Free The Spoiler by Domenic Stansberry Page B

now, satisfied.
    Lofton sat awhile longer at the table. He could no longer concentrate. Who could be looking for him? No one could know he was here—except, now that he thought about it, he had mentioned, during an idle moment in the press box, that he needed to do some research in the library. But who would be following him? One of the reporters? Tenace? It didn’t make any sense. He went up to the librarian’s desk and called out to the young woman. “My friend?” he asked. “What did he look like?”
    The woman seemed embarrassed.
    â€œWhat did he look like?” Lofton repeated. He began to wonder if she had made a mistake, confusing him with someone else.
    â€œAbout this high.” The librarian raised her hand a few inches over her head. “Brownish hair.” Her smile was gone; her cheeks were red. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t really remember.”
    On Friday he headed for his lunch with Amanti at the Little Puerto Rico Café. He left his hotel early, thinking maybe he could stop along the way at Mendoza’s, get a few last details for that story McCullough wanted, and at the same time maybe learn something more about the Wanderers and the fires.
    As he walked through the Flats, where Einstein had gone for his stories and where the fires were the most serious, he saw kids picking through the debris of a recently burned building. Perhaps they were even the same kids he had seen in some of Einstein’s newspaper photographs. In the full-color glare of midday the young boys, wearing cutoff shorts, T-shirts, crucifix chains hanging around their necks, seemed less real, more frightening than a newspaper photo.
    When he reached Mendoza’s building, three young Puerto Rican men, teenagers really, were standing at the top of the steps. They did not move from the door as Lofton approached. The tallest of the three wore a brightly colored scarf around his head, silver and gold: the colors of the Latinos street gang. He shot a question at Lofton, speaking in rapid, clipped Spanish. Lofton did not understand. He thought it best, however, to pretend that he did.
    â€œI’m looking for Lou Mendoza.”
    One of the other two took a quick stutter step toward Lofton. The tall kid with the head scarf extended his arm outright, across his friend’s chest, signaling him to stop.
    Lofton stood still, his heart pounding in his head. Now he noticed all three of them were wearing scarves. The angry one who’d been intercepted by his friends wore his colors tied around his arm. The third man, who leaned against the doorframe as if bored, had his scarf hanging from his belt, near a knife in a leather sheath.
    â€œ No está ,” said the one with the headband.
    â€œOkay, gracias.”
    Lofton blinked up at the gang members. He tried a ridiculous, friendly wave and then—turning his back—headed down the stairs. Halfway up the street he braved a look over his shoulder. They were gone.
    Just machismo, bravado, Lofton thought. The kid had no plans to come after me. Mendoza’s name, though, had sure set him off.
    The Little Puerto Rico Café was on a partially renovated block below the city’s business section. It was hot and crowded, full of men and women talking loudly, mostly in Spanish. A quick-footed counterman yelled out orders over the din and paused, every fourth or fifth step, to wipe his hands on his dirty apron. A solitary waitress hurried back and forth between the customers and the kitchen.
    Amanti was waiting in an upholstered booth in the back. She wore a black skirt and red blouse, so at first he did not recognize her, her clothes were so like those of the women in this district.
    â€œHave you talked to Randy Gutierrez yet—the shortstop?” she asked.
    â€œNo, the team’s out of town.”
    She smiled. Up close he noticed the faint white gloss on her lips and her red stone earrings—garnet maybe, he