LET’S PLAY BALL
by
Linda Gould
Smashwords Edition
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Published on Smashwords by:
Linda Gould
Let’s Play Ball
Copyright 2011 by Linda Gould
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Chapter One
Here’s the story of how I got mixed up in a major crime and became a well-known heroine, when I could have been branded an outcast. I never dreamed I was the type to embroil myself in a police investigation, especially one with the potential to affect both national and international affairs and almost get me killed. But it turned out I was.
The melodrama began to unfold at a baseball game—fittingly, because the sport has always been our family pastime. My parents, my fraternal twin sister, my husband, and I were privileged to watch this crucial, sold-out game from one of the owner’s boxes. It was practically the greatest experience of my life—or at least, it should have been. I sensed right away that this was a political setting, where private battles could become mingled with world events.
While I grappled with personal demons, our hometown Washington Filibusters were playing the Florida Keys for the National League championship. The Busters were in desperate straits on that bright October Sunday, down three games to two in the series and facing elimination. It was shaping up to be the kind of game that packs in drama at every turn, confirming the adage that sports are a microcosm of life. And the gamesmanship in the luxury suites, high above home plate, competed with events on the field.
I should have felt like a big shot, sitting with my husband, Tommy, at our own table, nursing a gin and tonic and sampling exotic appetizers while the game unfolded almost directly below me. At times when the alcohol penetrated my nervous system, I imagined myself above the fray in the suite, as well. The close, gripping game and the jarring personalities who were sharing our space each looked like a story cooked up for my amusement. I half listened to a debate between two particularly vocal city councilmen among the several local politicians who slipped in and out of the suite all day. A few years ago these two had fought pitched battles over the question of whether this spanking-new stadium we were sitting in should be built at all.
What brought me down to earth was the sight of my parents and sister, seated at tables of their own, and Tommy, sitting across from me, oblivious to everything except the notebook computer in front of him.
“Tommy?” I said tentatively.
“Hmm?” he answered, not looking up.
A Martian spaceship just landed on third base, and the aliens have already taken half of the Busters hostage.” I kept my voice conversational.
“Great,” he said without so much as a pause in the clacking of keys.
I sighed and looked at my parents, who’d been married for thirty-five mostly tranquil years. It reminded me that these exceptional seats weren’t my doing. All day I had watched Mom and Dad exchange smug smiles and sometimes grasp each other’s hands excitedly. “Isn’t this amazing?” had been Mom’s first observation on entering the suite.
“I’ve been watching baseball all my life,” responded Dad, “and I’ve never had a seat like this in any ballpark.”
I looked at my twin, Jessica, who was occupying another table and pounding her own notebook computer. It was hard to believe that Mom and Dad had once agonized over her refusal to take a conventional career path. They had even pointed to me as an example of a responsible person. “Hey, Jessie,” I said, “if Martians were really invading the ballpark, wouldn’t that make a bigger story than whatever you’re writing?”
Jessie glanced up, frowned at me as if annoyed to be distracted for even a second, and returned to her typing. Well excuse me, I thought, for trying to introduce some levity.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Tommy and Jessie, the beeps and clicks of productivity were bombarding me in stereo. For a moment I wondered if they were in cahoots to make me feel as insignificant as possible. But no, that would require one or both of them to be aware of my existence. I sat back in my seat with arms crossed and tried to focus on the game, a tense but fast-moving pitchers’ duel. Both teams’ aces were mowing down batters, allowing no walks and only a few singles.
I knew Jessie was recording impressions of the game for an online sports magazine that she had helped found. But maintaining journalistic objectivity would be a special challenge for Jessie today—her fiancé, Manuel Chavez, was in right field for the Busters. She was about to become, at twenty-nine, the second wife of the foreign-born ballplayer, whose future might be riding on this game.
If Jessie ever felt jealousy toward me, her three-years-married sister, she didn’t show it. Nor did she envy my relatively comfortable federal government career as a budget analyst. The tables had really turned for both of us since Jessie returned from the University of Florida seven years ago in despair. Manny had just broken up with her to marry a beauty pageant winner who, like he, had emigrated from Cuba as a child. Back then my sister had reason to be jealous of me.
Happy as she was now, she did look nervous about today’s game. Her Manny was on the brink of free agency. Going into the bottom of the sixth inning, the game was still scoreless, and Manny was due up third. He was hitless so far today and had struggled throughout the series, a disappointment after his fine regular season. His chances of signing a big contract during the upcoming off-season might depend on his ability to handle this kind of playoff pressure. No wonder Jessie kept interrupting her typing to wring her hands and wipe sweat off her face.
She was not only nervous, but also a tad paranoid. Hours earlier when we’d picked up our special passes at the will-call window, she had warned us to be careful about what we said in the suite today. Although she couldn’t prove it, she suspected the place would be bugged. “Call me crazy,” she’d said, “but I just don’t trust the people running this ball club.” Mom and Dad tried to laugh this off, but I noticed Tommy did not. Still, we kept our voices fairly low, but the councilmen drowned us out, anyway.
Bugged or not, our suite was equipped with a high-definition TV monitor. This allowed us to catch nuances of the game that only a network broadcast could provide while continuing to watch the live action. Bob Erickson, the regular play-by-play announcer for the Filibusters, was working this national game with his usual boyish charm and relaxed style, which sometimes cushioned what he was saying.
“The Filibusters are in a rather unique position right now,” he told his partner. “There are an unusual number of prominent players looking for new contracts at the end of this season or next. Naturally, management won’t be addressing those issues until the team is done playing for the season. But there have been hints that they’ll be looking to reduce payroll, whether the Busters win this championship series or not.”
“I would think Busters management would be looking to keep a solid team like this one intact,” remarked the other announcer.
“Most team owners would,” replied Erickson. “But Mr. Carter’s philosophy is that solid isn’t good enough. He wants that, of course, but he also believes in youth and economy.”
