“Thank you for your confidence, sir. I will do my best.”
“Don’t be modest. I heard about your eight home runs and a bunt. But first, you have to pass your physical. I am sending my personal doctor for an examination. You have to pass the pee test. You don’t do drugs do you?”
“No, sir.” “Great! You have no health issues the team needs to know about?” “Sir, I have solar urticaria.” “Solar what?”
“That means I am allergic to sunlight.”
“Oh, yes,” commented Texas Red. “Bud did mention something about that. I am changing the start of all home games from 7:05 to 8:05 or later. And the commissioner is scheduling all our road games to be at night. Bud owes me a few favors, and I collected.”
“Bud told you I’m a vampire?” “A what?” “Nothing, sir,” I replied. “I think we have a bad connection.” “You said vampire. I heard you clearly.” “Sir, there is no such thing as vampires. I don’t believe in UFOs either.” “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Texas Red, testily. “You better pass that physical. Hassle assured me you are the real deal, and you better be, or else!”
“Yes, sir.” “Where is Hassle, anyway? He has turned up missing.” “Drunk in Sonora, last time I saw him, sir.” “If Hassle shows up, have him call me. Hassle is supposed to be in Peoria by now!” “Yes, sir.”
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Chapter 10
When I got to the Peoria Sports Complex, home of the Seattle Mariners spring training in Peoria, Arizona, FBI Special Agent Steve Smith was waiting in the coach’s office for me. “Johnny Black?” he asked. “I am Special Agent Smith, FBI.” He flipped open his wallet badge just long enough for me to see the gold, then closed it again. “I am investigating the brutal murder of Ron Hassle. His decapitated body was found alongside a highway in Mexico, next to a car owned by you. Care to explain that? I find from my from investigation you were the last person to see Ron alive.”
“I lent Hassle my car,” I lied. “Hassle is dead? That’s terrible! Was it a cartel murder?” “Maybe. Do you know Pablo Escobar, Jr.?” “No.” “Escobar knows you.” “He owns the Diablos baseball team. That’s all.” “How did you get back to Tucson?” “I flew.” “On an airline?” pressed Smith. “What airline? There is no record of you flying home. How did you get to your parents house so fast?”
“Am I a suspect?” I asked. “I did not kill Ron Hassle.” “If you lie about any part of your story, it is obstruction of justice,” warned Agent Smith. “Obstruction of justice is a felony.” “I did not kill Hassle,” I repeated. “Who did?” “I do not know. What did the Mexican police say?” “The police are not talking, but a wrecker driver described two suspects, one male and one female. The male suspect’s description matches you. The female matches your girlfriend Anita.”
“Anita?” “I interviewed your parents. What is Anita’s last name?” “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.” “You are getting married, and you don’t know her name? Remember what I said about obstruction of justice?” “Are you going to arrest me?” “Not yet.” Agent Smith removed a digital camera from his tote bag. “Smile for the camera. Let me see those pearly white teeth.” Agent Smith frowned as he looked at my image on the display screen. Then he pulled a large squirt gun from his bag and shot water at me.
“Hey!” I complained. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” “That was holy water I got at a gift shop. It should have burned you.” “Are you nuts? You got me all wet!” This time Smith produced a small wooden cross, thrusting it in my face. I knocked the cross aside, snarling in pain from the touch.
“You don’t like crosses?” asked Smith. “And you are allergic to sunlight?”
“So what? I’ve been through all that with the team doctor already. What’s it to you?”
“That wrecker driver down in Mexico claims you and your girlfriend flew away from the police. Flew, like high into the air, while the police shot at you. Coach Morales of the Diablos reports you snarled at him and bared fangs, and could not be photographed by fans or by the local newspaper. They think you are a vampire. Are you?”
“Of course not,” I protested. “You just took my picture a minute ago. That proves I’m not a vampire. You take the word of a drunk wrecker driver over that of the police? I don’t know what Morales’s problem is, but there is no such thing as vampires, or werewolves either.”
