Blue Smoke

purpose.
    She’d know it was for her. Know what was for her? Reena leaned back in her desk chair, shut her eyes. The big, bright surprise.
    A personal surprise or a professional one?
    She spent most of the afternoon in court, waiting, then testifying on a revenge fire that had resulted in one death. She scored the baseball tickets from a friend in the DA’s office. And walked back to the station house with an itch between her shoulder blades.
    If he knew her name, was he watching her? She felt watched. She felt exposed and vulnerable walking the familiar street.
    If he called again—when he called again—she’d keep him on the phone. She’d already set up a recorder. She’d keep him on and she’d work him. She’d draw something out of him that would ring that bell.
    Then they’d see who got a surprise.

    Drawing out her phone, she called Bo’s cell. He’d passed into the level of serious relationship. His numbers were now programmed.
    “Hey, Blondie.”
    She strolled, and sang. “Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd.”
    “I’ll buy the peanuts and Cracker Jacks,” he said. “What time can you head out?”
    “If nothing comes up—and let’s both knock on a lot of wood—six-thirty.”
    “I’ll be ready. What are you doing now?”
    “I’m walking down the street. Great day out here. I just finished testifying in court, and believe I did my part in putting some murdering jerk away for twenty-five.”
    “Gee, all I’m doing is hanging trim. Not as exciting.”
    “You ever testify in court?”
    “I was acquitted.”
    She laughed. “It’s tedious. I’m going to be ready for those Cracker Jacks.”
    “I’ll provide the surprise inside. Reena?” he said when she didn’t respond.
    “Yeah, right here. Sorry.” She rolled the tension out of her shoulders. “See you later, okay?”
    She flipped the phone closed, then paused outside the station house, did a deliberate scan of street traffic, pedestrians.
    When the phone rang in her hand, she jolted, swore. Then breathed a sigh of relief when she read the display. “Hi, Mama. No, I haven’t asked him about Sunday yet. I will.”
    She turned, walked into the station with her mother’s voice in her ear.
    P arking at Camden Yards was mayhem. Watching cars jockey along always made her feel smug that she lived close enough to walk to the ballpark.

    She loved the crowds, the noise, the jams of cars and the carnival anticipation of the people heading toward that big, beautiful stadium nearly as much as she loved the game.
    She wore her most comfortable jeans, a plain white T-shirt tucked into the waistband, and a black fielder’s cap with the bright Oriole bird.
    She watched kids riding in strollers, or bouncing along beside their parents. She’d done the same, she remembered. Though it had been the old Memorial Stadium during her childhood.
    She could already smell the hot dogs and beer.
    After they passed through the turnstile, Bo slung his arm around her shoulders. He was dressed much like she was, but his shirt was faded blue.
    “Tell me your views on Boog’s barbecue.”
    “As sharp as his fielding back in the day.”
    “Excellent. Want to hit that first?”
    “Are you kidding? We’re going to load up. I eat like a horse at games.”
    They jostled through the crowds, juggled food between them. She fought not to look over her shoulder, not to wonder and worry about every face in the crowd. Easy to blend here, she thought. Easy to tail someone in a baseball stadium. Price of a nosebleed ticket would get you in.
    Because thinking she may be watched made her feel watched, she did what she could to bury the sensation. She wasn’t going to let some nuisance spoil the evening.
    And when they started up the ramp to their gate, Reena took a breath, held it a moment. “I always like this. The way the field comes into view, all that green, the brown of the baselines, the white of the bags, the stands rising up. And the sounds, the smells.”
    “You’re bringing a tear to my eye, Reena.”
    She smiled, stopped another moment at the top, to take it in. The noise, so many voices—conversations, vendors hawking, music playing—washed over her. And the idea of trouble, nasty phone calls, hours in court, the stinging Visa bill she’d gotten in that day’s mail, all slid away like fog in sunlight.
    “The answer to all the questions in the universe can be found in baseball,” she said.

    “God’s truth.”
    They found