Curveball (29 page)

His blond hair was easy to spot bouncing down the empty corridor. It contrasted with
the once silver metallic wallpaper that had faded to a dull gray. Her bare footsteps
were silent on the stiff, nylon carpet as she neared him. She picked up her pace to
beat him to the elevator.

“Chance.”

He was startled but didn’t turn around. “Cat, I told you already, I’m not interested
in that kid.”

“No, I’m the one who’s interested now.” She caught up to him but he took off again,
only a few steps from the elevator now.

“Frankly, I don’t care what interests you. Can I just go home? You can harass me during
business hours.” He pounded the down button. It was lit up with an orange glow but
he continued to press it.

“I mean, how could I not be interested? Here’s a guy with only a handful of clients
in the last year, none of whom seem to be playing with any professional team in the
United States or any other country for that matter—”

The elevator door opened with a gust of air conditioning and he hurried inside. Cat
bounded in before he could press the door-close button. She hopped again when the
jolt of the cold tile floor struck her toes, stacking her left foot on top of her
right so both didn’t have to freeze .

“So, despite having no lucrative contracts, this agent can pay for a downtown office,
a secretary, designer suits, a vintage Italian sports car, a ballpark luxury box suite,
and of course, wining and dining the Baroness of Buffalo.” She sat the ice bucket
in the corner of the elevator and crossed her arms. “And that’s just the expenses
I know about.”

Chance’s eyes were blank, but his clenched was quite expressive. He stuck his hands
in the tuxedo pockets and faced the mirrored elevator doors.

“Not that I owe you an explanation, but in the interest of getting some sleep tonight,
the box suite is a friend’s, I buy my suits at Filene’s Basement and my secretary
is only there in the afternoons.”

She nodded. “And the exotic wheels?”

“Inherited it. My grandfather bought it brand new.” His stony expression twisted into
a sneer. “I’m sure you can dig up the New York State registration records.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Still doesn’t explain the swanky office in
Polígono Central
. What is it they say about real estate? Location, location, location? That can’t
be cheap.”

His stare was glued to the seam between elevator doors and his lips were puckered
together ominously.

“Also, I made a call to the Netherlands. Spoke to a few personnel in the baseball
industry.”

The lie just came to her, but as the elevator reached the lobby, she had to move fast.

“Funny how no one had ever heard of this big time agent with whom they are supposedly
contracted.”

He should’ve known it was a fib right away. It was just now seven-thirty in the morning
in Amsterdam and she knew from her LSU Labor Studies course that in addition to starting
off with twenty-five vacation days and a forty-hour week max, the average Dutch working
day didn’t start until nine.

Not to mention, no quid pro quos requiring the chaperoning of sorority girls.

She momentarily considered asking if Chance could see if they need a sportswriter,
but any plans of relocation were squashed when the doors glided apart.

“I don’t have time for this.” Chance squeezed through the opening before they had
fully opened.

Cat stayed on the heels of his shiny dress shoes.

“Time is money, I know. But I’m thinking if money comes so easy to you, then time
must, too.”

He slipped through the revolving hotel door. She took the side door, hopping across
the sidewalk to meet him outside.

He beelined for the Iso Grifo parked next to the curb. She shot around the front of
the car and blocked the driver’s side door with her body.

He stopped and sighed. “Don’t make me call the cops.”

She steadied her legs by widening her stance, braced her shoulders and crossed her
arms. “Call.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and started to pull out his cell phone.

She bent her head forward. “Just remember, I do speak Spanish and I’ve got a lot to
tell them myself.”

He dropped the cell phone in his pocket and took another deep breath. He stepped back,
throwing his hands in the air. “Fine. What do you want?”

She gave him what she hoped was a nasty smile. They might as well have had scripts
in their hands. “I want in.”

He looked around the quiet parking lot, dumbfounded. “Into what? My car?”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

He shrugged, still pretending his brain was as thick as his wavy hair. “Bothering
me?”

