The Conman

by Mike Murphey

  “Well, I ain’t goin’ to Japan for anything less than a million bucks, Mr. Herrr-ah-nooo.”

  A longer silence.

  “And . . . would that be for three years? Or . . . we cannot pay so much for one season, because you are not top of our list.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be top of your list, Mr. Herrr-ah-nooo?”

  “Several big-leaguers are on our list as well . . .”

  His mother, working at the kitchen sink, offered a quizzical glance.

  “Hey, I’ve played in the majors.”

  “Yes. Most of your records have been in the minor leagues, Double-A. Only recently Triple-A.”

  Conor felt a moment of panic. A.J. didn’t seem to be coming out of character. A.J. could carry one of these fake calls only so long before collapsing in laughter.

  “Um . . . I’m sorry, who are you again?”

  Kate heard Conor’s half of the conversation thus far with an indulgent smile. Her smile quickly shifted to a look of alarm.

  “I am Rocky Horano. I am American liaison with the Yomiuri Giants.” The voice offered not a hint of annoyance at having to repeat itself. “Representatives of our organization will be in San Francisco soon, and we would like to meet with you and your agent.”

  Okay, it’s A.J. after all, giving me another dig about this agent thing. He met Kate’s concern with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.

  “Well, there’s this schmuck who wants to be my agent, but I don’t think he knows shit about what he’s doing.”

  “Ahhhhhh . . . I am . . . sorry for your misfortune.”

  Uh, oh.

  “Um . . . A.J. Is this you?”

  “Mr. Nash, I am Rocky Horano. I am American liaison—”

  “Oh, my God. Mr. Horano? Is . . . is this for real? Because I have a friend who likes to mess with me . . .”

  “I assure you, Mr. Nash, our interest is genuine.”

  Conor felt a little light-headed as he ended the call.

  “I don’t think,” he said to Kate slowly, “that was A.J.”

  Kate’s mouth dropped open. “What was that thing about a million dollars?”

  If Conor thought the million would impress Kate enough to excuse him from cleaning houses that off-season, he was mistaken. Apparently, the Japanese contingent set their sights on some other American pitcher, because when Rocky Horano called again, the Japanese option had been relegated to one more pipe dream they’d encountered along this journey.

  “Conman-San? I am Rocky Horano. I am American liaison with the Yomiuri Giants . . .”

  “Mr. Horano,” Conor said, commanding Kate’s attention from across the kitchen.

  “My associates are in San Francisco. We would like to meet you for dinner this evening if it is convenient.”

  “Yes, Mr. Horano. It would be very convenient.”

  He gave Kate a thumbs-up. She pumped her fist.

  “And will Mr. Schmuck accompany you?”

  “Mr . . . who?”

  “Your agent?”

  “Oh. Him. He is Mr. Cohen, and he is a schmuck, but I’m not sure he would—”

  “My associates are more comfortable talking if an agent is present.”

  “Yeah, okay. He’ll be there. Um . . . you do realize I’m under contract with the Twins organization. I can’t just—”

  “Oh, yes. The process is this. Initially, we must reach agreement with you. If we are successful, we would reach a separate agreement with the Twins for purchase of your contract. They are aware.”

  “The Twins would sell me to the Yomiuri Giants?” Conor said, mostly for Kate’s benefit.

  “Yes. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

  “So, the Twins would sell you?” Kate asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I still don’t think people should be sold.”

  “Well, I’ve been sold before.”

  “This time tell the Twins to hold out for at least two boxes of baseballs.”

  Conor and A.J. stood at the restaurant entrance and collectively took a deep breath.

  “Okay. Let me do the talking,” A.J. said.

  “You’re not registered as my agent,” Conor said. “You’re not registered as anyone’s agent. I can’t let you do the talking.”

  “I have one thought for you,” A.J. said. “Arizona land deal. Which one of us failed to make a killing?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Conor opened the door.

  They were ushered to a private space off the main dining room. Conor suffered a jarring memory of John Wayne and the Ramada Inn food fight. As Conor and A.J. entered, a host of five elderly Japanese gentlemen and a sixth younger man, stood.