The commentators went on to mention the bad blood that had existed all season between the Busters and the Keys—the usual beanball battles and bench-clearing incidents. “But the feud doesn’t seem to have done any lasting damage,” added Erickson. “Today’s game has been intense, but clean. Not a single hit batsman so far, knock on wood.”
As an ardent fan of this relatively new DC franchise, I had expected to be excited to see the two combative teams play for such high stakes. What I didn’t expect was to have the breath knocked out of me when the door to the suite burst open and both team owners entered. It was suddenly as if they commanded all the oxygen in the room. The two debating city councilmen fell silent. Both Tommy and Jessie stopped typing. Mom dropped Dad’s hand as if it were a hot potato.
The new arrivals made quite a contrast physically; one was ruddy, medium height, and balding, while the other was tall and slim, with abundant, dark hair and a full mustache. The former’s name was Johnson “Johnny” Carter. The majority owner of the Filibusters, Carter was around sixty-five and a weekend athlete with large gestures. His counterpart from the Keys, Javier “Javy” Castilla, was younger and more reserved, but almost as friendly as Carter. Both of them looked us over with evident interest. We were strangers to them; even Jessie, who had spent time in the press box, had not met them face-to-face.
You would have thought the Austen family was a big deal. Sidestepping the quarrelsome politicians, Mr. Carter made a beeline for me and introduced himself and his fellow owner. I rose halfway from my seat, extended a hand to each in turn, and stammered, “I’m Miranda Stone, and this is my husband, Thomas Stone.” I hoped they didn’t notice my flushed face and sweaty palm. They looked slightly perplexed, which compelled me to add, “I’m Jessica Austen’s twin sister.”
“Ah, Jessica Austen’s twin sister,” exclaimed Johnson Carter, his eyebrows shooting up. His gaze slipped from my dark brown shoulder-length hair and rather flat chest to Jessie’s blue-eyed visage and voluptuous presence. Jessie was twirling one golden lock around a manicured finger as if she were oblivious to Carter’s attention. Finally, he glanced back at me. “Fraternal, I assume?” I nodded, surprised to find myself seething inside.
But determined to overcome my tongue-tied state, I sparred with Mr. Carter as best I could about the family’s interest in baseball and the lack of obvious resemblance between Jessica and me. Still, my internal distress did not subside. I guess I hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much I craved recognition for myself.
Even more disturbing was the contempt I felt for my husband, who now came out of his funk and started playing up to these rich and powerful men. “What’s that you’re working on, Thomas?” asked Carter, glancing at the legal brief or whatever it was that had absorbed Tommy all afternoon.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s at liberty to say—” I jumped in, before Tommy brushed me off with a wave of his hand.
“Honestly, Randi,” he said, “you act like I’m a CIA agent or something.” He exchanged an amused glance with Carter, as if to say, aren’t women overly dramatic at times? He spilled a few details about the case, and Carter reminisced about a deal or two that Tommy’s firm had negotiated on his behalf. Tommy nodded knowingly, as if he had been personally involved in that work.
The pair of owners moved on to my parents, charming them, and then to the politicians, neutralizing them. All this time, my sister had been silently taking in their moves. When they approached her, she met their gazes head-on. “I already know quite a bit about you gentlemen,” she said in a mild tone, “and I suspect you know me by reputation.” No wonder I admired her more than I resented her.
After exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Castilla and thanking Mr. Carter for his hospitality toward her family, Jessie slipped almost imperceptibly into journalist mode. “I thought I might be privileged to encounter one of you today, but certainly not both of you. You’re not in the habit of attending games together, are you?”
“It’s a pretty small club we belong to,” said Carter, smiling. “It’s hardly surprising that we would run into each other at a game.”
“Our friendship goes back a long way,” added Castilla in a calm voice that displayed only a slight accent.
“I didn’t know the two of you were particular friends.” Jessie spoke as if she had certain knowledge that they were not. “And isn’t this an unusual time to be hanging out together?”
Carter and Castilla offered further explanations that I knew my sister would recognize as glib. Having grown up in the post-Watergate era, she considered every official statement a potential cover-up. She was always “following the money” and cultivating her own modern-day Deep Throats. She defined her journalism as an ongoing battle against new and evolving forms of Fascism.
I thought this was pretty ambitious for a mere sportswriter, but Jessie always had aspired to be greater than her current career. I often warned her not to alienate too many high-level sources, as she had been known to do before. I feared it might happen again as she zeroed in on the surprising fellowship between these two team owners. Luckily, her pursuit of this possible story was overtaken by events on the field. The Busters’ three best hitters were coming to bat against the Keys’ formidable pitcher, Ron Olgesby, in the sixth inning. The ace had scattered only five singles so far and had throttled the third, fourth, and fifth batters in the lineup. The two owners departed, presumably to watch this critical half-inning from a more private vantage point.
“Those two are definitely up to something,” Jessie declared. “It smells like collusion. I’m going to track them down and ask a few questions before this day is over.”
“I’d be careful with those guys if I were you,” I said. “Do I need to remind you about the biggest source you ever blew? Deirdre Smith is at the game today, in case you’ve forgotten. Upstairs in the presidential suite. But have we been invited there to see her? You’ll never get near her again, since you saw fit to insult her.”
Jessie winced at my mention of the daughter of the president of the United States. We had first gotten to know Deirdre during our high school summers when we’d attended an arts camp. Her father had been a Virginia congressman who was eventually elected governor. We’d kept in touch with Deirdre during our college years and managed to get ourselves invited to a weekend retreat for young women at the governor’s mansion in Richmond.
“Are you ever going to stop bringing that up, Randi? We were college kids then, for God’s sake.”
“Well, how can I forget it, Jessie? It’s not every day that I get to hear my sister refer to a roomful of prominent Virginia society women as sheep.”
