Knuckleball (One Eye Press Singles) Read online

  KNUCKLEBALL

  Praise forKnuckleball

  “Knuckleball is a bruiser of a story that reads as fast as the title implies, and sits heavy in your mind long after you’ve read the last page. Pitts obviously knows the darkness of his city’s gangland and portrayed here against the light of America’s favorite pastime, while showing both sides their proper respect, is nothing short of remarkable. It’s classic good and evil, hope and despair, but with Pitts, nothing is ever that cut and dry, and rarely does anyone get away clean. Conversational prose, brilliant ensemble casts, ratcheting tension, and the hint of something unexpected right over the next page is the reason to read Tom Pitts in the first place, but with Knuckleball, I’d say he knocked it out of the park. Top notch.”

  — Brian Panowich

  author of Bull Mountain

  “In Knuckleball, Tom Pitts finds the beating heart of San Francisco’s Mission District, then reaches into its chest and rips that heart out. An ambitious and tightly-packed slice of modern crime fiction.”

  — Jordan Harper

  author of Love and Other Wounds

  “A gut-punch of a story written at a blistering pace by a master of street noir. If you dig tales with wire-tight tension, stuffed with characters that massage the margins of life then pick up Mr. Pitts latest work.”

  — Mike McCrary

  author of Remo Went Rogue and Get Ugly

  Knuckleball

  Text copyright © 2015 Tom Pitts

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by One Eye Press LLC

  “Player Down” cover art © 2015 Dyer Wilk

  One Eye Press LLC

  215 Loma Road

  Charleston, WV 25314

  www.OneEyePress.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0692370773

  ISBN-10: 0692370773

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Game One

  Game Two

  Game Three

  Extra Innings

  About Tom Pitts

  One Eye Press Extras

  More from One Eye Press

  More from Tom Pitts

  Dedicated to Patricia Phelps,

  who, in her own way, allowed me

  the time to write this novella.

  We miss you, Pat.

  Acknowledgements

  First off, I’d like to thank my wife, Cheryl, and my kids, Logan, Dane, and Lula, for their patience with my obsessions and for being stalwart Giants fans. And to Ron Earl Phillips at One Eye for his tolerance of my haphazard approach to writing and for taking a chance on the book. Also, thanks to Joe Clifford and Bob Pitts for their insight and input. And lastly, thanks to Bryan Stow, whose tragic story was the impetus for this book.

  GAME ONE

  Hugh Patterson was a cop. He was a good cop. That’s all he ever wanted from his job, to be a good cop. When he was still at the academy a lot of the other cadets would talk about how long it would take them to climb the department’s ladder after graduation. They had their eyes on higher ranks and higher salaries. Not Hugh, he was old school, a throwback to another era. He was concerned with justice, helping his community, helping old ladies across the street, and all that other stuff that seemed like a joke to the people of San Francisco. Save that stuff for the Boy Scouts, this is the real world, the Captain used to tell him. Hugh was not deterred. He was genetically predisposed to hardheadedness, passed directly from his father. He’d been teased plenty in high school; his skin was thick. He told himself that law enforcement was a higher calling. Do the right thing and follow it, even if your colleagues never hear the call.

  Hugh loved his uniform, loved his beat. Twice a week he and his partner were required to walk the 24th Street corridor. Only twice a week, Hugh lamented. They would take their time strolling from General Hospital all the way to Guerrero Street, stopping to hand out SFPD stickers to kids, to tell the older men to pour out their beers, and to gather intelligence, what his dad had called street smarts. You have to know your beat, Hugh would tell his partner.

  His partner, Alvarez, preferred the safety and swiftness of the prowl car. He thought Hugh was out of his mind. Too much walking, too many Hello’s and How ya doing’s. They weren’t running for office for Christ’s sakes. Officer Alvarez watched the drug dealers scatter as he and Patterson took their time strolling up the street. Anybody who was doing anything illegal on the street was gone by the time Patterson and Alvarez got there. Alvarez knew that Hugh’s moral compass was sound, he just felt like they could make a few more collars if his partner was a little more aggressive about getting the jump on these little pricks out here.

  The drug traffic on 24th Street ebbed and flowed, over time moving from block to block, but it never went away entirely. It was a fluid business that adapted easily. Up on 16th Street, the drug dealers were illegal aliens. Speaking no English and brand new to the USA, they were replaceable, popping up like the heads on a whack-a-mole game. Down on 24th, though, they were mostly second-generation Americans. All Hispanic, sure, but these were young guys who could speak English. They weren’t in it to find a better life; they were in it to find the life. Just ‘cause they want to be, don’t underestimate them as wannabes, Hugh was fond of saying. Hugh’s approach was to not grab the street dealers for small offences; possession, sales, and trafficking charges that would see them back on the same corner a few days later. He thought it was better to let the little ones slide and instead barter for a little intel. Hugh felt that if you had a better handle on the whole neighborhood, got a feel for the fabric of the place, if maybe you knew that street dealer’s grandmother perhaps, you stood a better chance of making a real dent in the street crime. You could develop a rapport of sorts, an understanding of what these guys were about.

