The Boy from Left Field (3 page)

“Wow! I wonder who else is after that baseball.”

“He wouldn’t tell me. Professional discretion — that’s what he called it. I couldn’t get even a hint from him.”

Hawk thought for a minute. “Could it be a collector — somebody who collects autographs and stuff, or baseball cards? Maybe even somebody from the States, or from the Baseball Hall of Fame? Somebody like that?”

“Sure. It could be anybody. You know, kid, there are a lot of angles to this. There are a whole lot of collectors out there. Then there are also a whole lot of forgers and guys who peddle counterfeit stuff. They make money from their swindles so they can afford big prices to buy real authentic stuff. Then they sell that good stuff for even more money. So they get rich both ways. It’s a tough world out there, I tell you. But you and I are going to beat it.”

“So we really are partners, Mr. Rizzuto? And if we find the ball and make money you’re going to cut me in?”

“Of course! But you’re going to earn your share. There may be errands to run, things you can help me with so I can spend more time checking out things with Mr. Wingate. And I’m hoping that if we do cash in on this you can use some of the money for a good purpose. Maybe for your education, and right away to find you a much better place to live.”

Hawk nodded. The day had started out being boring, but had gotten much better! He couldn’t wait to get back to tell his mother. Even starting out in a new class seemed pretty ordinary compared to this. This was a treasure hunt, this was adventure, the kind of thing he’d dreamed about but never thought would happen. He left Mr. Rizzuto’s as soon as he could and make a beeline for his home in the taxi.

Suspicion

“Babe Ruth’s baseball? It sounds like a wild goose chase to me,” his mother said when he told her about Mr. Rizzuto’s idea. But seeing his disappointment, she added quickly, “No harm in it, though, I suppose, provided you keep your mind on your schoolwork and your new class. I just hope that father of yours goes to the board again tomorrow, as he promised.”

Hawk frowned and nodded. It was a damp evening, but Selim, the restaurant manager, had sent out a small heater and a power pack, so the inside of the taxi was warm and almost cozy. Hawk used a flashlight to read the sports magazine his father had sent over for him, while his mother worked on one of her “Native” craft projects. After a while, he felt sleepy, the magazine print and pictures began to blur — minute by minute he nodded off, and soon was fast asleep.

Bright sunlight woke Hawk. He stirred, blinked, yawned twice, and crawled out of the taxi. His mother was still fast asleep, curled up on the front seat. He crossed the yard, stepping around the puddles, creeping past the trash cans and the Dumpsters, and stepping inside Selim’s building on his way to the washroom. A few minutes later, his face scrubbed and shining, he slipped on his jacket and headed across town toward the practice lot.

It looked like a great day for baseball and he knew that Mr. Rizzuto and the boys would be there. Hawk always loved the baseball practice, even though most of the other guys were better players than he was. Martin Schiller was strong, and a terrific hitter. The Contreras boys, who made fun of everything, did acrobatic catches and slid into bases like the pros. They, along with Hawk, were the regulars, but other kids turned up too, depending on who Mr. Rizzuto decided to coach that day. There was a skinny, freckle-faced, redheaded kid who wanted to be a pitcher; an overweight Chilean boy who always arrived wearing a catcher’s mask; and two sisters with matching ponytails who could run like the wind. The sisters were unusual among the baseball gang, for they always headed off to school after the practice. Most of Mr. Rizzuto’s ballplayers, in one way or another, managed to avoid regular classes.

The tiny lot Mr. Rizzuto had set up was close to the railroad tracks in South Riverdale. None of the kids knew whether he owned or rented it. Perhaps he had done a trade with some other businessman or developer, but once or twice a week he would turn up with a van and all the necessary equipment. The playing field would be spruced up, any kids already there would be invited to take part, and the practice would begin.

Mr. Rizzuto’s idea was to train kids so that they could get entry to the Major Division of the Little League, which was mostly for eleven- or twelve-year-olds. Some of the kids, like the Contreras boys, could easily have made it, but they liked training with Mr. Rizzuto, who knew a lot about baseball and was very generous with his time and money. Alex and Pedro Contreras were the sons of a Cuban diplomat. They were supposedly being home-schooled and had lots of freedom. In fact, they spent most of it playing computer games, so their father insisted they do outdoor stuff as well, so they trained regularly with Mr. Rizzuto. Martin Schiller, who was from Kitchener, lived with his aunt, but she drank a lot, so he could duck school and had lots of free time. (His mother and father had been killed in a car crash.) Most of the other kids also had some problems.