  “Conman-San,” the younger man said. “I am Rocky Horano. I am American liaison for these honored elders who represent the Yomiuri Giants.”

  The five men bowed and, one at a time, handed Conor a business card.

  Conor returned the bow. The Japanese men appeared expectant.

  Conor did not have a business card. A.J. rescued him. He stepped forward and distributed five of his own cards, shaking each man’s hand. “A.J. Cohen. Howyadoin? Goodtameetcha!”

  The Japanese men smiled awkwardly. Conor hoped none of them read English, because the card they’d just received said, A.J. Cohen, Land Baron.

  “And Mr. Cohen is your representative?” Horano asked.

  Carefully wording his response, Conor said, “Mr. Cohen is my advisor and my friend.”

  “Ah, then we should proceed. Initially, I’ve been instructed to convey we cannot offer the sum you have requested.”

  “What sum?” A.J. asked.

  “In our first discussion, Conman-San suggested one million dollars.”

  “May we be excused for a moment?” A.J. asked a half hour later. As Rocky Horano translated between the parties, Conor and A.J. did their best not to appear stunned—or offer each other high fives—when numbers were revealed.

  “We need Fat Brad on this right now,” A.J. told Conor as they stood side-by-side, staring into the men’s room mirror. “We have to nail this thing down before anyone changes their minds.”

  Apologetically, Rocky Horono said Yomiuri could offer Conor Nash only a two hundred thousand dollar signing bonus, and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year for three years. The first two years guaranteed. The team would hold a $50,000 option to buy out the third year.

  Conor found a pay phone and called Brad, who practiced law in Fresno.

  “Do not sign anything until I’ve reviewed that contract,” Brad ordered. “Set up another meeting. I’ll be there.”

  Fat Brad.

  Conor drank. He wished he could somehow set aside his anger.

  The world below clung to dusk. Shadows deepened as Phoenix became a vast panorama of sparkling light. Endless slithering lines of cars crept along freeways. The perpetual stream of jetliners descending into and departing Sky Harbor International Airport became a parade of blinking white and red stars.

  My dad was right. Brad was the steady one, the voice of reason. But Hugh Nash never saw the full extent of Brad’s goofy sense of humor.

  “Conman-san, we do not require the presence of an attorney. The contract is generic. We are anxious to finalize—”

  The group met at a Los Angeles airport hotel. Conor and A.J. arrived the day before, anticipating closure of a deal that evening. A court hearing ran long, though. Fat Brad hadn’t been able to get a flight until morning.

  “I’m sorry,” Conor said. “I can’t sign a contract my attorney hasn’t approved. He’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.”

  Conor and A.J. had returned to Conor’s mother’s house following the initial meeting, repeatedly asking each other if they’d actually heard what they heard.

  “Well,” Kate called with a touch of skepticism as they walked through the door, “did you get the million?”

  “No,” A.J. grinned, “but we came damn close.”

  His answer stunned Kate almost beyond comprehension.

  As
she heard details, she kept repeating Japan? Until they got to contract’s term. Her ongoing response became three years? Conor admitted to himself that until this moment, reality hadn’t registered for him, either.

  A.J., though, clearly sensing their uncertainty, laid out the facts.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “It’s almost a million dollars. Connie, you’ve been a minor leaguer for eight years. Eight years of being broke. Eight years of working your asses off. Eight years of living with your parents. You’ve got two children. You’ve got debts. You have to do this!”

  A knock came at the door. Conor breathed a sigh of relief, anticipating Brad’s arrival. Instead, a bellman entered bearing more tea and coffee. Conor, A.J., Rocky and five elderly Japanese sipped silently.

  “A.J.,” Conor said, “Maybe we should call—”

  No knock. Just a click of the latch, a whoosh of the heavy door as it swept across the carpet, and Fat Brad Grady burst into the room.

