The Best American Mystery Stories 2002

Michael Connelly Two-Bagger

From Murderers’ Row

The bus was forty minutes late.

Stilwell and Harwick waited in a six-year-old Volvo at the curb next to the McDonald’s a block from the depot. Stilwell, the driver, chose the spot because he was betting that Vachon would walk down to the McDonald’s after getting off the bus. They would begin the tail from there.

“These guys, they been in stir four, five years, they get out and want to get drunk and laid in that order,” Stilwell had told Harwick. “But something happens when they get off the freedom bus and see the golden arches waiting for them down the block. Quarter Pounder and fries, ketchup. Man, they miss that shit in prison.”

Harwick smiled.

“I always wondered what happened with real rich guys, you know? Guys who grew up poor, eatin’ fast food, but then made so much money that money doesn’t mean anything. Bill Gates, guys like that. You think they still go to McDonald’s for a grease fix every now and then?”

“In disguise maybe,” Stilwell suggested. “I don’t think they drive up in their limos or anything.”

“Yeah, probably.”

It was new partner banter. It was their first day together. For Harwick it was also his first day in GIU. Stilwell was the senior partner. The veterano. They were working one of his jackets.

After forty-five minutes and no bus, Stilwell said, “So what do you want to ask me? You want to ask me about my partner, go ahead.”

“Well, why’d he bug?”

“Couldn’t take the intensity.”

“Since I heard he went into special weapons I assume you’re talking about your intensity, not the gig’s.”

“Have to ask him. I’ve had three partners in five years. You’re number four.”

“Lucky number four. Next question, what are we doing right now?”

“Waiting on the bus from Corcoran.”

“I already got that part.”

“A meth cook named Eugene Vachon is on it. We’re going to follow him, see who he sees.”

“Uh huh.”

Harwick waited for more. He kept his eyes on the bus depot a half a block up Vine. Eventually, Stilwell reached up to the visor and took a stack of photos out from a rubber band. He looked through them until he found the one he wanted and handed it to Harwick.

“That’s him. Four years ago. They call him Milky.”

The photo was of a man in his early thirties with bone-white hair that appeared to be pulled together in back in a ponytail. His skin was as white as a new lampshade and his eyes were the light blue of washed-out denim.

“Edgar Winters,” Harwick said.

“What?”

“Remember that guy? He was like an albino rock star in the seventies. Looked just like this guy. He had a brother, Johnny. Maybe he was the albino.”

“Missed it.”

“So what’s Milky’s deal? If you’re on him, he must be Road Saints, right?”

“He’s on the bubble. He was cooking for them but never got his colors. Then he got popped and went to The Cork for a nickel. He’s got to crack an egg now if he wants in. And from what I hear, he wants in.”

“Meaning whack somebody?”

“Meaning whack somebody.”

Stilwell explained how the Gang Intelligence Unit kept contacts with intelligence officers at prisons all over California. One such contact provided information on Vachon. Milky had been protected by incarcerated members of the Road Saints during his five-year stay at Corcoran State Penitentiary.

As a form of repayment for that protection as well as a tariff for his admittance to formal membership in the motorcycle gang turned prison and drug organization, Vachon would perform a contract hit upon his release.

Harwick nodded.

“You’re the resident expert on the Saints, so it goes to you. Got that. Who is the target?”

“That’s the mystery we’re going to solve. We’re going to follow Milky and see if we can find that out. He might not even know himself right now. This could be an in-house thing or a subcontract job the Saints took on. A tradeoff with the blacks or the eMe. You never know. Milky might not have his orders yet. All we know is that he’s been tapped.”

“And we’re going to step in if we get the chance.”

“When we get the chance.”

“When we get the chance.”

Stilwell handed the whole stack of photos to Harwick.

“That’s the Saints’ active membership. By active I mean not incarcerated. Any one of them could be the target. They’re not above going after their own. The Saints are run by a guy named Sonny Mitchell who’s a lifer up at Ironwood. Any time anybody on the outside acts up, talks about changing the leadership, maybe bringing it outside the walls, then Sonny has him cut down. Helps keep people in line.”

