Left Field Read online

  Surreptitiously I returned to my car and checked my reflection in a side window. Ordinary though I am, I wanted to make sure my hair, in my standard straight bob, was tucked well enough behind my ears that I wasn’t presenting the Bozo effect. I caught a few strands from my temples and tucked them up into my cap. I too was wearing sunglasses—a decent pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans that Flora Pomeroy had grown tired of.

  I grabbed a mini notebook and a pen from my glove compartment and crammed them in my pocket. Then I squared my shoulders and returned to the field. Although the sun was still high in the summer sky, the heat of the day was starting to dissipate, and it looked like a lovely evening was on the way.

  Mercedes showed up and came right over to me. “You got a glove!”

  “Yeah. How was the interview with the police?”

  “I needn’t have worried.”

  “That’s the spirit. Hey, why can’t you get anybody to groom this field?”

  She looked at me. “You have no idea how hard I have to fight to even keep this field open. We mow it ourselves.”

  “Really? Gosh.”

  At six straight up, there were, including me, exactly nine women on hand plus Mercedes and the skinny water toter, who seemed like a helper rather than a player.

  Mercedes called, “Yo, Grinders!” Everybody trotted over and sat on the bench. The water girl and I stood behind it.

  “Women,” said Mercedes, “it’s good to see you here. Everybody’s here.” As she spoke, she tossed a ball up and down with one hand, catching and tossing it rhythmically.

  Most of the players were the kind of hefty jockettes that used to bash me in the legs with their field hockey sticks in junior high. No gaydar needed. The mullet lived here. White tube socks lived here.

  “I know we’re all grieving Abby,” Mercedes said. “We’ll get together again on Saturday, when we gather with her family to commemorate her life. Some of you have suggested we dedicate the remainder of our season—and the playoffs, hopefully—to Abby. I like the idea. We’ll miss her on the team, but we’ve got the heart to defend that trophy. It’s ours! All we have to do is cram this ball…” She tossed it up really high, maybe twenty-five feet, and all eyes followed. “…down every single throat…” The ball smacked into her palm. “…on every single sniveling, cowardly team we meet.”

  “Yeah. Yeah-uh,” rumbled the team viciously, eager to do away with the somber bullshit.

  “We have a new face with us today, my friend Lillian Byrd.” She gestured, and I stepped up and faced the bench to a surprisingly strong round of applause.

  It was a tight team, a serious team. Now I was on it, and they were all for me. They hadn’t seen me swing a bat yet. For the first time in my life, I got a taste of how empowering being on a real team can be. Isn’t that funny? I’ve always been more or less a loner, preferring solo sports like golf and fishing. When any particular love affair ended, I always regenerated by spending time alone.

  Mercedes went down the line, giving everybody’s name, some of which lodged in my brain immediately.

  My smiling, graceful convertible driver was indeed Jackie Quiller, pitcher. She nodded at me, acknowledging our little encounter, but no more.

  The name Carmen Acosta also registered, and I perceived a stocky, intense creature, embellished with a catcher’s mask on top of her head, shin guards, chest protector, gorgeous round mitt in her lap. The armored division. She had the black hair and olive skin that went with her Spanish-Italian name. This was slow pitch, so almost none of the bulletproof equipment was necessary, but whatever.

  The Grinders, Mercedes had told me, were sponsored mainly by East Jefferson Abrasives, a company near the waterfront that made everything from emery paper to industrial diamond compounds. It was the kind of place you drive past for decades without having any idea of what goes on inside, and if somebody were to say the name of it, you’d remember having seen it but be unable to place exactly where it is.

  The T-shirts were dark red with white italic lettering. On the front they said, detroit grinders, and on the back, they had the name of the company. I wanted one terribly and was quietly ecstatic when Mercedes tossed me one in exactly my size: unisex medium.

  “OK, let’s get to work,” she shouted. “One lap around the field to warm up.”

