Angry White Male

by Steven Travers

Dick Maslin, Stan’s “friend” in little league, had led a life with a distinctly Horatio Alger flavor to it, tinged with some Arnold Rothstein elements. He had gone to Palos Verdes High for two years but was kicked out for stealing equipment. Maslin had a cousin who lived on Long Island, so he went back there. The baseball team in West Islip, New York was not very good, and he was able to start at second base for two years. He never would have made the Palos Verdes varsity had he stayed.

  After high school, Maslin moved to Miami where he worked as a printer. He took up bookmaking on the side and started running with the Cuban Mob. At first, they looked at this fair skinned kid and laughed, but Maslin was very sharp. He was discreet, smart and good at what he did. He quit his printer’s job and made the bookie operation a success. It was enough of a success to attract the attention of rivals and the police. Eventually it was broken up. Maslin escaped Miami with two things: $50,000, and the stripper girlfriend of one of the Cubans. He moved back to Long Island.

  Maslin put together a resume, which was mostly half-truths, bought a sharp suit, and ventured into Manhattan. He figured he would give corporate life a try. He went to brokerage firms on Wall Street, Church Street, and up Fifth Avenue. He checked out ad agencies on Madison and Park Avenues. They were all blue chip companies that were looking for Ivy League types.

  But Maslin was a natural salesman. He entered an office building and saw that Metropolitan Life Insurance Company of New York was located there. He went to a pay phone and called Met Life, asking for the name of their head of human resources.

  “That would be Jon McFarlane,” the secretary said.

  He strapped on his game face and ventured on up to the receptionist.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Dick Maslin. I have a 3:30 appointment to see Jon McFarlane.”

  The receptionist picked up the phone.

  “Hi,” she said, “this is Kathy out front. Mr. McFarlane’s 3:30 is here… Yes….No…Dick Maslin…Yes, Maslin…Okay…Hold on.”

  She looked at Dick.

  “Was the appointment today?” she asked.

  Dick opened his briefcase and looked at a copy of Sports Illustrated.

  “Yes,” he said earnestly. “3:30 with…uh…yes, Jon, uh, Mr. McFarlane.”

  “Would you have a seat, please?” she said to him.

  Maslin sat down. 45 minutes later, Jon McFarlane appeared. He was full of apologies for having not properly scheduled their meeting.

  “I just changed secretaries,” he told Dick, “and that’s always a work-in-progress.”

  Maslin was counting on a little bit of luck. It was a numbers game. If Met Life did not work out, there was always Northwestern Mutual, Prudential, Connecticut Mutual, Mass Mutual, Mutual of Omaha or the pari-mutuels at the dog track.

  Maslin rolled sevens with McFarlane. McFarlane was from a big, Irish Catholic family in Connecticut. He had season tickets to Yankee Stadium and loved being a New Yorker, which he considered himself to be. He spoke the language, and carried with him the insouciant “I know something you don’t” attitude of New Yorkers. He was in his early 30s, and immediately liked Maslin. They talked about sports, women and Irish bars. McFarlane had spent a week in Miami, so Dick’s Florida connection was another common interest.

  Met Life normally looked for older, more experienced, better-educated people to fill out their sales force. They thought of themselves as a genteel, silk stocking outfit. But their numbers were down, and they needed an infusion of new talent. McFarlane thought Maslin had what it took. He told him he would recommend him for the next series of interviews.

  Maslin had to go through two more interviews, but on the strength of McFarlane’s good impression of him, he was hired and placed in their training program. Maslin had little formal education, but he had the mind of a trial lawyer. Had he chosen to go that route, he could have done whatever he put his mind to. He put his mind to making money. Sales were the fastest way to make a lot of money. He could have sold anything; radio ads, television spots, real estate, stocks or ice water to Eskimos. Life insurance was lucrative if one could make a go of it.

  At Met Life’s training academy, Maslin out-shined all the college graduates in his class. They came from Penn State, NYU, Cornell and places like that. None of it mattered. He had a handle on all the intricacies of life insurance. He had an impressive mind. When he was told something, he remembered it.