“How’s he get the word from Ironwood to Milky over at Corcoran?”

“The women. Sonny gets conjugals. He tells his wife, probably right in the middle of giving her a pop. She leaves, tells one of the wives visiting her man in The Cork. It goes like that.”

“You got it down, man. How long’ve you been working these guys?”

“Coming up on five years. Long time.”

“Why didn’t you ever rotate out?”

Stilwell straightened up behind the wheel and ignored the question.

“There’s the bus.”

Stilwell had been right. Milky Vachon’s first stop after getting off the bus was the McDonald’s. He ate two Quarter Pounders and went back to the counter twice for ketchup for his french fries.

Stilwell and Harwick went in a side door and slipped into a booth positioned behind Vachon’s back. Stilwell said he had never met Vachon but that he needed to take precautions because it was likely Vachon had seen his photo. The Saints had their own intelligence net and, after all, Stilwell had been assigned full time to the gang for half a decade.

When Vachon went to the counter for ketchup for the second time, Stilwell noticed that there was an envelope sticking out of the back pocket of his blue jeans. He told Harwick that he was curious about it.

“Most of the time these guys get out, they want no reminders of where they’ve been,” he whispered across the table. “They leave letters, photos, books, everything behind. That letter, that must mean something. I’m not talking sentimental. I mean it means something.”

He thought a moment and nodded to himself.

“I’m gonna go out, see if I can set up a shake. You stay here. When he starts wrapping up his trash come on out. If I’m not back in time I’ll find you. If I don’t, use the rover.”

Stilwell called sheriff’s dispatch and had them contact LAPD to send a car. He arranged to meet the car around the corner from the McDonald’s so their conference wouldn’t be seen by Vachon.

It took almost ten minutes for a black and white to show. The uniformed officer pulled the car up next to Stilwell’s Volvo, driver’s window to driver’s window.

“Stilwell?”

“That’s me.”

He pulled a badge out of his shirt. It was on a chain around his neck. Also hung on the chain was a gold 7 about the size of a thumbnail.

“Ortiz. What can I do for you?”

“Around the corner my partner’s keeping an eye on a guy just off the bus from Corcoran. I need to shake him. He’s got an envelope in his back pocket. I’d like to know everything there is to know about it.”

Ortiz nodded. He was about twenty-five, with the kind of haircut that left the sides of his head nearly shaved and a healthy inch of hair on the top. He had one wrist on the top of the wheel, and he drummed his fingertips on the dashboard.

“What was he up there for?”

“Cooking crystal meth for the Road Saints.”

Ortiz picked up the rhythm with his fingers.

“He going to go easy? I’m by myself, in case you didn’t notice.”

“At the moment, he should be easy. Like I said, he just got back on the ground. Just give him a kick in the pants, tell him you don’t want him on your beat. That ought to do it. My partner and I will have your back. You’ll be safe.”

“Okay. You going to point him out?”

“He’s an albino with a ponytail. Like that Edgar Winters guy.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. You can’t miss him.”

“All right. Meet back here after?”

“Yeah. And thanks.”

Ortiz pulled away first and Stilwell watched him go. He then followed and turned the corner. He saw Harwick standing on the curb outside the McDonald’s. Moving north on foot a half a block away was Vachon.

Stilwell pulled to a stop next to Harwick, and his new partner got in the Volvo.

“I was wondering where you were.”

“Forgot to turn on my rover.”

“Is that the shake car just went by?”

“That’s it.”

They watched in silence as the black and white pulled to the curb next to Vachon and Ortiz stepped out. The patrolmen signaled Vachon to the hood of the cruiser and the ex-convict assumed the position without protest.

Stilwell leaned across to the glove compartment and got out a small pair of field glasses and used them to watch the shakedown.

Ortiz leaned Vachon over the hood and patted him down. He held him in that position with a forearm on his back. After checking him for weapons and coming up empty, Ortiz pulled the white envelope out of Vachon’s back pocket.