Hawk was there because, the year before, he hadn’t made the Little League team he’d tried out for. It was a junior team, but even so, he couldn’t seem to hit or field anything that day, and at the same time the kids had a good laugh at his ragged clothes and his long blond hair. He felt scared, out of place, terrible — and after a short session that seemed to go on forever, the coach patted him on the head and told him he “just wasn’t ready.”

Mr. Rizzuto, who was watching the tryouts that day, stepped over and invited Hawk to join his practice sessions. When Hawk started out with Mr. Rizzuto, though, the Contreras brothers, who’d heard about his failure, kidded him unmercifully. “How come a blond Native is playing baseball?” Pedro asked. “He must want to sign up with the Cleveland Indians,” his brother answered. “What about the Atlanta Braves?” Pedro added with a snicker.

But Mr. Rizzuto finally shut them up. “There have been plenty of full-blooded Native big leaguers, of all shapes and sizes,” he told the boys, though he could only name a few. “Rudy York, Allie Reynolds, and Joba Chamberlain,” he said, and then hesitated. “And a lot more with some Native blood in their veins,” he added gruffly. “Just like Hawk.”

After that, Martin Schiller and a couple of other kids who came only once in a while treated Hawk much better. And slowly, session by session, he made some progress in his batting and fielding.

On this day Hawk was particularly eager to get to the practice lot. If he was going to be a millionaire, he hoped it would happen quickly! And maybe Mr. Rizzuto had already found out something about the Babe’s baseball. Hawk ran the last half-block to the field, past the warehouses, sheds, and rundown houses that ran along the edge of the railway line. From a few blocks away he spotted the big red equipment van, then, as he came closer, he saw the gang in the lot. Mr. Rizzuto, wearing his Yankees cap, was hitting fly balls to the kids. The two ponytailed girls, in Blue Jays caps and shirts, waved and shouted “Hawk!” Martin Schiller nodded to him. The Chilean kid, who was wearing his catcher’s mask as usual, kicked at the stones, and Alex Contreras shouted from a distance, “Hey, kid! You comin’ over from T-ball?”

Hawk ignored the insult (T-ball was for really young kids), and ran to pick up one of the gloves that were stacked on a bench near the sidewalk. Then he noticed the newcomer, a dark-skinned kid in very old jeans and a ragged Florida Marlins jersey.

As Hawk ran up to the backstop, this kid jumped up from the grass to shag a long fly. He was a good fielder, it seemed, cruising back with ease, and reaching up at the last minute to snare the ball. Funny thing, though, Hawk noticed — it looked like the kid was using a first baseman’s glove.

“That’s Elroy Whittaker,” Mr. Rizzuto explained as he welcomed Hawk to the field. “Help yourself to a glove and go join him.”

Hawk selected his favourite glove from a pile on the bench and jogged out past the Contreras brothers and the ponytail girls. He couldn’t help but envy Elroy his glove, one he must have brought with him, since Mr. Rizzuto hadn’t provided any first basemen’s gloves since Hawk’s own glove was stolen by the Rippers.

When the next shot came arcing out it seemed to be Hawk’s ball. “I got it!” he shouted, racing back at top speed, reaching up at the last minute to snare it. But the ball never touched his glove. A figure darted in front of him, a glove went up, and Elroy sped away with the baseball, hidden for a moment in the webbing of his big glove.

“Jerk-face! I called for it!” Hawk shouted. Elroy swung back, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “You ’bout to miss it,” he said.

“I didn’t miss it,” Hawk shouted. “You cut me off!”

Elroy trotted off and set himself several yards away, ready for the next shot.

“All right, Hawk, you take this one!” Mr. Rizzuto shouted, and hit a line drive in the boy’s direction. It was tricky, a dying quail, and Hawk sprang forward, got a glove on it, but dropped the ball. Sheepishly, and thoroughly disgusted with himself, he picked it up and tossed it in toward the backstop.

Mr. Rizzuto handed the bat to Martin Schiller, who began hitting grounders to the Contreras boys and the two girls while the older man started trying out pitches with the Chilean boy. “Get down there — block it with your body,” he shouted as a low fastball bounced past the young catcher.

Hawk and Elroy, idle for a moment, drifted warily together.

“Where’d you get the Marlins jersey?” Hawk asked, hardly looking at the tall boy, and really interested not in his ragged shirt but in the smooth, shining leather glove.