“How many female anti-feminist speakers did they expect me to endure?” returned Jessie. “All of them telling us that the heights of our ambition should be to marry prominent men and be stay-at-home mothers. They’re lucky they didn’t get a worse jibe than that from me.”
“Actually, they did,” I replied. “Remember when you proceeded to accuse Governor Smith himself of ignoring or succumbing to numerous examples of encroaching Fascism? If you didn’t shock the gathering before, you did then.”
“Well I’m sorry, Randi, if I spoiled it for you. I had no idea keeping Deirdre’s friendship was that important to you.”
“It wasn’t,” I said, “but you could have salvaged something from it yourself. She was perfectly sweet to us as long as that weekend lasted. She would have been willing to keep up appearances if you had met her halfway. And now that she’s not only the president’s daughter, but the wife of a Florida congressman, she could have been a fount of information.”
“Well,” snorted Jessie, “not all is lost. At least we’ve been on the White House holiday card list every year.”
It was time to turn our full attention to the field. Jessie’s sports writing had always focused on personalities and backstories rather than the technical aspects of games, and something told me that this would be the inning when those subplots emerged. Busters center fielder Petie Jansen was digging in at the plate. Following him would be first baseman Wilson Boyd, and then Manny, the right fielder. Jansen and Boyd were known to be best buddies, country boys who referred to themselves proudly as rednecks and who didn’t hide their frequent irritation with the “immigrant” contingent in their sport.
“Watch Petie,” I said. “He’s overdue for some flaky behavior.”
Jessie glanced at me with raised brows, no doubt wondering how well I knew Jansen. She had always grappled with the fact that Tommy and I had met both him and Boyd at a shooting range and had struck up an acquaintance while indulging in target practice together.
Besides that, I suspected she still resented Jansen for an incident this past May, when he and Manny had collided in the outfield while chasing a fly ball. Petie had walked away almost unscathed, while Manny spent a week in the hospital, undergoing tests to make sure the initial temporary paralysis he’d suffered was unlikely to recur. Petie paid him a visit, which happened to coincide with one of Jessie’s sojourns in his room. She claimed that Petie had sneered to find her nursing Manny back to health by reading to him from her archive of articles. That day, Manny had requested to hear the one that had brought them back together a year earlier. Jessie had chronicled his ultimately successful battle to retrieve his son from his ex-wife, who had snatched the three-year-old after their divorce and fled with him to their native Cuba.
Now, watching Petie strike out for the third time in the game and risk ejection by taunting the umpire as he walked away, Jessie did not bother to suppress a chuckle.
The next man up, first baseman Wilson Boyd, was harder to figure. An extreme extrovert, he organized frequent hunting and fishing trips and tried to include every teammate. It was only those who disliked outdoor sports, like Manny, whom he denounced as “skirts.” Boyd never stopped trying to make friends, but Manny harbored a professional grudge against him. Although Manny never complained publicly, he resented that Boyd, on joining the team this season, had replaced him both as first baseman and left-handed cleanup hitter.
To some experts, these moves were counterintuitive. With his thirty-five home runs during the regular season, Manny had proven himself to be the best power hitter on the team. This should have secured him the cleanup position. Boyd, who led the team in batting average but hit ten fewer homers, seemed to belong in the second or third spot in the lineup. Jessie rarely discussed team issues with Manny, who was a “suck it up” type during the season. But she had shared some of her darker suspicions with me.
“You girl reporter types are always looking for conspiracies,” I’d kidded her. But I couldn’t totally discount her theory that some of the lineup decisions were political. Johnson Carter had served two terms in Congress as a dependable conservative from southern Virginia, just like his friend and mentor, President Jeremiah Smith. When he had bought the Filibusters, he’d recruited several African-Americans as investors, but since then the co-owner group had become divided and minimized. He had appointed his eldest son field manager. The general manager he selected was a former fundraiser for his campaigns, and one of his younger sons and his daughter, Madeline, also served in high management positions.
Boyd stepped to the plate. “Well, let’s see if Wilson the Conqueror can earn his exalted status right now,” said Jessie, using her sarcastic nickname for the cleanup hitter. “What better time for him to prove Busters management was right to favor him over Manny?”
“Even if I sometimes accuse you of being paranoid, Jess, I have to admit that when you’re right, you’re right. Manny’s outplayed Boyd all season.”
“He sure has,” she replied. “And that’s not the only thing I intend to ask Carter about once I actually score an interview with him. I’ll pick the damned outfit apart. What about all the other immigrant players he’s sold, traded, or demoted? What about the African-Americans who somehow never got long-term contracts?” Anger crept into Jessie’s voice as she counted the names on her fingers, her engagement ring blazing as it caught the light of the overhead chandelier. “Hernandez, Williamson, Perez, Michaels … why do so many non-white players seem to have such bad luck in this organization?”
“True,” I said, “but didn’t we just see Carter palling around with Castilla?”
Jessie snorted again in that unique way of hers that somehow came across as adorable. “I don’t believe for a minute they’re pals. They’re doing some kind of business—and I’d really like to know what kind.”
Both Tommy and Dad reacted to Jessie’s diatribe with slight grimaces and rolls of the eyes, while the councilmen reacted not at all, once again wrapped up in their own debate. I fell to wondering if Carter’s pose of friendship with Castilla was a ruse to deflect any suspicions of bigotry. Or maybe he respected Hispanics who had acquired as much power as he had.
I was shaken out of my reverie by the crack of a bat. Wilson Boyd had sent a sharply hit ground ball up the middle. But the Keys shortstop dove to his left, scooped up the ball, and threw a streak to first in time to nip Boyd.