With his body leaned over the hood, Vachon could not see what Ortiz was doing. With one hand Ortiz was able to open the envelope and look inside. He studied the contents for a long moment but did not remove them. He then returned the envelope to the man’s back pocket.

“Can you see what it is?” Harwick asked.

“No. Whatever it was, the cop looked at it in the envelope.”

Stilwell continued to watch through the field glasses. Ortiz had now let Vachon stand up and was talking to him face to face. Ortiz’s arms were folded in front of him, and his body language suggested he was attempting to intimidate Vachon. He was telling him to get off his beat. It looked pretty routine. Ortiz was good.

After a few moments Ortiz used a hand signal to tell Vachon to move on. He then returned to his car.

“All right, you get back out and stay with Milky. I’ll go talk to the cop and come back for you.”

“Gotcha.”

Ten minutes later the Volvo pulled up next to Harwick at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Harwick climbed back in.

“It was a ticket to a Dodgers game,” Stilwell said. “Tonight’s game.”

“In the envelope? Just a ticket to the game?”

“That’s it. Outside was his address at Corcoran. With a return that was smeared. Not recognizable. Postmark was Palmdale, mailed eight days ago. Inside was just the one ticket. Reserve level, section eleven, row K, seat one. By the way, where is Vachon?”

“Across the street. The porno palace. I guess he’s looking for—”

“That place has a back door.”

Stilwell was out of the car before he finished the sentence. He darted across the street in front of traffic and through the beaded curtain at the entrance to the adult video arcade.

Harwick followed but at a reduced pace. By the time he had entered the arcade Stilwell had already swept through the video and adult novelty showroom and was in the back hallway, slapping back the curtains of the private video viewing booths. There was no sign of Vachon.

Stilwell moved to the back door, pushed it open, and came out into a rear alley. He looked both ways and did not see Vachon. A young couple, both with ample piercings and drug-glazed eyes, leaned against a dumpster. Stilwell approached them.

“Did you just see a guy come this way a few seconds ago? White guy with white hair. An albino. You couldn’t miss him.”

They both giggled and one mentioned something about seeing a white rabbit going down a hole.

They were useless and Stilwell knew it. He took one last look around the alley, wondering if Vachon had merely been taking precautions when he ducked through the porno house, or if he had seen Stilwell or Harwick tailing him. He knew a third possibility, that Vachon had been spooked by the shakedown and decided to disappear, was also to be considered.

Harwick stepped through the back door into the alley. Stilwell glared at him, and Harwick averted his eyes.

“Know what I heard about you, Harwick? That you’re going to night school.”

He didn’t mean it literally. It was a cop expression. Going to night school meant you wanted to be somewhere else. Not the street, not in the game. You were thinking about your next move, not the present mission.

“That’s bullshit,” Harwick said. “What was I supposed to do? You left me hanging. What if I covered the back? He could’ve walked out the front.”

The junkies laughed, amused by the angry exchange of the cops.

Stilwell started walking out of the alley, back toward Vine, where he had left the car.

“Look, don’t worry,” Harwick said. “We have the game tonight. We’ll get back on him there.”

Stilwell checked his watch. It was almost five. He called back without looking at Harwick.

“And it might be too late by then.”

At the parking gate to Dodger Stadium, the woman in the booth asked to see their tickets. Stilwell said they didn’t have tickets.

“Well, we’re not allowed to let you in without tickets. Tonight’s game is sold out and we can’t allow people to park without tickets for the game.”

Before Stilwell could react Harwick leaned over to look up at the woman.

“Sold out? The Dodgers aren’t going anywhere. What is it, beach towel night?”

“No, it’s Mark McGwire.”

Harwick leaned back over to his side.

“All right, McGwire!”

Stilwell pulled his badge out of his shirt.

“Sheriffs deputies, ma’am. We working. We need to go in.”

She reached back into the booth and got a clipboard. She asked Stilwell his name and told him to hold in place while she called the stadium security office. While they waited, cars backed up behind them and a few drivers honked their horns.

Stilwell checked his watch. It was forty minutes until game time.

“What’s the hurry?”

“BP.”

