Work Text:
NQB3
The Catholic Youth League of Miami began in January. If they waited for the traditional season to play baseball, the kids would suffer heatstroke, attendance at the games would be low, and – with twenty teams participating – they would never make it through schedule before summer temperatures and other obligations shut them down. The two new fields, complete with covered bleachers, sheltered dugouts, and support buildings, were added over Christmas and were a blessing to the busy program. With many of the teams being in or around Little Havana, the once abandon lot was designed to become a neighborhood centerpiece for sport and family activities.
Dedication for the fields was a simple ceremony scheduled at 10 a.m. before the first four teams would take the fields. Father Ernesto Lupe would offer a blessing and prayer after the ribbon was cut, but before the national anthem was sung. Waiting for his turn to speak, he scanned the assembled crowd. There were many familiar faces – smiling, excited players, waving parents, community organizers, and politicians; but someone was missing.
At some point during the National Anthem the missing man appeared in the shade at the top of the bleachers across from the third base line of St. Michael’s Diamond. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a navy polo, and brown Adidas. Although a deep billed baseball cap that read – Tokyo – shaded his eyes, he wore dark sunglasses.
Martin Castillo knew there would be consequences when he arrived late. He had considered turning around and returning home when he realized the ceremony had begun. If he had not been one of the contributors to the project, he would have left but the Saints were opening the fields and there were a number of players that would expect to see him there.
Having greeted his way through those supporters and players that he knew, Martin had climbed to the most remote shaded seat he could find. Four innings later, Ernesto saw him in the crowd and Castillo resigned himself to the conversation he knew would ensue.
The crowded seats and the distraction of the game kept Lupe at bay but the priest continued to glance up at Castillo. Finally, Father Lupe excused himself from the small group of parents, grabbed two waters from the cooler beside the baseline bench and picked his way through the crowd. Ambling up the steep bank, his long legs allowing him to step over row after row of seats to reach the silent spectator.
“Martin.” The priest said, sitting down, “What are you doing up here? For a while, I thought that you were called out on duty.” Settling in, watching the activity on the field, he added with a chuckle, “Instead, I see that you were late, which is … honestly… a little alarming. Is everything okay? You could have called me.”
“Everything is fine, Ernesto… just fine,” he answered, his low voice was slightly hoarse.
“Hmm,” Ernesto nodded at the field, “Bobby and Chico switched places in the field this year. Chico’s a much better first baseman and without the pressure Bobby enjoys the game again. Plus, he’s got that throw. He should have been center field all along, but his father was so bent on that first base prestige thing…” he shrugged, “thanks for having that chat with him.”
Martin shook his head, “No es nada… we had a parent bleacher conference.”
“Why, Martin,” the priest laughed, “that was a pun. You made a joke there. Are you sure everything is okay; you sound a little rough?”
"Yeah, fine, Che,” Castillo took the proffered bottle. Opening it he took a drink then replaced the cap. “I was out late. That’s all. This morning just came earlier than usual.”
“Bad case? Late bust?” Shaking his head, Ernesto said, “You’d think criminals would have to sleep too.”
“They do; it wasn’t a bust,” Martin glanced at the priest. Having done his duty to community, Lupe was entrenched for the duration.
There were things Martin had to tell his old friend – things that had transpired over the past few days, but he didn’t want this to turn into a Father Lupe therapy session. The best way to control this conversation was to offer a full confession – before Lupe noticed the symptoms and started digging.
“I was at a bar in Key Largo. We got back about five. I didn’t get much sleep.”
Lupe swiveled, bringing his leg up onto the seat’s board to fully face his friend. He silently studied the sun glass sporting, baseball cap wearing man for a full minute before saying, “Well, that explains why you’re up here hiding in the shade. But, like I said… you could have called.”
“No phone here,” Castillo said simply.
“I mean, last night.” Looking Castillo up and down, Ernesto smiled, “Tin? Are you actually hung-over?” Seeing a slight change in Castillo’s expression, he added, “You should have called. I would have gone with you.”
“Crockett and Tubbs don’t have the same understanding of Jesuit mysteries that I do.” Martin adjusted his sunglasses, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose. “That collar would have put a damper on things.”
Father Lupe watched in fascination. Castillo’s eyelids were puffy and his normally clear sclera were red from tiny broken blood vessels – classic signs of a hangover. Turning to face the ball diamond again, he asked, “Since when did you take up drinking with the boys? I mean, I’ve known you for a long time, Martin, and the strongest thing we’ve raised in a glass is Don Arturo’s espresso that he uses for Cafecito. I have to confess… I’m a little puzzled… I don’t even know what you drink.”