  In his first year, Maslin was Met Life’s “rookie of the year,” making over $100,000. He did it out of hard work and cold calling. The college boys dropped out like flies. They hated the horrid cold calls, which were phone calls to “leads” that were little more than names in the yellow pages. Maslin lied, cajoled, joked, ran around questions, ingratiated himself, told people to “fuck off,” made friends, and re-wrote the definition of persistence.

  One night he walked out of the building when Julio Macias and two swarthy types confronted him. Macias was the Cuban wise guy whose girlfriend Dick had stolen.

  “You look all corporate and shit,” Macias told him. “You doin’ okay for yourself?”

  Maslin never batted an eye. He took Macias into a “tittie bar” near the World Trade Center and negotiated a deal. He gave Macias $15,000 and the stripper. That was not all.

  “To make this a real bargained-for exchange,” Maslin said, “I think I should get something of value from you.”

  Macias eyed Maslin while drinking his beer. Maslin had the balls of a cat burglar.

  “What do you want?” he asked him.

  “I want you to sign up for an insurance policy with me,” said Maslin.

  Macias laughed. He drank his beer. Then he thought about it.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “One more thing,” said Maslin. “I want one referral.”

  “What kind of referral?” asked Macias.

  “Another lead,” said Maslin. “A guy you know who needs insurance. A client you can bring to me.”

  “I don’t know nobody like that,” Macias said.

  “Aw, sure ya do,” said Maslin. “Somebody whose got somethin’ to lose. Somebody makin’ money who has a family that would miss his income if he dies or even gets hurt.”

  Macias did know somebody.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know somebody like that.”

  The “somebody” he knew was Nelson Santana. Nelson was 19 years old. He was Macias’s cousin. He had just gotten married and his wife was expecting. Nelson had been the first round draft pick of the Baltimore Orioles out of Hialeah Miami Lakes High School, and had signed for over $400,000. He was currently in Class A ball. Maslin read about him in Baseball America. It said he was a “can’t miss” prospect, part of a new breed of bigger, stronger shortstops who hit with power in addition to their defensive skills.

  Maslin broke the news to his stripper girlfriend that she would have to go back to Miami and Macias, who liked to make her cry while they had rough sex. Dick was tired of her anyway. She was dumber than a box of rocks.

  “Sorry, baby,” Maslin told her, “you’ve been traded for a player to be named later.”

  Maslin called Darlene Little in Palos Verdes Estates, California. Darlene was the blonde girlfriend of Dave Rancid, the guy who played on Stan’s Babe Ruth baseball team. Rancid had gone on to be a football and wrestling hero at P.V. High, and was now pursuing a boxing career. Rancid was big and strong, but lacked the animal need to kill his prey. He was not as hungry as the Mexicans who dominated the L.A. boxing scene. He would not succeed as a pugilist.

  Maslin had talked Darlene into cheating on Dave twice before getting kicked out of high school. He had looked her up twice more on trips to L.A. She was getting tired of hanging with the dumb jock Rancid, which Maslin was counting on. He had stayed in touch with her by phone, and now he went for the kill.

  “I’m gonna buy a house out here,” he told her. “I want you to come live with me.”

  It took some doing, but Darlene had no more chance than a wavering insurance cli
ent. Maslin closed the deal. His religion was “Glengarry Glen Ross”. A month later, she had left Rancid and was sleeping in Dick Maslin’s bed. Dick liked her, but it was not really love. Mainly, he had disliked Rancid because he was tall, blonde and got the girls while Dick was a scrappy juvenile delinquent. This was little more than pay back.

  Maslin wanted the imprimatur of respectability that marriage and family brought. He and Darlene were married within a short time, and a year later their first child was born. They would have two boys and a girl.

  In his second year at Met Life, Maslin earned $400,000, and bought a house on Long Island. He had also flown to Miami and locked up Nelson Santana’s insurance policy. It was a specially designed policy with riders covering Santana and his family not just in the event of death, but in case of injury or unforeseen events that could end his baseball career. He stood to make millions in baseball.