The roar of excitement from forty-five thousand Busters fans, hoping for a rally-starter at last, immediately dulled as Boyd tossed his batting helmet in frustration and turned toward the dugout. But the crowd remained on its feet, cheering as Manny strode to the plate. A “now or never” mood embraced the stadium. Adding to the electric atmosphere, everyone in the ballpark seemed to remember the occasion six weeks prior when Olgesby had thrown a fastball close to Manny’s head in retaliation for a home run, setting off a brawl. Olgesby lost no time demonstrating that the incident remained fresh for him. The first pitch whizzed past Manny’s chin, causing him to fall on his ass.
The crowd howled for revenge, while my companions and I held our collective breath. Players in both dugouts got off their benches and waited at the top of the stairs, ready to surge onto the field. The home plate umpire pointed first to Olgesby, who shrugged and sent back his usual innocent smirk. Then the ump pointed to both benches, warning them.
An uneasy peace prevailed as Olgesby delivered his next pitch. Throughout the season, he had won most of his battles with the free-swinging Manny by enticing him to chase pitches barely out of his comfort zone. His next offering was meant to break just off the outside corner of the plate, but as soon as it was released, I knew it would stay up and catch more of the plate than Olgesby intended. “Hold that bat steady, baby,” Jessie muttered, leaning forward and tightening her grip on her chair’s armrests.
The sound of contact was solid. The ball sailed in a slowly rising arc toward a colorful SUV ad plastered on the bullpen wall in right-center field. The crowd roared, as if the sound could help to elevate the ball. The center fielder raced back, raising his glove to track the ball. When he got to the barrier, he hoisted himself up, extended his glove as far as he could, and squeezed. He fell off the wall and stared at his empty glove. A Busters relief pitcher in the bullpen held the ball aloft as the crowd exploded.
Could Hollywood have scripted this any better? Manny took his time trotting around the bases, soaking in the moment. Ron Olgesby picked up the rosin bag and threw it down in disgust. The crowd celebrated wildly.
“Yes!” screamed Jessie, punching her fist in the air. Again her engagement ring caught the light and dazzled me for a moment. Our parents jumped up to hug her, Mom leading the charge, while Dad hung back until she had finished pouring out her jubilation. I hesitated, too, but for a different reason.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Manny. His post-homer poses were riveting. I analyzed his confident stride back to the dugout, his choice of teammates for high fives, his interactions with the manager and hitting coach, his exuberant sloppiness in downing a cup of water, his modest refusal to come out and take extra bows as the crowd chanted his name. I’m sure Jessie had no clue that before I went over and hugged her, I had checked out her fiancé, noticing all those details and more.
As I congratulated my sister, I looked back at Tommy, who as usual had only a muted reaction to anything that didn’t concern him directly. It hurt me to notice it; he had not always been this way. I made a few unfavorable comparisons between him and Manny. It almost felt like cheating on him, though I must say, it did make me feel better.
As the game moved into the late innings, with the Busters clinging to a one-run lead and their fans cautiously optimistic, we ordered a second round of drinks. Even Jessie, who was “working,” broke down and had a gin and tonic. Both starting pitchers were lifted for pinch hitters.
In the top of the eighth inning, the Keys mounted a threat against the Busters reliever, putting runners on first and second with two out. The Keys’ next batter singled sharply to right field, and it seemed the game would be tied. However, Manny got to the ball quickly and relayed it to Wilson Boyd, who fired it to home plate. The runner was called out on a close play, which brought the Keys manager out to argue. While he was getting himself thrown out of the game, the Busters were running off the field, high-fiving on all sides. Boyd waited for Manny to arrive from the outfield so that he could smother his “rival” in a bear hug.
After another scoreless Busters at-bat, their young closer, Jose Pasqual, entered the game to try for the save in the top of the ninth. Like all hard throwers, Pasqual sometimes struggled with his control. But he had good composure for a kid, and he usually recovered his focus when it mattered most. Although frequently in trouble, he had not blown a save since July. Still, we all started gulping our drinks nervously in the owner’s box.
Given his history of high-wire acts, we groaned when young Jose walked the leadoff batter. Recovering, he blew two quick strikes past the next batter. Then he came inside—too close—and the pitch grazed the guy above the knee. The hit batsman glared at the pitcher and trotted to first base. The crowd booed his act and exhorted Pasqual to bear down. I could feel their intensity vibrating through the floor beneath my feet.
The next batter laid down a sacrifice bunt, which put runners on second and third with one out. After an intentional walk loaded the bases, Pasqual faced the next man, hoping to induce a game-ending double play.
He got what he wanted—a ground ball to the shortstop. I could taste victory as the fielder charged the ball and whipped it to second base. But the second baseman had trouble getting the ball out of his glove. The runner beat the throw to first, and the tying run scored.
Disappointment reigned, but there was still hope. If Pasqual could recover quickly and preserve a tie heading into the bottom of the ninth, the Busters could win the game with a single run. But confronted with the biggest challenge of his young career, the pitcher met with disaster. On the very next pitch, a three-run homer reduced the crowd to stunned silence.
Things fell apart in the suite, as well. Jessie buried her head in her hands and then pounded the table and cursed. God, I thought, please cut the melodrama. It’s hardly the end of the world. Your wedding next month will still be everything you dreamed of, even if the groom isn’t sporting a World Series ring. There’s plenty of time for that.
I wanted to say these things in a kind, but firm tone. Instead, my sisterly instincts were aroused when Tommy picked this moment to provoke Jessie. “I’d say this is fair payback for the way certain Busters players turned their backs on the president last week. He was just there to throw out the first ball. And they purposely embarrassed him.”
Arguments like this kept popping up at awkward times, as Tommy completed his transformation from the idealistic liberal I had known in college to an apologist for the current neoconservative regime. Jessie flushed, as she always did when Tommy baited her politically. “Oh, I wouldn’t trouble my mind about Smith’s hurt feelings if I were you. There were plenty of other guys on the team fawning over him. Not to mention the owner and manager.”