Sliding the black Raybans back into place and adjusting his baseball cap to make the earpieces comfortable under the hat, Martin said softly, “I don’t usually… it was Sonny’s idea.” Glancing over at the priest, he offered, “Bacardi 151… is the nectar of my people. You’re a tequila guy, aren’t you? Cuervo? Or whisky… what… Crown Royal when you’re uptown, Mescal when you’re trying to seem like a Pachuco.”
“Why,” Ernesto laughed, “do you know things like that? Seriously…One-fifty-one? Are you trying to kill yourself or burp fireballs?”
“I was trying,” opening the water bottle, he toasted the priest next to him, “to get drunk.”
“Did you succeed?” Lupe asked.
“I…” Castillo sighed, “made a reasonable attempt, yes.” He drained the bottle in a series of breathless gulps.
“Is that a busted lip,” Ernesto gave a single nod, “don’t tell me you were in a fight?”
“Not at the bar,” Martin touched the right corner of his mouth where the cut was evident. “This is nothing. Problems with a perp resisting arrest.” Reaching over, he took the second water bottle from the priest, “You should see the bruises across my ribs and hip. Technicolor.”
Lupe glanced down the rows of bleacher seats, catching the eye of a teenager dressed in Saint’s colors, he gave a short whistle, held up two fingers and pointed at the cooler. Turning back to Castillo, he mused, “What did the other guy look like?”
“The other guy?” Castillo shook his head. "You don’t want to know, Father. You don’t… want to know.”
“I thought, as a Lieutenant, you’d be insulated from such injuries. Mmm, you appear to be functioning.” Lupe reached for the water bottles being offered by the youth that bounded up the stands. “Gracias, Ivan.”
Turning back to his friend he said, “So I’ll just be happy you made it today. Now,” he sat one of the bottles next to Castillo and took the cap off the second, “am I wrong or is there something else? ¿Que onda, hermano?”
Ernesto had known Martin since they were teenagers. Marching for equal opportunity in education for the Coral Way Bilingual program brought Ernesto and Martin together in 1963. The two fiery, young Chicanos forged a friendship that had lasted decades. Martin knew the passions that drove and plagued the young would-be priest and in turn, Ernesto knew Martin’s Miami family legacy and his real last name. Lupe was one of the few who knew the details of Castillo’s life before and after Thailand, and the only one to whom he spoke of personal dilemmas.
Nodding, Castillo asked, “Do you remember when I came back from Thailand? I told you about my marriage, my wife, the bombing, how I left?”
Five years earlier, while working with the DEA, Martin had executed an aggressive operation to capture two tons of unrefined opium as the shipment came through the mountains between Burma and Thailand. They had no reason to believe their mission had been compromised but regional politics assured that it was.
Shortly after setting up along the steep road his team was decimated in an ambush from the rear. Later, when his body wasn’t found among the dead, his home was targeted – leaving a blackened shell filled with fragments and too many blanks in the police investigation reports. The coroner was barely able to distinguish the relics found melted between the bed-springs except to list ‘unidentified female’ on the paperwork. Conveniently, there was no evidence of the perpetrators.
“Yes, of course,” Lupe turned to face the diamond, clasping his hands in front of him, he offered his profile as if in the confessional. “Has there been new information?”
Facing the diamond as well, Martin said, “No and yes. Not exactly new information. It turns out my wife… ex-wife… survived the grenading of our house. She thought I was killed and fled to Chiang Mai, where her mother’s sister lived. She was sheltered by the family until they decided it was safe.” He watched the game for a few minutes, then continued, “She moved south to Hat Yai the following year, met a man while working at the University there and got married.” Glancing over to see his friend’s reaction, he added, “They have a son.”
“Oh, Martin,” Ernesto closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he kept them locked on his laced fingers, “She didn’t look for you? You told me that you repeatedly asked for her…why didn’t the authorities…” Castillo held up a hand, silencing the priest.
“There were extenuating circumstances.” Only the slight tilt and swivel of the capped head indicated Castillo looking around them. "The Intelligence Community can suppress information faster and more completely than the Vatican. ” Turning aviator covered eyes to Lupe, he continued, “They brought her to Miami to keep me… in my place. It was a premature move.”
‘It was a premature move’ came out of Castillo’s chess lexicon. Ernesto smiled in understanding, “They don’t really know you, do they?”
“No. No,” his voice was low, “like most others, they see what they choose.”
