by Donald Bain
“But, H.B.,” Karen said, smiling sweetly, “the people in Mesa are always interested in what you have to say.”
“I already gave you a quote. I said turn it off.”
Karen gestured to the cameraman, who extinguished the light.
“Now get out of here,” H.B. said. “And that goes for you, too, Tedeschi. Put that notebook away. You print anything I didn’t tell you directly, the Gazette will never get another interview with a Rattler. Do I make myself clear?”
The locker room had fallen silent, all signs of celebration suspended. Meg gripped my hand again.
I watched, fascinated, as the reporters retreated from H.B. Obviously, freedom of the press was not honored here. It was more important to maintain access to the team than to challenge its owner in public. But I wondered why in the midst of a celebration of his team’s victory its owner would reprimand the man responsible. It obviously had to do with the manager’s decision to use Ty as a pinch hitter for the owner’s son. I’m not a big baseball fan, although I do enjoy following the trials and tribulations of the Boston Red Sox, and I’m certainly not knowledgeable enough to second-guess a manager’s decision to use a pinch hitter. But it seemed to me that, personal considerations aside, what should have mattered at that moment was winning, regardless of who got the winning hit.
Oh, well, I thought as Meg and I left the locker room and waited for Ty by the players’ entrance, it will all be forgotten in the glow of victory.
At least I hope it will be.
Chapter Three
“I’d also like to offer up a big thanks to the Dominican Republic for their number one export to the U.S.—baseball. Amazing how a tiny, poor country can manufacture such incredible talent. It’s a great way to climb the ladder. Let’s give it up for our neighbors south of the border—um, south and east of the border. They produced a helluva shortstop.”
A discernible hush fell over the already quiet room, only to be interrupted by the shuffling of feet and nervous repositioning of bodies on chairs, myself included. Ty slapped his hands together and shouted, “Yeah, let’s hear it for the D.R., baby.”
The room responded with tepid applause.
At the microphone, Theo Thompson, owner of Thompson Tools and Hardware and corporate sponsor of Thompson Stadium, looked down at a lady who was pulling on his sleeve. “What? What’d I say wrong?”
“Not the most politically correct speech,” I whispered to Sheriff John Hualga, seated to my left.
Hualga shrugged, brow furrowed. “He means well. Theo puts his foot in his mouth sometimes,” he whispered back, “but this team would be playing on a Little League field without him. He built that stadium with his own money, gives away tickets to the kids who can’t afford them. He’s one of the nicest fellows you’ll ever meet.”
The same could be said of John Hualga. Before I’d left Cabot Cove for Arizona, our sheriff and my friend, Mort Metzger, had urged me to look up Sheriff Hualga, whom he’d met at a forensic conference in Salt Lake City years ago. “Terrific guy,” Mort had said. “You’ll love him.”
It was pure coincidence that I ended up at the table with him, and I quickly saw why Mort held him in such high regard. Despite his formidable appearance—he was short and solidly built, muscular arms protruding from the sleeves of his tan uniform shirt, cheeks slightly pockmarked, made more evident by the oily sheen of his face, shaved temples next to a crop of coal black hair on the top of his head that seemed to protest whatever he might do with a comb—his most striking feature was his laugh. It came easily and bubbled up from deep within. Well read and well spoken, he had a keen sense of humor. A most likable man. Before Theo Thompson had commandeered the microphone, the sheriff and I had been discussing the origins of names.
“Hualga means ‘moon’ in Mohave,” he’d said. “Mohave is a Western Arizona tribe, one of twenty-one tribes in the state. Have any idea what your name means, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied. “Fletcher means ‘maker-of-arrows’ in Middle English.”
“Mort tells me you’re straight as an arrow,” he said. “Do you always hit your target?”
“I try to, but I’m afraid, like everyone else, my aim isn’t always perfect.”
He chuckled. “That’s not what I hear.”
Seated across from us at the table were Jack and Meg Duffy, who’d communicated their reaction to Thompson’s remarks with grimaces and raised eyebrows while clapping politely. Meg, perfectly coifed with her Anna Wintour haircut and minimal but deftly applied makeup, looked across to me. She gently shook her head and smiled. Jack was fond of casual dress when not on the bench, and tonight was no exception. His ten-gallon hat sat on the empty chair beside him. He wore a colorful Southwestern-inspired shirt with green cacti, a light brown snake-skin belt with a giant turquoise buckle, and dark brown tooled-leather cowboy boots. All this on a six-foot six-inch frame graced by a full head of white hair. Judge Duffy was no wallflower—on or off the bench.