  Santana and Maslin were immediate friends. Maslin spoke the language of the streets and knew baseball inside and out. Santana also knew tons of other rich young baseball studs. He knew teammates in the Orioles’ organization, and he knew all the Hispanic ball players in Miami-Dade and Broward Counties. He turned many of them on to Dick Maslin. Within short order, Maslin was known as the “baseball insurance agent” because he had policies for numerous players. As some of those players ascended to Major Leagues riches, Maslin up-graded their policies. He was making great money and most of his clients were high-profile referrals. He no longer had to cold call pizzeria owners.

  Maslin was star struck by athletes. He had the gift of not looking like he was. He knew what they wanted. They liked to party and spend money. They liked women. The players were a weird group. Most baseball players came from supportive families. Their fathers were little league coaches. Their moms drove them to practices and worked in the coke shack. They were guys who had disdained the temptations of drugs and street life, dedicating themselves to baseball. A lot of them had girlfriends from high school or college. The players tended to be religious and conservative. They were not very political, but they voted Republican. In this respect, they had a lot in common with Maslin, who was also a Republican.

  The players often married their high school sweethearts because they were like the “girl who married dear old dad.” But they were young and making coin. They felt they owed it to themselves to sample some exotic flavors on the side. Dick Maslin felt the same way himself. He understood this philosophy perfectly. He had also earned the right to play around. While the “little woman” raised his kids, he found plenty of action in Manhattan. As his client roster grew, he was happy to introduce strippers and escorts to young athletes. Maslin spent money and considered it an investment.

  Santana had been the Rookie of the Year in Baltimore, but when he became a free agent he signed with the Yankees. He and Maslin regularly went to Score’s and other strip clubs. Santana introduced his teammates to Maslin. Maslin did favors for them, and they became insurance clients. Over time, Maslin expanded the scope of his duties. He helped Santana make some extra money doing a spot for a local car dealership. He started arranging for various athletes on New York teams to get free lease deals from automobile dealers. He helped create endorsements for local business from athletes. He did most of this without commission, preferring to build up a network of favors and “in-kind” arrangements.

  Santana had played in the minor leagues with a black outfielder named Elrod Miller. Miller was older than Santana and had a much different path to the Major Leagues. Miller was an Army brat who had played baseball up through his sophomore year in high school. The he quit in favor of football. He accepted a scholarship to play at the University of Georgia. Miller showed up for pre-season drills. For 10 days, the coach rode him unmercifully. On the 11th day, Miller snapped.

  “Fuck…you,” he yelled at the coach. “Fuck…this.”

  He walked off the field, cleared his locker, and left the Georgia football program. He never attended a single class. Miller went back to his parents’ home. He had a neighbor who played pro baseball. The neighbor had seen Miller play baseball when he was younger, and thought he had good skills. He knew of a try-out camp that the Orioles were holding in a week, and suggested that Miller go there.

  Miller had nothing better to do, so he went. It was a typical try-out camp, filled with hangers-on, released pro’s, former high school and college players, and wanna-be’s. Miller was a left-handed hitter with power. He demonstrated excellent athletic skills. The Oriole scouts knew he had been a big-time cornerback in high school. Deion Sanders and Brian Jordan were showing that they could play both sports. Miller and a track star with little baseball background were the only players signed.

  He moved through the Baltimore chain slowly but methodically. During that time, Miller met Nelson Santana and they became friends. Miller was traded to the Pittsburgh Pirates, and after impressing Bucs’ management, made it to the big club. In his rookie year, Miller hit .277 with 18 home runs. He established a reputation as a hard-nosed player who battled right to the last out, and was second in the National League’s Rookie of the Year balloting.

  Miller was married to a dishwater blonde with no self-esteem named Cathy. They had a son. Miller liked to cheat on Cathy. His desire to cheat was almost pathological. Women were available at every turn in the Major Leagues, and he had one in each N.L. city. He preferred white women six days of the week and twice on Sunday.

  When the Pirates visited New York to play the Mets, Santana and Miller would get together. Santana introduced Miller to Maslin, who in turn introduced him to a stripper from Score’s. Maslin had paid the stripper $1,000 to have sex with Miller, unbeknownst to Miller. The next day, Miller thought Maslin was “the man” for helping him make the connection with the stripper who had rocked his world all night.

