Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [91]
A fairy tale come true.
• • •
THE CROSS BAY Lanes were shut down for the night, outside lights dimmed, front doors bolted. Inside, the large Bud sign above the bar cast a green glow across the lanes, all of them dark except for one. A corner jukebox sent out a haunting Ry Cooder instrumental.
Pins Ryan stood crouched above the black bowling ball cupped in his hands. His feet were planted firm and balanced. He took three steps forward, arched the ball behind him, and brought it down in one smooth motion. His front foot curved as the ball slammed against the hardwood and buzzed toward the pins, scattering eight of them, leaving behind only the three and four. Pins walked slowly back to the scoring table, took a swig from a bottle of Amstel, and then stood still, enjoying the quiet darkness of his alley.
He had bought a share of the place three months after his shooting, going in as full partner with two retired firemen from Ozone Park. The income from the alley, coupled with his disability pension, made Pins more than comfortable and afforded him the stable environment he had always sought. Besides, he could bowl seven days and nights a week without digging into his pocket.
He had neither a wife nor a family, but since so much of his life had been spent in solitary circumstances, this lack of intimate ties no longer seemed important. He had plenty of friends, most of them bowling buddies. And unlike many of the other disabled cops Pins came across from time to time, he didn’t miss the job. On certain occasions, when a special call came in, Pins still laid down some plants for the department, pleased to note his wounds hadn’t cost him his skills.
He removed the ball from its base, took his position, and blew out the two standing pins to record a spare. After penciling in his score for the opening frame, he took in a deep breath, relishing the stale smells of the old alley, looking around at the rows of shiny balls glistening in the light off the Bud sign. Behind him, racks of old bowling shoes, each colored uglier than the next, hung in straight rows of twelve across, based on size and use. He loved being in the alley, especially when it was dark and empty, a dozen lanes all to himself.
Pins had left the dinner with Boomer having no answer framed in his mind. Boomer’s plan had the ring of a no-win mission. Jail time or death were the only likelihoods. But there had been a feeling to the group, a warmth and spirit emanating from each cop that forced Pins to hold his tongue. He missed that camaraderie in the years since he was shot off the job, that sense of belonging to a special group, of being kidded and teased by others who shared the same passion and dedication.
The alley was his home, a place for him to get away, roll as many games as it took for him to erase from his mind the places he’d been and the faces he wanted to forget.
But being a cop was where he was most needed.
If Pins could no longer fill that large void as a member of the department, he could easily do so as one of the Apaches. He could be their safety net, planting bugs in hidden places. A piece of his life’s puzzle that had been missing for years could now be fitted back into its proper place.
Three games, one beer, and two cups of coffee later, Pins had decided to join up with Boomer’s team of crippled cops. He would lay down the taps and wires to help the Apaches reel in Lucia Carney. He would ignore his fear of the gun and hide behind the shield of the electronic bug.
Those three games were the best Pins had bowled since before he took the bullets meant for the body and transgressions of another man.
• • •
BOOMER SAT ACROSS from a gray metal desk stacked high with books, files, and newspapers, hands jammed inside his jacket pockets, gnawing on a thick wad of Spearmint gum. He watched as Dr. Carolyn Bartlett reached down into her briefcase and pulled out a worn manila folder with Jennifer Santori’s name written across the front in black felt tip. She placed it on top of a six-deep pile of similar-looking folders,