“Down in Jacksonville — that’s where I come from. But my mom came up here, so I’m here for now.”

“You go to school?”

“We didn’t find no school yet. I might go pretty soon.”

Unable to resist any longer, with odd thoughts percolating through his mind, Hawk asked, “Nice glove. Did you bring that with you too?”

Elroy looked away and shifted his feet nervously. “No, I bought it right here,” he said. “Real cheap.” Then, after a pause, “Wanna have a try?”

“Sure.” Hawk reached out and accepted the other boy’s glove. His hands were shaking — which he did his best to conceal — as he brought the glove close to have a look. He fingered it for a minute, cleared his throat, and said, “Justin Morneau signature. Good player. Born in Canada.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know that. It’s a good glove, best I ever had.”

Hawk held his breath as he turned the glove over. He was looking for a small red spot on the inside of the glove, under the thumb section. When he saw it, he swallowed hard, and without looking at Elroy, said in a low, controlled voice, “You bought this here? Where’d you get it? I might like to get one.”

Elroy stepped back without answering. He didn’t meet Hawk’s gaze. Gently but firmly, he retrieved the glove, then started to walk away. “I didn’t buy it. My mom got it — from a yard sale.” He said this over his shoulder, without once looking back. Then he ran hard toward the backstop.

Hawk stood shivering in his tracks.
It was his glove, the one that the Rippers had stolen!
The tiny red mark on the thumb base had been made by an accidental spill from one of his mother’s dyes — there was no mistaking it.

Confused, he stood in his tracks and watched the others. What should he do? Try to get the glove back from Elroy? Tell Mr. Rizzuto? He felt frightened, angry, a bit sick. It was his glove, but what would Elroy say if he challenged him? What would Mr. Rizzuto think? He was sure that the older man didn’t know about the red spot. He never wore his glasses when he was playing or coaching, and Hawk had never mentioned that mark to him. Maybe Mr. Rizzuto would say that if Elroy’s mother had bought the glove at a yard sale, even if it was stolen goods, it was his to keep. But Elroy had been nervous about the glove, saying first that he’d bought it, then claiming his mother had picked it up at a sale. Why would he change his story? Something funny was going on here.

Hawk drifted in toward the backstop and the other kids. The Contreras brothers were playing catch with the girls, Mr. Rizzuto was still pitching to the Chilean boy, and Elroy was standing behind the catcher to field the balls he missed.

Martin Schiller, however, was walking toward Hawk, looking as if something was on his mind. The stocky, dark-haired boy never had much to say, but when he came up to where Hawk was standing, he shot out a question. “So, did he show it to you?” he asked in a low voice, looking over his shoulder, although no one else was close by.

Hawk gaped at him. “You mean the glove? Yeah, he did.” He paused and then started to add, “But you know something —”

“Yeah, it’s your glove,” Martin interrupted. “I recognized it right away when Elroy showed it to me — after he got here.”

“Whew! So I’m not crazy! I was sure it was my glove…. Where did he tell you he got it?”

“He said he bought it on the street, real cheap — that a couple of kids practically gave it to him.”

“Jeez! He changes his story every time. What am I going to do, Martin?”

“I don’t know. I guess he wasn’t one of those Rippers that lifted your glove?”

“Nah. They were all white kids. Nasty kids. Elroy doesn’t seem like them — not exactly.”

“He’s got something to hide, though. If we ask him anything, he’s going to clam up,” Martin said. He thought for a moment, frowning and shifting his feet and staring at the ground, but when he spoke again his glance was sharp and pointed. “Why don’t we follow him home and see who he hangs out with?”

Spies in Motion

“We gotta be careful when we take off,” Martin said. “Otherwise he’ll spot us for sure.”

Hawk shook his head doubtfully. “I’ve got a better idea. You’ve got a cellphone, don’t you, Martin?”

“Sure — I’ve got it with me.”

Hawk fumbled in one of his pockets and gave a tiny shout of joy when his fingers came out clutching a crumpled piece of paper. “Good, I thought I’d lost this! Here, call this number on your phone. If you get her, pass it to me.”

Martin shrugged his shoulders and made the call. After a few seconds he handed the phone to Hawk. “You have to leave a message,” he said.

“Yeah, she’ll be at school.” Hawk frowned and spoke into the phone. “Hi, Panny? This is Hawk, remember? I don’t know if you’re free, but if you are, could you meet me on the Danforth at Jones around three-thirty or four o’clock? We’ve got a lead on the Rippers gang. Somebody turned up with my baseball glove and we need to watch him. If you can make it, please come.”