  Maslin drank beer at the Sheraton Hotel bar with Miller and Santana. Miller began to complain about his agent, Rick Joseph. Miller wanted the Pirates to re-negotiate his contract, but “Rick ain’t asshole enough to get `em to do it.”

  “Dick oughtta be your agent,” Santana told Miller. “He’s asshole enough to get money outta anybody.”

  It started out as conversation, and became more serious as the night wore on. Dick had thought about taking the next step and representing athletes as a player agent. He had read the Basic Agreement between the player’s union and the owners. Because he had such terrific reading comprehension skills, it had stuck. Now he was able to demonstrate tremendous knowledge to Miller. Dick understood all phases of baseball contract negotiations.

  Elrod Miller was on the fence.

  “Tell you what,” Dick said. “Just to prove my commitment, I’ll sign a contract with you whereby I provide you $2,000 a month. I can get that for you through marketing, auto dealers getting you to sign autographs, free leasing, stuff like that. Or I give you two grand. Either way it’s guaranteed. That’s a no-brainer.”

  “No brainer” was his favorite expression.

  Miller decided right then and there to fire Rick Joseph and hire Dick Maslin. Shortly thereafter, Miller told Joseph, and Maslin filled out a lengthy questionnaire provided to him by Gene Orza, second in command to Donald Fehr of the player’s union. Orza called Dick up the day it was faxed in and questioned him like a homicide investigator for an hour. He recommended that Maslin not be approved as a player agent. But when Miller called Orza and insisted, Dick was in. If Miller wanted Maslin to be his agent, that was all there was going to be.

  “You’re not my mother,” Miller told Orza.

  Dierde Mitchell lost her virginity when she was 12. When she was 14, she hated a boy in her class. She enticed him to her house, took off her dress and her underwear, and spread herself before him. The boy took his pants off and had an erection. He got on top of Dierdre and started fumbling around. He had never had sex before. Then Dierdre started screaming, “Rape! Rape!”

  Dierdre’s father ran into the room, pulled the boy off Dierdre, and punch
ed him hard. The cops showed up. The boy eventually was convicted and sent to juvenile detention.

  Dierdre’s mother and father were normal people. Her father was a postal carrier. They lived in a medium-sized town in Vermont. She was never abused in any way. Her younger brother played on the basketball team, made honor roll, and went on to the University of Vermont. Dierdre was a monster for no apparent reason.

  Dierdre was kicked out of high school during her junior year for drinking, doing drugs, and having sex. She moved to New York City and started dancing at a strip club. Her stage name, in fact her new name, became Desiree. She was a big hit with the customers because she went further than the other girls. If guys paid her enough, she got them off.

  “I’ll rock your world,” she told the patrons. Her regulars started joking about getting the “full release special.”

  A porn star named Christy Canyon came to her club as a “feature dancer.” Christy told Desiree she could be a big star in porn, and gave her the number of Jim South at the World Modeling Agency in L.A. Desiree traveled to L.A. and met with South. He gave her the spiel on what to expect in the porn business. Desiree signed on.

  Desiree made a number of hardcore porn films between 1985 and 1987. She went for all the enhancements to her lips, breasts and butt. She was known as a “new wave” girl because she had a lot of hair and spiked it in a pseudo-punk rock style. She dressed like a very trashy street whore. She quickly became known as a “girl who does everything.” She was named the Newcomer of the Year in her “rookie season,” and Starlet of the Year in her second. Desiree had a big following, traveling the country as a feature dancer at strip clubs. She continued to make her home in New York, and worked at the strip clubs there when she was not making porns in L.A., or on the road as a feature.

  Desiree was especially fond of ball players, and liked New York because teams from both leagues were always in town. She had her share of Yankees, Mets, and other players from around the National League, National Football League, and National Basketball Association. Desiree was the ultimate fantasy woman. She was a true nymphomaniac who made her men believe she was a wanton slut. She was a wanton slut, but only with men who could give her things, like money, jewelry, trips, gifts, and the like. A handsome poor man might be able to make a run at her, but he had no chance of staying in the game unless he had something else to bring to the table.