  He wore a too-small white T-shirt, his belly protruding below. His pale, hairy stomach hung over loud Bermuda shorts. He wore black socks, one of which was pulled to his knee. The other drooped around his ankle and spilled over a brown sandal.

  He strode confidently to the table separating Conor and A.J from the Japanese contingent, reached into his mouth, laid his two front teeth on the table and said, “All right fellath, leth get down to bithnethh. Thombody thaid thomthin about a million dollath?”

  Conor covered his face. As he began quaking with suppressed laughter, he hoped the Japanese gentlemen would think he was crying. He glanced at A.J., who bit hard on his upper lip to keep from guffawing. His shoulders quaked, and tears seeped from the corners of his eyes.

  An absolute silence from the opposite side of the table dissolved into quick indecipherable murmurs, punctuated by many aaaaaaahhhhs, cleaning of glasses and shrugging of shoulders. Eventually, the eldest, likely in his eighties, rose and with a hesitant bow, offered his business card. The others followed suit. Brad gravely accepted and studied each one before placing them alongside his teeth.

  Brad excused himself, saying he’d return momentarily.

  The five elderly Japanese continued muttering and declaring among themselves. Conor sidled next to Rocky Horano. He whispered, “Can you give me a rough translation?”

  Rocky, his complexion a little pale, glanced from Conor to his employers, then back again. “I . . . I’m not sure that would be . . . appropriate . . .”

  “Well,” Conor whispered, “I don’t speak a word of Japanese, but I’m guessing it comes down to something like, what the fuck?”

  “Yes, you’ve gotten the gist.”

  The door opened. Fat Brad returned, wearing a three-piece suit, carrying a briefcase Conor estimated to have cost about five hundred bucks. Brad bowed deeply, then reinserted his teeth. He leaned across the table handing each man a business card and said, in carefully memorized Japanese, “My name is Brad Grady. I am honored to be here acting as legal representative of Conman-San during these negotiations. I apologize for the actions of my evil twin.”

  The Japanese stared for a moment, shared another round of ahhhhhhhhhhs and muttering, then rose and bowed as one.

  twenty-nine

  “N o.”

  Brad scratched the contract with his pen.

  “Noooooo.” More scratching. “We’ll just change this and to an or. Maybe. Oooookay. Change this or to an and. Okay. Page two.”

  The Japanese sat patiently as Brad worked his way through the document. Finally, he pushed it to Rocky. The Japanese contingent retired to a couch and two chairs across the room. More mumbling, interrupted by an occasional searching glance toward Conor, A.J. and Brad.

  They retaliated and returned the document.

  “Um . . . nope.” Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Oh, no. This whole page has to go now.” More reading. More scratching. Brad returned serve. They muttered, stared, muttered, directed Rocky to scratch on their behalf.

  They volleyed back to Brad.

  He read, pen hovering.

  “Brad-San, we’ve met most of your terms,” pled Rocky. “What is left to change?”

  “Well, for one thing, we’ll change this or back to an and because of the period you inserted on page five.” Rocky sighed. Brad adopted a grim expression. His pen hung perilously over the page. Conor heard a collective intake of breath.

  “Weeeeelllll . . .” he lowered pen to paper. “. . . okay. I guess that one’s okay.”

  The match lasted three hours. Brad authored twenty-two changes. Originally, the Japanese offered Conor fight money—a bonus for each time the team won—only when he pitched. Under Brad’s modifications, he received a thousand dollars for every Giants victory whether he played or not. The team’s original offer of a thousand-dollar monthly utilities allowance was negotiated to two thousand five hundred. Given her penchant for turning out lights, turning the heat and air conditioning down, Conor knew Kate could probably limit their bill to about two hundred. Conor received a five-thousand-dollar monthly allowance for limousine service. Kate would bank the money and make him ride the subway.

  Finally, Conor sat, contract before him, his own pen hovering. The Japanese contingent leaned forward with fearful anticipation. As pen touched paper, Brad slapped himself on the forehead and said, “Tickets.”

  Conor withdrew the pen.

  “Tickets?” asked Horano.

  “Yes, plane tickets.”

