Sacrifice Fly

by Tim O'Mara

  “Shoulda just stayed home.”

  “That’s a choice,” I answered. “I spoke to Ms. Stiles this morning.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you had your hopes on a certain high school…”

  “I’m just gonna go around the block.”

  “‘Around the block,’” I repeated. “That’s assuming you get out of the eighth grade.”

  Another shrug, like she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Second, a kid like you’d get lost in that place.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “No, Lisa.” I stood. “You will not be fine. You have any idea what the dropout rate at that place is?”

  “You saying I’m dumb?”

  Jesus. “I’m not saying you’re dumb.” I took a moment to check myself. “Your dad’s coming up tomorrow.”

  Now she cared. “You called my dad?”

  “Ms. Stiles did. Yes.”

  “Ahhhhh!” She looked at me and waved her hand as if slapping away a fly. “All y’all need to mind your own business.”

  “You are our business, Lisa,” I said. “Whether you like it or not.”

  “Nah, nah,” she said and ran her hand from her forehead to the back of her neck. I noticed a slight discoloration two inches above her left eye.

  “What’s that mark on your face?” I asked.

  She turned away and headed toward the door. “Nothing, okay?”

  I followed her. “No, it’s not okay.” I grabbed her elbow to stop her from leaving the room and got a close-up look at the mark above her eye. “Where’d you get that bruise?”

  “Nowhere.” She shook my hand off her arm. “I’m going to gym.”

  “Lisa,” I tried, “I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I guess you can’t help me then.”

  She walked out into the hallway. Again, I followed and called her name.

  “Go help the other kids, Mr. D,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “They need it more than I do.”

  I couldn’t think of a response to that, so I just watched as the kid who didn’t need my help made a right turn into the staircase. The gym was the other way.

  *

  A few hours later, the kids were gone, the windows were shut, and I went up to the main office to check my mailbox before going home. Mary was slipping her pocketbook over her shoulder when she spotted me.

  “Oh, Ray,” she said. “Mr. Thomas said not to worry about the meeting with the police. He took care of it over the phone.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised by the disappointed tone in my voice.

  “That’s what he told—” The phone rang, stopping her in mid-sentence. She picked up and mumbled her standard greeting. She pressed a button and held it out to me.

  “Tell them they’ll have it tomorrow,” I said. “Whatever it is.”

  “It’s a female,” Mary whispered. “Sounds cute.”

  And you sound like my mother, I thought. I walked through the swinging gate and took the phone.

  “This is Raymond Donne.”

  “Mr. Donne, this is Elsa. Mrs. Santos’s neighbor. From yesterday?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It’s Mrs. Santos. Her apartment was broken into.”

  Shit. “Did the cops get there yet?”

  A pause and then, “She did not call the police.”

  “Elsa,” I said, “she has to call the police. Where is she now?”

  “My mother and I are with her here. In her apartment.”

  “In her— Elsa, you have to call the police. Now.”

  “She called the church.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said yesterday that you were a policeman.”

  “Five years ago. Why are you calling me?”

  “What is the church going to do, Mr. Donne? Please come over.”

  “If she doesn’t want to call the police, what makes you think she’ll want to see me?”

  “It would make me feel better, Mr. Donne. She is very stubborn and will not listen to me or my mother.”

  I took a moment to look at the clock. I wanted to go home. I said, “I’d like to, Elsa, but…”

  “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Thank you.”

  “Call the police,” I said, but she’d already hung up.

  Chapter 6

  WITH HAROLD NOWHERE TO BE found, I took the elevator straight up to the seventeenth floor. Elsa was standing outside Mrs. Santos’s apartment when I turned the corner.

  “Mr. Donne,” Elsa said as she stepped toward me. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Did you get her to call the police?”

  “She is inside,” she said. “With my mother and Mr. Cruz.”

  “Another neighbor?”

  “He’s from the church.”

  “Did he convince her to call the cops?”

  “Come inside,” Elsa said. “Have something to drink. Some water, iced tea.” She lowered her voice. “If Mrs. Santos asks, you came by to check on Frankie.”

  “You didn’t tell her you called me?”

  “Come,” she said, pulling on my elbow.

  I pulled back while we were still in the doorway. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?”

  “No,” she said. “I did not tell her I called you. No, Mr. Cruz has not convinced her to call the police. Now can we go inside?”

  Good-looking women can get away with talking like that sometimes. Use their tone of voice to imply a sense of superiority and vulnerability at the same time. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it a few times.

  “What are you doing?” Elsa asked.

  “The lock doesn’t seem to have been forced,” I said. I ran my hand over the wood and brass plating. “No scratches on the door.”

  “Come inside,” she said, pulling me again. This time I went without a fight.

  We walked through a narrow hallway, past a dozen or so pictures on the wall, some black-and-white, some in color. Elsa led me into the main room, where an elderly woman in a wheelchair held hands with another woman of about the same age, who sat in a metal folding chair. They looked over at Elsa and me as we entered. I could tell from the blue eyes that the woman in the wheelchair was Frankie’s grandmother. The wheelchair had a decal on the side: a blue snake wrapped around a white cross. The words EC MEDICAL were written under the logo.