  We set off, and being a naturally fast runner, I found myself in front. Not wanting to stand out, I dropped back to the middle of the pack, where half the women weighed fifty pounds more than me.

  Mercedes put us through a few stretches and calisthenics. Then she set up throwing, catching, and running drills. Much grunting and shouting, much slapping of balls into gloves ensued. It shook me up to feel how hard my teammates threw the ball.

  Mercedes saw me sprint from home to first base a couple of times then called me over. “Where’d you learn to run like that? I thought you were having trouble keeping up with me this morning.”

  “The fast-walk thing feels awkward to me. When I can run, I’m OK.”

  “You have like zero ass.”

  “I know. I can’t explain it. I used to get chased in my neighborhood.”

  “And you’re doing it in those concrete shoes.”

  “I have confidence in my Chuck Taylors.”

  “They’re Paleolithic.”

  “I don’t care.” Given my lack of coordination, low-cut shoes would be fatal.

  “Did you know you can steal in slow pitch now?” Mercedes asked.

  “No! Really?”

  “Yeah, they changed the rules. But no leadoffs. I’m gonna need you to get on base.”

  “Right.”

  Someone yelled for her, and she trotted away, saying, “Well, don’t do too much throwing. At our age, we gotta work into it.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. Let’s just say I’m fortyish and leave it at that. If one is anywhere in her forties, she can call herself fortyish—that’s my motto. “Where are you going to play me?” I asked.

  “Left field.”

  There’s debate as to whether left or right field is the least-critical position on the slow-pitch diamond. Most coaches seem to think left is pretty much the loser position, which I don’t take personally.

  “OK,” I said sincerely.

  The other girls were friendly and encouraging. I felt Jackie’s eyes on me a few times during the drills. I tried to impress her, skipping confidently toward ground balls batted by Mercedes. The problem was I utterly failed. The first ball went under my glove; the second I bobbled and never got hold of; and the third—struck harder—glanced off my glove and hit me in the face.

  “I’m OK!” I called, wiping my nose to check for blood. Mercedes shook her head.

  All this brought up blurry memories of the half-assed kids’ league I’d played in. The slower ones among us would just throw their glove at a ground ball, hoping to stop it that way. A couple of the more clueless outfielders picked up the ball and, having no idea where to throw it, simply ran with it to the infield, by which time the bases would be cleared, and the only thing to do was toss it to the pissed-off pitcher.

  It appeared that word was spreading that I was the one who had discovered Abigail Rawson’s body. There was like a little vibe when players would stop and converse between drills, like a ripple effect. I caught people glancing at me. It was all right. Then it struck me to wonder whether any of them thought I might have had something to do with it.

  Lieutenant Sorrel and the rest of the cops had been so matter-of-fact with me, had written down my simple statement, asked a few questions, and I thought that was it.

  Next was batting practice. Even though I told myself to keep my eyes open and watch the ball come to me, I involuntarily closed them every time I swung. Needless to say, I didn’t hit anything.

  In case you’re not a sports nerd who knows this already, the slow-pitched ball must be thrown underhand and must make an arc in the air so that it crosses the plate at a downward angle. To achieve that, the ball cannot be thrown fast
; it’s basically a toss. But you can put spin on it, and the best slow-pitchers do this. That way you have a better chance of getting a batter to foul off a pitch instead of drive it. In fast pitch, the ball must still be thrown underhand, but there’s no rule as to how its angle crosses the plate. It could be going on a rise at fifty miles an hour. You’ve seen those pitchers and their windmill deliveries.

  I liked the dust and the weedy turf, and I liked the physicality of it, and I remembered how much fun it is to just get out and play.

  I started to learn some more first names. The stick-figure water toter was Christy, and I discovered she was the equipment manager. She was evidently pretty heavily OCD, as she avoided eye contact, scurried after balls with a stiff-legged gait, and lined up stuff—whether bats, balls, or water cups—in precise, right-angled groupings.

