Double Switch

by T. T. Monday

  The cop doesn’t stop. I follow at a safe distance past the Rockies’ weight room and the batting cage, past the room where they keep the portable X-ray machine. The walls down here are made of concrete blocks painted with a glossy off-white enamel to make them easier to wipe down. This part of the park can get dirty.

  The cop stops just short of the locker room, joining a group of people—two more cops and some Rockies clubhouse personnel—in front of a door marked VIDEO.

  I have almost reached the doorway when a man in street clothes stops me, palm to my chest. He’s middle-aged, clean-shaven, with a square jaw and muscular shoulders. The silver in his close-cropped hair looks like it could have been applied with a brush, like he just stepped out of a Gillette commercial. His charcoal suit looks tailored and expensive. “This area is closed,” he says in a deep, authoritative tone. “We’ll send word to the clubhouses when you can come back.”

  It’s nine-thirty in the morning. I’m wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. How does he know I’m a player?

  “What’s going on here?” I ask.

  “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

  “This is the Rockies’ video room, right?” I step to the side, angling for a look.

  The man cuts me off, grabs my shoulder, and pulls me back. “Listen,” he says. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  Okay, now I’m pissed. I may not be the Best a Man Can Get, but I am a professional athlete. I reach out and grab the man’s shoulders in both hands. With a quick torque, like a medicine-ball twist, I shove him against the wall. It’s a hard throw, but, to my astonishment, he rebounds right off the concrete and comes back in a fury. He knocks out my feet in a swipe, then subdues me with a blow between the shoulder blades, all with military precision. Next thing I know, I’m pinned to the ground in a hammerlock, gasping for breath.

  “Let the record show that I tried to persuade you, Mr. Adcock.” His voice is in my ear, hot and moist. And fragrant, like he gargles with cologne.

  “You call that persuasion?”

  He chuckles. “This works better.”

  I don’t know who this guy is, but he knows who I am. I’ll bet he’s not eager to answer to the commissioner’s office about the time he injured a player off the field in a completely preventable way.

  “Let me go,” I choke. “You’re hurting my arm.”

  He loosens his grip and allows me to sit up. Behind him, the cop I had been following shuts the door of the video room. He squares up and crosses his arms over his chest like a sentry.

  I stand and face the Gillette model. “That was a slick move, but you were too late. I saw everything.”

  “You didn’t see jack. And let me tell you, it’s lucky you didn’t see anything, because a judge can pull you out of a game and put you on the witness stand in your uniform. The court doesn’t give a damn what you do for a living.”

  I try another approach. “I was supposed to meet Erik Magnusson for coffee this morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “Well…your meeting got canceled.”

  Just then, two men hurry past us. Across the back of their navy-blue windbreakers is a single word in white block letters: CORONER. The cop at the door lets them in.

  “What the hell?” The level of emotion in my voice surprises me. “Mags is dead?”

  “I’m sorry.” Gillette puts on his best community-policing face, tenting his eyebrows and frowning deeply. “It’s a horrible loss. We’ll brief the teams as soon as we have more information.”

  4

  An hour later, I’m tying my shoes in the visitors’ clubhouse, and you’d never know a man died two hundred feet down the hall. Players go about their sacred routines, washing and stretching and oiling their hair. Around eleven, when he can be sure everyone has arrived from the hotel, Bil Chapman gets up on a chair.

  “Fellas, can I have your attention? Some of you remember Erik Magnusson, the Rockies’ hitting coach, from his days as a Bay Dog. Well, I’ve got some hard news. Mags passed away this morning.” I can see he’s upset. Bil goes beyond the usual mother-hen mentality of the clubhouse manager. He gets seriously attached to his players. This modern era, when players switch clubs every couple of years, has been tough on him emotionally. Every twelve months, his family breaks up again. “I put a card for Magnusson’s family in the trainers’ room,” he says. “I hope you’ll find time to sign it.”

  Somebody asks what happened.

  “We don’t know yet,” Bil says, “but it must have been his heart or something, right? I mean, the guy was in his early forties.”