“What happened, Tin?” Even here in a public place, the two men were able to make a space of intimacy that allowed Ernesto to use the diminutive. The nickname was pronounced with the Spanish ‘i’ making it Teen. Once the private name was used, Martin was no longer speaking to the Jesuit, he was talking to the man that had been his friend for decades.
“She came,” his voice was distant as he relived the morning events and the game’s opening moves. “She came… to Miami.”
Castillo had arrived at the office before dawn. Unable to sleep, sore from injuries sustained while subduing a suspect the evening before, he sought the distraction of the current case on his desk. The fight that had left him with a cut lip and a bruised hip was one more piece of a much larger puzzle. What had started as an investigation into dirty cops devolved into a mystery involving the theft of papers from hotel lock boxes, the murder of the two men responsible, and the desecration of their bodies.
The bodies in the morgue carried distinctive signs of an executioner from Thailand. Martin recognized the stylized signature of the professional killer from his previous assignment with the DEA, but that had been in Asia; this was the United States - Miami’s backyard and under Metro-Dade’s jurisdiction. From the moment he saw the mutilated corpse he had the tic-tic-tic sense of waiting for an incendiary device to blow. Someone had brought the killer here, someone close, someone known, someone that had taken everything from Martin.
He was certain that this was Laó Li announcing his intent to relocate to Miami.
A courier arrived within thirty minutes of Castillo settling in to review the evidence. The overnight OCB clerk had brought the envelope directly to the Vice Lieutenant in the Ops-Con where he was hunched over the few known facts. The bomb was a single photograph of May Ying Chiya walking across the concourse of Miami International Airport; Martin’s dead wife – walking across a Miami street.
He sat in the glass walled office until the sun came up, holding the photograph. His initial reaction was to stop breathing – caught somewhere between elation and terror, then with a choked exhale, emotion overwhelmed him and he briefly broke. Alone in the echoing room with only darkness beyond Ops, he allowed himself this moment. She was alive, but she was trapped. The crushing joy and grief of their situation brought tears to his eyes and he let them fall. After a time, the darkness around him brightened as the growing light of day flowed through the glass bricks – she was on the board but she was in jeopardy and it would take a cool regard to play this game out.
“She came? Here?” Lupe asked.
“They came,” the hungover Latino amended his statement. Any fantasy entertained in the cold darkness while staring at a black and white photo vanished in the reality of the day’s heat. "They came and they went. I arranged for the family’s safety. They’ll be fine, as long as they stick to the plan.”
“Did you have the chance to talk to her alone?” Ernesto was not maudlin in his questioning; he was merely being thorough.
“Yes.” Despite the dark glasses, it was clear that Castillo was following the game by focusing on the ball: the sight-line of his aviators following the arc as it fell into left field. “She told me she loved the father of her son.” He stopped following the ball’s trajectory long enough to glance at the priest beside him. “Who can fault her for that? I am a memory from long ago. Her son and her husband are her focus now. She is a good mother, a dutiful wife. I’m the one out of time… out of step with reality.”
“Your reality is your own,” said Lupe. “It is just as valid as anyone else’s. You had no idea that she was still alive. Had you known… this would be a different day. You were lied to, Martin… so cruelly lied to.” Ernesto dropped the pretense of a confessional, turning to his friend, he laid a hand on the arm draped listlessly over the crossed leg. “The child,” he asked, “is there any possibility…”
Castillo anticipated this question and answered sharply, “No, he is not mine. He’s too young to be mine.”
Martin did not add his thoughts to the reply. When the toddler darted into the room, a burst of mental calculation flashed through him – how old was the boy? How long had they been separated? Was there a possibility? Might this be his son? The final assessment had left him empty with the facts that lay before his eyes. The boy was too young, the wife he had been forced to leave behind was committed to another in familial dedication.
Upon entering the home, Martin was allowed a moment of pretense, wherein the exuberant child ran to him as his own son might, seeking comfort and protection. He had wrapped the boy in his arms, swooping him into a hug, and lifting the child skyward until he stood, arms ensconcing all that may have once been his – an apocryphal moment belonging to another man. He had handed the squirming tot over to the impatient mother to confine and correct, leaving Martin alone in the home’s family room keenly aware of the deficits in his personal life.
As an afterthought he said, “He is what might have been.”
The spectators below them cheered at the play while Castillo and Lupe sat captured in Martin’s telling of the latest chapter of a bifurcated life: one imagined to be filled with the mundanity of family and love, the other reality of solitude and sacrifice.
