Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle by Linda Barnes Page A

side, donated by a grateful client. I tried to tuck my legs behind the seat in front of me, a hopeless task for a long-legged woman. The sun beat down on two nearby kids as they fought over a “K” card, each hoping to loft it triumphantly 27 times—27 strikeouts for Pedro, the beloved ace. A woman wearing a Derek Jeter number two jersey drew a round of boos, then a round of cheers. I settled in and sipped a beer but found I couldn’t concentrate on the game, maybe because I hadn’t had a client, grateful or otherwise, in too long.
    Instead of keeping score, I found myself obsessing about crime and money and how I could deal my way in. I had only one iron in the fire, an evening appointment with Chan Liu, a Chinatown coin dealer.
    Liu’s New York partner had sent him a shipment in the traditional manner, but it never arrived. The courier got robbed at a roadside rest stop, the handcuffs joining him to his briefcase severed with a hacksaw. The crime fit a pattern, but Liu might not be aware of it, because the previous victims had been diamond merchants, not coin dealers.
    I knew that the cops had dealt with four similar cases in the past six months, that diamond dealers were currently sending paired couriers via devious routes. Maybe the precautions were so effective that the gang had shifted to a different target.
    The cops had pegged the first diamond heist as an inside job, but as other cases piled up, that possibility paled. Instead, it seemed that a gang had taken to cautious surveillance and patient tracking. They were opportunistic, smart, and, so far, lucky. Diamonds are small and light, easy to conceal. Coins are heavy, bulky …
    A roar brought me back to the game. Ramirez at the plate, two on base, and 33,311 rose as one, anticipating RBIs. When Manny flied harmlessly to shallow center, the crowd wilted like a deflating balloon, and I realized my two beers had caught up with my bladder.
    I excuse-me’d my way down the row, fans popping from seats like corks to let me pass, and took my place at the end of a long line of women and kids. I should have gone during the home half of the inning, but who leaves with men on base? I could have gone to the smaller ladies’ room on the third-base side, but even though the central corral is the most crowded, I always stop by to say hi to Florrie Andrews.
    When I was a cop, everybody wanted Fenway detail work. Being bottom of the pecking order, I rarely got it, but when I did, I learned to appreciate Florrie’s skill. She’s the number caller.
    Here’s how it works: Each stall has a number over the door, must be 30 of them, and presiding over organized chaos is a woman who weighs 250 easy, sitting in a rickety chair, listening to Sox radio, doing intricate hoop embroidery, and calling out the number of the next free stall with speed an auctioneer would envy. All this without seeming to glance up, ever, as though she could tell the number of the empty stall by the unique sound of its toilet’s flush.
    They all sound the same to me, but Florrie’s a pro.
    I was watching a woman in front of me switch her feet from first to fifth ballet position when I felt a tug at my sleeve and put a name to a face I’d glimpsed at the front gate.
    Moochie.
    â€œHey, Carlotta, do me a favor here.”
    What he really said was “Ey, Cahlodda, do me a favah heah,” in a voice that was pure gravel.
    â€œHey, Moochie, this is the wrong line for you.”
    The right line for Moochie would have ended in jail and been reserved for hairballs and losers. Moochie was a drunk and a petty thief when I ran him in. His ambition was to rob a bank so he’d get respect in stir. Never considered getting away with it.
    â€œHey,” he went on. “My li’l girl heah, my niece, couldja taker in wit yas?”
    â€œIs she hot?”
    â€œWhadja mean?”
    â€œYou steal this kid, Mooch?”
    â€œGinny, baby, who’m