  I think about the hints betrayed by the plainclothes detective. If Mags had died of natural causes, I’m not sure why he would have invoked judges, courts, and witness stands.

  There’s a buzz after Chapman steps down. The guys who knew Magnusson from his playing days gather in twos and threes. I avoid them until I join the line of guys waiting to sign the card. Two vets are talking with Thick Will Cunningham, our rookie first baseman. Thick Will is a man-child: six four, 240, and as dense as the hickory forest where he was born. As the nickname suggests, he is thick through the forearms, wrists, and other places where you can’t fake it.

  They’re talking about Magnusson.

  “It could have been a heart attack,” says the first vet, a journeyman lefty starter named Grierson. “More likely it was a stroke.”

  “Absolutely,” confirms the outfielder Lolo Quinn. “My money’s on stroke.”

  “Why’s that?” Will asks. With his buzz cut, braided belt, and Dockers, you could mistake the kid for a Presbyterian minister. A very large, very muscular minister.

  The two older guys look at each other, then at Will. “You know Mags was a juicer, right?”

  Will looks at his hands. It’s strange, the way younger players handle talk of steroids. Guys my age will talk about it pretty freely, but the twenty-somethings, these kids who were in kindergarten the summer McGwire and Sosa were chasing Maris, they don’t know how to react when someone brings up drugs. It’s like they flash back to the DARE assemblies in middle school.

  “I guess that explains it,” Will says. He shakes his head slowly, as if to underline the shame.

  “Every action has its consequences,” Grierson says.

  I suspected this was how the old-timers would react to Magnusson’s death, and I’m furious. Even dead, he’s presumed guilty.

  “He was murdered,” I interject. It’s not what I meant to say—I was going to castigate the vets for spreading rumors—but now that it’s out there, I can’t help thinking it’s true. Ruiz’s guys threatened to kill Magnusson, and they did, end of story. It’s Occam’s razor: the simplest theory is usually correct.

  Grierson laughs and shakes his head. “Only you would believe that, Adcock.”

  “You think it’s possible?” Thick Will’s blue eyes shine with curiosity.

  Grierson sneers. “Why would anyone kill a hitting instructor? I mean, seriously, who would do that?” He scratches his name on the Hallmark without looking and hands the Sharpie to Quinn.

  “A pitching coach, maybe?” Thick Will says.

  “At least he’d log the bullets,” Quinn cracks. “You’re up, rook.” He gives Thick Will the pen and slaps him on the ass. He and Grierson walk away, tittering.

  “You might be right,” Will says as he signs the card.

  The Bay Dogs drafted Will out of high school as a pitching prospect, but in his first year of minor-league ball, he blew out his shoulder. Rather than let him go, the organization moved him to first base, where he performed well in the minors, showing flashes of power and solid glovework. He was called up to the big club for the first time last month, when our Opening Day first baseman broke his wrist. Everyone knows Will is on a short leash, because this year we’re in the playoff mix, neck and neck with the Dodgers for first place in the National League West. At the moment, first base is one of our only weak spots. There
are rumors of a trade-deadline move to bring in an established name. At any rate, Will knows he’ll be moving back to Fresno if he doesn’t start hitting soon. Lucky for him, we’re in Denver.

  “So how are you feeling about your first trip to Coors?” I ask.

  Will gives me the Sharpie and pulls an energy drink from his back pocket. In his enormous hands the eight-ounce can looks like a prop from a children’s museum. “Clean air is good for the long ball,” he says.

  “It’s the altitude, actually.”

  “You think so?”

  “The air is thinner. The ball travels farther, because there’s less resistance. It’s physics.”

  “I got my fingers crossed.”

  “Just relax,” I say.

  Will exhales loudly. “I’ve been trying, man. Skipper says I’m pressing.”

  “Well, keep at it. Let the game come to you.” I wince as the words leave my mouth. Let the game come to you. What can a kid do with that? All his life he’s been told to be aggressive, to go out there and grab whatever he’s after, and now people are telling him to relax? If I were Thick Will Cunningham, I’d tell me to fuck off.

  Then I get an idea. “Have you heard of Tiff Tate?”

