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.
“Sheriff’s deputies, ma’am. We’re 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 booth. 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
