Double Switch

by T. T. Monday

  “Is it possible that someone could have altered the records and removed his name?”

  “I suppose that could have happened, but I doubt it. Baseball records are kept in two places—the local municipality offices and at the party headquarters in La Habana.”

  “They keep amateur baseball records at the party headquarters?”

  “They say the records go directly to Fidel. He uses them to draft players for his fantasy team.”

  “And you checked those records?”

  “Hell, yes, I did! The name Anibal Martín may not mean anything to you, but it opens doors down here.”

  In the background, a ball explodes off a metal bat, and boys whoop and holler.

  “Well, thanks for checking.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he says, “and, speaking of pleasure, have I told you about Raúl’s new sucia?”

  I hang up.

  Unless Yonel Ruiz has a connection with access to Fidel’s cache of fantasy-baseball data—and the balls not only to examine those records but to alter them—then it looks like we’ve reached a dead end. Is it possible that Magnusson misspelled the name?

  Five minutes with Ruiz, that’s all I need. Problem is, if Alcalá is in fact a Fausto Carmona situation, he’s not going to talk to me about it. After what I did last week, he likely won’t talk to me at all—not that I have any way of reaching him.

  I do, however, have a number for Ruiz’s “sister.” For obvious reasons, I have been hesitant to contact La Loba since the incident with the butcher saw, but what could it hurt at this point? Someone, possibly La Loba, tried to frame me for a double murder. I’ve broken the seal on risk.

  Enriqueta answers my call with unexpected enthusiasm. “Hello, Johnny! I thought you forgot about me!”

  “Enriqueta, I will never forget you.”

  “You are sweet.”

  “Not as sweet as you.”

  “Ay señor, you haven’t fallen in love with me, have you?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing!”

  “Love is always bad, Johnny. It makes us ignore our good judgment.”

  She’s a murderer. She cuts her enemies into stew meat. I am ignoring good judgment, but let’s be clear: it’s not because I’m in love.

  “When can I see you?”

  “Oh, Johnny, I am so busy right now.”

  “Come to San José.”

  “I cannot come to you,” she says, suddenly stern. “Call someone else. I’m sure a ballplayer like you can find a girl.”

  “I don’t want another girl. I want you.”

  “Are you listening to me? I said I can’t come to San José!”

  “What if I called Tiff Tate? If I could arrange a meeting for the three of us—you, me, and Tiff Tate—could you find time in your busy schedule?”

  This gets a nibble. “What exactly are you proposing?”

  “A social occasion,” I say, “so you can get to know each other. You are interested in meeting her, right?”

  “Very much, but why would she agree to meet me? I’m nothing, an immigrant girl, and she is a respected leader in her industry. It would be better, I think, if she does not know I am coming.”

  “What if I told her you were a hired girl?”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Yes, but a sophisticated one.”

  “She would like that?”

  “I know she will. Then, after we become acquainted with one another, we can reveal that you are the sister of a ballplayer, that you admire her and have questions.”

  “She won’t be offended by the trick?”

  I laugh. “No, she will be delighted. Tiff likes to pretend.”

  “Very good,” La Loba says. “Tell me when and where, and I will be there.”

  29

  Next day I’m at the park by 10:00 a.m. to do my lifting. It’s Tuesday—chest and lats. Because it’s so early and there’s no one around to spot me, I do my bench presses on a machine, dialing in slightly more weight than I’d put on a bar. The trainers tell us that the machines are the same, that they work your muscles just as well as free weights, but everyone knows that’s bullshit. What’s true is that some muscle groups can be worked sufficiently only by machines. Lats are one, and for pitchers lats are extremely important. You’d think a pitcher would want to be overbuilt on the chest side, so that he could pull his arm forward as fast as possible while throwing the ball, but in fact it’s more important to be well conditioned behind the arm. During follow-through, the lats flex in order to arrest the arm’s forward motion. The majority of shoulder injuries come from overextension. All of this is a long way of explaining why I spend hours every week pulling a bar down over my head, and even more in the rower.