In a moment of longing, confessed to the only person bound by the sacrament of confidence, Castillo whispered, “What could I have possibly done that required such penance? Please, Che, explain this to me… what did I do? I was eighteen when he took my family… I was thirty-two when he ripped my wife from my life… and five years later he taunts me with what might have been. What the hell did I do? How much sin could I have possibly acquired that warrants this punishment? What… in Jesus name… did I do to deserve this shit?”
The unbridled emotion in the voice beside him, brought Ernesto’s full attention to focus on his friend. It was such a rarity to sit in open conference with Martin Castillo that Father Ernesto blocked the cacophonous environment to focus solely on the intense, scarred man beside him ignoring everything around them. The quiet, pleading voice was a blade plunging randomly into the fabric of faith between them.
“Normally, I’m not one to wallow… but God damn it, Ernesto… I put the woman and son that should have been mine on a plane last night with another man.” Turning directly to face the priest, Martin hissed, “What more can your God require of me?”
Lupe looked back and forth between dark lenses covering Castillo’s eyes, searching the distorted reflection. “Require?” The priest asked. “You had choices. You made a choice. Saint Paul might offer that you were subject to her in love and so gave yourself up for her.”
“In reverence to Christ?” Martin’s voice was suddenly flat. “Ephesians? You are going to trot out Ephesians?
They sat, locked in silence for a moment, the world moving on around them until Lupe’s fingers closed around Castillo’s arm. “Would that I had answers for you, some wise understanding that might…”
Turning away from the searching eyes of his friend, Castillo’s voice changed to distant thunder, “Truly, Che – and I know that I’ve said this before … and that little rant aside – I am done seeking answers. I am a disciple of Reality and what is. And what is… is me here; her gone and someone else’s wife. There is me and there is the path... and the path is mine alone to walk.”
Looking at the collared man beside him, Martin continued, “I took a night off. The guys that went with me stood guardians while I drank myself into an imaginary land of fantasy and grief.” Castillo reached over to pat the hand on his arm turning to the priest. "But that’s done, and it’s the next day… the next thing… and I have to move on. With or without understanding… I have to move on… so… here I am. Watching a little league game in the sun with a hangover.”
With a final squeeze, Lupe dropped his hold and asked, “What happened to the people that brought her here? The people that kept the secret.”
Martin cleared his throat with a small cough and in a normalized voice said, “They were arrested for other illegal activities. They’re waiting prosecution. The case is sound. I anticipate conviction. Justice… justice will be served.” Once again, the dark glasses scanned the ball field. “It was a long game… but… no, they really don’t know me. Few people do.”
Turning back to the ball diamond, Lupe sighed, “We few… we happy, happy few.” With renewed conviction in his voice, the priest offered, “In the spirit of being subject to one another – how may I serve you, Martin?”
Giving a nod to the field, Castillo said, “I don’t know. Get Ortiz to stop sticking his tongue out in the wind up to his curve ball, maybe.” Suddenly raising his voice he barked, “Hey! Bradford!”
When the tall, team captain looked up, Martin pointed to his mouth and nodded at the kid on the pitching mound. The older teenager followed Castillo’s gaze to the mound and held up a thumb in response. After the hit and first base out, a new batter made his way to the box, allowing Bradford to confer with his catcher. When the message made its way to the mound via the catcher, the boy nodded and looked up to Lupe and Castillo, adjusting his hat in acknowledgment.
“May I ask a few more questions, or would you rather leave it for now?” Ernesto asked, his eyes again on the game.
“Only if you give Ephesians a rest,” Martin pulled the top off the third water bottle, drinking half before reapplying the cap. “I was prepped for this encounter group when I saw my eyes this morning.”
Lupe chuckled. Subtle sarcasm was a sign of equilibrium in the law officer. The delivery was usually rolled into metered conversational tones and covered with a neutral face that disguised the shots. It was survival tactics from a mind that was often steps ahead of those around him, a way of maintaining the cover that made him impenetrable and enigmatic. By the time they had been introduced, this was a feature of Castillo’s personality.
Having received permission, Ernesto forged ahead, “Is there a possibility of seeing her again?”
Watching the play carry through without the pitcher’s tell, Castillo spared a moment to glance at the priest, “You do get right to it, don’t ya? Possibility? Yeah. If she can be brought forth from the land of the dead, then sure, it’s possible.”
“Will you check on her?” Lupe leaned forward, leaning elbows onto his knees, again lacing his fingers. One more out and it would be the end of the inning.