  “Mommy,” Elsa said. “Senora Santos. This is Mr. Donne. Frankie’s teacher. El maestro de la escuela.”

  I stepped forward and offered my hand to Mrs. Santos.

  “¿Qué tu quiere?” she asked, looking at my hand.

  “I came by to see if there’s any news about Frankie.” I withdrew my hand. “If you’ve heard from the police.”

  She let out a hiss and said, “La policía.” She looked at the other woman and they commiserated by shaking their heads.

  I turned to Elsa. “Maybe I should go.”

  Before she could answer, a man’s voice came from another room.

  “Si, immediatemente,” he was saying. “‘As soon as possible’ would mean immediately, would it not?” A pause. “Thank you, Johnny.”

  I heard the refrigerator door close. A man came out of the kitchen, holding a glass of water in each hand. He acknowledged my presence with a slight nod of his head and handed the glasses to the two older women. He whispered something in Spanish and they both smiled. He turned his attention to me.

  “Elijah Cruz,” he said with just a hint of a Spanish accent. We shook hands and he held mine in a tight grip until I said, “Raymond Donne.”

  Elijah Cruz appeared to be a few years older than I. His dark hair was cut short, and his goatee had a few flecks of gray in it. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black tie, and black pants. A cell phone was clipped to his belt.

  “You are from Francisco’s school,” he said.

  “I’m his teacher.”

  He nodded. “Senora Santos told me you were here ye
sterday looking for Francisco. It was you who found Mr. Rivas?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “The detective who came by last evening—Detective Royce—mentioned it. That must have been quite a shock for you.”

  “You could say that.”

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, there is no new information regarding Francisco or his sister. And now”—he placed his hand on Mrs. Santos’s shoulder—“to add to her miseries, her apartment has been violated.”

  Elsa’s mother whispered something to Frankie’s grandmother, and again the two women shook their heads. I took a quick look around the room. I’d never been inside the apartment, but everything looked pretty much the way I guessed it should. There was an oxygen tank in the corner of the living room, the same snake and white cross on its side.

  “Was anything taken?” I asked Mrs. Santos, but she was not looking at me, so Elijah Cruz answered.

  “She does not believe so.”

  “I didn’t notice any damage to the front door. Who else has a key to the apartment?”

  Cruz translated my question for Mrs. Santos.

  “Solamente Francisco … y Johnny,” she said to Cruz just above a whisper.

  “Her grandson and the super,” Cruz told me.

  Mrs. Santos looked at me and for the first time since I’d entered her home, addressed me directly.

  “You no think Frankie came home and not tell me?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, noticing all the eyes in the room on me now. “I don’t think anything. It’s just a routine question.” Shit, Ray. Could you sound more like a cop?

  “He no come home without telling me,” Mrs. Santos said to Elsa’s mother. “Imposible.”

  She started to breathe a bit heavier, and Elsa’s mother went to the corner of the living room and wheeled over the oxygen tank. She took the opportunity to throw a distrustful look my way before she handed the blue mask to Mrs. Santos, who took it and placed it over her nose and mouth. As I watched her breathing, Elijah Cruz took me by the arm.

  “Perhaps we should talk outside, Mr. Donne.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we should.” I gave Elsa a look and motioned with my head toward the front door. She nodded and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  When we got to the hallway, we were met by a gray-haired man in a blue denim shirt with the name JOHNNY written on it in gold script. He placed his toolbox on the floor, took Cruz by the hands, and held them.

  “Johnny,” Cruz said. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I am very grateful. As is Senora Santos. This is Mr. Donne.”

  “Mucho gusto,” Johnny said, shaking my hand.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “It takes me a week to get my super to return my phone calls.”

  Johnny smiled. “Senor Cruz, he call. I am not too busy. I come.”

  Elijah Cruz put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

  “Johnny is a member of the church, Mr. Donne. We look out for each other.”

  “Si,” Johnny said.

  “Let us leave you to your work, Johnny,” Cruz said.

  “Mucho gusto, Senor Donne.” Johnny picked up his toolbox, gave us a smile, and stepped over to the door to get to his work.

  “I apologize for Senora Santos, Mr. Donne,” Cruz said. “She is very tired and very upset. The police, the newspapers. And now”—he pointed to where Johnny was crouched down removing the old lock—“this.”

  “Where was she when the break-in occurred?” I asked.

  Cruz smiled and said, “Detective Royce said you were a police officer once.” He paused. “The church. Las Mujeres—our women’s group—meets Wednesday afternoons. It is as much a prayer group as it is an opportunity for the women to share time and food with each other.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “You work at the church, Mr. Cruz?”

  “No, I would not say that. I am a parishioner, like Johnny and Senora Santos.”

  “Who makes a phone call and gets the super here in world-record time.”

  “I am not without a certain amount of influence, Mr. Donne. I am in the fortunate position to help the church financially. The members appreciate and respect that.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card.