  On the plus side, machines are great for phone calls. I always wear a headset while I row. This morning I spend half an hour on the phone with Izzy, who tells me she’s going to stick with dance.

  “I think it’s the right decision,” she says. “I mean, it’s not something I’m going to do professionally, but it would be a waste to quit now. I’m finally good enough to enjoy myself instead of just remembering the steps.”

  “Who says you can’t dance professionally, Iz?”

  “Nobody. I just assume my life won’t go in that direction.”

  “Why not? You can do anything you want.”

  “It’s not like that, Dad. I’m not sure I’d want to be a dancer. You’re always saying how risky it is to rely on your body.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Many times.”

  “It’s good advice.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I thought it over, and I forgive you for missing my recital. I understand how bad you must feel.”

  “Well, thanks. I would be there if I could.”

  “Just don’t send a big flower arrangement like last time, okay?”

  “What was wrong with the flowers?”

  “They were beautiful, all those white lilies and roses, but the delivery guy propped it up on an easel. Mom said it was a funeral arrangement.”

  “Maybe they got the order mixed up.”

  “Maybe.” I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Just be specific this year, okay?”

  “Got it. No lilies, no easels.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”

  We sign off, and I get back to my rowing.

  A minute later, the phone rings again. It’s Ratkiss.

  “Johnny, I just got an inquiry from the Nippon Ham Fighters about your availability next year.”

  “You think I want to be a Ham Fighter?”

  “Don’t laugh, they’re a first-class club. Perennial contenders in the Japanese Pacific League.”

  “I’m not an export, Todd, I’m a major-league pitcher.”

  “Right now you are, and with any luck you will be next year, too. That said, it doesn’t hurt to have something to fall back on.”

  I’m not persuaded. I’ve seen how this goes. An aging major-league player starts talking to a Japanese team, and the rumor alone prompts the American clubs to write him off. They worry you’re hiding an injury or something. It’s bad news.

  “My answer is no. Tell the Ham Fighters sayonara.”

  “How about we agree to table the discussion? I’m just afraid that if you say no you’ll regret it come the off season.” I hear him take a sip of something. “When you’re trying to decide between a minor-league deal with the Astros and a nonroster invitation with Cleveland, you’ll say, ‘Hey, Todd, what about that Japanese team, the one that offered to match my last salary in San José, paid to a tax-preferred offshore account?’ Because, you know, if you make the money abroad, you don’t have to pay U.S. taxes.”

  “Fuck your tax-preferred account,” I say, and I hang up. I know he has my best interest in mind, but sometimes you have to remind your agent that he works for you, not the other way around.

  30

  Tonight’s game is a 7:05 start, the first of a three-game series at home wi
th the Arizona Diamondbacks. We jump to an early lead, scoring twice in the first inning. First time through the lineup, six of nine Bay Dogs reach base, and by the bottom of the third, we’ve chased Arizona’s starter. But their bullpen holds up surprisingly well, allowing only one more run on three hits, and by the top of the eighth the score is 3–2 in our favor. After Arizona’s first two batters are retired, Skipper calls me in to face Alex Barrow, the D-backs’ best hitter. Barrow has been in the league three years, and because we’re in the same division, I’ve faced him numerous times. He has an excellent eye for a power hitter, and, unlike most young players, he’s patient at the plate.

  Skip hands me the ball with an admonishment to “keep it clean.” He means: Don’t hit him. Don’t even brush him back, and certainly don’t knock him down. Just get him out. That’s the message. Given my performance in Colorado, it makes sense that Skip would be worried. But, all things considered, I’m probably in a better position to retire Barrow tonight than I have ever been. When you hit a batter on purpose, word gets around. The hitters I face are professionals, supposedly immune to psychological games, but sometimes a whisper about my supposed rage is enough to give me the edge.

  I tuck my glove under my arm and start rubbing up the ball. I take my warm-up pitches, making sure not to smile or give any indication that I’m more stable than I was in Colorado. I even knock my head to the side a couple of times like I just got out of the pool—a nervous tic invented on the spot. It’s pretty corny theater, but, like I said, the tiniest edge is all I need.

