Curveball (11 page)

“True, but there are a lot of other agents to compete with, too.” Agents who didn’t
look like greedy gringos.

“I like competition.”

“Is that so?” Cat debated bringing up Cristian again but decided against it for the
time being. A starter can’t win a game by throwing the same pitch every time.

“Compliments of the house, Mr. Hayward.
Bombas de Camarones y Papas
.” The waiter sat down an appetizer platter of sizzling shrimp and potato fritters.
The air filled with garlicky steam. Chance nodded approvingly.

Cat rolled her eyes. “Okay. Who says you catch more flies with honey?”

Chance winked at her. “Not me.” He pushed the plate toward her. “Have some.”

She shook her head. “After the way you spoke to him? No way.”

Paige reached in front of her and grabbed one. “Live a little, McDee.” She picked
the shrimp off the top of the fritter and popped it in her mouth.

“Aw, come on. You command respect, you get respect.” He pointed at the tray of fritters.
“Case in point.”

“So a free appetizer equals respect to you?”

He considered carefully before responding, “Well, not as much as cold hard cash.”

With the snap of Chance’s fingers, the exhausted waiter appeared once again with a
painted-on smile that couldn’t hide his weary eyes. Chance pulled out a thick money
clip and removed three bills with the faces of Emilio Prud’Homme and José Rufino Reyes
Siancas—the composers of the country’s national anthem—on the front.

“This should cover it.”

As money changed hands, the waiter perked up. He nodded appreciatively.

Chance pulled out Cat’s chair, whispering, “See, respect.”

The hot breath on her ear made her back stiffen. She glowered but he was preoccupied
helping Paige up out of her chair. He wrapped his arm around her silk-clad waist as
they made their way to the exit.

The threesome walked out the patio doors and stepped out into the warm, sticky night.

Cat had to give Paige a smile. “You know, right now it’s forty degrees in Buffalo.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Then it’s a good thing you two are not in Buffalo.” He reached out and slithered
an arm around Cat as well. “A good thing for me anyway.”

Paige took notice of this development and narrowed her eyes.

Cat resisted the urge to squirm away. Instead, she swung her arm around her stomach
and placed it on his fingers. “So tell me more about this team in the Netherlands.”

“Agh. You are just determined to talk business, aren’t you?”

“I’m curious, that’s all. Why don’t you tell us about it on the way back to the hotel?”
She knew that word would reel him in. The word “hotel” to a sleazy guy was like “chocolate”
to a hormonal woman—ears were sure to perk up and involuntary salivating was bound
to follow.

“You know what I do. I’m an agent.” His arm left her waist to open the passenger door
to the Iso Grifo.

“Yeah, I know agents.” Cat climbed into the backseat. “Paige does, too.”

Paige stopped pouting and put her hand on his chest. “My dad has an agent. His name
is Sheldon and he’s a shark. I’ve never heard of him turning down a better deal.”

He removed her hand and helped her into the low passenger seat. He scurried around
the front of the car to his door.

“What makes you think your deal is better?”

Cat leaned forward between the two seats, her hand on each headrest, meeting his eye
as he turned around to back out of the parking lot. “Maybe it isn’t. What’s yours?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Well mine gives him the opportunity to be scouted by a professional team, possibly
play for that professional team, and make hundreds of thousands, if not millions of
dollars, on the grandest stage of baseball in the world.”

“You’re so modest.”

She smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “Just realistic and you know it.”

“Cat, this really isn’t any of your business.” He looked over to a curious Paige.
“Or yours.”

Her eyes grew. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I could tell what you were thinking.”

“Why are you getting so defensive?”

He hesitated and then let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t mean to sound that way. This
is my business and I don’t like mixing it with pleasure.” He put his hand on her knee.
“Which you are.”

Paige pulled her knee away and pointed out the window to the hotel. “We’re here anyway.
Thank you for dinner.” She opened up the door and thrust a dainty foot in the air.
“Come on, Cat.”

Chance reached out for Paige’s arm. “Wait. I don’t see why the night has to end here.”