  “The styling lady?”

  “You should think about a consultation.”

  Baseball players are notoriously superstitious creatures. They’ll wear the same pair of socks for weeks at a time if they’re on a hot streak. The converse is also true: a slumping ballplayer will change anything if he thinks it might break the bad luck. That’s why players sometimes alter their batting stance midseason, or stop eating meat, or start a radical new weightlifting regimen despite the risk of injury. This urge is Tiff Tate’s bread and butter.

  “Isn’t she expensive?” I can see him doing the math in his head. As a rookie, he earns a salary set by the players’ union at less than half a million. Tiff’s fee would be a significant chunk of his take-home pay. Of course, if it keeps him in the majors, it’s worth it. Minor-league pay amounts to less than minimum wage, and remember that Will never went to college. If he fails out of baseball, his career options in rural North Carolina range from Jiffy Lube to his uncle’s roofing crew.

  I give Tiff’s card to Will. “Just think about it. Sometimes it helps to know you have options.”

  He twiddles the card between his thumb and forefinger. “All right, man. I’ll think it over.” He slips the card in his back pocket and disappears into the weight room.

  There: ten minutes went by and I didn’t think about Magnusson’s death. If the goal was to rattle me, then chalk one up for the bad guys: I’m rattled. I just took the case yesterday, and already there’s a body. My hands shake as I sign my name on the card. I want to write something meaningful to his kids, something besides the usual condolences, but I know that doing so would only make me more conspicuous to whoever did this to him. Magnusson knew he was being watched. Chances are I’m being watched now, too.

  Sometimes baseball is work, sometimes it’s a bore, and sometimes it’s a welcome distraction from life. At the most basic level, a ballgame is three hours when I can’t do anything but sit and think (and sometimes play). Today I’m grateful for the time. I need to think.

  On my way to the dugout tunnel, I pass a group of Bay Dogs coaches. Most coaches are former players, and as I’ve gotten older, their ranks have begun to include guys I played with. I saw this coming, and I thought it was going to be a harrowing experience, a constant reminder of the shadow of death. Turns out it’s good to have dinner with guys my own age, who can relate to having a teenage daughter, to having a marriage fall apart. Kids like Thick Will Cunningham, bless his heart, haven’t lived through any of that yet. I hate to admit it, but some of my closest friends are coaches.

  As I try to squeeze past them, a guy I often dine with on the road, the third-base coach, Pete Lopez, reaches out and taps my shoulder. “There’s somebody I want you to meet,” he says. Pete pulls me into the group, and right away I’m confronted with the familiar face (and familiar charcoal suit) of the detective from the video room.

  Mr. Gillette Model puts out his hand. “Johnny Adcock? Glad to meet you. I’m Jim Feldspar.”

  His handshake is strong verging on injurious. Were I right-handed, I would have been pissed. I try to remember that this is about him, not me, that this guy has a colossal chip on his well-muscled shoulder.

  “We met earlier,” I say.

  Pete Lopez claps Feldspar on the back. “I could tell some tales about this guy. Jimmy and I roomed together in rookie ball. When was that?”

  “Nineteen eighty-eight,” Feldspar says. “Sarasota, Gulf Coast League.”

  “No kidding!” Billy Hacker is the bench coach, second in command to the manager. “I was with Clearwater in ’88. How come we never met?”

  The men all laugh and look down at their shoes, toeing the rubber floor of the locker room like it’s dirt on the infield. This back-and-forth about the whens and wheres of your career may seem like useless reminiscing, but it serves a purpose. Coaching appointments are made by the manager without any kind of formal screening process. If one of these guys scores a managerial position somewhere, he’ll have to fill out his coaching staff based on what and whom he remembers. There are no Craigslist postings for third-base coaches, no résumés or cover letters. These chitchats are all of that rolled into one.

  “Listen, Adcock,” Feldspar says, “I’m glad Petey caught you. Do you have a minute?” He holds open the door to the manager’s office—currently empty, since Skipper is topside, pitching his daily half-hour of batting practice.