“Certain players could use a refresher course in etiquette,” continued Tommy, “assuming they ever had a clue in the first place how to behave around their betters. Maybe that would be a good use of the extra time they’ll have once they blow their chance at the World Series.”
“It’s Smith’s own fault if ‘certain players,’ as you put it, don’t feel he’s their president,” Jessie shot back. “And besides, they’re not beaten yet. Not until the last out.”
“It’s over,” said Tommy, expressing an opinion on a baseball game for the first time in my memory. He caught my dad’s eye, and I thought they exchanged a subtle look.
I saw Jessie’s hand tighten around her unfinished gin and tonic. Manny was due up second in the bottom of the ninth, so she could have taken Tommy’s doomsday prediction personally. Would she throw her drink at him, as she had done once before, when a family dinner had gotten out of hand? But her grip loosened, as if a new idea had diverted her.
By now Jessie must have conceded, like the rest of us, that the Keys’ experienced closer would easily protect a three-run lead, and our team would indeed lose its first attempt in franchise history at a World Series berth. Unlike the rest of us, though, she would refuse to chalk this up to an unfortunate turn of events. How could the Filibusters have failed so miserably when they had been heavily favored going in? She wasn’t one to say that “stuff just happens.”
A reliever for Pasqual had to come in to get the last Keys out. Then Wilson Boyd, the first batter up for the Busters in the bottom of the inning, personified the crowd’s frustrated dreams when he struck out, threw his bat down, and cussed out the umpire. His ejection from the game at this late stage was a mere formality, but he made a show of it. Manny’s at-bat was delayed as Boyd wound up his season by grabbing several bats out of the rack in the dugout and tossing them onto the field.
Before the game resumed, with Manny at the plate, Jessie rose to her feet. Everyone in the suite looked at her questioningly—except the councilmen, who were re-enacting yet another ancient battle, this one about cost overruns on the stadium.
“Something is seriously wrong here,” declared Jessie.
“I know how disappointed you are,” said Mom. “We all are. But you just have to—”
"No, Mom, I’m not disappointed. I’m not angry, either. I’m troubled.”
“There’s no need to be concerned about your future, honey,” said Dad. “Manny proved himself during the regular season. You and he will do fine, even if it means leaving DC.”
“Of course you will,” agreed Mom, although her voice sounded a little brusque, and her eyes looked shiny at the possibility of Jessie leaving.
“Why don’t you just sit down and finish watching the game?” I chimed in.
Jessie literally refused to sit for this loss. She moved to the coat closet and retrieved her jacket, which matched her sleeveless, blue dress. Then she exited the suite, ignoring our questions about where she was going. I believed she had been nursing some new theory ever since the two owners had burst into our suite. She was now ready to pursue that theory by visiting the neighboring suites. She must be totally possessed by this idea, whatever it was, if it seemed more important than watching what was likely Manny’s last at-bat of the season.
My impulse was to follow her and find out what she was up to, but I couldn’t resist watching her fiancé’s brave effort, which only prolonged the agony of defeat. He crowded the plate, daring the pitcher to brush him back, and worked the count full before striking out. The disgruntled crowd gave him little credit for trying.
I deserted the cause with one out to go, exercising the right of twin sisters everywhere to stick together—a rule that had always served Jessie and me well, even at times when we were barely speaking. The door of the suite next to ours was slightly ajar, which told me that Jessie had already gotten in. I pushed it open, and there she was, talking to a “source”—a lovely Hispanic woman in her early to mid twenties, about six months pregnant, with her arms around a lively little boy who was tugging on her hand, pointing in every direction and demanding to be set free to explore.
“Come in, Randi,” said Jessie, “and meet Mrs. Consuelo Pasqual—Jose’s wife—and their son, Melvin. Consuelo, this is my sister, Miranda.” I shook hands with both Mrs. Pasqual and her precocious son.
Obviously distressed by the day’s events, Consuelo looked at me wide-eyed as if for reassurance. Jessie explained to me, “We’ve been comparing notes about the mysterious joint tour of Mr. Carter and Mr. Castilla through these suites—two billionaires who’ve had a contentious relationship in the past. And Consuelo has filled me in about another young family, friends of hers, being entertained nearby. Seems all of us who were invited to the suites as special guests today have something in common. We’re associated with Hispanic players who will become free agents in the near future—either this year or next.”
“Is it possible that’s just a coincidence?” I asked.
“You tell me. I can think of several Anglo players who’re in the exact same contract position. But their families aren’t up here in the suites today.”
“I think Mr. Carter want to get rid of us.” Consuelo spoke carefully, with a heavy accent. “And Mr. Castilla sizing us up. Maybe we all end up in Florida.”
She seemed teary-eyed at the prospect. Her husband had played poorly at an inopportune time, lessening his bargaining power. Still, why should she mind if Jose went to the Keys? He’d be compensated well enough, and southern Florida wasn’t exactly a foreign country.
“I guess sometimes you have to expect the unexpected when you’re on a big stage like this,” I said. “It’s a business, after all.”
“Sure it’s a business,” said Jessie, “but if there’s collusion going on between two owners, it’s not business as usual. I’m detecting a disturbing pattern here.”
I threw out a challenge that I knew Jessie wouldn’t be able to resist. “It’d be hard to prove it’s really there.”
Sure enough, she responded, “We’ll see about that.” She smiled and patted Consuelo’s hand. “Try not to worry, okay? I’m gonna do my best to get to the bottom of this. Right now, before the game ends.”
“You’ll have to move fast,” I said, pointing to the TV monitor. We noted that the third batter of the inning, like Manny, had worked the count full. When he took ball four, a small shiver of hope stirred the crowd. For the moment, we suspended the doomsday talk.
The Keys’ near-perfect closer began to sweat. Struggling with his control as he faced the next batter, third baseman Joe Plummer, he missed the outside corner twice. The third pitch was over the plate, and Plummer slapped it up the middle for a single. Now sensing a rally, the crowd was revived. A chant went up for the next batter, the Busters’ catcher. “Mel! Mel! Mel!”