  “EC Medical Supplies,” I said, recognizing the snake and the cross. “The wheelchair and oxygen tank?”

  “That is my company, yes.”

  “I didn’t know that Mrs. Santos was ill.”

  “Chronic bronchitis,” he said. “She will be with us for a long time, but she does need assistance. Especially in a time like this.”

  “I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Cruz,” I said, slipping the card into my back pocket. “I’m concerned that she called you and not the police.”

  “But not surprised.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Senora Santos trusts me, Mr. Donne. She does not trust the police. You were a policeman for how long?”

  “Long enough,” I said. “Why?”

  “Would it offend you if I suggested that this is the first time you were ever in a Puerto Rican woman’s apartment without the authority that comes with the uniform?”

  “I’m not easily offended, Mr. Cruz.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “If you give la abuela the choice between calling the police or her church, she will choose the church every time, Mr. Donne.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “If I felt that Senora Santos was in real danger, I would call the police myself.”

  “You don’t think her apartment being broken into puts her in real danger?”

  “I am considering the very real possibility,” he said, lowering his voice, “that her apartment was not broken into.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You looked around,” he said. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary?”

  “No.”

  “And the front door?”

  “Seemed fine,” I said. “But then why are you so quick to replace the lock?”

  “Because it will make her feel safer, Mr. Donne. Do you want to be the one to tell her that her imagination and stress of the past few days has gotten the better of her?”

  “No.”

  “Then we have the lock changed, and she feels a bit more secure. She told me when she returned home, her front door was open. I believe that in her hurry to get to Las Mujeres, she may have neglected to close her door. She has had a lot on her mind the past few days, yes?”

  “This women’s group,” I said. “Las Mujeres. They meet every Wednesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is also a very real possibility that if someone did break into her apartment, they knew she’d be at the church for a few hours.”

  He nodded. “That is true.”

  “It’s also true her former son-in-law was murdered and her grandchildren are missing. Whoever is responsible may be behind her apartment being broken into.”

  “That is possible.”

  “But you won’t offer that possibility to Mrs. Santos?”

  “No,” he said. “I will not.”

  “Then I think I should.”

  “She will not accept it coming from—”

  “A white guy?” I said.

  “An outsider,” Cruz said. “During your years as a policeman, how many times were you welcomed into the home of a Puerto Rican?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was ever welcomed. I went where I was needed.”

  “Our people do not look at it like that.”

  “Then why do they call the police?”

  “Most have no one else to call,” he said. “Senora Santos does. You have to understand, Mr. Donne, the Puerto Rican is not comfortable asking for help from outsiders. It is our experience that no one knocks at our door without wanting something. It is part of our history. Part of who we are and where we come from. You have to knock many times before you are invited inside.”

  “I’ve just been inside.”

  “You were not
invited by Mrs. Santos. Nor welcomed, I’m afraid. I will handle this.”

  “You can ensure her safety?”

  Before he could answer, his cell phone rang. He took it from his belt, flipped it open, and said, “I have to take this. Excuse me.” He walked a few steps away and lowered his voice. “Yes. I have told them that many times. They are to go ahead with the procedure and they will be reimbursed. Yes. Call me when it is done.” He closed the phone.

  “So,” I said, “I pretty much wasted my time coming over here?”

  Cruz stepped back over and touched me on the elbow, a little gesture reminding me who was in charge here. He was good.

  “Your willingness to help has not gone unnoticed. I am sure that Elsa appreciates your coming over.”

  “You know that she called me?”

  “I suspected as much. She looks out for Senora Santos.”

  “And so do you,” I said.

  “Yes. And this time will be no exception. Senora Santos will stay downstairs tonight. Now, this may be a good time for you to say good-bye to her.”

  “Why don’t you do that for me, Mr. Cruz? I’m not sure she wants to see me again.”

  “Even though she did not invite you, Mr. Donne, I believe she would appreciate the respect of your saying good-bye.”

  We stepped back into the apartment, and this time, when I got to the pictures on the wall, I stopped to look at them. There were some old photos, black-and-whites of palm trees and beaches. Puerto Rico. Most of the newer ones, the ones in color, were of Frankie: in his baseball uniform, graduating from elementary school, with someone I guessed was his sister, Milagros. They were standing in front of the big, white house I recognized from the picture in Frankie’s notebook. Next to that one was a picture of a pregnant woman standing next to a young Frankie. The woman had the same dark eyes, the same hopeful smile.

  “Is this Frankie’s mother?” I asked Cruz.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How did she die?”

  “Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” he said.

  “Cancer?”

  “Cancer of the blood, yes. The lymphocytes turn malignant and start to crowd out the healthy white blood cells.”

  “You a doctor, too?”

  “I spent two years in medical school before I chose another path. It helps to understand what afflicts the people I help.” He touched the photo. “Christina was diagnosed just before she became pregnant with Milagros. She could not undergo treatment while pregnant, and by the time Milagros was born the disease had spread too far.”