  Billy Boswell loved watching porn movies. He lived in a pay-per-view hotel world. He came back to his room after games and bar hopping, often with a girl or two. The first thing he did was order up the porn channel. His favorite porn chick was Desiree. He often told whatever girl he was with to “do what she’s doin’,” or “I’m gonna bring some other guys in here so we can do what those dudes are doin’ to that chick.”

  In 1987, he again led the league in home runs and runs batted in. The Yankees were in first place, and he was the toast of the Big Apple. Bos entered Score’s in Manhattan after a game in which he hit two gargantuan homers at Yankee Stadium. He was treated like a dignitary and given the red carpet treatment. Sergio, the club’s manager, approached him.

  “Bos,” he said, “I got a special treat for you tonight. We got a girl just in from the Coast. She’s a big porn star but she dances here when she’s in town. Her name’s Desiree.”

  “Desiree?” said Billy. “My favorite porn star’s name is Desiree.”

  Sergio brought Desiree to Billy. She was the same Desiree.

  “Baby,” said Billy, “you have no idea how many times I’ve busted my nut watching your ass on TV. All the load I shot over you’d fill a swimming pool.”

  “I wanna swim backstrokes in a river of your jizz, baby,” she said. Desiree had never been with a black man in Vermont. She discovered in New York that she preferred her men dark and hung. Billy met those qualifications. At first, she was just Billy’s “fuck toy.” She fulfilled all his fantasies. Billy had some pretty good fantasies. Every orgy combination was tried. Desiree and Billy’s friends. Billy and Desiree’s friends. Everybody at the same time. Toys and role-playing.

  Desiree was Billy’s main squeeze for three years. It was quite an arrangement. She continued to be a big porn star. The tabloids got a hold of the relationship and went to town. Desiree did not care. The publicity made her the biggest porn star in the world. Billy did not worry what the press said about him. He disdained them. He did what he wanted to do, with whomever he wanted to do it with. His performance on the field never wavered in the slightest way. By 1990, Peter Gammons called him the “greatest baseball player of all time.” He was still young and had a long career ahead of him, but it was difficult to deny that he was as good as any player who ever lived.

  Billy was paid exorbitant sums and living life above and beyond fantasy. He had Desiree when he wanted her and anybody else when he wanted them.

  “I want to get married,” Desiree said to him out of the blue.

  “Are you outta yo’ mind?” Billy asked her.

  “Either you marry me or I’m gone,” said Desiree.

  “Whaddaya mean, gone?” asked Billy.

  “I mean you won’t never touch this again if you don’t marry me,” she said. “If you marry me, we can keep doing everything we’ve been doing. The other women, your friends, the partying, everything. I don’t want kids. I wanna fuck. I just wanna a ring on my finger.”

  Billy did not want to marry her, but she was unbelievable. He could have any woman, but nobody did for him what she did. He could not see himself giving her up. Then he decided that if he married a porn star, that was the kind of outrageous act that would tweak the establishment. He loved tweaking the establishment.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  They flew to Las Vegas and got married.

  Desiree kept her promise. The wild sexual hi-jinks did not diminish. Billy was happy with the arrangement. Billy was the biggest name in sports, a superstar athlete in New York. There is no greater icon in America. Actors and rock stars have fantasized about attaining such status, to no avail. A select group of athletes that includes Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Frank Gifford, Joe Namath, Tom Seaver and Reggie Jackson have ascended to this legendary place in the New York pantheon.

  Marilyn Monroe thought she was a big star. When she returned from Korea, where she entertained the troops, she told husband Joe DiMaggio, “Joe, you never heard such cheering.”

  “Yes, I have,” said DiMaggio like a cold fish.

  Billy Boswell had heard such cheering. He was the newest member of this most elite of clubs.

  At first, Desiree’s thirst for other men did not bother him. Fans, however, were relentless. Desiree had a mile-long paper trail of photos and videos of her performing astounding sex acts. People threw the photos at Boswell in the outfield and into the dugout. They taped them to his door at hotels and put them on the windshield of his car. After a while, Billy felt, as Marcellus Wallace might have said, “a little sting. That’s pride fuckin’ witcha.”