Jessie and Consuelo touched hands again. Consuelo smiled shyly at me, hugged her son, and explained, “Melvin Bonilla is my little boy’s godfather.”
“And he happens to be the other Hispanic player whose family is being wined and dined in the suites today,” added Jessie.
“In that case, I hope he knocks it out of the park,” I offered. But would it make any difference? I tried to imagine Bonilla becoming an instant hero and keeping the Busters alive in the series. Maybe then Carter would have second thoughts about dealing him—and that, in turn, might affect the status of the other players he planned to let go.
The sound of a big hit rang out, signaling a hoped-for miracle. Maybe the thrill of it would awaken Johnson Carter to the value of diversity on his team. It might shake any notion he had that Hispanic players could only be happy and productive if they were situated close to their original homes or with their own kind. The ecstasy of this moment, if it led to victory, could energize the city. Maybe Carter would choose to sustain that feeling by keeping the team together as long as he could. His bigotry, however ingrained it was, would be neutralized.
The crowd roared and screamed, trying to propel the ball over the center field wall on the same lovely arc traveled by Manny’s earlier home run. Again the center fielder gave chase and made a desperate lunge. The shrieks reached fever pitch as the fielder slammed against the barrier and bounced off, barely keeping his feet. He looked down at his glove and saw the ball. As he leaped into the air, his teammates copied his antics. The crowd’s yells died away, leaving behind a murmur that sounded like a prolonged groan.
The Keys players on the bench rushed out to join the celebration, forming a jubilant, writhing mass near the pitcher’s mound. The home fans ignored or booed the scene as they began their torturous exit from the stadium. Jessie, Consuelo, and I gazed at the TV monitor in disbelief.
After a few moments, Jessie broke the spell with a shake of her blonde locks. “Well, back to business for me. I still intend to find out what the two mega-powerful owners have been up to.”
Consuelo smiled sadly as they parted with a hug. I gave Jessie an incredulous look before following her out of the suite. This I had to see.
Jessie headed for the largest suite on this level, passing two closed doors on the way, with me on her heels. We saw a huge, uniformed, African-American man standing in front of the main suite with muscular arms folded against his chest. He was trading jibes with passers-by, who called him Hoss. Some were asking him to deliver messages, none too polite, to the owners within. If they became persistent, he told them to move on.
As Jessie approached him, she removed her press pass, a notebook, and a pencil from her jacket’s large inner pocket. It was a well-practiced maneuver to establish her journalistic bona fides. Flashing the pass, she told the guard she had been promised an interview with Mr. Carter. He laughed and shook his head as if he had been forewarned about her.
“I’ll wait if I have to,” said Jessie. “Meanwhile, mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“I don’t know nothing,” said the guard, still chuckling.
“You must know the two gentlemen in there pretty well,” said Jessie. “Have you seen how they act together? Is it buddy-buddy, or strictly business?”
“I just do my job, miss,” said the guard. “It ain’t none of my business how they act. And excuse me for saying so, but I doubt it’s any of yours, either.”
“Actually, I believe it is,” returned Jessie, waving her pass. “I believe those two are making deals that can affect quite a few lives.”
“Lots of rich guys do that. If I ain’t worried about it, why should you be?”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious? I would think you’d want to understand the rich and powerful men you’re protecting. Otherwise, how do you know it’s in your best interest to do it?”
Oh, Christ, Jessie, I thought. Lighten up. You may smell a hot story here, but do you have to be a patronizing ass? You practically called this guy an Uncle Tom.
“Looks like you’re just trying to dig up dirt, miss.” The guard maintained his calm demeanor. “I know your type. So I’m asking you to move along like a good girl.”
Jessie pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill and held it close to the guard’s face. “Would this loosen your tongue a little? All I want to know is whether Carter and Castilla are discussing player contracts. I have a personal interest in that, not just a reporter’s interest.”
If the guard were tempted, he didn’t show it. Maybe he resisted offers like this every day. I tugged my sister’s arm, hoping to keep this confrontation from escalating.
“I got a better story idea for you, miss,” said Hoss. “Why don’t you scoot upstairs to the presidential suite and pester the guard there? President Smith’s daughter and her husband, the congressman, were around today. That means their security folks took charge of pretty much everything. Who knows, maybe they let my pal in on some juicy gossip.”
“I have no interest in gossip about Deirdre and Ernest,” huffed Jessie.
The guard’s walkie-talkie came to life. An official-sounding voice reported that a fight had broken out on the field. Several drunken fans had come out of the stands and taken exception to the Keys’ postgame celebration.
“I gotta talk to Mr. Carter about this,” said Hoss, “which means you gotta leave, miss. You ain’t getting into this suite ever, as long as I’m around. Move on right now, or I’ll call in reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?” Jessie laughed as she stared at the guard’s huge arms. “To help you arrest one girl reporter?”
“Forget it, Jess,” I said as I pulled her away. “You missed your chance with the big cheeses. Find somebody else to interview.”
“I will, don’t worry. After I check out what’s happening on the field.”
We returned to our original suite, which had emptied out. Only Mom and Dad were there, watching the fisticuffs on the field and shaking their heads. “This is what comes of fans tailgating and drinking all day,” said Dad, who had never even indulged in a beer at the ballpark while Jessie and I were growing up. We listened to the TV commentators as they toted up the Keys players who were likely to be fined for participating in this rumble, although they had not started it.
“Looks like something out of West Side Story,” I commented. Jessie shot me a dirty look, as if she detected racism in that remark.
“I’m just thankful none of the Filibusters players are mixed up in it,” she said. Security personnel gained the upper hand on the field, detaining five or six fans. We saw on the TV monitor that the Keys players had made it to their clubhouse, where a champagne-soaked celebration was in progress. The reporters stationed there began interviewing the victors. Since the fight on the field had dwindled to a non-story, Jessie relaxed.