Stilwell looked over at Harwick.

“What?”

“Batting practice. They want to see McGwire hit a few fungoes out of the park before the game. You know who Mark McGwire is, don’t you?”

Stilwell turned to look at the woman in the both. It was taking a long time.

“Yes, I know who he is. I was here at the stadium in ’eighty-eight. He wasn’t so hot then.”

“The series? Did you see Gibson’s homer?”

“I was here.”

“So cool! So was I!”

Stilwell turned to look at him.

“You were here? Game one, ninth inning? You saw him hit it?”

The doubt was evident in his voice.

“I was here,” Harwick protested. “Best fucking sports moment I’ve ever seen.”

Stilwell just looked at him.

“What? I was here!”

“Sir?”

Stilwell turned back to the woman. She handed him a parking pass.

“That’s for lot seven. Park there and then go to the field level gates and ask for Mr. Houghton. He’s in charge of security and he’ll determine if you can enter. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

As the Volvo went through the gate it was hit with a volley of horns for good measure.

“So you’re a baseball fan,” Harwick said. “I didn’t know that.”

“You don’t know a lot about me.”

“Well, you went to the World Series. I think that makes you a fan.”

“I was a fan. Not anymore.”

Harwick was silent while he thought about that. Stilwell was busy looking for lot 7. They were on a road that circled the stadium with the parking lots on either side denoted by large baseballs with numbers painted on them. The numbers weren’t in an order he understood.

“What happened?” Harwick finally asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ ”

“They say baseball is a metaphor for life. If you fall out of love with baseball you fall out of love with life.”

“Fuck that shit.”

Stilwell felt his face burning. Finally, he saw the baseball with the orange seven painted on it. A dull emptiness came into his chest as he looked at the number. An ache that he vanquished by speeding up to the lot entrance and handing the lot monitor his pass.

“Anywhere,” the monitor said. “But slow it down.”

Stilwell drove in, circled around, and took the space closest to the exit so they could get out quickly.

“If we catch up with Milky here it’s going to be a goddamn nightmare following him out,” he said as he turned the car off.

“We’ll figure it out,” Harwick said. “So what happened?”

Stilwell opened the door and was about to get out. Instead, he turned back to his partner.

“I lost my reason to love the game, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”

He was about to get out again when Harwick stopped him once more.

“What happened? Tell me. We’re partners.”

Stilwell put both hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead.

“I used to take my kid, all right? I used to take him all the time. Five years old and I took him to a World Series game. He saw Gibson’s homer, man. We were out there, right-field bleachers, back row. Only tickets I could get. That would be a story to tell when he grew up. A lot of people in this town lie about it, say they were here, say they saw it...”

He stopped there, but Harwick made no move to get out. He waited.

“But I lost him. My son. And without him... there wasn’t a reason to come back here.”

Without another word Stilwell got out and slammed the door behind him.

At the field level gate they were met by Houghton, the skeptical security man.

“We’ve got Mark McGwire in town and everybody and their brother is coming out of the woodwork. I have to tell you guys, if this isn’t legit, I can’t let you in. Any other game, come on back and we’ll see what we can do. I’m LAPD retired and would love to—”

“That’s nice, Mr. Houghton, but let me tell you something,” Stilwell said. “We’re here to see a hitter, but his name isn’t McGwire. We’re trying to track a man who’s in town to kill somebody, not hit home runs. We don’t know where he is at the moment but we do know one thing. He’s got a ticket to this game. He might be here to make a connection and he might be here to kill somebody. We don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to find that out if we’re on the outside looking in. You understand our position now?”

Houghton nodded once under Stilwell’s intimidating stare.

“We’re going to have over fifty thousand people in here tonight,” he said. “How are you two going to—”

“Reserve level, section eleven, row K, seat one.”

“That’s his ticket?”

Stilwell nodded.

“And if you don’t mind,” Harwick said, “we’d like to get a trace on that ticket. See who bought it, if possible.”

Stilwell looked at Harwick and nodded. He hadn’t thought of that. It was a good idea.

