Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle (7 page)

“How old are you, Ginny?”

“Four and a half.”

Was 4½ old enough to go into a stall by herself and do her stuff?

“Do you have any tricky buttons or anything?” I asked. “Can you pee all by yourself?”

“Mommy says tinkle.”

“Can you tinkle by yourself?”

“'Course I can. I'm not a
baby
.”

“Number six is free. Hey, there, Officer Carlyle.”

“Just Carlotta, Ms. Andrews.”

“Florrie to you, and who's this little darlin'?”

“Picked her up outside. Name's Ginny.”

“Ginny, you lake number four, right over here.”

I was dispatched to number 17, where I returned the beer, wondering how in hell Florrie had identified me without lifting her head or missing a beat on the numbers. I met up with Ginny talking with Florrie, and we washed quickly. Everybody moves quickly in there, because they want to get out. It's a sty, exhibit A for those who favor a new Fenway Park. Me, I think they need to renovate the bathrooms.

Moochie wasn't waiting.

“Did Uncle Marty give you your ticket stub, Ginny?”

She gave me blank blue eyes. I swiveled and surveyed the crowd: Fans hurrying to their seats, laden with junk food; smokers leaning against the walls, watching the teenage girls, tank-topped and tightly jeaned, testing their power by wiggling their hips. There was no line outside the nearby men's room. Maybe Moochie was in there. Maybe he'd come out the door right now.

Nope.

Ginny's damp hand tugged me down to the level of her mouth.

“Can I have cotton candy? Pink?”

“Does your mom let you cat that stuff?”

“Unkah Mahty promised.”

While we waited in line, I kept an eye peeled for Moochie. He'd been wearing a plaid shirt over a white tee, jeans, a bright-yellow Harvester cap.

“Ginny, do you remember where you were sitting?”

She twisted her mouth in concentration. “Near the man with the big red finger.”

They sell them at souvenir stands: Big red styrofoam “We're number one” fingers. You see them waving all over the stands.

I saw Moochie out of the corner of one eye, opened my mouth to call his name, shut it quickly.

“Ginny, come with me.”

“I want cotton candy!”

“I'll get you two cotton candies. Later. Promise.” I reached down and picked her up. Her bracelets jangled. “Whoa, how much do you weigh?”

“I'm not fat!”

She wasn't. I pushed my way into the bathroom via the exit door, past nasty glances from the waiting line.

“Florrie, keep an eye on her, OK?”

By the time I pushed my way out, I'd lost him. I was standing on tiptoe, calculating the best way to get help from security, when I saw the top of Moochie's hat disappear down the runway, a bad-news bum on either side, one behind him, probably holding a blade.

My hands rummaged my backpack for a weapon. Not a gun. No way would I bring a firearm to Fenway, what with seats glued together like kernels of corn. While I searched, I gave chase. Not that Moochie was a prince, but if they croaked Unkah Mahty under the stands, I'd be stuck explaining it to little Ginny.

Fenway Security used to wear navy blazers and stick out like pimples. Now they wear khakis and do the background fade. Where the hell were they? My fingers found a cylinder and yanked out a flashlight, too big for brass knucks, too small for much else. I shoved it back.

A vendor strode by, waving a 6-foot-long stick dotted with pastel blobs of cotton candy. I grabbed it and ran.

The goon squad was hustling Moochie toward an exit. I flanked them on the left, whirled, and thrust the cotton-candy stick into the guts of the two advance men. The knife man, temporarily confused—surely a woman wouldn't—turned to help out his buddies. I spun Mooch around, hand on his shoulder, and yelled: “Run!”

I knew he was fast, because I'd chased him, but this was the first time Moochie and I had sped together with a common goal: to lose the three goombahs. Security's got eyes, I told myself as I raced by a souvenir stand; they've got walkie-talkies. Help was on the …

“This way!” Moochie grabbed my hand and yanked. We careened up an alley and emerged in the lower right-field box seats, half-blinded by sunlight, plunging down shallow steps toward the playing field.

“Get security!” I hollered to an usher.

“Hell,” he screamed after me, “I called 'em twice. They got fights all over the stands. Damn Yankees, what do they expect?”

Our pursuers weren't as dumb as I'd hoped. They split their forces, two and one, blocking retreat or advance. I turned to Mooch, but before I could speak, he vaulted the fence into what the broadcasters call “canvas alley,” near where they store the tarp used to cover the field when it rains.

OK, Mooch! The ground crew would be there, burly guys on speaking terms with security. I followed as fast as I could. The outlook seemed to be brightening, when one of the goombahs on our tail got a bright idea.

“He stole my wallet!” he yelled. “Stop him!”

We were running like crazy and looked guilty as hell.

“What did you steal, Mooch?” I addressed his fleeing back.