  Risenda, second base, was a towering black Amazon who had enough body mass to stop everything short of a Greyhound bus plowing into her bag.

  Helen, center field, chubby white girl, wore professional-looking pants and shoes, and scowled in concentration much of the time.

  When I hustled past the third-base line into the parking lot to fetch a stray ball, Jackie intercepted me as I returned.

  “That was you at the light, right?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She took off her sunglasses. Blue eyes, just like I’d speculated. Score one for me. “Well…I’m glad you’re on the team.”

  “Glad to help out. I understand you and Abigail were close. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She looked away. “Thanks. We were mainly…friends.”

  I got one of those back-of-the-neck feelings and turned to see Carmen standing at the edge of the field, staring at us in her body armor. I knew the type: deeply insecure, gotta be a badass. I’d already gotten in her cross-hairs during the sprints, when somebody yelled, “Hey, Carmen, Lillian’s the one you’re gonna have to beat throwing to second!”

  Jackie said, “Mercedes says you’re cool.”

  I shrug-nodded and waited, my pulse accelerating invisibly.

  She said, “Maybe you can help me.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Carmen screamed, “Jackie, get your ass to the mound! We’re gonna play!”

  Jackie said quietly, “Let’s talk later.”

  We trotted in, and Mercedes split everybody into two teams, with my team to hit first.

  Jackie took the mound. It’s a circle, really, as softball mounds aren’t elevated, but everybody called it the mound anyway. Carmen set up in a deep squat behind the plate, her straps and snaps squeaking. To catch in slow pitch, you don’t really have to squat like in baseball, and I’d probably just wear a batting helmet, in case a bat or a foul tip hit me. But Carmen squatted—man, you bet—ready for hard action and resplendent in all her pads. Her thighs didn’t really taper to her knees, they were practically cylindrical.

  The fielders set up with players at first, second, and left-center field. Maggie, the third baseman, beefy and friendly, led off, hit it to right field, and lumbered to second base. The next batter popped out to Jackie, who drifted smoothly toward third base to catch it, her eyes on the ball the whole time.

  My turn. I fully expected to strike out, and I fanned twice, to barely audible grunts of derision from Carmen behind the plate, who swayed distractingly when I set myself for the pitches. Mercedes umped, calling strikes and balls in a strident tone.

  I swung at the next pitch, trying to keep my eyes open but managing only a tight squint. I actually connected, though it was just a weak tip, the ball smacking down in the dirt a few feet in front of the plate and dribbling forward.

  The instant the ball hit the ground, Carmen sprang up, and I knew enough to drop my bat and dash for first anyway, hoping for a wild throw.

  I pumped my legs hard and was almost there when a tremendous pain exploded in the middle of my back. I staggered off the base path, dazed.

  Mercedes ran over. I knew exactly what had happened. “Are you OK?” she said into my face.

  “Sure.” I moved my shoulders around my burning spine. I turned to see the ball on the ground and Carmen standing at the plate with her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry,” she called in a halfhearted voice.

  “That was an accident, right?” said Mercedes.

  “My ass,” I mumbled. I bent over, hands on knees, to let the pain pass. Then I straightened up, took a deep breath, and charged straight at Carmen. To my satisfaction, she panicked, jumping back from the plate, her face startled, her dark-brown eyes wide with fear. I heard gasps from the others, and Mercedes yelled “Hey” or something.

  Carmen recovered and set herself like a little bulldog, but I stopped short of her, smiled politely, picked up the bat, and turned to give it to the next hitter.

  “Smack it good,” I said.

  10

  When practice was over, I lingered near the parking lot, fiddling with the laces on my glove, giving Jackie Quiller a chance to come over. Which she did. “Let me see it,” she said, and as we pretended to discuss a problem with my glove, she asked, “Can you meet me at Florence’s at nine-thirty tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Florence’s is an all-night chrome-and-countertop on Joseph Campau, not far from the Polish bakery where I got paczki every year before Lent. I was a good Catholic in that way. Jelly doughnuts, and plenty of them!

