans, the team name in red. Had he been wearing a jersey the day before? Harvey couldn’t remember, which was weird—he could always remember stuff like that. And how far was Macho Burrito from Nonna’s house? At least fifteen miles. But there the kid was, sitting on the damn Jeep like he owned it.
When Harvey was about ten feet away, the kid slid off the Cherokee’s hood. Harvey stopped, worried the kid would run, but he only stood staring at Harvey, his eyes shaded beneath the brim of his cap. A Pirates cap apparently.
Harvey glanced back at the entrance to Macho Burrito, but there was no sign yet of Dave. He was probably copping a squat in the damn john. When he turned back the kid was still staring at him, tossing around that ball.