Hot as Hades out here, ya’ll. Cold beer . . . cold Cokes.” The hawker leaned in to snag the twenty being passed over to him. “You know what it is,” he called. “You know what it is.”
The hawker had freckled skin and grizzled red hair, whale-shaped eyes shut tight at the corners. A scar ran beneath the pouch of his left eye. His upper arms were thick with muscle, and his body was agile, making it hard to pin down his age. He passed drinks over the heads of the fans in front of Billy.
Billy sat eight rows up and to the right of the visitors’ dugout at AutoZone Park, home of the AAA minor league Redbirds. Whiffs of barbecued nachos floated through the stands. Overhead, the evening sky softened into a curved slice of pale blue.
In baseball there’s a winner and a loser. You’re safe, or you’re out. Nothing in his life had been that clear-cut since Lou died.
The scoreboard showed the Tacoma Rainiers ahead by one. The Redbirds were at bat in the bottom of the second. The batter scuffed the dirt then spat in his batting gloves and clapped his hands together. He was putting on a show, more for the fans than for the left-handed pitcher. He swung late at the pitch and lifted the ball along the first-base line, a curving foul that arced into the dugout section where Billy sat. Everyone, including Billy, jumped to their feet with their hands up. In the aisle the hawker whipped a glove from under his box, reached over a couple of people, and snagged the ball. In one fluid motion, he fired the ball to the first baseman as if completing a cutoff play. Then with a quiet smile he stowed his glove under the box and continued down the steps.
“Cold beer . . . cold Cokes.”
This guy was no fan, Billy thought. He knew his way around a ball field.
In baseball you move up or you move on. The problem is, some folks can’t move on. Augie had made that point a couple of hours ago at Rock of Ages. For the hawker, that meant selling beer at the ballpark so he could still yell at the umps and catch foul balls. Billy was afraid Augie wouldn’t let go, either. He was about to drive the good things out of his life in pursuit of answers about his mother’s death he could never find.
It was hard to believe Augie had stolen one of the photographs. He must have taken it when J.J. made that ruckus at the door at Bardog. The photo was evidence in a possible homicide. Augie knew that. Now Billy would have to confront him and get the photograph back, which could be very messy depending on Augie’s state of mind at the time.
Warm air blew off the field and into the stands. Two solo homers put the Redbirds up by one at the bottom of the third. The crowd hooted and clapped, humiliating the Rainiers’ ace pitcher. He whipped one high and inside to the next batter, a little chin music.
Billy preferred AAA ball to the animal-like proficiency of the major league players. He liked watching these guys play their hearts out for a chance to move up to the majors. AAA was still a field of dreams.
He thought about Frankie. She wanted to skip the years in burglary and jump straight to homicide. She dreamed of moving to the majors and wanted him to help her get there.
But Mz. Police Goddess was sitting on a big damned secret and hadn’t trusted him enough to bring it up. With one call to Dave Jansen, he could find out about the woman at the CJC, but what was the point? A partner who can’t be honest with herself wouldn’t be honest with him. He’d been down that road.
On the other hand, she had a damned fine detective’s eye. Her analysis of the photos was impressive, and she’d thought to count the pictures. A touch of compulsion was valuable in this business. However, loyalty was essential.
The twenty-four-foot-tall digital screen flashed photos and stats of the players while the sound system switched between ballpark organ music and classic rock and roll. The kiss cam cut to the crowd, flashing live shots of couples on the screen. The announcer encouraged them to show a little love. Some couples kissed. One woman pointed at the man beside her and mouthed, “He’s my brother.”
The camera panned past a familiar face, swung back, and locked in. Billy’s stomach lurched. Augie’s sullen face loomed on the screen, his ball cap hanging cockeyed off his head. Billy scoured the stands and finally spotted him four rows up, at the club level. He was in the aisle, faced off with a teenage hawker who had a popcorn tray slung around his neck. The kid looked panicked, searching for a way to escape. Something bad was happening, and Billy couldn’t get there in time to stop it.
“We have a celebrity here tonight,” the announcer boomed. “The Redbirds’ own Augie Poston, who went on to be the greatest catcher ever to play for the Saint Louis Cards.”
The camera zoomed in. A cheer went up with the crowd’s recognition of their old hero, the man who’d led the Redbirds minor league team to three championships.
“Hey, hey, Augie,” the announcer called.
“HEY, HEY, AUGIE,” the crowd repeated.
“Hey, hey, Augie, give us a smile!” The camera pulled back as Augie shoved the kid’s shoulders, upending him onto the laps of the people seated on the aisle. Popcorn flew everywhere, like a scene out of a slapstick movie. A burly guy grabbed Augie from behind to stop him from going after the kid a second time.
“Go to camera four,” the announcer choked into his mike. “Cut to commercial, damn it. Now!”
Music blasted through the speakers as two security guards ran down the steps toward Augie. The screen flipped to blue, followed by the image of a Ford pickup flying through the air.