  Alvarez thought he was nuts.

  “These kids are assholes, Hugh. I don’t think they really give a shit about what their abuelita thinks, or what anybody thinks for that matter.”

  “They just act that way, partner. Everybody cares. Everybody. Trust me.”

  “You know what I think? I think you watch too many movies. You think Latin culture is all about the family, patriarch, matriarchs, all that bullshit. This ain’t a movie, man. This is the Mission. They don’t give a fuck about that shit, that’s not what they’re living day to day.”

  Hugh disagreed. He felt close to the people of the Mission. For the Hispanics, family was still important. It was important to Hugh, too. While he grew up, he watched the withering of the family unit in California and saw the rise of so-called San Francisco Family Values, but he wasn’t swayed; he felt the core values would always remain, had to remain. The basic lessons his father taught him served him well at this job. They helped keep him grounded, helped keep his priorities in line, reminding him to see the big picture. That’s why they walked the beat the way they did, to complete the circle, to acquaint themselves with the human side of the story.

  There were plenty of victims who were just collateral damage, the family and friends who cared for the perpetrators. Beyond the pain of embarrassment, there were fines that loved ones had to pay, the missing incomes when the young and strong went to prison. There was also the clumsy snow-ball effect that unpaid fines and quick ar
rests had upon all the young men. They all had warrants. They were all waiting for the Man to show up and take someone away. Contact with the Man meant going to jail. A high hurdle of trust to overcome. Not too high, felt Officer Patterson. Might as well be the moon, thought Officer Alvarez.

  Officer Vince Alvarez had graduated the Academy two years before Hugh. He loved his job as well, but liked to think he was a little more pragmatic about his approach. He did what he did to support his family. He loved his home life more than he ever could any job. To Vince, it was what was waiting for him at the end of the day that mattered: his wife. He’d met Sue in high school. She was Chinese, but her accent was the thickest Californian he’d ever heard. She was, by his estimation, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Vince was determined to make sure he was the one who watched the girl become a woman and to be beside her to see her grow old. He was wary of possible threats of interruption from any side. He liked to think of himself as a family man, too, but to Vince, family meant Sue. He had no one else close by. His father, an alcoholic, had succumbed to cirrhosis years ago and his mother had gone to live with his own abuelita in L.A.

  He and Sue lived together in the Sunset District not too far from where Sue had grown up and gone to elementary school. They enjoyed a life that was full of newlywed passion and they never talked about family plans. Having children was a subject that held a subtle taboo. Outwardly they both professed a desire for a family, but with each other the subject had never been broached. They were somehow afraid of jinxing their young love, that brief arc of passion that so many called the honeymoon phase—they were able to stretch that time, that feeling, from months into years. Now they both clung to each other, waiting for some outside force to thrust them into the next stage of their marriage.

  Alvarez’s plan was simple. Work your way up to a higher rank, then, with more dough coming in, work fewer hours. Spend more time with Sue. It was a little simplistic, but he followed his heart. Maybe with a little more security, a little more money, maybe then they could talk about kids. Vince didn’t want to scare her off. He’d worked hard courting her in high school, worked hard getting her family to accept him, and he wasn’t afraid to work hard to keep her.

  • • •

  Baseball brings spring to San Francisco. The winter rains peter out slowly and the wind never dies down, not really. The clearest indication of spring is the increased traffic South of Market for the day games at AT&T Park. There is a festive community feeling that creeps over the city and, before you know it, the rains have stopped completely and the summer has arrived.

  In the Mission, it’s hard to tell who’s a gangbanger and who’s not. The division between red and blue evaporates as everyone seems to be wearing Giants colors. Hats with the SF logo are worn from 16th Street to 24th Street. Hugh liked the neutrality. It made his job easier. Casual talk about the pitching squad and batting averages took the place of uncomfortable hellos. It was a conversation starter with young men who would have never otherwise opened their mouths.

  Today was the first game of a three-game series against the Dodgers. The rivalry between the two teams went back generations, before Patterson was even born. Nothing banded Giants fans together like their hatred for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Orange and black “Beat LA” placards went up in the windows of liquor stores and dry cleaners. “Fuck LA” T-shirts were hot sellers among the sidewalk vendors on Mission Street.

  It was mid-morning and Hugh could tell that many of the people filling the sidewalks with black and orange were heading to the park. First pitch was at one-fifteen that afternoon. Their shift was over at three. He hoped he could watch the end of the game at the taqueria across the street from the Mission station. Burritos, beer, and baseball. As near to nirvana as Hugh could ever get.

  “It’s the three Bees, Vince. How often do we get to enjoy them together?”

  “About twice a week,” Alvarez said.

  “Yeah, but do we take advantage? The opportunity knocks but we don’t answer the door. C’mon, for ol’ time’s sake, let’s watch the boys do in the Dodgers.”