“In Santo Domingo. Do you know why I’m here, working for the Soldiers?”

“Paige said something about looking after her?”

She shook her head and leaned back on the expensive car. “The only reason I have this
job is because the spineless
prick
in charge of that million dollar organization doesn’t have the
cojones
to tell his own daughter to quit acting like a
cuero
. Instead of dealing with her, he sends me down here to make sure she doesn’t come
home with a new strain of Chlamydia.”

“Seriously?” If he was offended by her harsh words for his date, it didn’t show on
his amused face.

“Seriously. I’m sick of this elite-ass, our-shit-don’t-stink world. I’m sick of trying
to get a job from people who don’t even need one. I’m sick of begging spoiled millionaires
for rehearsed, predictable sound bites. I’m sick of living out of hotels in every
craphole city with a ballpark. I’m sick of spending my days pouring over the minute
details of a freaking game.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you think I can do about it?”

She stretched her arms out, tracing her fingertips along the edge of the car. “I’d
like to play my own game instead. Like you.”

“Like me, huh?”

She locked eyes with him. “Yup.”

A smile broke on his face. “All right. Let’s say I do know what you’re talking about.
If I’m living large because of some illicit scheme I’ve concocted, then why in the
hell would I want to go halfsies with you?”

Bingo
.

Con artists are so busy trying to find everyone else’s weaknesses, they never realize
when they’re wearing their own on their lapels like a sticky nametag at a class reunion.

My
name is GREED
.

It never failed. No matter what kind of con artist, from high rollers to holy rollers,
their compulsion to reap more and more always begat their downfall. They never knew
when to quit. Chance said it himself. He was living large, but by asking Cat to show
her hand, he proved he was no exception to the rule. He wanted more.

“It seems to me that your … operation, as it is, stems on representing a small but
steady stream of players. I can get you a hell of a lot more players than you can
by yourself. These guys are much more likely to trust a girl working for the Buffalo
Soldiers than some smarmy gringo flashing them a phony smile.”

“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

“I think I’ve got
you
figured out.”

He met her eyes and slowly lowered them down to her chest. His gaze became intense.

Her cheeks flushed with heat. Cat fought the urge to zip the velour jacket up to her
neck. Instead she crossed her arms, squeezing her shoulders together to create cleavage.
She returned his attention with a flirty smile. “Checking for a wire?”

“No.” He grinned. His stare slid back up to hers. “Okay.”

Her heart jumped. “Okay?”

Is
that okay to him spilling the beans or me spilling the boobs?

Chance pointed at the car. “Get in so we can have some privacy.”

She nodded and walked around to the passenger door, still unsure if she was agreeing
to being his confidante or letting him round second base.

She climbed into the seat and slammed the door shut. The vintage interior smelled
just like the hotel room. Eau de Paige was a scent that she suspected would follow
her back to Vegas. Chance turned to face her, placing his arm along on the thin wooden
steering wheel.

“Whatta you know about Cubans?”

“The baseball players?” She sighed. “Well, like every professional in the industry,
I got the basics. The U.S. embargo prevents Cuban players from being signed until
they defect from their home country, and even then they have to be cleared by the
U.S. Treasury Department’s Office of Foreign Assets Control to determine that their
future earnings won’t be funneled back to the island only ninety miles off American
soil.” She took a deep breath.

He laughed. “No, not the players, though I’d give you an A+ for your oral report.
Cuban cigars, what do you know about them?”

“Um …” Cat studied his face to see if he was serious. “They’re brown, smelly and illegal
in the U.S.”

Technically, Cuban cigars were illegal to U.S. citizens both at home and abroad, but
abroad Americans faced a bigger threat of encountering a counterfeit cigar than they
did persecution.

“Illegal and thus in very high demand. That makes them a very lucrative business.”