  Barrow steps in and eyes me cautiously. He does that thing where he windmills his bat and pauses with his right arm extended, angling the bat toward the mound like a sword. When I step onto the rubber, he returns the bat to his shoulder. Game on.

  I get two quick strikes on inside fastballs that he fouls back into the screen. Modigliani wants to proceed according to plan, with a changeup low and inside, but I shake him off. With the count 0-2, I want to play with him a little. Eventually, Diggy figures out what I have in mind, and I deliver: a slider outside, about a foot off the plate, that bounces and sends up a puff of dust. Diggy crabs to his left and the ball caroms off his chest protector. Because there are no runners on base, he just ignores the ball—dirty now, probably scuffed—and requests a new one from the plate umpire. He glares at me, and I glare back—but not because I’m angry at Diggy. I couldn’t give a shit about Diggy. This is all part of the theater. If I can convince Barrow that I’m not following the plan, that I’m off my game tonight, or, even better, that I’m mentally unhinged, then I maintain the advantage. I walk off the mound a couple of paces on the third-base side, rubbing up the new ball. I return to the mound and do a little landscaping with my toe on the landing spot.

  The count is now 1-2. Again Diggy calls for the inside change, and again I shake him off. Now he’s honest-to-God pissed, but I don’t care. I’m in charge. I throw another slider in the dirt that Barrow takes for ball two. This time Diggy doesn’t bother to scramble; the ball goes all the way to the backstop.

  Again with a new ball, I walk off the mound on the first-base side. I pretend to see something in the grass—stray napkin? used condom?—and bend down, touch the grass, straighten up, and climb the mound. By this point, Barrow is totally confused. He windmills his bat once, then twice, pausing at maximum extension, swinging through. He kicks the dirt with his back foot, spits. He looks down the line to the third-base coach, who dutifully repeats the sign, even though everyone in the ballpark knows Barrow is clear to swing away.

  I plant my left foot on the rubber and stare in. For the third time, Diggy gives the signal for the changeup low and inside. I shake him off, and then let him cycle through all the signs, refusing them all one by one. When he returns to the change, I nod. He taps his right thigh, indicating inside. I nod. He straightens his mask and sets up behind Barrow’s left knee. I stretch, set, and deliver. It’s a perfect pitch, a straight change that comes in ten miles per hour slower than anything I’ve thrown so far, and barely a foot off the ground. Barrow is a mile in front but still manages to make contact, tapping a weak grounder to short. Ordoñez charges. He scoops it up. His throw beats Barrow by a step and a half.

  To hell with Todd Ratkiss. I can’t give this up. Ultimately, I will have to retire—the human body can’t do this forever—but not yet. I learned to throw when I was five or six years old, but I didn’t learn to pitch until my thirties. All that knowledge, all that technique will vanish if I quit. Maybe I flatter myself by this comparison, but it’s like asking a surgeon to quit doing operations just when he figures out how to cut without leaving scars.

  We hang on to win by one. Earlier in the day, the Dodgers lost in St. Louis, so we’re back within a game of first place. After the game, I shower quickly and take the elevator upstairs, hoping to speak with Jock Marlborough. I find him in the press box, grazing the remnants of the deli tray.

  “Got a minute?” I ask.

  “Something tells me this ain’t good news.” His voice is uncharacteristically raw and raspy, like he hasn’t been sleeping. With the bulging skin under his eyes, he looks like an elderly Labrador retriever. “Let’s go in the booth,” he says.

  I follow him through a series of doors, down a short hallway to the broadcast booth, or what Jock calls, on the air, the “best seat in the house.” It’s right behind home plate, on the luxury level between the stadium’s two main seating decks. I tend to think that the dugout is a better seat than the broadcast booth, but this isn’t bad. A technician in headphones is typing on a laptop. Jock asks him to leave, and then it’s just us, looking out over the thousands of empty seats. Cleaning crews move up and down the rows like ants. On the field, the grounds crew is placing the protective tarp on the mound.