““I did not ask you about werewolves,” replied Agent Smith. “What do you know about werewolves?”
“Charge me or let me go! I’ve had enough of this harassment. I intend to file a complaint against you with your superiors, of which I am sure there are many.”
“I will be watching you,” threatened Agent Smith. “I know you murdered Hassle. I am sure you are guilty of other horrors, too. The truth always comes out eventually, and I will be there when the truth about you comes out!”
“I told you the truth.”
“You stated you flew to Tucson. How?”
“I am exercising my right to remain silent. Shouldn’t you have advised me of my rights before questioning? I know my constitutional rights.”
“Listen carefully, Black. If you are the monster I think you are, you do not have constitutional rights. Only humans have rights.”
“Who do you think you are, the X-file dude?” I asked. “I’m a citizen. Citizens have constitutional rights. I’m innocent until proven guilty. All I want is to play major league baseball, and no one is going to stop me.”
“Tell your sad story to the grand jury.”
“Whatever.”
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Chapter 11
I did not practice with the team because I could not be out in the sunlight. Players gave me the cold shoulder. There were rumors about the FBI visit and steroids. There were even more rumors about Hassle’s grisly murder.
Coach Dawson was upset about me showing up late for games, even though we now played at night. The front office thought I should be treated special, and that grated on Dawson. However, he was ordered to put me in the line-up.
“Allergic to sunlight, my ass,” commented Coach Dawson as I entered the dugout midway into my first game. You’re not fit to be the bat boy, let alone play in the majors.”
“I love you too, Mike,” I replied, grabbing a bat and trotting out to pinch hit.
The bases were loaded. The Mariners’ clean-up hitter, Pete Gonzalez, was pulled for me, and fans were checking their roster lists for my number. A few booed.
“And now, pinch-hitting and playing right field, just called up from the ... Sonora Diablos?” announced a confused broadcaster. “Welcome our newest Mariner, Johnny Black!”
I tipped my cap. Someone cheered. A coyote howled off in the desert. There were more boos. “We want Gonzales!” someone yelled. I hit the first pitch over the left field fence. “Grand slam! My, oh my!” exclaimed the Seattle broadcaster. “Welcome Johnny Black to the Mariners!” I savored the moment as I ran the bases. Fans now cheered. What a rush. I knew this was how it would be when I got to Seattle – glory, recognition, adulation.
I rounded third base. As I crossed home plate, my teammates gave me high fives and slaps on the back all around. Coach Dawson was all smiles as he shook my hand. “Let’s see you do that again, boy! I knew you had it in you all along!”
“Thanks, coach.”
“Is that sunlight bullshit for real, Johnny?” asked Dawson as we trotted back to the dugout. “How about you put a towel over your head like an Arab so you can play day games?”
“That won’t work,” I answered. “Sunlight is too bright, even with sunglasses. I can’t see.”
“Just keep hitting home runs,” grumbled Dawson, still not believing my explanation, suspecting drug use. “What are you, some kind of vampire?”
I stopped, giving Coach Dawson a hard stare. Quickly I smiled to cover my sudden slip of temper. “I just want to overcome my disability and play ball, sir.”
“Damn, there is always a catch with the great ones,�
�� replied Dawson. “Are you going to be able to pass your blood test? You don’t take steroids, do you?”
“Not any more, sir.” “Don’t even joke about steroids,” admonished Dawson in a hushed conspiratorial tone. “I’d rather you be a vampire than that.” “Stop with the vampire stuff,” I insisted. “It upsets my mom.” “Anything you want, as long as you keep hitting grand slams!” I batted two more times that night, hitting another home run and a double. My teammates warmed up to me now, offering friendly congratulations to the rookie. But, I could hear the whispering behind my back. ‘Who is this guy? What happened to Ron? Allergic to sunlight? Bullshit, he’s hiding something.’
I looked up in the stands, hoping to see Anita, but she was gone.