The ground crew was trying to stop us, but Mooch still had tricks in his bag. He hit the floor and rolled like a barrel, tripping a crew member. Another one seized him; he squirmed but stayed stuck. I saw Bozo the Knife close his hand over Moochic's collar.

“Cough it up.” He was red-faced. “Punk, you better have every single—”

Moochie spat, and the other guy punched. Moochie kicked, and the other guy danced, holding onto his knee and jumping around in pain. We had a round of free-for-all bare-knuckle boxing, some fans disapproving, more standing and cheering. Someone raised the universal rallying cry: “Yankees suck! Yankees suck!”

My hand finally found the right cylinder, different in shape and heft. I let fly with as generous a spray as my finger could coax from the can. The knife guy bent double.

“She maced me!”

Hairspray's better than mace any day, plus you don't need a license for it.

“Now you did it. They'll kill me,” Moochie said.

Can you believe it? I'm trying to help the guy, and he turns on me.

“Go back to your buddies, then. Give 'em what they want.”

“I ain't got nothin' what's theirs.”

“Then what …”

“They'll kill me!”

I was thinking maybe I'd help them, when Moochie bounded over the fence and headed screaming toward the pitcher's mound. He stared back over his shoulder. I quickly glanced around and understood why. Bozo had traded the knife for a handgun. His eyes were streaming tears, and his aim was less than steady.

I followed Moochie's lead. Up and over. Best and quickest way to attract a cop at Fenway: jump onto the sacred field.

The grass was so green, so seamlessly, achingly green. I zig-zagged, racing for the bullpen. Damn idiot wouldn't fire in front of 33,000 witnesses.

Cops poured out of the visitors' dugout, out of the home bullpen.

“Wow,” Moochie said. “Ah'm go in' ovah, shake hands wit No-mah.”

I tackled him, and the crowd roared.

“Stay put, moron.” My sentiments exactly, but the words belonged to a cop.

“Watch out!” I said. “The other guy had a gun.”

“Shut up. Ya gonna come quietly, or we gotta carry ya?”

Surrounded by 20 cops, I felt as safe as the president. Thank God one of them recognized me as they hustled us into the stands.

“Hey, you lose a bet, Carlyle?” I'd never been so glad to see Kevin Devine in my life. His round beefy face looked downright handsome.

“You know her?” the big cop behind me asked.

“Private heat.”

“Low-grade felon. Jumped the freakin' fence.”

“Kevin, tell this genius to let me talk.”

“No excuses for jumping the fence.” The big cop's jaw looked like he'd smiled once, years ago.

I stared him down. “Where's your day job?”

“D-4.”

I raised my voice. “Anybody here work Majors?”

“Me. I do. What?”

I turned the charm on a middle-aged guy with a crew cut. “Get this hard case to cut me some slack, and I'll give you a great collar.”

Moochie picked that moment to say: “Hey, wheah's da kid? Whadja do wit da kid?”

I ignored him in favor of the crew cut. “You know those diamond jobs? The coin job last week?”

“Him?” He shot Moochie a look.

“Yep. Meet the dumbest member of the gang.”

Moochie tried to grin. “Hey, Cahlodda, that's a good one. Hey, officer, she don' know what she's talking …”

“He's got the stuff,” I assured the cop.

“On him?”

“Yous c'n search me.” Mooch lifted both arms in surrender.

I said, “Why don't we go get little Ginny first?”

“Nah, let her wait,” Moochie said quickly. “I don wan' her see me like dis, wit cops and all.”

“What's your name?” I asked the crew-cut cop.

“Brady. Harry.”

“Well, Harry Brady, there's a little girl in the bathroom with Florrie Andrews. Must be carrying 20 pounds of metal in her pants.”

Moochic made a noise like a punctured tire.

I rounded on him. “What the hell kind of uncle are you, Moochie? Planting stolen merchandise on your niece.”

“Howdja …?”

“I lifted her up. She's only 4 years old!”

Moochic shuffled a minute, staring at his feet. When it came, his voice was low, confidential. “OK, so how long ya figure I'll be insider?”

It was almost like Moochic didn't mind getting nabbed, not on a classy coin job.

When a policewoman searched little Ginny, she found a quarter of Chan Liu's missing coins stashed in plastic bags in her saggy pockets. So I didn't keep my evening appointment in Chinatown, and I didn't get the job—but I collected a sizable reward, and the Sox won, 2-1, 11 innings.

Doesn't get any better than that.

About the Author

Linda Barnes is the award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries. Her witty private-investigator heroine has been hailed as “a true original” by Sue Grafton. Barnes is also the author of the Michael Spraggue Mysteries and a stand-alone novel,
The Perfect Ghost
.

A winner of the Anthony Award and a finalist for the Edgar and Shamus Awards, Barnes lives in the Boston area with her husband and son. Visit her at
www.lindabarnes.com
.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Linda Appleblatt Barnes

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1453-3

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

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