  “Lay it on me.” Jock leans back in his swivel chair, placing his palms on his belly. I notice that his hands are tiny, with stubby little fingers. Hands made for radio, I guess you could say.

  “I have a contact at the Marriott in Daly City, and he showed me some tape from the realtors’ meeting last week.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. She’s fooling around.”

  “Is it Jim Hunt?”

  “White man, your age…looks sort of like Ed McMahon?”

  “I’ll be damned. Of all the realtors to screw, she chooses Hunt. With all the swinging dicks in that office, all the top producers…I don’t know how much you know about real estate, Adcock, but those bastards are competitive. Lots of testosterone—and cologne. She could have had some young stud, some hot slugger, but instead she chooses this guy.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “Oh, sure, we go back. We used to have dinner with the Hunts two, three times a week in the off season. We’re neighbors. I never liked Jim, but Eileen, his wife, was a real looker, just a tremendous, tremendous piece of ass. She had this way of giving head….”

  “So you’re sleeping with his wife, too?”

  Marlborough shakes his head. “Eileen passed away six years ago. Breast cancer.” This isn’t the first time a client has turned me loose with only half the story, but I can’t say I’ve ever had a twist like this. I’m not sure what to say.

  “Tell me,” Marlborough says after a few moments’ consideration. “Did she dress up?”

  “She looked nice,” I say diplomatically. “Double-breasted suit. Pearls.”

  He looks me in the eye. “I mean costumes.”

  “She had a room at the hotel. After her presentation, she went back and changed into a maid’s uniform.” I pause. “It’s not the first time, I’m guessing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  I want to tell him it seldom is, but what good will that do? It’s not my job to console. Marlborough wanted an answer, and he got one.

  The enormous (cuckolded, adulterous) play-by-play man leans forward in his chair and puts his hands on his knees. “What do I owe you, Adcock?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “The first
one’s free.”

  “And the next?”

  “Next time, just talk to your wife.”

  “There must be something I can do for you.”

  “There is one thing,” I say. “I’m planning a party, something small with a few friends—how hard would it be to borrow a skybox for a night?”

  31

  After a bit more negotiation with Jock Marlborough, I leave the stadium and summon an Uber. Tonight’s driver is a gangly Vietnamese kid in a plug-in hybrid.

  “Airport,” I say. “General Aviation.”

  “No bags?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the GA parking lot at San José’s Norman Mineta Airport. Mineta was a congressman from San José before he joined the Bush administration and became, on 9/11, the guy who famously ordered all aircraft to land. “Bring them all down,” Mineta said, and the planes came down. (And he was glad of the deed.) The GA parking lot is full of Teslas and 7 Series Beemers with turbocharged engines. Also plenty of Ubers with groomed, butlerish men standing in the crooks of open doors.

  “Right here is good,” I say to the kid driver. We won’t be taking any trips to the gun shop tonight, although I might feel more secure if we did. I shut the door, and the little car rolls silently into the night.

  Erica is waiting for me, and together we walk across the tarmac to Tiff’s plane.

  “Busy week?” I ask.

  Erica rolls her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  She shows me into the main stateroom, where Tiff is scampering around, looking for something between the cushions of the armchairs. Tonight she’s dressed like a homegirl, with dark lipstick, gobs of eye makeup, and hair pulled into a tight ponytail on top of her head. Her pink velour tracksuit has the initials T.T. spelled out in rhinestones across the chest.

  “Evening, Tiff.”

  “Johnny, come in.” She holds open the door to her stateroom, and I follow her inside. The bed is unmade and covered with all kinds of clothes, women’s and men’s. Several dozen pairs of shoes are lined up along the wall. At the foot of the bed are a barber’s chair and a mirrored vanity. I find the disarray unnerving. Tiff Tate doesn’t strike me as a neat freak, but I am surprised she would let anyone glimpse this side of her life.