“That will be no problem,” said Houghton, his voice taking on a tone of full cooperation now. “Now this seat location. How close do you need and want to get?”

“Just close enough to watch what he does, who he talks to,” Stilwell said. “Make a move if we have to.”

“This seat is just below the press box. I can put you in there and you can look right down on him.”

Stilwell shook his head.

“That won’t work. If he gets up and moves, we’re a level above him. We’ll lose him.”

“How about one in the press box and one below — mobile, moving about?”

Stilwell thought about this and looked at Harwick. Harwick nodded.

“Might work,” he said. “We got the radios.”

Stilwell looked at Houghton.

“Set it up.”

They were both in the front row of the press box looking down on Vachon’s seat. It was empty, and the national anthem had already been sung. The Dodgers were taking the field. Kevin Brown was on the mound, promising a classic matchup between himself, a fastball pitcher, and McGwire, a purebred slugger.

“This is going to be good,” Harwick said.

“Just don’t forget why we’re here,” Stilwell replied.

The Cardinals went down one, two, three and left McGwire waiting on deck. In the bottom half of the first the Dodgers did no better. No hits, no runs.

And no sign of Milky Vachon.

Houghton came down the stairs and told them the ticket Vachon was carrying had been sold as part of a block of seats to a ticket broker in Hollywood. They took the name of the broker and decided they would check it out in the morning.

As the second inning started Stilwell sat with his arms folded on the front sill of the press box. It allowed a full view of the stadium. All he had to do was lower his eyes and he would see row K, seat one of section eleven.

Harwick was leaning back in his seat. To Stilwell, he seemed as interested in watching the three rows of sportswriters and broadcasters as he was the baseball game. As the Dodgers were taking the field again, he spoke to Stilwell.

“Your son,” he said. “It was drugs, wasn’t it?”

Stilwell took a deep breath and let it out. He spoke without turning to Harwick.

“What do you want to know, Harwick?”

“We’re going to be partners. I just want to... understand. Some guys, something like that happens, they dive into the bottle. Some guys dive into the work. It’s pretty clear which kind you are. I heard you go after these guys, the Saints, with a vengeance, man. Was it meth? Was your kid on crank?”

Stilwell didn’t answer. He watched a man wearing a Dodgers baseball cap take the first seat in row K below. The hat was on backward, a white pony tail hanging from beneath the brim. It was Milky Vachon. He put a full beer down on the concrete step next to him and kept another in his hand. Seat number two was empty.

“Harwick,” Stilwell said. “We’re partners, but we’re not talking about my kid. You understand?”

“I’m just trying to—”

“Baseball is a metaphor for life, Harwick. Life is hardball. People hit home runs, people get thrown out. There’s the double play, the suicide squeeze, and everybody wants to get home safe. Some people go all the way to the ninth inning. Some people leave early to beat the traffic.”

Stilwell stood up and turned to his new partner.

“I checked you out, Harwick. You’re a beat-the-traffic guy. You weren’t here. In ’eighty-eight. I know. If you were here, you gave up on them and left before the ninth. I know.”

Harwick said nothing. He turned his eyes from Stilwell.

“Vachon’s down there,” Stilwell said. “I’m going down to keep watch. If he makes a move, I’ll tail. Keep your rover close.”

Stilwell walked up the steps and out of the press box.

McGwire struck out at the top of the second inning, and Brown easily retired the side. The Dodgers picked up three unearned runs in the third off an error, a walk, and a home run with two outs.

All was quiet after that until the fifth, when McGwire opened the inning with a drive to the right-field wall. It drew 50,000 people out of their seats. But the right fielder gloved it on the track, his body hitting hard into the wall pads.

Watching the trajectory of the ball reminded Stilwell of the night in ’88 when Kirk Gibson put a three-two pitch into the seats in the last of the ninth and won the first game of the series. It caused a monumental shift in momentum, and the Dodgers cruised the rest of the way. It was a moment that was cherished by so many for so long. A time in L.A. before the riots, before the earthquake, before O.J.

Before Stilwell’s son was lost.

