toward home plate. He drove up to me and turned off the engine.
The driver, a dark-haired Hispanic man, jumped off the machine, took off his work gloves, and walked toward me. On the left side of his maroon golf shirt was the Beaumont School crest and the name “Miguel” embroidered below in school bus yellow thread.
“Can I help you, Mrs.?” He spoke with the accent of someone who wasn’t born in the United States but had lived here a long time.
I attempted to dazzle him with my most disarming smile. “I hope so. My name is Martha, and I live in the house over there.”
“I am Miguel. What can I do for you, Mrs. Martha?” He spoke softly and with the charming deference Latino men showed to older women.
“I’m looking for someone, and I hope you can help me.”
“My pleasure.”
“Did you notice a couple camping out behind the field over on the other side of the river?” I pointed in the direction of left field. “Their names are Javier and Graciela.”
“When I come here to work on Monday, the police were already back there with the body of Coach Martin. I told them I don’t know nothing.”
“I’m not the police, Miguel. I’m concerned about my neighbor Ed Pappas. His house is right there.”
“Oh yes. I know who he is. He comes here many times during a game. He yell and argue with Coach Martin. Once, they fight and the police come.”
“Well, because of that fight, the police think my friend might have murdered the coach. They found the murder weapon in his backyard, but I think the real killer threw it over the fence. If the two people I’m looking for, Javier and Graciela, witnessed the murder from their camp, they could prove my friend is innocent.”
“If they saw something, they probably ran for their lives. Where I come from, if you are picked up by the police, you are never seen again. They probably think the police here are the same. Homeless Latinos are afraid of La Migra. They don’t want to be sent back to their country. Death there, death here, it’s all the same. I don’t think you ever find those people.”
“Listen, Miguel. I was the one who found Coach Martin’s body. I had gone for a morning walk, and I can tell you he was savagely beaten in the head. The killer must have been very angry. Did the coach have any enemies you knew of? Maybe someone at the school?”
Miguel shook his head slowly. “No, Mrs. Martha. No one.”
“Well, did you ever hear him arguing with anyone?”
Miguel said nothing. He just looked at the ground and put his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t think so.”
He seemed to be holding back. “Please, Miguel. I’m not interested in getting anyone else in trouble. I just want to get my friend Ed out of trouble.”
Miguel took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “Well, like I said, your friend, he come here more than once. Some of your other neighbors, they also complain about noise. A lady with long hair come once, with an old man on a scooter.”
Must have been Sonia and Tony DiArco.
“What did Coach Martin say?”
“Nothing. He was too busy arguing with one of the mothers. She scream at Coach to put her son on the field. The lady hit him with her purse when he tell her to sit down and be quiet.” Miguel stopped to chuckle at the memory.
“So the coach had trouble with the parents?”
“All the time. At one game, a fat man, he shove Coach Martin in the shoulder, and the coach push him away like a pulga , a flea. He fall down and the other parents laugh.
“Another father, he wears a black baseball cap with a marisco, a pink shrimp, and talks with a stutter. Coach make fun of the way he talk and say if he don’t shut up, he’ll never let his kid play.”
Miguel stopped and slowly shook his head. “Then there’s ‘Señor Rolls-Royce.’ He has una perilla. ” Miguel stroked an invisible goatee on his chin. “That one don’t yell. He just talk quiet. He tell Coach Martin to take his son off the
The driver, a dark-haired Hispanic man, jumped off the machine, took off his work gloves, and walked toward me. On the left side of his maroon golf shirt was the Beaumont School crest and the name “Miguel” embroidered below in school bus yellow thread.
“Can I help you, Mrs.?” He spoke with the accent of someone who wasn’t born in the United States but had lived here a long time.
I attempted to dazzle him with my most disarming smile. “I hope so. My name is Martha, and I live in the house over there.”
“I am Miguel. What can I do for you, Mrs. Martha?” He spoke softly and with the charming deference Latino men showed to older women.
“I’m looking for someone, and I hope you can help me.”
“My pleasure.”
“Did you notice a couple camping out behind the field over on the other side of the river?” I pointed in the direction of left field. “Their names are Javier and Graciela.”
“When I come here to work on Monday, the police were already back there with the body of Coach Martin. I told them I don’t know nothing.”
“I’m not the police, Miguel. I’m concerned about my neighbor Ed Pappas. His house is right there.”
“Oh yes. I know who he is. He comes here many times during a game. He yell and argue with Coach Martin. Once, they fight and the police come.”
“Well, because of that fight, the police think my friend might have murdered the coach. They found the murder weapon in his backyard, but I think the real killer threw it over the fence. If the two people I’m looking for, Javier and Graciela, witnessed the murder from their camp, they could prove my friend is innocent.”
“If they saw something, they probably ran for their lives. Where I come from, if you are picked up by the police, you are never seen again. They probably think the police here are the same. Homeless Latinos are afraid of La Migra. They don’t want to be sent back to their country. Death there, death here, it’s all the same. I don’t think you ever find those people.”
“Listen, Miguel. I was the one who found Coach Martin’s body. I had gone for a morning walk, and I can tell you he was savagely beaten in the head. The killer must have been very angry. Did the coach have any enemies you knew of? Maybe someone at the school?”
Miguel shook his head slowly. “No, Mrs. Martha. No one.”
“Well, did you ever hear him arguing with anyone?”
Miguel said nothing. He just looked at the ground and put his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t think so.”
He seemed to be holding back. “Please, Miguel. I’m not interested in getting anyone else in trouble. I just want to get my friend Ed out of trouble.”
Miguel took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “Well, like I said, your friend, he come here more than once. Some of your other neighbors, they also complain about noise. A lady with long hair come once, with an old man on a scooter.”
Must have been Sonia and Tony DiArco.
“What did Coach Martin say?”
“Nothing. He was too busy arguing with one of the mothers. She scream at Coach to put her son on the field. The lady hit him with her purse when he tell her to sit down and be quiet.” Miguel stopped to chuckle at the memory.
“So the coach had trouble with the parents?”
“All the time. At one game, a fat man, he shove Coach Martin in the shoulder, and the coach push him away like a pulga , a flea. He fall down and the other parents laugh.
“Another father, he wears a black baseball cap with a marisco, a pink shrimp, and talks with a stutter. Coach make fun of the way he talk and say if he don’t shut up, he’ll never let his kid play.”
Miguel stopped and slowly shook his head. “Then there’s ‘Señor Rolls-Royce.’ He has una perilla. ” Miguel stroked an invisible goatee on his chin. “That one don’t yell. He just talk quiet. He tell Coach Martin to take his son off the
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