Free The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno

second baseman, all of them looking up, gloves poised for a pop fly. St. Bernard’s centerfielder called for it and caught it, making it look easy, trotting like a thoroughbred with the ball in his glove. Was this the kind of guy Yolanda liked? Was he her boyfriend? Were any of these doofusses dating her? How in the hell could she ever be attracted to these dumbo meatbags?
    As Frank approached the bleachers, he noticed Molloy standing by the fence, wearing a black trench coat in the bright sunshine, his camera hanging around his neck.
    â€œWho’re you supposed to be? Maxwell Smart?” Frank asked. “What’s with the rain coat? It’s not gonna rain.” Fluffy white clouds drifted across a sunny blue sky.
    Molloy opened one side of his coat just wide enough for Frank to see as he spoke out the side of his mouth. “I’m taking yearbook photos.” He gave Frank a wink. Hanging from a string inside his coat was the electronic ear disk.
    â€œGet the fuck away from me with that thing. You look like a freaking child molester.”
    Molloy chuckled with evil glee. “I’m getting some great stuff. For the ‘yearbook.’” Another knowing wink.
    Frank had no time for him right now. He had to find Yolanda. “Later,” he said and kept walking.
    He scanned the bleachers, trying to be cool and not make it look too obvious. If he saw her, he was going to just happen to run into her. Casual. Like it was no big deal. Just in case she looked at him as if he were a dog turd. And if she did, so what? No skin off his nose. He wasn’t looking for her in the first place. Not really.
    The bleachers were pretty full. Not surprising since St. A’s and St. Bernard’s had been archrivals since Jesus was on the cross. Frank saw a lot of dorky underclassmen horsing around, not watching the game at all. And some girls from Mother of Peace and Our Lady of Mercy, St. Bernard’s sister school. A whole lot of short pleated skirts up there. Some pretty nice legs, too. Long hippie hair and cute faces. All very nice, but it was Yolanda he was looking for.
    He kept walking and looking, but as he approached the end of the bleachers, he started to think she wasn’t there anymore, which pissed him off all over again. If fucking Whalley hadn’t kept him so long… But as he passed the section closest to home plate, something caught his eye and made him forget about Yolanda for a second. An unholy trinity if there ever was one, he thought.
    Sitting together in the middle of the bleachers were the mayor of Jersey City, Louis Palmeri, whose son, Lou Jr., pitched for St. A’s; Monsignor Fitzgerald, St. A’s headmaster and head vampire; and alleged mob boss John Trombetta. Frank wondered why Trombetta was here. His son was a junior at St. Bernard’s, but as far as Frank knew, he didn’t play baseball. His daughter went to Our Lady of Mercy, and maybe she had a boyfriend on one of the teams. But what kind of father goes to a high-school baseball game to root for his daughter’s boyfriend? No one does that.
    Frank focused on Trombetta—compact build, square head, and too tanned for the season in his gray sharkskin suit, silver cuff links as big as half-dollars glinting in the sun. Frank knew a little bit about him because his father took care of his lawn and Dom’s father worked for him. Doing what, Frank didn’t exactly know.
    Trombetta squinted at the mayor as he sucked on a cigarette. The mayor, a roly-poly man with a shiny bald head, gestured with his hands as he talked as if he were shaking an invisible basketball, desperately trying to pass it to someone else. It was just taken for granted that he was corrupt and in bed with people like John Trombetta. Palmeri was in his third term as mayor of a city that was seventy percent black and at least ninety-five percent pissed off. But this was north Jersey, and white guys always seemed to win no