Hawk signed off and explained to Martin. “If you can follow him and see where he hangs out, I can meet Panny later and we can go and watch his place. If he’s connected with the Rippers, we might find out.”

“Sure, but I’ll join you at four, too. I’ll tell you what I found out and help you watch the guy. Three heads are better than two.”

“Great! If you get there before me, look out for a Chinese girl with crazy panniers on her bike…. Now we’d better get back to playing ball.”

They waved at Mr. Rizzuto and walked toward the backstop. For the next hour Hawk was caught up in the practice — fielding grounders, shagging flies, hitting Mr. Rizzuto’s almost-curveball, trading insults with the Contreras boys, joking with the ponytail girls, waiting for the fat boy to take off his mask (he did it at least once during every session). All the time, Hawk secretly watched Elroy, and kept his eye on his stolen glove, wanting badly just to take it away from him, but realizing that he had to be patient, to find out if Elroy was part of the Rippers gang or just an innocent guy who had happened to get hold of a “hot” glove.

When at last the practice was over, Mr. Rizzuto took Hawk aside and, as they were loading the equipment into the van, winked at him and said, out of the hearing of the others, “No word yet, kid, but don’t get impatient. Things are happening!”

Hawk knew he was talking about the lost Babe Ruth ball.

Soon Elroy departed, his glove tucked under his arm. Martin Schiller waited until he had drifted out of sight down the street and then took off in the same direction.

“You doing anything now, Hawk?” Mr. Rizzuto asked. “You can come back to the store, eat lunch, and help Chick out. I’ve got a few places to go. What time do you have to get home?”

Hawk pondered this, then told him, not quite truthfully, “Oh, I’ve got to meet my mother on the Danforth around three-thirty or four. I can walk over there from your store.”

With the van in motion, Mr. Rizzuto began to give Hawk a few additional tips about how to improve his batting and fielding. “Don’t get me wrong, kid,” he said, when he had finished elaborating on his advice. “You’re good enough right now to play senior Little League — I’d bet my store on it! But you may as well do a few more sessions with me before you try out again. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it,” Hawk assured him. “I’m gonna do okay in school, too.”

Mr. Rizzuto deposited Hawk at the store, and after lunch Chick got him running errands. Hawk enjoyed cruising the mostly familiar streets, and he knew it would earn him a few dollars from Mr. Rizzuto. Nonetheless, the time passed slowly, and the afternoon dragged on. Anxious to get over to talk to Martin, and to find out if Panny would really help him, he left the store early, taking his time to walk up Jones to the Danforth.

As he drifted along (he didn’t want to arrive
too
early) his thoughts shot from one disturbing idea to another. He imagined himself in a classroom with all the “smart” kids, trying to show them that he was just as smart as they were. But suppose he started muffing his reading, and completely messed up his math? The teachers would shake their heads in disapproval. He’d look like a fool!

These fears he managed to shove away as he began to think of how he would get his baseball glove back from Elroy. Sure, Elroy didn’t seem like such a bad guy, but it was
his
glove and he wanted it back badly. Would he have to confront Elroy, fool him somehow, and steal the glove back? He had no idea. And what about that “treasure,” the famous Babe Ruth baseball? Maybe that really was a pipe dream of Mr. Rizzuto’s. Maybe he’d never escape from that taxicab, maybe nothing would work out and he’d be dragged away to some Children’s Aid place where he’d never see his mum or dad again. All of a sudden he felt panicky, helpless, and very confused.

Hawk stopped in his tracks, and fighting back tears of frustration, swore out loud and spat into the street. An old lady passing by gave him a disapproving look and cackled sweetly, “Oh dear! How nasty! Why aren’t you in school, little boy?”

He thumbed his nose at her, scurried away, broke into a jog, and was overjoyed when the bustling, down-to-earth Danforth hove into sight. His run seemed to blow all the negative thoughts out of his head.

Still, as he approached his destination, Hawk kept looking warily around, remembering that his mother often tried to peddle her street wares on the Danforth. He had chosen the Jones intersection, where she seldom hung out, but since he’d learned that you couldn’t count on anything, and that things had a way of turning out weirdly, he kept his eyes peeled for her anyway.

