Authors: Sydney Bauer
Sara picked up a still teary Lauren and got to her feet. She knew she had to make a move here, she just wasn't sure which move to make. ‘Your husband … if you don't mind me asking, what does he do?’
‘Whatever he likes,’ returned Keelie, her face serious before softening into a smile. ‘I'm sorry, that was rude. Markus works the markets.’
‘He's one of those guys who stands in a pit and makes shadow puppets with their hands on the wall?’ Sara played naive.
‘Oh lord, no. He has others do his bidding for him.’
‘Isn't it hard, you know, to make money after the GFC – unless you have a system or some sort of inside knowledge, or …?’
But Keelie was shaking her head. ‘All I know is, Markus knows what he wants and goes out to get it. My husband likes things to be perfect.’ Her eyes flicked toward her children. ‘He likes to own the best, and that saying that money can't buy you everything,’ she cast another look at her kids, ‘take it from me, Sara, it's not true.’ Her brow furrowed before she managed a sad smile and ran her hands down her body in a mock gesture of ‘case in point’. ‘I'm the “new and improved” until a better model comes along. But I signed a pre-nup, so all is good.’ She shoved Anastasia into her stroller before standing to look at Sara once again. ‘You're nice,’ she said then, with a genuine smile on her face.
Sara saw a melancholy there, a loneliness: the girl who started out with nothing and now had everything – or maybe it was the other way around.
‘And your kid is nice too,’ continued Keelie. ‘She has manners. I think in another life we might have been friends.’
‘I'm sure of it,’ said Sara. ‘It was nice to meet you, Keelie.’
‘Same,’ said Keelie as she gestured for the nannies to follow her.
Sara watched as the six of them made their way toward the elevator – the Queens born and bred Keelie, her perfect brood and entourage of two. And then as she held Lauren tight in her arms she understood exactly what was happening. And it filled her with excitement and sent a chill of horror down her spine, all at the very same time.
53
Baltimore, Maryland
‘E
ddie Gaedel,’ said Frank McKay as he wound down the passenger side window to let in the early morning fresh air. Frank and Joe had left Boston at eight the night before, eventually booking into a two-bit Baltimore motel at around 3 am. Their initial calls had told them that truck driver Vincent De Lorenzo was due at the Pandinski Motor Freight trucking company station at 7 am, and they wanted to catch him before he took off on another long haul to god knows where.
Joe took a breath, still buzzing from the four satchels of Nescafé instant he had downed at the discount Step Right Inn. ‘Gaedel,’ he said, knowing there was no point in ignoring Frank's left-of-centre proclamations. ‘The name rings a bell, McKay, but …?’
‘He was a midget,’ said Frank.
‘Of course he was,’ said Joe.
‘A small person – three feet seven.’
‘And this is relevant because …?’
‘Gaedel was famous for his role in a Major League Baseball game in 1951. He was playing for the St Louis Browns, the team that eventually became the –’
‘Baltimore Orioles,’ said Joe, understanding there was some, if only a very loose, connection between their current whereabouts and Frank's soon-to-be-revealed story.
Frank nodded. ‘Gaedel was hired by the Browns' owner, Bill Veeck, to pop out of a papier-mâché cake between games of a double-header to celebrate the American League's fiftieth anniversary. He was wearing pixie slippers and a Browns uniform with the fraction “1/8” on his back – you know, as a publicity stunt, to entertain the crowd. Anyways, what the crowd didn't know was that Veeck had bigger plans for the small man – he'd signed him two days before as a player for the Browns.’
‘The midget played in the Major Leagues?’ said a now confused Joe.
Frank nodded. ‘Against the Detroit Tigers. Gaedel entered the game at the last minute as a pinch hitter for lead-off batter Frank Saucier, and as you'd expect, the umpire and the Tigers' boss immediately had a fit. But Veeck produced Gaedel's contract and Gaedel was allowed to take the bat.’
‘The midget hit the ball,’ said Joe as he took a right onto the freeway, making his way south toward De Lorenzo's trucking station.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Veeck told Gaedel to hold that bat tight to his shoulder – not to take a swing. Even said he'd be up in the stands with a rifle if Gaedel even thought about trying to hit the goddamned ball.’ Frank shook his head with a smile. ‘Anyways, as you might have guessed, the pitcher had all sorts of trouble trying to pitch the ball into Gaedel's strike zone, which was only one and a half inches. So Gaedel plays like a statue, the catcher is on his knees, the pitcher pitches four balls and –’
‘The balls are all high so the midget takes a walk,’ said Joe, who could not help but match Frank's smile.
‘Makes his way to first where he was replaced by pinch-runner Jim Delsing.’
‘That has to be illegal,’ said Joe.
‘Would be now. In fact, as a result of Gaedel's appearance, all contracts must now be approved by the Commissioner of Baseball before a player can appear in a game.’
‘It's a good story, Frank,’ grinned Joe. ‘You pull that one out every time you pass through Baltimore?’ he asked.