  “The contract specifies the team will supply plane tickets for Conman-San’s family,” said a puzzled Horano.

  “Ah,” Brad said. “It doesn’t specify how many. Conman-San has a big family. Let’s say, for Conman, four for 1985, um . . . eight for 1986, eight for 1987, that’s the option year, and if the option isn’t exercised, we will be compensated for the ticket value in cash.”

  Horano translated. The weary Japanese nodded their assent.

  Again, the pen hovered. Again, Brad interrupted.

  “For me and my family, two for 1985 and four for 1986. Um . . . A.J., what about you?”

  “Well, I’m pretty busy. Just one for 1986.”

  “Then there’s Basil,” Brad said. “Basil needs two tickets for 1986. He’ll bring a friend.”

  The Japanese assented. The pen hovered.

  Until Brad added, “No coach.”

  The oldest Japanese gentleman stood. “No coach?”

  “No coach,” Brad repeated. “First Class.”

  Horano didn’t need to translate.

  “No First Class!” the patriarch shouted. He stared daggers from Brad to Conor. “Business Class.”

  Brad leaned across the table and shook the man’s hand.

  As the celebratory cups of iced sake were raised, Rocky whispered to Conor, “My employers wonder how much your agent and attorney are paid.”

  Conor smiled. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Rocky’s voice displayed his astonishment.

  “They are my friends. They work for plane tickets.”

  “My employers,” Rocky said, “are glad our other players do not have friends like yours.”

  Now Conor’s deal depended on the Twins. He waited a week and heard nothing. He placed a call to new Twins general manager Andrew McMillain.

  “We’re having difficulty coming to agreement with the Japanese,” McMillain told him. “They aren’t offering us enough.”

  “Well, my Twins contract would pay me $47,000 next year. So, I can’t be worth all that much.”

  “We think you are. We’ve got plans for you.”

  “What plans?” Conor clamped the receiver in a death grip and promised himself he would hold his temper.

  “You’re penciled in as our sixth starter.”

  “Teams don’t have six starters,” Conor said. “What you’re saying is I’m still an insurance policy. I’m still on the Triple-A staff. How much have the Japanese offered?”

  “I really can’t . . .”

  “Look, you know I’ll find out one
way or the other.”

  “They’ve offered a hundred thousand.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “We believe you’re worth two hundred.”

  “Then why,” Conor demanded, “are you only paying me forty-seven?”

  “Look, we have a lot of things to consider . . .”

  “Okay, who else can I talk to?”

  “I’m the GM,” McMillain said. “The only person I answer to is the owner.”

  “All right. Transfer me to Mr. Griffith.”

  McMillain chuckled. “Sure, why not.”

  “Mr. Griffith? This is Conor Nash . . .”

  Dead silence. Until Conor heard Griffith whisper, “Who is Conor Nash?” Someone whispered in reply. “He’s the guy we’re talking about with that Japanese team.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Nash. How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Griffith, I’m appealing to you to get this deal made. This is an extraordinary opportunity for me and my family. And you folks really don’t have any plans for me . . .”

  “Um . . . one moment, Mr. Nash.” Another overheard whispered conversation. “Do we have any plans for him?” “Yes, he’ll be our sixth starter.” “Since when do we have six starters?” “We don’t. That’s just the way we say it. He’s going to Toledo.”

  “Mr. Nash, we do have plans for you. You’ll be our sixth starter.”

  Conor placed his hand over his eyes and shook his head.

  “Mr. Griffith, I’ve been in the minor leagues nine years. I’m broke. I live at my mother’s house. I’ve got two kids. Finally, here’s an opportunity to make some money, to pay my bills. And for you, I’m a contingency. Please, can you find a way to make this deal?”

  More silence. Not even a whisper. Then finally, “Yes, Mr. Nash. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The Twins sold Conor Nash for $150,000, half of which, as per his contract, was deducted from his $200,000 signing bonus. Conor, Kate, daughter Jessica and son David were off to Japan.

  If I had to choose again, would I go to Japan?