“We have to work tomorrow.” She looked back at Cat. “Did I really just say that?”

Cat didn’t attempt to hide her amusement. “You heard the lady.”

“We have to work tomorrow?” Paige smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“Those words taste funny.”

Cat jiggled the passenger seat, trying to shake Paige out of the car. “You’ll get
used to it.”

Paige hopped out and leaned the seat forward for Cat.

Chance leaned over the console, trying to look at Paige through the low door. “I can’t
even talk you into one nightcap?”

Paige grabbed Cat’s hand. “Sorry.”

Cat shrugged. “Guess not. Maybe next time.”

Cat slammed the passenger door in his face and they sauntered into the hotel. Paige
looked back before turning to Cat and sharing a conspiratorial smile.

No one could resist a curveball.

Scout’s Honor

Before Sheldon “The Shark” Markowitz was known as baseball’s premier agent, he advocated
for players on the other side of baseball: scouting. Here, the veteran agents jokes,
is “the hardest job you’ll ever love … to quit.” To a layperson, scouting is like
receiving a paycheck for sitting in the stands, chowing down on hot dogs and occasionally
pointing a radar gun or clicking a stopwatch. However, Sheldon explains the hidden
pressures of dissecting skills on a microscopic scale. “Judging talent can be hit
or miss, and a miss can cost you your career. As a top agent, I have the luxury of
signing guys once they’re already proven. But as a scout, you have to rely on your
instincts. You don’t want to be known as the guy who passed on Antonio Peña.”

The hours can be taxing as well. Some scouts travel the country, scouring high schools,
colleges and independent leagues for the next phenom, whereas others—like the Soldiers’
own Joe O'Donnell—are stationed in one hot spot. “Even here, in the Dominican Republic,
there’s extensive travel involved,” Joe says. “Just last week, I met with a kid in
San Cristóbal and then hopped a puddle jumper to catch a relief pitcher closing a
game in Bonao.”

Scouts network with coaches, parents, agents and even
buscones
(literally, searchers—which is exactly what these agent-trainers do, search for talent).
Down in the Dominican Republic, the title can carry a negative connotation, due to
their history of hefty commissions and unsavory business practices. The Soldiers and
many other teams have a system in place to blackball notorious predators. “By shutting
them out, we are essentially cutting bad agents off at the knees. Their credentials
won’t be valid at any league-sponsored events and any contacts they try to claim won’t
be validated,” Joe O'Donnell divulges. “It’s not a perfect solution, especially to
the players represented by these
buscones
, but until the law changes, this is our only way to protect the children.”

There you have it. All it takes to be a scout is a little clairvoyance, the ability
to be in two places at once and an inclination toward vigilantism.

“Hey.” Joe stopped at her desk balancing his full coffee mug and dropped his voice
to a whisper. “Are my eyes deceiving me or is Paige Aiken filing before nine o’clock?”

Cat followed his skeptical stare to the file cabinets. Paige was indeed hard at work.
“You don’t have to whisper.” Cat tugged on her left ear. “She’s got her iPod in. You
could say Saks Fifth Avenue went out of business and she wouldn’t budge.” She took
another look. “And yes, she’s doing her job. Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked, I’m impressed.”

“By filing? Gee, I didn’t realize the high standards in this office. I’m getting ready
to fax something. Should I wait? Do you want to watch?”

He snickered. “I meant impressed with you. Maybe you should consider a job in snake
charming.”

“I’m scared of snakes.” She shot a quick glance over to Paige and back to Joe, giving
him a mischievous wink. “Ah, I see your point.”

He let out another chuckle. This time it was high-pitched and gleeful, like the laugh
of an ornery boy. He leaned over the desk, trying to steal a look at her computer
screen. “So what are you working on?”

She turned the laptop toward him. “I’m trying to find out some information on another
talent agency, uh, Worldwide Baseball Talent Management.”

“Another one?” His dark eyebrows scrunched on his forehead. “I appreciate your determination
to right the injustices in the athletic world but I think Rog will be happy enough
with the fact that his daughter hasn’t been incarcerated.” He shot another glance
across the room. “Yet.”