  Alvarez didn’t answer back. He knew better than to try to explain himself to Hugh. He’d let the subject alone until it inevitability resurfaced a few minutes later. Hugh could ask all he wanted, but Alvarez was not going to join him. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the game; he just hoped to catch the last innings at home with his wife. Alvarez was a loyal Giants fan, but he’d heard enough about the game today from his partner and the people on the street. He’d listened to the opinions of scumbags and perps, shopkeepers and mailmen, delivery drivers and barbers, and from just about anyone else that his partner could elicit a comment. The only thing that kept his partner from talking to every single person they passed was Hugh’s inability to speak Spanish. He understood the language slightly better than he could speak it, but it was a constant barrier between Hugh and the denizens of his beat.

  “Hola,” Hugh would say, making a swinging motion with an imaginary bat, and then he’d say, “Gigantes.” Almost without exception, the only looks returned to him were confused. Hugh would continue on with an almost religious zeal, ignoring any embarrassment that Alvarez might be feeling. Perplexed immigrants would look to Alvarez for clarification, wondering if the elaborate pantomime might be something more sinister.

  That was one of the reasons Hugh liked 24th Street best. The young men in the life down on 24th had sat in American schools. They were a little less apprehensive, and could make small talk a little easier.

  Miguel Martinez was one of these young men. On this morning he was walking down Capp Street for one reason, to avoid bumping into anyone. Especially cops. Capp Street was a half-block off busy Mission Street, away from most of the hustle and bustle and familiar faces of the neighborhood.

  Hugh knew Miguel by sight, was pretty sure he knew his name too. One of the many young neighborhood gangbangers who did their best to slide by Hugh without notice. In the past he’d been unapproachable, but today Hugh saw his opening.

  “Gonna finish ‘em off today, huh?”

  Miguel wasn’t sure if he heard the cop right. The Giants were the furthest thing from his mind. Miguel didn’t give a shit about the game. He was focused. He had two ounces of raw crystal meth sealed tight in his jacket pocket and a snub-nosed .38 stuffed into his waistband at the small of his back. Miguel froze. He didn’t say a word, didn’t smile, didn’t nod.

  Hugh realized he’d caught the young man off guard. Perhaps the kid was just stoned. Apprehension was natural when talking to the cops. Hugh knew it, and forgave it.

  “The Dodgers,” Hugh said.

  Miguel still didn’t respond. Hugh nodded toward Miguel’s chest. Miguel looked down and saw the Giants logo. He’d forgotten grabbing the shirt off the floor when he dressed that morning.

  “Oh, yeah. Fuck them.” Miguel still hadn’t moved.

  Hugh took another step toward him. Alvarez stood still and silent, too.

  “Your name is Miguel, right?” Hugh said. “You have a little brother named Philippe?”

  Miguel didn’t answer. He didn’t like cops, even friendly cops—especially friendly cops. Answering these simple questions felt like cooperating to Miguel. The cop seemed to already know the answers to his questions; Miguel felt they may be a trick. To answer might lead him to give up something, open a door for this cop to walk right through.

  “You live with your grandmother over on 21st Street, right?”

  “Right,” was all Miguel could manage. The speed was triple-wrapped in his pocket and felt bulky and conspicuous. He imagined the gun slipping right through his waistband and falling heavy to the sidewalk. He tried to keep an eye on the other cop, the quiet brown one looking like he was ready to draw.

  Hugh could see the kid was nervous. He figured it was all that weed these kids were smoking. It made them paranoid, unsociable, and slow-witted.

  “Sanchez is starting ‘cause Lincecum is on the disabled list. Should be a good one
. You going?”

  “Fuck no.”

  The comment closed the conversation. Hugh had reached out and that was enough for one day. He and Miguel would see each other again and would build their relationship one difficult conversation at a time. Hugh nodded. It was a tacit excusal.

  Miguel breathed a sigh of relief, but stayed frozen till the two cops began to walk farther down the block.

  “Pricks,” he whispered at their backs.

  • • •

  Oscar Flores hated his brother. He knew it may even be a sin, to hate your own brother the way he did, but the way he saw things, it could be no worse than the sins his brother committed. This way, it was a wash. Oscar hated Ramon from as far back as he could remember. He couldn’t recall a warm moment shared between them. Ramon was a sadistic son of a bitch. Except his mom wasn’t a bitch; she had to deal with Ramon, too.

  Everyone in the neighborhood thought Ramon was a tough guy. Oscar knew better. He knew Ramon was a chicken-shit. He could remember when their father used to beat Ramon. First he’d have to catch Ramon, and then, when he began to administer the punishment, Ramon would flail and wail like an infant. Their father left seven years ago, when Oscar was eight years old. That was the last time Oscar heard Ramon cry.

  Oscar worked hard to avoid his older brother. He came home late, went to bed early, avoided the kitchen, and was quick in the bathroom. He still spent time with his mother, but if Ramon was home, he avoided her too. Any possibility of intersecting with his brother brought anxiety to Oscar, stress that had recently started to manifest with dozens of pimples across his oily forehead.

  Oscar wanted to be left alone. The abuse he took from his brother only confirmed what he’d known all along; the world had only pain to offer. He watched his mother work endless hours just to come home to complain that there was never enough; never enough hours to fill her paycheck, never enough money from her paycheck, and never ever enough hours in the day.