Brown carried a perfect game into the seventh inning. The crowd became more attentive and noisier. There was a sense that something was going to happen.

Throughout the innings Stilwell moved his position several times, always staying close to Vachon and using the field glasses to watch him. The ex-convict did not move other than to stand up with everybody else for McGwire’s drive to the wall. He simply drank his two beers and watched the game. No one took the seat next to him, and he spoke to no one except a vendor who sold him peanuts in the fourth.

Vachon also made no move to look around himself. He kept his eyes on the game. And Stilwell began to wonder if Vachon was doing anything other than watching a baseball game. He thought about what Harwick had said about falling out of love with baseball. Maybe Vachon, five years in stir, was simply rekindling that love. Maybe he missed baseball with the same intensity he missed the taste of alcohol and the feel of a woman’s body.

Stilwell took the rover out of his pocket and clicked the mike button twice. Harwick’s voice came back quickly, his tone clipped and cold.

“Yeah.”

“After the eighth you better come down here so we can be ready when he leaves.”

“I’ll be down.”

“Out.”

He put the rover away.

Brown let it get away from him in the seventh. St. Louis opened with two singles to right, spoiling the perfect game, the no hitter, and putting the lead in jeopardy with McGwire on deck.

With the runners at the corners Brown walked the next batter, bringing McGwire to the plate with the bases loaded. The Cardinals would gain the lead and the momentum if he could put one over the wall.

Davey Johnson trotted out to the mound for a conference with his pitcher, but the manager appeared to give only a quick pep talk. He left Brown in place and headed back to the dugout, accompanied by a chorus of applause.

The crow’d rose to its feet and quieted in anticipation of what would be the confrontation of the night. Stilwell’s rover clicked twice, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe this? We gotta send that guy Houghton a six-pack for this.”

Stilwell didn’t reply. His eyes were on Vachon, who had stepped away from his seat and was coming up the stairs to the concessions level.

“He’s moving.”

“What? He can’t be. How can he miss this?”

Stilwell turned his back and leaned against a concrete support column as Vachon emerged from the stairs and walked behind him.

When it was clear, Stilwell looked around and saw Vachon heading toward the lavatory, making his way by several men who were rushing out in time to see McGwire bat.

Stilwell raised his rover.

“He’s going to the bathroom just past the Krispy Kreme stand.”

“He’s had two beers. Maybe he’s just taking a leak. You want me down there?”

As Stilwell replied, a huge noise rose from the crowd and then quickly subsided. Stilwell kept his eyes on the entrance to the men’s room. When he was ten feet from it, a man emerged. Not Vachon. A large white man with a long dark beard and a shaved skull. He wore a tight T-shirt and his arms were fully wrapped in tattoos. Stilwell looked for the skull with halo insignia of the Road Saints but didn’t see it.

Still, it was enough to slow his step. The tattooed man turned to his right and kept walking. Harwick’s voice came from the rover.

“Say again. The crowd noise blocked you out.”

Stilwell raised the radio.

“I said get down here.”

There was another short burst of crowd noise, but it was not sustained enough to indicate a hit or an out. Stilwell walked to the lavatory entrance. He thought about the man with the shaved skull, trying to place the face. Stilwell had left his photos in the rubber band on the Volvo’s visor.

It hit him then. Weapon transfer. Vachon had come to the game to get instructions and a weapon.

Stilwell raised the rover.

“I think he has a weapon. I’m going in.”

He put the rover back into his pocket, pulled his badge out of his shirt, and let it hang on his chest. He unholstered his .45 and stepped into the restroom.

It was a cavernous yellow-tiled room with stainless steel urine troughs running down both sides until they reached opposing rows of toilet stalls. The place appeared empty but Stilwell knew it wasn’t.

“Sheriff’s department. Step out with your hands visible.”

Nothing happened. No sound but the crowd noise from outside the room. Stilwell stepped farther in and began again, raising his voice this time. But the sudden echoing cacophony of the crowd rose like an approaching train and drowned his voice. The confrontation on the baseball diamond had been decided.