  “Sure,” I say. What choice do I have? When the commissioner’s goon wants a word, you listen. Not that I’m expecting any surprises. I have a pretty good idea what he wants to say.

  We part ways with the coaches and take seats in the office. As in all visitors’ clubhouses, the manager’s office is small and bare. An ancient Steelcase desk divides the room in half, with a rolling chair behind it and two metal folding chairs in front. Feldspar installs himself behind the desk like a big man. “How’s the season been treating you so far?”

  “No complaints. Team’s in the race, and I haven’t gotten killed yet.”

  “About that”—he purses his lips—“I’m sorry about Erik Magnusson. I came as soon as I could. It’s terrible what happened.”

  I’m not sure how to react. He was there at the crime scene. Is he practicing his lines for reporters?

  But if he wants to dance, I’ll dance. “It’s a shame,” I say. “He was too young.”

  Feldspar looks me dead in the eye. “How about we be honest with each other?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “What’s your connection to Magnusson?”

  “We were friends. Played together, kept in touch, that sort of thing.”

  “Be honest, Adcock.”

  “Does it surprise you that someone would want to be my friend?”

  He starts to say something, then pauses. “This can’t go on,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t want to get technical—nobody wants the union to get involved—but the commissioner is aware of your hobby. He’s taking it as a wake-up call, a cry of desperation from the players, and that’s why I’m here. I have you to thank for my job.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thing is, now that I’m here, I’m supposed to do the detective work, not you. You’re paid to throw strikes. No one wants you risking your life with extracurricular activities.” He drums his fingers on the steel desk. “Like I said, I don’t want to get into specifics, but the union contract prohibits side businesses, especially risky ones like yours.”

  “I could be wrong,” I say, “but my understanding is that it’s only a business if I get paid, and I’ve never taken a dime. What I do on my own time for my own enjoyment is not covered by the union contract. I don’t see why it concerns the commissioner’s office at all. I’m happy you’re here, because w
ith your connections I’m sure you can fix a million problems I can’t, but you have to understand that you’re essentially a cop, and plenty of guys are never going to trust a cop, especially with sensitive stuff.”

  “Sensitive like what?”

  “I think you know.”

  Feldspar smiles and shakes his head, as if to say, “You mean pussy? Because I know all about that.” But he doesn’t, of course. Not the way a major-leaguer does. It’s a blessing and a curse, the smorgasbord of women who throw themselves at you. They have a hundred names: Gamer Babes, Number One Fans, Hospitality Committee. If you’re single—or if you’re married but they know you fool around—they will find their way to you. They know the bus drivers and the concierges at the team hotel. They know the security guys who are supposed to guard the clubhouse. I’ve been propositioned in a bullpen restroom (no idea how she got in there) by a brunette wearing nothing but an unbuttoned Bay Dogs jersey. They’re all free, all the time, no questions asked. It’s not something you can explain to your friends back home, not without coming across like a jerk. You certainly can’t tell your family. Only another player understands. Another major-leaguer—not a cop who topped out in rookie ball when you were in elementary school.

  “How about this?” he says. “How about you continue to dispense your wisdom but cool the rest of it? No gunfights, no car chases, nothing that could land you on the DL or in jail or both. How does that sound?”

  We both know this is only his first appeal. He has already mentioned the union twice, and not by accident. Over the years, I’ve helped quite a few of the players now serving as union reps, including Albert Echevarria, the current union president. Two years ago, during the off season, Echevarria was at a resort in Cancún when his teenage daughter disappeared. He suspected she’d been kidnapped, but he didn’t go to the cops because (a) it was Mexico, and the cops were probably involved, and (b) his traveling companion, a woman, was not his wife. I made some calls from the comfort of my apartment in California, and we found the daughter two hours later, safe and sound in a wing of the hotel that was undergoing renovation. She wandered in and got locked inside…with a local surfer. So Albert owes me a favor, but I shouldn’t kid myself. If the commissioner’s office wants to make players’ side businesses a sticking point in the next contract negotiation, my history with Echevarria won’t mean shit. When players’ paychecks are hanging on my cooperation, you can guess whose side the union will be on.