Milo said, “Speaking of education, how did Martin come to Prep?”
“You mean how could a waiter from Uruguay afford to send his kid to a place like that? I can’t, they gave him a scholarship.”
“Baseball.”
Mendoza’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already talked to the school?”
“I looked up Martin’s MySpace. Only thing on there was baseball.”
Mendoza looked at him, doubtful.
“That’s why they call us detectives, Mr. Mendoza. So how’d Martin end up at Prep, rather than at another school?”
“You’re talking to students? You don’t think Martin did something?”
“Are you worried Martin did something?”
“Of course not.” Emilio Mendoza’s eyes watered. “Maybe I’ll get a coffee.”
After he sat down with a cardboard cup, Milo said, “Does Martin have a special friend? Someone he’d go to when he’s upset?”
“Only his sister.”
“Where in Texas is she?”
“San Antonio, she’s a nurse at Bexar Hospital. Martin called her the day he left—after his mother and I went to work. Just to say hi, that bothered Gisella, it wasn’t like Martin.”
“Your son’s not talkative?”
“He’s a quiet boy.”
“What was his mood with Gisella?”
“She said he sounded distracted. She couldn’t say by what.”
“Is Gisella Martin’s only sibling?”
“Yes, it’s only the two of them.” As if he regretted that. “Gisella’s seven years older but they’re close.”
Milo let him sip coffee, used the time to finish his second burger. “I’d still like to hear how you connected to Prep.”
“Oh, that,” said Mendoza. “A good man—a regular at the club, his kids and grandkids went to Prep, I was talking to him about Martin, how Martin was a smart boy, I wasn’t happy with his education. We live in El Monte, Martin was happy with the public school but no way. Sure he liked it, everything was too easy for him, he didn’t have to work. You go to college like that, you can’t compete with kids who went to tough schools. The member, he’s a rich man but a good man, treats everyone like a person—he said maybe there’s a solution, Emilio. I say, what, sir? He just smiles. Next time he comes in, orders his tri-tip and his martini, gives me a brochure from Windsor Prep.”
Mendoza’s laugh was more nose than mouth. “That is what I gave Mr. Kenten. A big laugh. Then I apologized for being rude, a fool. He says don’t worry, Emilio, I know I caught you by surprise. If it’s money you’re worried about, maybe we can find a solution for that, too.”
Mendoza placed the coffee on the table. “I felt even more the fool. Then he says, didn’t you once say your boy was an excellent pitcher?”
Mendoza shrugged. “I don’t remember saying it, we don’t get personal with the members, but the nice ones… he always comes in by himself, I figure it’s good for him someone pays attention. I say, sure, Martin’s a great pitcher. Strong, like his mother’s side.” Pinching his own thin biceps. “His mother’s father was a blacksmith, muscles out to here, his uncle Tito, his mother’s brother, played basketball for Miramar—that’s a big team in Uruguay—before he got hurt.”
Frowning. “Martin also got hurt, maybe that’s from her side, too.”
“What was Martin’s injury?”
Mendoza touched his left shoulder. “Rotator cuff, it can heal if he rests. Maybe surgery, maybe no. Either way, no baseball for a long time.”
Mendoza slapped the table. “Perfect opportunity, like from God. They need a star pitcher, Martin needs a good education. At South El Monte, there was talk some professional scouts came to see him. But no one said anything to me so I think it was just talk.”
“When did Martin transfer to Prep?”
“Last year, second half of eleventh grade.”
“Middle of the year.”
“I was worried about them being snobs but let me tell you, they rolled out the carpet. Big deal, he wasn’t impressed.”
“Martin didn’t like the attention?”
“Martin didn’t like
Head shake. “Stubborn, like his mother. Maybe it helps with baseball. Saturdays he went to the U-pitch. Throwing all day. One time he came home with the arm all black under the skin, he threw so much the muscles were bleeding under the skin. It looked like a disease, his mother screamed, I called his coach—this was middle school, he was twelve, thirteen, say talk to Martin, no more bleeding. He tells me Martin’s gifted, maybe he overdoes a little but that’s better than being lazy. Stupid man, I hang up, talk to Martin myself. Martin says Sandy Koufax used to pitch with black arms. I say who’s Sandy Koufax? Martin laughs and walks away. Later, I look up Sandy Koufax, he’s the greatest pitcher ever lived, fine, good for him, I still don’t like my son with a black arm.”
Another look at his watch. “I go to Martin’s games, he says don’t embarrass me by screaming and going crazy like the other fathers, just sit there. That’s all I can tell you, I need to get back to work.”
I said, “How did Martin adjust to the tougher curriculum at Prep?”
“Did he feel stupid?” said Mendoza. “Oh, yeah, and he let me know all the time I made him feel stupid by moving him.”
“Did his grades suffer?”
“Sure, this was a real school. No more easy A’s, now it’s B’s if he’s lucky. I tell him a B from Prep is worth more than a public school A. He walks away.”
Mendoza threw up his hands.
“That’s when Elise Freeman stepped into the picture.”
“She was their idea—the school’s. What happened was Martin wrote a composition—a term paper, it was no good, sloppy, he can do better, I’ve seen him do better. Maybe he did it on purpose, you know?”
“To prove a point,” I said.
“Exactly. Making himself look stupid so the school say bye-bye. I tell him instead of making a scheme, study hard, you’re a smart boy, now with no baseball, you got extra time. He hands the paper in anyway. Got a D.”
As if announcing a terminal diagnosis. “Never, ever before did he get a D, not him or his sister, never did I see a D anywhere in my house. I was ready to… I got angry, okay, I admit it. There was loud yelling. That’s the first time Martin took the bus to his sister.”
“How long did he stay away?”
“Just the weekend. Gisella convinced him to go home, she bought him an airline ticket. I paid her back every penny.”
“What about the second time?” I said.
“A few weeks later.” Blinking.
“What was that about?”
Sigh. “Her. Ms. Freeman. The school arranged a tutor for him, all paid. To Martin that was saying, You’re stupid. Stubborn, like I said. Maybe for baseball it’s okay but not for life.”
Anger had winched his voice higher. No more fatherly protectiveness. He leaned closer. “Everyone helping him, he’s spitting in everyone’s face—not really spitting, you know what I mean.”
Milo said, “Attitude.”
“Oh, boy, he’s got attitude.” Mendoza swigged coffee, narrowly missed sloshing liquid onto his white shirt. He inspected the placket. Flicked off a speck of dust. “Lucky, I only got one more clean in my locker.” Another glance at
