Runner-up 2

Steve Lopez was edgily pacing the rapidly filling main entrance of Dodger Stadium. He glanced at his Rolex, 5:50, and still no sign of the mysterious Carmen. He started to think this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe he should just grab a beer and head to The Times’ box seats. . . .

Lopez felt a firm tap on his shoulder and turned to find the crimson, moist face of Judge Larry Greene staring at him intensely.

“Judge Greene, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“No time for questions,” Larry panted. “Where’s the envelope? That is state evidence that needs to be submitted immediately.”

Lopez furrowed his brow. “No disrespect, Larry, but this is information addressed to me personally. I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression by calling you, but--”

“No!” Larry roared. “There’s no misunderstanding here, this is vital data that has an immeasurable impact on the case, and I refuse to let you get your journalistic hands on it and create the next big Los Angeles Times headline story!”

Larry paused for a breath. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blotted at the beads forming above his lip.

Steve stared incredulously.

“This woman, Carmen, hasn’t even shown up yet. Who even knows if she will?” Lopez said.

A feeble sigh escaped Larry. Embarrassed, he wondered if his actions could just as easily become the next headline: “Bipolar Judge Greene: Menace to the Court.”

“Listen, Steve, I’m really sorry. I’ve just been under so much stress lately with the case load, and then this damn high blood pressure. . . . “

“Hey, no problem,” Steve said. “We all have our days.”

Larry returned the moistened handkerchief to his pocket, covering the Smith & Wesson burning a hole in his pocket.

Without warning, a disheveled raven-haired beauty bounded around the corner. Larry saw her first.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Lopez,” he said, raising the gun still concealed in his pocket up to meet Steve’s lower back.

Steve froze. “Larry, is that a gun you’re holding on me or are you. . . . “

“Alright, wise guy,” Larry said, “listen up. Game’s just gotten real serious. You don’t know half the situation, so I need you to do exactly as I say.”

“Sure, Larry, whatever.”

“Get the envelope, do not open it. I’ll be waiting outside the men’s restroom, meet me there, drop it and run to wherever it is you need to go,” Larry instructed.

“Yeah, Lar, no prob,” Steve replied.

“I’ll be watching,” Larry warned as he pulled the brim of his Dodgers cap down his nose and stepped off into the crowd.

Carmen approached. “Mr. Lopez?”

“Yes, you must be Carmen,” he said.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a smallish, white envelope. Carmen winked her mascara-streaked eye.

“Bring this to Larry and then meet me at the Stadium Club. I’ll give you the legit info there.”

“But how did you . . . ,” Steve started.

“Let’s just say I’ve developed a keen sense of precautionary measures,” Carmen said.

She hurried away. As directed, Lopez approached Greene through the expanding mass of Dodger fans, pressed the envelope into his hand, then swam with the mob toward the club.

Larry peered down at the treasure in his hand. He hoped that Carmen hadn’t recognized him. Always the paranoid, he stepped into the men’s room and entered a stall. Sitting, he slid open the sealed back of the envelope and pulled out its contents: a single slip of stiff paper reading “Dodgers vs. Diamondbacks”.

Larry moaned audibly. Without a second thought, he removed the loaded gun from his pocket and yanked the trigger.

Aimee Federkiewicz, who studied creative writing at St. Joseph College in Connecticut before moving to L.A., works at an entertainment industry pension and health plan to cover the bills.