‘Baltimore made me remember the story, Chief, but it seems to me you and I could learn a thing or two from this Eddie Gaedel.’
Joe started to see it. ‘The little guy was a surprise?’ he guessed, trying to think like Frank. ‘He got in and did what he had to do before drifting back into obscurity?’
‘Never took the field again,’ confirmed Frank.
‘So you're saying we should play this thing with De Lorenzo all subtle-like.’
‘Might be a good idea not to scare the guy off – just walk up, introduce ourselves all police-like, but then stand still, let him do the talking and see where it goes.’
‘You're saying this guy might be able to take us to first base, but pushing him any further could be a mistake.’
‘He knows what he knows or what he doesn't, and nothing we can say or do will change that. The less we push the more chance we have of getting away with this under the radar.’
‘Like how Gaedel stole that base after crouching under the pitcher's ball.’
‘That's what I was thinking, Chief.’
A grateful Joe smiled again. ‘You got one of these stories for every city in America, Frank?’ he asked as he took the exit and backtracked toward where the directory told him Pandinski's Motor Freight would be.
‘Offhand I'd say no – but I do tend to collect this stuff.’
‘I hadn't noticed,’ grinned Joe.
*
Joe was right. This morning was one for humility.
In fact, as they sat on the clean but somewhat threadbare red fabric sofa, Joe and Frank could not help but feel humbled by the twenty-odd pairs of eyes now looking down on them from every angle in the neat but dated living room.
Joe counted seven statues of Jesus and four of the Virgin Mary – add to that at least nine pictures, holy cards and paintings, and Vincent De Lorenzo and his wife Camilla had a regular shrine happening in their south-eastern Baltimore home, including a clock made out of a china plate from Rome – it had a picture of Pope Paul VI on it, who the lapsed-Catholic Joe recalled was about three or four Popes ago.
‘We are sorry to disturb you like this,’ said Joe after a hospitable Camilla De Lorenzo had set a tray of hot tea and blueberry scones in front of them.
‘Oh there's no need to apologise,’ said Camilla, who, since they had come to the door less than three minutes earlier had managed to rush to the bedroom and change out of her housecoat and into a lavender polka dot dress. Her husband Vincent, who she called Vinnie, had barely moved from his position on the checkered living room armchair, his face tired, his manner depleted, detached.
‘It's not often Vinnie and I get visitors. Vinnie,’ she turned to her husband after pouring Joe and Frank their tea, ‘these nice policemen have come all the way from Boston.’
Her eyes met her husband's then, and in that moment Joe saw a myriad of emotions pass over Camilla De Lorenzo's pale brown eyes – love, concern, regret, pity, hope, fear.
Vincent De Lorenzo nodded. ‘I'm sorry you went all the way to the trucking station. I was meant to be in at seven, but I've been sick – influenza. The long hauls through winter end up taking their toll.’
Joe glanced at Camilla De Lorenzo, who looked as nervous as a mouse in a barn full of cats.
‘Vinnie's had to miss a bit of work lately,’ she said, perhaps wondering if her husband's boss – a Mr Seymour Pandinski – had told them as much. ‘Did you talk to Mr Pandinski?’ she asked, obviously needing to know the worst of it.
Joe nodded. ‘He mentioned your husband had had a time of it,’ he said, stealing a glance at Frank, who gave him the slightest of nods. Joe turned to Vincent. ‘We can only imagine how hard this has been for you Mr De Lorenzo, what with Mr Walker losing his life the way that he did. But from what I am hearing, none of it was your fault. Mr Walker swerved right in front of you. It was an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time. And we completely understand that you –’
‘No offence, Detective,’ said Vincent De Lorenzo, the sweat circles on his wife beater creeping that much further around his chest. ‘I know you policemen have got a job to do, but I gave my statement to the Baltimore police – so I am not sure why two detectives from Boston would be …?’
‘Vinnie,’ began Camilla.
‘No, Cam,’ he said. ‘We have a right to know.’
Joe nodded. ‘Your husband is right, Mrs De Lorenzo,’ he said, turning to a flushed Camilla, ‘he has every right to ask why we are here. You see,’ Joe turned back to face the husband, ‘the man who died, Jim Walker, he left behind a wife and kid and now the family have suffered a second tragedy.’
‘I read the papers,’ interrupted De Lorenzo. ‘The wife had some sort of breakdown and killed the kid.’
Joe knew he was just voicing what everyone in America was thinking. ‘That's to be decided by the courts, Mr De Lorenzo,’ he said, and the man managed a weary nod before falling silent once again.
Joe looked at De Lorenzo. It was obvious the responsibility for Jim Walker's death was sitting thick and heavy on his shoulders. Joe had seen it happen time and time again – a life destroyed because someone was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Vincent De Lorenzo's face was lined with the burden of regret and a large dose of self-loathing – and Joe guessed that he not only blamed himself for Jim Walker's death, but for the series of calamities it put in motion.