Cat rested her elbow on the car door, placing her head on her hand. She slowly rotated
her neck toward his seat. “Ah. You smuggle cigars into the States. How do the players
factor in …” She felt a smile crawl across her face, like she’d just found the last
piece for a thousand piece puzzle. “The training facility.”

“Did you know that the average bat bag can hold five forty-count humidors?”

A middle-aged man walked in front of their car. She waited until he scurried into
the hotel.

“So you import the cigars here and smuggle them out with the players’ equipment.”

He nodded.

Cat had no rehearsed dialogue, no witty retorts. She had been expecting him to say
he charged the players a fee or some team threw him a few dollars for the exclusive
on his players. She wished either of those were the case. She hid her disgust under
an impressed smile.

“What happens after that? The player gets to Florida, works out for a day and you
tell him ‘thanks but no thanks?’ ”

“I throw him back, toss my net out again and reel me another catch.” A smile tugged
at the corners of his mouth, an intentionally poor attempt at concealing his pride.
He opened up the center console and pulled out a leather humidor tube, popping the
top off with his thumb. Shaking out the tips of three cigars, he held it toward her.

She shook her head at the offering. “And the kids never catch on? They don’t talk?”

He took a cigar from the tube, rolling it between his fingers, licked his lips and
clamped them around the cigar butt. Opening his window a mere inch, he pulled a box
of matches from his jacket pocket. He struck the match against the side of the box
and held the flame up to the cigar foot. After drawing on the cigar several times,
he gave the match a good shake and tossed it out the cracked window. The car’s tiny
interior began to fill with the spicy, sweet aroma, overwhelming the remnants of Paige’s
perfume.

“These kids have been rejected by over thirty scouts and four times as many agents
by the time they get to me. When they’re cut they just blame themselves.”

“Like Cristian?”

He closed his eyes as he took a light puff on the cigar. “Most of them still thank
me; they’re happy I even gave them a chance. Cristian was a different bird. That night
at the club, he made some noise at me and some of my … importers. I haven’t heard
from him since.”

Cat grimaced. Her stomach was already churning from the sweet cigar smoke, but it
was Chance’s delightful arrogance that was going to make her reenact Paige’s elevator
scene and toss her cookies. She folded her hands on her lap and slid her thumb up
her wrist to her forearm, massaging the tendons in the meat of the arm, an old acupressure
trick she’d learn to curb stage-fright induced nausea when she’d worked in the minors.

“Seems like a lot of work for a little tobacco.”

He shrugged and looked down at the stogie. “Between you and me, it’s no better than
this Fuente Fuente OpusX made right here in the DR, but you should never underestimate
the value of forbidden fruit. That’s why I sell them, not buy them.” He took another
puff. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m not sure what help you could give me.”

Cat stopped rubbing her arm. Chance might not be a real agent, but he did know a thing
or two about negotiation. He was playing her. If he hadn’t intended to enlist her,
he never would’ve divulged so much.

“You’re wasting a lot of time on each player. You invest what, a week or two in each
guy?”

“On average, from recruiting to signing to execution, three weeks.”

She studied her nails nonchalantly. “You could triple that, have a plane going out
every week.”

He chuckled. “It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is.” She paused, then turned to face him. “I’m sure your supplier could up
your orders. You focus on the stogies and I’ll handle the players. You won’t even
have to meet the kids until they’re on the plane.”

He didn’t say anything for several seconds. “I do know my guy has a shipment he’s
looking to move. I could get it out tomorrow.”

Cat took a deep breath. Sooner might be better. Chance wouldn’t have time to hide
anything and she wouldn’t have time to mess up.

“Junior’s still on the market. He just called me earlier tonight to see if I’d been
able to get you to reconsider.”

He studied her for a long silent moment. “You sure you can handle this?”

Her mind raced and she began to compile a mental to-do list. She hoped Junior didn’t
have plans for tomorrow. “I can have him at the airport within the hour.”

“Tomorrow morning works.” He stuck his hand out. “I’ll be here at eight.”

She pretended to hesitate and then shook it.