The Danforth, busy as it was, and lined by stores, coffee shops, and restaurants, was not intimidating. The buildings weren’t too high, the traffic was steady but not overwhelming, and the sidewalks were neither crowded nor deserted.

Hawk came out on the thoroughfare, looked left and right, and sure enough, spotted Panny on her bike (red panniers again today) across the street in front of a small corner coffee shop. And there, right beside her, was the reliable Martin, who spied Hawk at once and waved him over. Minutes later, Martin was spilling out his story.

“I followed him all right. It was a long walk. Lucky he didn’t have a bike. A couple of times I thought he spotted me, but I guess not. He lives west of Pape down by Lake Shore Boulevard. It’s on one of those side streets that point toward the lake, a small wooden house, a bit shabby, but not too bad. There’s lots of warehouses, parked cars, and alleys near the place. It won’t be too hard to stake it out.”

Panny winked at Hawk. “Martin watches a lot of TV crime shows, can’t you tell? He filled me in on what happened at your practice. I just hope Elroy’s mother didn’t really buy your glove at a yard sale! So let’s keep our fingers crossed and head down there — it’s a long way. I’ll bike, and you guys take the bus. I’ll meet you at Eastern and Pape, by the movie studios, and we’ll check out this kid’s house.”

They met with no trouble, and a good half-hour later were set up down the street from a small wooden house with two entrances, squeezed between a faceless warehouse and a printer’s showroom. The house, covered with old white siding, had a rickety porch and steps and a smear of rough grass that lined the sidewalk. Above the porch roof, a couple of small bay windows, overhung by pointed gables, showed their plain brown curtains. The curtains revealed nothing; the house seemed insignificant and out of place on that commercial street.

Hawk gaped at it, shook his head, and said wryly, “Well, it’s not much of a place to live, but it’s better than a taxi.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see that taxi of yours,” Panny said. “I hope we don’t have to hang around here too long. Somebody will get suspicious. Anyway, I brought a few snacks.”

She pulled two apples, a couple of granola bars, and soft drinks for each of the boys from her panniers. Then they organized their watch on the house. Panny would ride around the streets a bit, so as not to attract attention. Meanwhile, Hawk and Martin settled down in an alley with a good view of the house — a large Dumpster fronted it and they could hide behind it if they had to take cover. Panny would come and let them know if she saw anyone who looked suspicious approaching the place. Both Panny and Martin had iPods with them, and from time to time Hawk borrowed Martin’s.

Even so, time passed very slowly. Cars drove up and down the street, one or two people were visible in a nearby showroom window and a few more in a car lot, but there were no pedestrians — and not even a dog or a cat in sight.

“This is bleak,” Hawk said. “I just hope the police don’t cruise by and see us. They’ll start asking questions if they do.”

“We could take a walk, but someone in the house might spot us,” Martin said. He yawned, sat down on the hard concrete of the alley, and handed his iPod to Hawk. After a while, Panny cycled past, giving them a covert wave, and saying, as if they hadn’t noticed, “Nothing yet!”

More time passed and they watched, bored and restless, as the light moved slowly across the alley walls, though sunset was still far away. Just when they were beginning to wonder if they would see anyone at all, a woman appeared at the street corner and trudged along toward the house. She was a heavy-set black woman wearing sunglasses, who appeared to be hauling some groceries in her large shopping bag.

“Elroy’s mother?” Martin whispered. Hawk shrugged his shoulders. But as the woman came up to the house and started to climb the rickety steps of one of the dwellings, Hawk whispered back, “It must be.”

The boys crouched together, trying to make themselves invisible in the alley. The woman used her key and went into the house. Panny whizzed by on her bike, and told them, “Something will happen now!”

More time passed, but just when the boys had decided that Panny was wrong, the door of the house opened, and two kids came out.

“There’s our Elroy,” Martin said. “It’s about time.”

Hawk didn’t answer. He was staring at the boys as they came down the steps, staring at them with wide eyes. Elroy was a good foot taller than his companion, but he looked a bit skinny and insignificant next to him. The other boy, short and stocky, wore old overalls and a tattered work shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed his heavily tattooed arms. Hatless, his eyes hidden behind big dark sunglasses, he pushed Elroy forward, smiling as he ushered him along the sidewalk. Hawk recognized this second boy at once, but stood there, his hands beginning to tremble and his throat tightening until at last he got the words out: “Martin! That guy he’s with, I know him. They call him Ringo, and he’s the rat who stole my glove. You know what that means — Elroy must be one of the Rippers.”