“No, that would be like sticking my tongue out while pitching a wicked curve. No, people notice what you gaze at,” he explained. “But… I gave her a key to my house. In case things change and they are threatened.”
“You gave her a key?” Ernesto sought clarification, “Her? Does he even know she has it?”
Martin shook his head, “Thai culture… Thai men can make Latin men appear… monastic. And I wanted her to have options if they’re ever threatened.” Seeing the guarded expression play across his friend’s face, he added, “Che, I let her go. There’s no wish nor fantasy attached to that key. The world is a better place with her in it and… I made a vow to keep her safe a long time ago. If she needs me – out of respect for our past – I will be there for her.”
Looking over his shoulder at the aviator covered eyes, Ernesto said, “You are one of the most ethical men I have ever known. You still love her but you would never allow that to interfere. I know you don’t want the Ephesians perspective, but that is exactly what Saint Paul was trying to say. If we could all embrace that kind of social sacrifice the world would be a better place.”
“Don’t.” Castillo turned his head slightly, acknowledging the eyes upon him. “There’s no paragon of virtue here, Che. There’s just a guy trying to get through today.”
Lupe chuckled, “That’s exactly what a virtuous man would say.”
Castillo adjusted his sunglasses, pulling them down enough to look over the top at Ernesto. The glare had no effect on the grinning priest. “You are a pain in the ass sometimes,” he said, replacing the aviators and tugging at the cap brim.
A comfortable silence settled between the men at the top of the bleachers while the inning ended and The Saints came up to bat. From the team bench, Martin saw Ortiz wave up at them. ‘Sorry’, he mouthed silently. Castillo smiled and shook his head, ‘I’s okay’, he mouthed back. Calling down to the youth, he said, “You know now. Just move on. You’re wicked, just stop telling people you’re wicked, let them figure it out.” With a huge grin, Ortiz offered a thumbs up.
As the opposing team took the field and the ball flew through the air in a warm up, The Saint’s first batter knocked weights off the bat he’d been swinging and approached the plate. Nodding at the boy, Ernesto said, “His younger brother is a disaster at ball.”
“Baseball isn’t everybody’s game,” Martin commented.
“No…” the priest chuckled, “ball… he is horrible at ball. All ball. If it’s got a ball attached, the kid is a fright.”
Frowning, Castillo waited. It was unlike Father Lupe to dig into negativity, there had to be more to the story. The crowd cheered when the first batter hit one out of the park and there was a homerun to celebrate. Once the runner was home, and the parents and on-lookers calmed to normal tones, Lupe cleared his throat.
“He is, however, really good at chess and I said I’d see about finding him a mentor.” The priest left that statement and immediately pivoted, “You gave good advice to Ortiz. The ‘you know now – just move on’, that is sound advice for any age group.”
“You are absolutely a pain in the ass,” Martin countered, knowing that before the day ended he would meet McNally’s younger brother and arrange a mentoring schedule with the boy’s parents.
“Perhaps,” Ernesto’s voice was warm with humor and affection, “perhaps… but you know now. Through love you have made a safe space for her because you are a good man. Now, it’s time.” Turning to look at Castillo’s sun glassed covered eyes again, he said, “There are so many lovely fisher folk out there, you should allow yourself to be caught. It would do you good.” Nodding at the ball field full of boys, he continued, “You need to have one or three of those for your own.”
Holding up both hands, to ward off further metaphors, Martin said, “Enough. I’ll mentor McNally. Just stop with the… stuff… that thing that you do that you think is so charming. Stop. Just… watch the game.”
As they turned back to the game, Castillo’s thoughts wandered to the previous night. The exquisite logistics of packing her entire world – everything that had been brought with them from Thailand – on to a plane in the middle of a dark runway that would whisk them off to a new life. Far enough away and shielded enough by connections to begin again in security. He watched her disappear into the plane, wondering at the life that might have been and comforted by the secret between them.
He had made her memorize the address – there would be no written evidence, only a key, like so many other keys in a woman’s life. If she needed him, she could find him, and he would help. He owed her that. The board was cleared, the Queen was intact. Perhaps it was time for a new game.
Ernesto’s arm was suddenly a weight across his shoulders, “We won!”
Looking around Martin realized the bleachers were beginning to empty, “Hey, where did you go? We won!”
“Sorry, thinking about the game,” he said, focusing on Father Lupe.
“The game is over, Tin,” Ernesto laughed.
Martin Castillo shook his head. Taking off his sunglasses he squinted into the sky, “The game is never over, Che. Never.”