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Chapter 12
After the game, Special Agent Smith drove back to the Marriott Hotel in Phoenix for some much needed rest. Smith was on edge. He felt as if someone was watching him, but he would turn quickly to find no one was there. Smith constantly checked his rear-view mirror, but no one followed.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and a shiver coursed throughout his body. Someone was in the back seat! Instinctively Smith slammed on his brakes, sending the car into a spin in the middle of busy traffic. He drew his pistol in a combat grip and pointed it to the rear. Again, nothing!
Agent Smith cautiously peered over the seat to confirm he was alone. Get a grip, he told himself. A motorist leaned on his horn, bringing Smith back to the here and now. “Yeah, whatever!” Smith yelled back, returning a rude gesture.
Agent Smith righted his car and continued on to the Marriott. His feeling of unease subsided a bit, but he could not completely relax until he got to his room. Smith let out a sigh as he lay flat on his back on the bed. Vampires? There can’t really be such a thing.
Smith got up abruptly to double lock the door. Next he checked the widows. Everything seemed secure. He upholstered his nine-millimeter pistol, checked for a chambered round, and placed it on the bed. He did the same for a small pistol strapped to his ankle.
There is no such thing as vampires, Agent Smith told himself again. Even so, he had put silver tipped bullets in his guns. Then he remembered Damn! Black had said silver bullets only worked against werewolves, and there was no such thing. I need to stuff wood into the hollow-point tips. Make a note.
Someone knocked on the door. “Who is it?” Agent Smith demanded, gathering up his pistols. He checked a knife strapped to his other ankle, then peered through the peephole.
“Room service,” answered a cute Hispanic woman wearing a maid’s outfit. She smiled at the peephole. “I brought your pool towels and robe, sir.”
“I don’t know how to swim,” answered Agent Smith. “Go away!” “Can I turn down your bed?” she persisted. “Fluff your pillows?” “No, go way!” “Sir, I also have complimentary wine from the manager. Please open the door and let me give it to you, or I will get in trouble.” Agent Smith opened the door, but kept the chain latched. The wine bottle would not fit through the opening. “Oh, you are so handsome, Mr. FBI Agent,” gushed the maid seductively. “How about we share this wine, if you know what I mean.” “How do you know I’m FBI?” Agent Smith demanded. “Sir, everyone at the hotel knows. You have that look.”
Slowly Agent Smith unlatched the door and accepted the wine bottle with extended arm. He cautiously stepped back.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” asked the maid, pouting. She unbuttoned her white blouse. “Do you think I am pretty?”
She was indeed gorgeous, but her smile brought a chill to Smith. It was the same chill he felt earlier in the car. There was a small smudge of something by her collar. Cherry lipstick maybe? Blood? “Are you Anita?” asked Agent Smith, on a hunch.
Reflexively Anita snarled, baring her fangs. Startled, Agent Smith fell back, drawing his pistol. Anita still stood at the door way.
“You can’t enter, can you?” asked Agent Smith, triumphantly regaining his composure. Still pointing his pistol, he cautiously approached the doorway. “Not unless I invite you past the threshold?”
“You Federales think you are all so smart,” snarled Anita. “But I will have the final say. You stay away from Johnny!”
Agent Smith fired center mass at Anita. The first two rounds knocked her back. She fell to the side, out of sight. Smith rushed to the doorway and peered down the hallway. There was a blood trail, but Anita was gone. Three bullet holes graced the door across the hall. Damn! He slammed the door, latching it, hoping no one heard the shots.
* * * * *
A bit unstable, Anita flew over downtown Phoenix, then circled back to the roof of the Marriott Hotel. She used her nine-inch nails to pull out two bullet slugs lodged in her right lung. Once the bullets were out, the healing process rapidly took over.
Much like a diabetic, she needed a quick snack to recover. Noticing movement to her left, Anita pounced in a blur and killed a startled pigeon, devouring it in seconds. Feathers floated on the breeze.
“Damn feathers get everywhere,” mused Anita, plucking a floater from her hair and blowing it into the breeze. She burped. “A bit gamey for my taste.”