Meanwhile, Theo still droned on. “The Rattlers are lucky to have the MVP of the season and of the game, Ty Ramos, here in Mesa. Helluva shortstop. It’s a tough position. Requires agility and . . .”
I glanced over at the adjacent table, where Ty sat with about half the team’s members. He was clearly uncomfortable that he was still the center of the attention coming from the podium. The MVP trophy, awarded earlier, sat next to his untouched plate of food. When his teammates had razzed him about winning the award, he’d plucked some of the flowers from the centerpiece to fill the cup at the top of the tall trophy. “Come over later and I’ll fill it with Gatorade for you.”
Carter had smirked. “I’d rather have beer.”
“You’d end up on the floor.”
“It ain’t that big of a cup.”
Junior sat at the next table with the other half of the team. His sullen expression was matched by those of his friends, who squirmed at the praise Theo was heaping on Ty, their eyes darting from Junior to the ceiling to the tabletop, trying to avoid looking as if they were listening to anything Thompson was saying. As the host clapped his hands, trying to start another ovation, Junior pushed his chair back with a jerk, stood, and marched toward the door. When he passed my seat, it sounded as if he muttered an ethnic slur under his breath before storming out of the room into the lobby.
Had he really said that? It was sad if he had, but I feared it was true. I may be getting older, but all of my senses work quite well, including my hearing. I looked at Hualga to see if he’d heard what I’d heard, and his scowling countenance confirmed it.
Upon witnessing Junior’s defiant departure, Thompson backpedaled a bit with a couple of “ums” before finally saying, “But let’s face it, there is no ‘I’ in the word ‘team,’ and this whole team, each and every player, is to be congratulated for an incredible season. Best of luck to all of these fine young men. And God bless.”
He started to step away from the microphone—and not a moment too soon—but grabbed the mike again and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, please. One more thing.” He waited while the buzz in the room quieted. “Thank you. I almost forgot. Please join me in a big round of applause for the Mesa Hilton for donating this wonderful hotel facility to the Rattlers for this marvelous dinner.”
The crowd applauded once more, as much in gratitude that Thompson had finally left the stage as in appreciation for the meal and the venue.
I was sitting between John Hualga and a man who’d been introduced to me as a baseball agent. Sylvester Cole was a handsome fellow in his thirties who I’d been told had played in the major leagues for the Seattle Mariners before a nagging groin injury sealed his fate. If a seductive personality and a killer smile were all it took to stay in the Big Show, he’d surely still be there, whether his bat was connecting or not.
He leaned into my shoulder and, when I turned toward him, looked deeply into my eyes and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs.
Fletcher?”
“Not at all. I’ll be happy to answer if I can.”
“You’re an artist, a writer. You must be a sensitive woman. Am I imagining it, or are you picking up the same negative vibes I’m getting?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“The atmosphere in this room and on the team. I’ve been around plenty of conflict in locker rooms and at team dinners, but nothing like this.” He faked a shudder and rubbed his arms as if he were cold.
All evening, I’d sensed the tension flowing between Ty Ramos and Junior Bennett, and the teammates who seemed to have lined up behind one or the other. The conflict between the manager and the owner was no secret either, with the two men seated at either end of the dais and seemingly intent on avoiding any attempts to bring them together—or to get them to smile. At times, the foul mood in the room seemed as oppressive as the Arizona air outside, and I’d contemplated escaping the ballroom for a breath of fresh air despite the heat. A Maine gal through and through, I don’t mind occasional exposure to the Arizona heat, although I never could live there. My blood is too thick from all those Yankee winters.
“Well, I have to admit that there is a certain level of discomfort this evening,” I said.
“You’re being diplomatic,” Sylvester said, flashing me his most captivating smile. “I should have expected that, of course. This place is churning with ‘dicomfort, ’ as you put it.” He shook his head. “I want to get Ty out of this environment as soon as I can. It’s not good for his psyche. He’s a street-smart kid, thanks to his early years, but even that couldn’t prepare him for the animosity swirling around him. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been in this game a while. I don’t want it to poison the well, so to speak.”
“I don’t believe his psyche has suffered,” I said, thinking of all the praise that had been heaped on Ty earlier. I watched him interact with his teammates at the next table. He didn’t look unhappy, although he did glance at his watch a few times. I cocked my head at the agent. “Besides, the season is over, isn’t it?” I said. “He’ll be out of this ‘environment’ relatively soon, I imagine.”
“When he signs with me, he will.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t want it to get around yet, but I’ve been working on his future already. Got connections here in Arizona, and in California, too, and I’ve been talking with some higher-ups in the Chicago organization. Together, we’ll get him into the majors in no time at all. I think we’ll make a great team, Ty and me.”