“Manny will be meeting us here,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll get out of the clubhouse as fast as he can. The postmortems in there won’t be fun.”
Our parents reminded us that we had dinner reservations at the Palm Restaurant for 7:30, about an hour from now. “That’s fine,” I told them. “But we seem to have lost Tommy. Did he say where he was going?”
My father’s mouth tightened. Though I knew he quietly supported some of Tommy’s burgeoning political views, I could tell he was still on my side. “No, he didn’t. He’s been gone about twenty minutes.”
My parents and sister looked at me searchingly. I just shrugged. They kept looking, and I offered, “He’ll be back soon. He won’t miss a chance to go to the Palm.” Especially when somebody else is paying, I thought.
“I hope he gets here before Manny does,” said Jessie. “I don’t know why—I’ve never felt this way before. But I have this sudden, nagging urge to interview my brother-in-law.”
“Jesus, why?” I laughed. “He’s not one of the movers and shakers you normally chase. A wannabe, maybe, but not there yet.”
“He seemed pretty friendly with Johnny Carter.”
Whenever Jessie looked me straight in the eyes, as she did now, I couldn’t hide. “He’s got an appointment with somebody in the front office, doesn’t he?” she asked.
“I can only speculate about that,” I replied. “He doesn’t tell me much of anything—hasn’t for months. I have to snoop around for any information I get. Luckily, I’ve learned some of those techniques from you, dear Jess.”
My mother pressed her lips together, while my father furrowed his brows and began to pace. I had hoped we could get through tonight’s family dinner out on the town without fueling their distress about the state of my marriage. Damn Tommy, I thought, for jeopardizing even that modest goal.
“I hope you haven’t resorted to underhanded tactics,” said Mom.
“Oh, Mom,” said Jessie, “there are times when propriety is overrated. If Randi has to snoop to get the information she needs to make the best possible life decisions, more power to her.”
Our mother regarded both of us with worried eyes as Jessie set out to discover what I knew and how I knew it. I was forced to admit I had rooted through Tommy’s briefcase while he was in the shower the other day. I had found a letter, which I’d managed to read with lightning speed and put back unnoticed.
“You think he’s having an affair?” asked Jessie.
“If he is,” said Dad, clenching his fists, “I’ll knock his block off.”
“Relax, Dad,” I told my father, who had never hit anyone in his life. “I really don’t think he’s having an affair. He’s just been corresponding with Johnson Carter’s daughter. She’s a good ten years older than he is, and she has a husband and family.”
“Randi and I have known Madeline Carter a lot longer than Tommy has,” Jessie informed our parents. “At least from a distance. She delivered a couple of lectures at that Richmond conference we attended when we were college students. Her dad was a Virginia congressman back then, when Deirdre Smith’s dad was governor. It looked like Madeline and Deirdre were destined to form some kind of unholy political alliance. And I’ll bet it’s still going strong to this day.”
Even back then, I reflected, Madeline and Deirdre had been a study in contrasts, despite their united political front. Madeline was tall and dignified, the opposite of petite and giggly Deirdre. Eight years later, they came off much the same way to the public eye. Deirdre, like many stay-at-home mothers, seemed ready to explode with pent-up energy, while Madeline juggled her family and professional lives with unflappable cool.
“I remember Madeline’s little talk about the evils of gun control and the importance of women learning to embrace firearms,” I said.
“I have a theory that women who love guns that much tend to be oversexed.” Jessie goaded me with a smile. “That occurred to me the first time I laid eyes on Madeline.”
“Oh, come on, Jessie,” I said. “She was the soul of refinement then, and she still is. She looked like she was in training to be the first lady of something. Or a grand dame of society.”
“Remember her other fascinating speech,” continued Jessie, “about electronic surveillance and its potential to save the world? She declared that Nixon’s only mistake was not keeping his tapes a secret.”
This seemed to remind everyone of Jessie’s earlier warning about possible bugs in the suite. She might be paranoid, but I noticed that we all lowered our voices just a little.
“So you saw a letter to Tommy from Madeline, but it didn’t strike you as a love letter,” summed up Jessie. “What was it about?”
A job offer, but nothing very specific. My guess is that Tommy’s in Madeline’s office right now, having a quickie interview.”
“What would the Carters want with him?” asked Jessie. “He doesn’t know squat about baseball.”
I conceded as much but pointed out that the Carter family’s reach extended well beyond sports, encompassing a variety of business and political interests. “I’d rather none of you questioned him about it when he comes back—at least not tonight, okay? He won’t talk anyway. I’ll find out for myself what’s going on.”
Tommy returned just as I finished speaking. He apologized that he had taken so long in the bathroom—it must have been the spicy nachos and strong gin and tonics. He was such a bad liar, talking too fast and avoiding eye contact, that the rest of us could barely keep straight faces. I usually took umbrage when he insulted my intelligence. But lately, I had found it strategically smart to play dumb.
We returned our attention to the TV monitor, which continued to show the Keys’ locker room celebration. The Busters’ Petie Jansen and Wilson Boyd had turned up in the midst of it, having evidently appointed themselves representatives of the losing team on a mission to congratulate the victors. This sort of goodwill gesture was a tradition that seemed to persist after championship series in baseball, no matter how much bad blood had marred the games themselves. But Jansen and Boyd proved to be the worst possible emissaries. They were helping themselves to the champagne and carrying on loud discussions with anyone who would respond.
With their help, the irritable feelings that had been simmering soon boiled over. During the trophy presentation featuring National League and Keys officials, Boyd could be heard yelling, “You’re all a bunch of cheaters, and the higher-ups know it.”