Anita walked to the ledge and looked down on Phoenix. She loved the wide open spaces of the West. The warm night air was refreshing. Time to get serious about dinner, she thought. I’ll take care of that Federale later.
* * * * *
A few floors down in the same hotel, I doubled over in hunger from days of not eating. I refused to hunt for prey. I planned to buy blood from a blood bank, but it was late at night on the weekend. I had not really thought this vampire thing through. Anita brought me another victim, some transient no one would miss from the mean streets of Phoenix.
“Eat!” she ordered. “Or die!” “You can’t keep snatching people of the street like this.” “Do you want strength to hit home runs or not?” “Hey man!” cried the panicked bum. “You vampires don’t want to eat someone as wasted as me. I have Hep-C, TB, probably AIDS, and don’t get me started on this scabies shit I’ve been scratching on. Please don’t eat me!”
“The curse makes us immune to mortal afflictions,” advised Anita, grabbing the bum by the throat. “We have nothing to worry about.”
“Help!” cried the bum.
Anita plunged her fangs deep into the throat of the hapless derelict. The smell of fresh blood excited me, in spite of the foul body odor. I hesitated. “Are you sure?” I asked, pawing at the bum. A gray feather floated by. I had noticed another feather earlier. What’s up with that?
“Shut up and feed,” insisted Anita, coming up for air. “It is rude to waste food.”
I took a tentative bite, but let go when the bum screamed even louder.
“Do not play with your food,” scolded Anita. “I swear, you are worse than a five-year-old eating vegetables. Hurry up while your meal is still alive and warm. I go to all this trouble to fix dinner, the least you can do is eat it while it’s hot.”
“I want to go to a blood bank,” I announced. “I have lots of money coming to me. I’ll just buy dinner from now on. We can eat out.”
“No! Blood banks are closed at night. Besides, all blood banks are watched by the authorities. The Federales would catch you.” “Federales? You mean the FBI?” “No, the CIA.” “You’re kidding. The CIA knows about vampires? “They suspect.” “What about the FBI?” “The FBI is clueless, and I intend to keep it that way.” “Maybe we could rob one of those blood couriers that transport blood between hospitals.” “I’ll think about it,” answered Anita, dismissing me. “Eat your dinner.” I fed on the bum. What else could I do? Satiated, I made love to Anita. As the sun came up on Phoenix, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, entangled in bloody sheets. Curtains drawn, a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging from the door knob, we would not awake until after game time tonight.
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Chapter 13
The rest of spring training was uneventful and passed quickly. I had no
more contacts with Agent Smith. I heard Smith was suspended by the FBI for reckless discharge of his firearm, pending an investigation. Also, the FBI and Phoenix police were not happy about the trail of blood outside Smith’s door, but there was no victim, and Smith would not come clean about chasing vampires about town.
Based on a good spring, I got my multi-million-dollar two-year no-cut contract with first year incentives. How exciting is that? I beamed, congratulating myself. However, opening day was not in Seattle, it was on the road at Minnesota against the Twins.
I made my own flight arrangements. As usual, I missed the beginning of the game, including pregame opening day ceremonies and introductions, and the singing of our national anthem by famed movie star and talk-show host, Anna Swenssen.
I heard that Anna had been putting on weight again. I was sorry I missed the show. I always thought the fat lady sang at the end of the game, but guessed that was only in New York. I would know soon enough, because the Yankees were next on our road trip.
I took the field in the middle of the fourth inning. The new and improved Minneapolis Metrodome Teflon and Fiberglas fabric roof shut out the sunlight, but I still was delayed getting to the stadium from my hotel.
Coach Dawson was upset about my always being late, but he was still upbeat tonight, having high expectations for me and the season. The inning ended with a shallow fly ball to right field, which I ran down with a miraculous sliding catch. That one would make the sports news highlights tonight. Coach Dawson gave me a slap on the butt as I trotted back to the dugout.
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