“Do you have many players under contract?”
“Not exactly what you’d call ‘many.’ I’ve always been choosy about who I take under my wing.” He chuckled. “There are quite a few fathers calling me, but I only want the best, the guys who can go the whole way.”
“And you think Ty can?”
“Oh, yes. Have you ever gone fishing, Mrs. Fletcher?”
I was a bit startled by his change in subject, but I went along with him. Smiling, I said, “It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Ah, so you’ll understand my reference when I tell you Ty’s a keeper.”
“A fish you’re not going to throw back.”
He grinned at me, his eyes lighting up. “I expect he’ll make my career as much as I’ll make his.”
“It’s nice when it works out well for everyone,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve known Ty for quite a long time,” I said. “He’s a very talented athlete and an upright young man. I wish you both well.”
“You’re obviously a fan. The judge tells me that Ty thinks the world of you, too. He says that if he doesn’t make it as a ballplayer, Ty wants to be a writer just like you.”
“The judge has told me that before, and whenever I’ve been with Ty, he expresses interest in writing. It’s very flattering.”
The waitress snaked her arm between us as she removed empty dishes from the first course—tequila-battered shrimp. “That was marvelous,” Cole said, switching his charm to the young woman who took his plate. She blushed as if he had paid her a personal compliment.
The atmosphere at the dinner may have been strained, but the food was excellent. For my entrée I’d chosen spice-rubbed rotisserie chicken, and for dessert vanilla ice cream with hot-fudge. I may never acclimate to the brutal desert heat, but I’ve become a fan of Southwestern cuisine.
Someone must have told Junior that dinner was being served, because he came back into the room on cue and took his seat. I watched as Ty, seated at the table next to Junior’s, made momentary eye contact with the owner’s son. Junior looked away immediately. Ty smiled to himself, shook his head, and began talking to Carter.
Ty and Junior were such different physical types. I’d noticed when Ty came up to bat that he was tall and sinewy, with not an ounce of extraneous fat on his frame. For some reason, I always thought of outstanding hitters in baseball as more on the stocky side, compact, with low centers of gravity. But then I remembered the great Ted Williams, known as the “splendid splinter” because of his long, lanky physique. Seeing Ty at the table without his baseball cap, I had a better view of his face. His black hair was short and neatly trimmed, his face a series of sharp angles. A handsome young man by any definition.
Junior Bennett, while as tall as Ty, had the more typical baseball physique—square and solid. His looks were all-American, right down to the freckles across his pug nose, his blue eyes, and the floppy blond hair that covered the tops of his ears and the back of his neck. He didn’t have an all-American disposition, however. I had the feeling he wasn’t used to smiling, and that when he did, it was more of a sour grin than a genuine appreciation of something humorous. Having a father like H.B. must have made his life difficult.
Cole was also keenly aware of the exchange between the two young men. He leaned close to my ear again and said, “I think it’s time to make my pitch.” To the rest of the table: “Please, keep eating. Don’t let it get cold.” He excused himself and went over to Jack Duffy, who was getting drinks from the bar. I could see from the expression on Jack’s face that he was surprised to find Cole accosting him. After a few seconds of conversation, Jack left his drinks on the bar, and the two men exited through the same door Junior had used to reach the lobby.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” Meg asked from across the table, indicating her dinner. I was happy to have the conversation turn to food and away from the conflict, which had seemed to occupy too much attention.
“Wonderful,” I agreed.
My friend’s eyes went to the doorway through which her husband had just left, and then to the table where Ty and his teammates were enjoying their main dish. It was evident that she was concerned about the tension, too, and the possibility that some sort of confrontation might take place. As long as I’ve known Meg, she’s always been one to avoid controversy whenever possible. Some people thrive on confrontation, people like the team owner, Harrison Bennett. Others, like Meg and me, shy from it. Of course, there are times when it’s impossible to turn your back on it, to pretend out of self-preservation that it isn’t there. I just hoped this night wouldn’t turn into one of those situations.
A few minutes later Cole and Jack came back into the room. Their collective mood seemed decidedly more upbeat. They were smiling and patting each other on the back. They took their seats, and the waitress placed the main course in front of them.
“Great,” Cole said. “I was hoping I hadn’t missed my meal.”
He was still eating when a hand appeared on his shoulder. It belonged to Harrison Bennett, Sr.
Cole stood to greet the team’s owner. “Hey there, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “Congratulations on a great win.”
“Thanks, Sylvester,” Bennett said matter-of-factly. “We need to talk.”
“Okay,” said Cole, “but I’m having my dinner right now.”
“How about a drink in the Atrium Bar following dinner?”