Stilwell moved past the urinals and stood between the rows of stalls. There were eight on each side. The far door on the left was closed. The rest stood half closed but still shielded the view into each stall.

Stilwell dropped into a catcher’s crouch and looked beneath the doors. No feet could be seen in any of the stalls. But on the floor within the closed stall was a blue Dodgers hat.

“Vachon!” he yelled. “Come out now!”

He moved into position in front of the closed stall. Without hesitation he raised his left foot and kicked the door open. It swung inward and slammed against one of the interior walls of the stall. It then rebounded and slammed closed. It all happened in a second, but Stilwell had enough time to see the stall was empty.

And to know that he was in a vulnerable position.

As he turned his body he heard a scraping sound behind him and saw movement in the far reach of his peripheral vision. Movement toward him. He raised his gun but knew he was too late. In that same moment he realized he had solved the mystery of who Vachon’s target was.

The knife felt like a punch to the left side of his neck. A hand then grabbed the back collar of his shirt and pulled him backward at the same moment the knife was thrust forward, slicing out through the front of his neck.

Stilwell dropped his gun as his hands instinctively came up to his torn throat. A whisper then came into his ear from behind.

“Greetings from Sonny Mitchell.”

He was pulled backward and shoved against the wall next to the last stall. He turned and started to slide down the yellow tiles, his eyes on the figure of Milky Vachon heading to the exit.

When he hit the ground he felt the gun under his leg. His left hand still holding his neck, he reached the gun with his right and raised it. He fired four times at Vachon, the bullets catching him in a tight pattern on the upper back and throwing him into a trash can overflowing with paper towels. Vachon flopped onto the floor on his back, his sky blue eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, the overturned trash can rolling back and forth next to him.

Stilwell dropped his hand to the tile and let go of the gun. He looked down at his chest. The blood was everywhere, leaking between his fingers and running down his arm. His lungs were filling and he couldn’t get air into them.

He knew he was dead.

He shifted his weight and turned his hips so he could reach a hand into the back pocket of his pants. He pulled out his wallet.

There was another roar from the crowd that seemed to shake the room. And then Harwick entered, saw the bodies on opposite sides of the room and ran to Stilwell.

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.”

He leaned over and studied Stilwell for a moment, then pulled out his rover and started to yell into it. He realized he was on a closed frequency, quickly switched the dial to the open band, and called in the officer down report. Stilwell listened to it in a detached way. He knew there was no chance. He dropped his eyes to the holy card he held in his hands.

“Hang in there, partner,” Harwick yelled. “Don’t go south on me, man. They’re coming, they’re coming.”

There was a commotion behind him, and Harwick turned around. Two men were standing in the doorway.

“Get out of here! Get the fuck out! Keep everybody back!”

He turned back to Stilwell.

“Listen, man, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t die. Hang on, man, Please hang on.”

His words were coming out like the blood flowing from Stilwell’s neck. Nonstop, a mad torrent. Desperate.

“You were right, man. You were right about me. I–I-I lied about that game. I left and I’m so sorry I lied. You’ve got to stay with me. Please stay with me!”

Stilwell’s eyes started to close and he remembered that night so long ago. That other time. He died then, with his new partner on his knees next to him, blubbering and babbling.

Harwick didn’t quiet himself until he realized Stilwell was gone. He then studied his partner’s face and saw a measure of calm in his expression. He realized that he looked happier than at any other time Harwick had looked at him that day.

He noticed the open wallet on the floor and then the card in Stilwell’s hand. He took it from the dead fingers and looked at it. It was a baseball card. Not a real one. A gimmick card. It showed a boy of eleven or twelve in a Dodgers uniform, a bat on his shoulder, the number 7 on his shirt. It said, “Stevie Stilwell, Right Field” beneath the photo.

There was another commotion behind him then, and Harwick turned to see paramedics coming into the room. He cleared out of the way, though he knew it was too late.

As the paramedics checked for vital signs on his fallen partner, Harwick stepped back and used the sleeve of his shirt to dry the tears on his face. He then took the baseball card and slipped it into one of the folded compartments of his badge case. It would be something he would carry with him always.