This should have been laughed off as a “boys will be boys” moment. But when Jansen pushed a Keys player who had told him and Boyd to shut up, the player answered with a punch, and another rumble was on. Fists flew, along with the champagne spray. The officials froze at the podium, no doubt fearing Major League Baseball would get a black eye.
“Amazing how all it takes is two dumb rednecks to start a war,” I observed.
“They should both be suspended for at least a month next season,” declared Jessie.
The TV broadcast went to a split screen, showing both teams’ clubhouses. While the turbulence continued on one side, Manny appeared on the other, interrupting an interview to address the situation. ”C’mon, guys. We’re all disappointed about the way things went down today. But I’m appealing to you as a friend. Now’s the time to show what we’re really made of.” His presumption of friendship with the rednecks made Jessie shake her head, even as her face glowed with pride.
Her fiancé continued, “It’s called sportsmanship. We rise and fall as a team. That means both winning and losing with dignity. So get back over here with your teammates where you belong.”
Boyd and Jansen subsided, although I doubted that they had paid any attention to Manny’s televised appeal. More likely, they simply conceded that they were outnumbered. They had been punished on the spot for their foolishness. Jansen’s nose was bleeding, and Boyd was holding his left elbow, which had been surgically repaired twice already in his career. Bob Erickson’s calming voice could be heard praising Manny for his peacekeeping skills.
“Your guy’s really something,” I told Jessie. Tommy gave me a sidelong glance. About time he noticed me, I thought.
Boyd and Jansen disappeared from the left side of the screen. I hoped they would eventually show up on the right side, but first they would have to make their way through the long underground tunnel connecting the two clubhouses. If they had any sense, they would rejoin their teammates as fast as they could and apologize for failing to represent them in a civilized manner.
That didn’t seem to be happening, so Manny continued to address the news media in his nearly perfect, slightly accented English. He took pride in being bilingual, having settled in Miami as a pre-teenager with his immigrant family and having attended high school and college there. Many teammates who were more recent arrivals to the United States had benefited from his willingness to translate and ease their transition in other ways. Watching him now, I reflected that he was a team leader. All the more reason Carter would be a fool to let him go.
“If you’ll excuse me now,” he said, “my fiancée and her family are waiting for me. And before I join them, I need to put in a call to my son, Bobby. He’s four years old and just beginning to understand everything. He’s with my parents in northern Virginia.”
Manny smiled into the camera, showing off his dimples and warm, brown eyes. I saw traces of a goatee under his lip, the facial hair tending to come and go with his hitting streaks or slumps.
He’s a sly one, I thought, always giving interviewers the kind of personal information they crave. His story was popular with the fans. It had many inspiring touches: the courageous family of six that had fled communist Cuba when he was a boy; the family’s struggle to establish itself in a new country; the troubled first marriage, which had complicated his ascent to baseball stardom; the beautiful reporter who had known him since his college days, decided to pursue him for a story, and ended up falling in love; and most dramatic of all, the rescue of his young son from the clutches of an alcoholic, mentally disturbed ex-wife.
The camera followed Manny as he left the Busters clubhouse, whipping out his cell phone. Jessie closed her laptop and sighed. I shared her sense of relief. After the emotional highs and lows of this day, it was time to unwind with a nice dinner. We continued to watch the TV monitor, but soon we agreed that the prolonged Keys clubhouse celebration was getting tiresome. I grabbed the opportunity to take an overdue bathroom break.
Confronting my image in the long mirror, I frowned. I straightened my skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles as best I could, and applied some powder and rouge to my pale face. How did Jessie manage to keep her tan well into October? And how had she stayed so fresh and sleek-looking in that sky blue dress? I fluffed up my hair, which had lost its curl in the late-season humidity—unlike Jessie’s, which seemed to have as much body as ever.
Christ, I told myself, cut it out. But I couldn’t help thinking back to the time when Jessie and I were child models for Dad’s advertising agency. We had been perfect for that purpose: two equally cute little girls, one blonde and one brunette. There had been no eruptions of jealousy between us, as far as I could remember. But maybe it had already begun in subtle ways.
Interrupting this train of thought, I applied eye shadow and a little mascara for Tommy’s benefit. Since tonight was a special occasion, maybe we could have a nice time in spite of the way things had been going lately. But when I returned to the suite, everything looked exactly the way I had left it. Tommy still had his computer open, evidently rereading his day’s work.
“What’s keeping Manny?” I asked. “Is he still being interviewed?”
“No, he couldn’t be,” said Jessie. “He texted me as he was leaving the clubhouse, saying he was done with that. But I guess he got involved in talking to his folks or Bobby. He should be here in a few minutes.”
Dad started to pace again. After a while, he said with some annoyance, “I think if Manny doesn’t get here in fifteen minutes or so, we should call the Palm and push back our reservations to eight thirty.”
By the time the fifteen minutes were up, the TV monitor had gone dark. Cleaning crews had replaced the crowd in the stands, and ground crews were working the field. The game had ended ninety minutes ago. Tommy finally closed his computer and looked around the suite with a perplexed expression. Jessie plucked her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Manny’s number. “Hi, baby. Can you pick up?” She paused, evidently getting no answer. “Well, I don’t want to rush you, but—we’re all getting hungry. Please hurry.”
She had spoken calmly, but she looked unsettled to me. “You know how friendly Manny is,” I offered. “He could have stopped to talk to someone—anyone—and lost track of time. Even a bathroom attendant or one of the cleaning crew.”
“Or a hot ball girl,” said Tommy.
I looked daggers at him and almost blurted, “Don’t judge Manny by your own standards,” but I said nothing.
“It’s not like him to be this late without calling or texting me,” said Jessie. She waited a minute or two and then tried his cell phone number again, still without success. She dropped the phone on the table with a clatter.
“He never does this.” She began twirling one of her locks violently.
No one else seemed to know what to say. Our hunger had long since given way to annoyance. And as the minutes kept crawling by, that feeling turned to fear. Where in hell was Manny?
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