Dumbstruck fans watched as the guards wrestled Augie up the steps with him fighting all the way. Halfway up, a woman on the aisle threw her drink in Augie’s face. Another dumped a bucket of popcorn on his head. The crowd erupted in whistles and catcalls.
Billy knew park management wouldn’t escalate the situation by calling the cops, but they would toss Augie out on his ass. Augie would then go ballistic and do something else just as crazy.
Familiar with the ballpark’s back corridors, he ran down a flight of steps to a side door that exited onto the street. A group of kids were out in front of the stadium, staring through the courtyard’s iron bars. Billy hurried over, knowing they must be watching Augie.
One guard had a hand on Augie’s shoulder while the other patted him down from behind for weapons. Satisfied, the second guard shoved Augie toward the gate and kept shoving until Augie staggered through the turnstile onto the brick apron in front of the ticket office and stood with his head hanging. He could’ve been a drunk. He could’ve been a pervert. He could’ve been a whack job. He looked like anything but a sports hero.
The guard hollered through the gate at his back. “Ya bum. You were great. Now you’re an embarrassment.”
“Ya bum,” echoed one of the kids on the sidewalk.
“HEY, HEY, Augie. HEY, HEY, Augie, HEY, HEY, Augie,” the gang jeered, and ran past him laughing.
Billy watched in horror as Augie came to life and took a roundhouse swing at the nearest kid. He barely missed. The kid jumped sideways and ran up the street, checking over his shoulder to see if Augie was coming after him.
Augie was still a powerful man. It would have been a hell of a wallop if he had connected.
He’d wrecked Billy’s uncle’s Chevy pickup and occasionally got out of hand in public, but Billy could live with those downsides of his condition. Taking a swing at a kid? That took Augie from mentally ill to dangerous.
Teeth gritted, he walked toward Augie. “What the hell? You just tried to deck a twelve-year-old.”
Augie glanced around as if bewildered to find that he was standing on the street. “I didn’t do that.”
“You did, asshole,” Billy shouted. Tourists walking by stopped to watch. “You’re losing it. You’re breaking down.”
“Get off my back,” Augie shouted, and stomped toward the taco cart stationed at the corner.
Billy yelled after him, “You’ll never get back in this ballpark. Or any other park.”
Augie turned around, stricken. “You’ve never screwed up? What about that little girl . . . Rebecca Jane? The judge almost beat her to death because of you.”
The girl’s name startled him into silence. Shame, adrenaline, cold outrage surged through him. “This is about you, jerk-ass, not me and not Lou. You’re a nutcase, a waste of skin.”
Augie’s features sagged. He wheeled around to go and instead smashed into the side of the taco cart. The cart rocked. The vendor grabbed the handle and overcorrected it. Hot cheese sauce spilled down Augie’s bare legs. He yelped in pain and snatched off his cap to squeegee the steaming cheese off his shins.
The vendor began yelling in Spanish and pointed at Augie. “Su culpa! Su culpa! His fault!”
“Oh, shit. Hang on, Poston,” Billy said, rushing toward Augie.
“No,” Augie spat. “No, no, no.” He dropped his cap, reached for a Fanta bottle on the cart, and smashed the glass bottom on the cart’s leg. Suddenly Augie was pointing the jagged end toward Billy, his eyes hooded and empty of awareness.
Billy stepped back, hands raised. “Put that down, bud,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.
Augie waved the bottle in front of him and lunged. Billy took a step back and felt for his SIG, forgetting he wasn’t carrying.
Augie dropped low and charged. Billy sidestepped and shoved Augie hard as he passed. Augie tripped, barreled forward, and crashed headfirst into a lamppost. His knees collapsed under him, and he hit the ground, rolling onto his side. He pulled himself up to crawl to the curb and sat with his head in his hands.
The cop in Billy took over. He kicked the bottle out of reach and squatted on his heels beside Augie, examining under the streetlight the goose egg already beginning to bulge on his forehead. Could be a simple hematoma, could be an internal brain bleed.
“We’re going to The MED and get you checked.”
Augie leered. He swung a wild punch that caught Billy on the side of the mouth and knocked him on his butt.
Hand on his throbbing lip, he struggled to his feet, feeling like the parent of a self-destructive kid. At some point you can’t protect them or yourself. You watch helplessly as they destroy everything reasonable in life.
“First stop is The MED,” Billy said. “Then we’re going to your place and get the photo you stole from me. Then you and me, we’re done.”
Augie got to his feet, suddenly seeming steady. He was swimming in his own waters now, a momentary return to sanity. “I may be a waste of skin, but I have something to prove. I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”
A cab cruised up the street. Billy waved it down, but Augie was already striding away. He was having none of it.
Son of a bitch, Billy thought. That’s enough. He wasn’t about to drag Augie to the ER.
“This isn’t over,” he called out, thinking about the photo.
Augie turned and shot him the finger. “Like you said, Able, we’re done. I got business to handle.”
Augie’s phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and walked into the muggy darkness.