  I went home and undressed, checking the bruise on my back in the mirror. It was already impressive, showing darker over the vertebrae. I showered, changed, fed Raquel, and played with her for a little while. How were we getting on? I don’t know. She was extremely cute, though I knew she’d get much less cute as she got bigger, gained strength, and graduated from scratching harmlessly at my stereo cabinet to demolishing it. She didn’t know the same games Todd and I had enjoyed. Of course. I don’t know how she felt about me. Keeping her in a cage all the time except to take her out like a toy didn’t seem right.

  Media coverage of Abigail Rawson’s murder had ceased. The police were on it, but everybody knew the score with the police. You couldn’t even say their budget was cut, as in past tense. Cop cuts kept happening all the time, part of it from retirement attrition. The Detroit police were stretched over the city as thin as Saran Wrap over a plate of leftovers.

  There’s a difference between following a murder investigation as a journalist and investigating a murder as a journalist. And sometimes there’s a fine line. And sometimes the line is fuzzy, and sometimes it’s bloody. Sometimes you don’t know where it is at all.

  Which is why careful journalists get promoted to the opinion pages, and reckless journalists either win Pulitzers or get fired. Or killed.

  You can’t care a whole lot for your own neck if you’re going to be a real journalist. That’s what I say.

  As I thought about the change in me since I’d killed a person two years ago, it now occurred to me that the change wasn’t so much a greater ability to commit violence; it was that I feared for my own life less.

  Ricky Rosenthal had given me a press credential from the Journal, and I knew he’d pay well if I came up with something compelling. And of course in the journalism biz, outstanding stories lead to more assignments. Yeah, it made sense for me to pursue this one.

  I had a hunch I’d meet up with Lieutenant Sorrel soon, so I didn’t obsess about getting in touch.

  The next logical step was to talk to Abigail’s family then look into the house next door to the Pomeroys’.

  But first, Jackie.

  ----

  She was already sitting in a booth near the jukebox, which was playing some two-chord cowboy song by the Hybrids.

  “Hi,” she said. Jesus, she had a special smile. It flashed out quick, in full, like one of those explosive deep-forest flowers, then went into hiding. She sat tensely, uncomfortably, holding a mug of coffee as if her hands were cold. There were those blue eyes. A damp ponyt
ail trailed over her shoulder, and she had changed into fresh clothes, as I had. As it happened, we both had chosen dark T-shirts and jeans.

  I took a seat.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “I wanted to go home, so that in case Carmen followed me, she’d go away.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “She likes me.”

  “But you don’t like her in the same weirdly possessive way?”

  “Righto.”

  “Despite her sexy chest protector?”

  “Righto.” Wry smile there.

  “Not to hammer on this too much,” I said, “but you two have never been…?”

  “No! No.”

  The waiter came over, a lad with a bouncy walk and a cobra tattoo on his neck. My companion ordered a burger, and I requested a Greek salad, a heel of rye, and iced tea.

  “You got it.” He scooted off.

  Jackie plunged right in. “I understand you’re interested in Abby’s case. Mercedes said you know how to deal with the police and…other stuff.” She held my eyes frankly. “I like your style and I have a good feeling about you. I really need somebody I can trust.”

  “Trust has to be earned. Can’t just give it or take it. Or make it.”

  She nodded nervously.

  I decided to take the initiative. “There are no guarantees to anything. Were you and Abigail lovers?”

  She hesitated, and then I saw a little door open, and she relaxed. “We were at first, but it didn’t work out. We realized we were better as friends than lovers, and we decided to stick with that.” The anxiousness went out of her voice.

  “Gosh, you guys were unusual,” I said. “Most lesbian breakups require huge drama, ongoing angst, and hard feelings for life.”