She gave a mock-gasp. “You had to go and jinx me, didn’t you?” She poked a sharp finger
on his bright striped tie. “That puts you on the hook for the bail money.”

Joe squinted at the computer screen. “Worldwide? That was the shysters, right?”

“Right. I mean, wrong. We were wrong, Paige and I. The cabbie got the names mixed
up. International blah, blah is a scam, but Paige’s boy toy doesn’t work there. He
works for Worldwide Baseball Talent Management. Does that ring a bell?”

He straightened up and took a sip of coffee, shaking his head. “There are a lot of
agents here. I’ve met hundreds. It’s possible that I’ve met this guy and I don’t even
remember. So what’s all the research for?”

“I met one of his clients, a pitcher. He’s a really great kid and I thought maybe
you could take a look at him.”

Joe hesitated for a moment and then gave her a leery look.

“I know, I know. You must get people asking you that all the time.”

He groaned. “I can’t even run down to the
bodega
without getting begged to give at least three different kids a look.”

She grinned. “I got Paige working, remember? That’s gotta be worth a favor or two?”

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Just between us, when I got the call that she
was going to be my intern, I nearly had my stomach stapled, just to get the three
weeks off work.” He patted his massive belly.

“I can relate. I went to an interview for reporter and wound up becoming a nanny for
a month.” She stopped short of telling him her exit strategy; the three weeks had
just begun and she still might need to go on the run while donning a fake mustache.

“That girl’s got her father wrapped around her skinny little finger.” He sighed. “Okay.
I suppose I could be convinced to check this youngster out.”

She squeezed her thumb and index finger together. “Just one itty bitty problem. His
agent, Paige’s Chance Romance, doesn’t want to give us a look at him.”

“Someone else already marked him?”

“No.”

“Is he Cuban?”

She crossed her arms. “Nope.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, like he was anticipating a good punch line
at the end of a joke. “Then what’s the problem?”

She raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. Chance said he usually
works solely with a Dutch team.”

“Well that might be
his
preference, but if the player doesn’t have a contract then he’s fair game. It’s the
kid’s choice.” He took another gulp of his coffee. “This might sound a tad egotistical,
but I don’t usually have to work this hard to scout a no-name.”

“Fair game, huh?” Cat smacked her desk triumphantly as the idea crept into her head.
“Hey, you wanna go to
La Tambora
with me?”

“It’s only nine.” He tapped his rotund stomach again. “But I guess I could eat.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, later. For lunch. Say, noon?”

“Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sure.” He pulled a newspaper out of his back pocket.
“I thought you’d want to see this, too.”

She took the paper out of his hands and started to open it. “Sports section?”

“No, front page.”

Shaking it straight, she scanned the headlines. A grainy Gasper Peralta smiled back
at her from the upper left corner, his toothy grin a far cry from the decaying face
she’d seen on the beach. The Spanish narrative below explained the police were taking
the case very seriously.

The
case
?

Joe seemed to read her mind. “His death is being investigated as a homicide. It wasn’t
a suicide after all.”

“Because of all the bruises?” The purple splotches that had stood out on his gray
skin now stood out in her memories.

“No, because the coroner ruled the cause of death wasn’t drowning.”

He paused—for effect, perhaps—and she waited for him to continue.

“There wasn’t any water in his lungs. He was dead before he hit the water.”

Cat held a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide her horror as she silently translated
the same information Joe had been telling her. “His body was dumped? This poor kid.
Who …”

“They’ve got a few theories but they’re focusing their efforts on a drug deal gone
bad. His employer said he quit his job last week. Maybe he’d found a more profitable
venture, say in dealing?”

“An aspiring athlete?” Cat’s eyes fell back to the newspaper. Gaspar’s smiling innocence
contrasted with this theory. It sent a chill down her spine, despite her skepticism.

It wasn’t that athletes were saints, but generally speaking, if they were going to
poison their bodies, they’d do it with something that would enhance their performance
at the same time.