Joe leant forward as Camilla De Lorenzo took a seat on the arm of her husband's chair, her hand resting on his shoulder in a gesture of concern and comfort and love. ‘Like I said before, Mr De Lorenzo,’ Joe continued, ‘none of this is your fault. And despite what this might look like, we didn't come here to bust your balls. We just came to ask you if – if there is anything that you might have remembered since you gave your statement to the Baltimore PD – any last-minute detail, any tiny flash of recall. We know you explained that Jim Walker's car crossed over and drove head on into your truck. We don't doubt you did everything you could to avoid the collision, but that it all happened so quickly and Walker left you nowhere to go.’
Camilla De Lorenzo's hand stopped rubbing her husband's shoulder, her fingers lifting ever so slightly before giving him the tiniest of pats. ‘God sent them for a reason, Vinnie,’ she said, talking to her husband but looking directly at Joe. ‘You said holding on to it would kill you – so this is your chance, Vinnie, perhaps your one and only chance to finally pull the thorn from your side.’
Joe glanced at Frank once again. Frank responded by putting down his tea. ‘Mr De Lorenzo,’ Frank began, ‘I've been a cop for as long as I can remember, and over the years I've seen the best and the worst of it – dealt with all sorts of people, the good ones and the bad. And if you asked me what one thing I have learnt for sure, what one piece of wisdom I have garnered from all the crap that I've seen going down around me, it is that there is no running from the truth. People think the truth is their enemy but it's not so, Mr De Lorenzo. The reason truth is chasing you down is because it is your friend and it wants you to make amends. You can't keep denying the truth, Mr De Lorenzo. I can tell you're a good man, and the denial is eating away at you. So my advice to you, sir, for yours and your good wife's sake, is to come clean and tell us what really happened on the night of Jim Walker's death. Not for us – and not even for Jim Walker and what is left of his family – but for yourself, Mr De Lorenzo, for yourself.’
The room fell silent as the clock plate ticked and the heater moaned and Vincent De Lorenzo's dark brown eyes stared steadfastly into Frank's.
De Lorenzo lifted his right hand to place it over his wife's. He squeezed it and looked up at her, a single teardrop falling from his bloodshot left eye, before turning back to Frank and Joe.
‘I wasn't driving the truck,’ he said. ‘It wasn't me that ran him down.’
Joe felt his breath catch, sensing that he, alongside all the religious paraphernalia in the room, was about to bear witness to a very significant truth. ‘It wasn't you?’ he asked.
De Lorenzo shook his head. ‘I was meant to be on that long haul to Augusta but I …’ he hesitated, ‘two days before the job my brother turned up out of the blue. Marco is a nomad – a drifter who dips in and out of our lives depending on the mood that strikes him and how much money he needs.
‘Marco said he was jammed up – that he owed some bad people some serious money and he needed to pay them back or he might not live to regret it. Me and Camilla,’ he squeezed his wife's hand once again, ‘we've helped Marco out on more than one occasion and while we know helping family is important, and we certainly didn't want to see Marco run into any serious kinda trouble, we didn't have the two grand he needed.’
Joe nodded. ‘I understand, Mr De Lorenzo. Please go on.’
‘Well, the idea came to me. The next haul north was going to coincide with a cash bonus that was waiting for me in Maine. Pandinski has an office up there that handles their accounts. He gives the drivers a regular pay packet and bonuses on the side depending on the length and difficulty of their hauls. The trip was a one-way job because another driver was taking that truck west to Minnesota, so I was going to have to train it back in any case, and I thought that – you know, it was a chance to get Marco the cash and maybe a new start up north.’
‘So it was Marco who drove the truck – and collided with Walker?’ said Frank, needing De Lorenzo to confirm it.
De Lorenzo nodded. ‘Yes. We got a call, late, or more to the point, early – 2 am. It was Marco. He was on his cell. He said he was in an accident, that some car ran into him.’
‘He said the car ran into him, not the other way around?’ said a slightly disappointed Joe, knowing this revelation could lead them nowhere, if De Lorenzo's brother's story was just a mirror image of his own.
De Lorenzo nodded. ‘I jumped in my utility and drove out to the crash scene. It wasn't far from here, he'd only made it a few miles out of town when … well … I found Marco on the side of the road, confused, and the other car, the one belonging to the man named Walker, it was ablaze, a real inferno. It stank of gasoline. The flames were twenty feet high.’ De Lorenzo took a breath. ‘My brother said that his nerves were playing up, that he'd had a drink to calm them, that if he got arrested he'd go down for driving under the influence and the accident would be put on him, even if it was the other guy who drove over to his side of the highway.’
‘You and your brother swapped places? Your brother left in your utility?’
De Lorenzo nodded. ‘What other choice did I have? I knew I'd be fired for allowing my brother to take the job. My brother has a record, he would have gone away for a very long time.’
‘So you waited for the police to arrive and you told them exactly what your brother had told you – that the driver swerved over to the wrong side of the road?’
De Lorenzo nodded again. ‘The police said the evidence – you know, the crime scene stuff – confirmed it, so whatever else, Marco was telling the truth.’