  Billy began to hate Desiree. Not only was she a very popular porn star, but her sexual appetites did not end when the director yelled, “Cut.” She would take care of the cameramen and the grip, too. Numerous guys from one end of the fruited plain to the other went went around boasting how, “Billy Boswell’s old lady sucked my cock.”

  She partied and made sex with many, many men. For Billy, it was about competition. He knew that Desiree was a prize. Sharing her felt like sharing the Most Valuable Player award or being the co-home run champion. He knew that she had been with a lot of other players, and snagging her away from the other superstars of sports was like winning the MVP award. It did not occur to him that most of the other players did not view her as a prize, in the way he did. She was a sex trophy, but not somebody other players thought about marrying.

  Most ball players do the wild thing with strippers and porn stars like Desiree, but tend not to marry the kinds of glamour girls and party chicks that en
d up with rock stars. Visitors to Major League ball parks are continually amazed when they go to the clubhouses and pass the area where wives and children lounge while waiting for their husbands to shower after games. The women are often attractive, but rather plain.

  Billy, the exception to all the rules, was not interested in children, at least not yet. He wanted a woman sexy and glamorous enough to fit in with his giant ego. His place in the game was so enormous that he felt no need to justify himself to anybody else’s expectation. He could marry a porn chick and get away with it.

  The fact that Desiree knew all of this right from the beginning eluded Billy. He thought he was pursuing her, but she was always circling him. When Billy made sex with her, he kept asking her if he was bigger and better than any of the other star athletes or porn stars she had been with.

  “Yes, yes,” she lied. There was nothing wrong with Billy’s sexual prowess. But while he was indisputably the best player in baseball, he was just another dog running in the pack when it came to lovemaking. What he did have was the biggest bank account, and the promise of the biggest free agent contract ever. Desiree read the sports page. She knew more about Billy than he did. His agent and his lawyers had tried to dissuade him from marrying the busty porn star. They knew what she was all about. Heck, his agent represented players who had screwed her, too.

  After the marriage, Desiree’s wildness gnawed at him. He picked up his cell phone and started calling superstars from around the league, asking the guys if, as a personal favor to him, now that he was married to Desiree, uh, would they do him solid and stop taking his wife to bed. This engendered little more than disdain from the “other guys,” few of whom liked the arrogant Boswell anyway.

  “Did you hear what Bos is gonna do?” one home run king told a batting champion on the phone. “He marries that ho then starts callin’ dudes askin’ `em to back off her. He’s gotta be whack.”

  Boswell gave baseball fans and writers little reason to like him. He complained about everything. He spoke on his schedule, at his convenience, if he felt like it. The media were given what came to be known as the “Patrick Swayze effect.”

  In the movie “Ghost,” Swayze is killed, and haunts the Earth as a ghost. Of course, nobody actually sees him, so everybody ignores him as if he is not there. Boswell took to treating reporters the same way. They would approach his locker, like Dorothy seeking a quote from the Wizard of Oz. Instead of telling the peons, “How dare you approach the great Wizard of Bos,” Billy would just act like they were not even there.

  The Patrick Swayze effect.

  Billy called his lawyers and told them to prepare divorce papers. She was one step ahead of him.

  “I want a divorce,” she told him out of the blue.

  It was all calculated. She got a pricey lawyer and went after Boswell with a vengeance. She ended up getting his penthouse in Manhattan, his condo in Hawaii, and a monthly stipend of $100,000. The whole thing was splashed all over the papers. Terrible, horrible shouting matches dominated the court appearances. Desiree aired all the dirty laundry; the orgy sex and wild exaggerations of Billy’s partying. She claimed he was doing a lot of cocaine and drank constantly. In actuality, Billy hardly ever did drugs and drank minimally. He loved women and kept late hours, but he worked hard in the weight room and never did anything to dilute his on-field performance. Nevertheless, by the time Desiree started in on him, the talking heads were saying he would need to go to rehab if he was to continue being an effective player.

  All in all, it was very embarrassing to the Yankees. Boswell became a free agent at the same time as the divorce proceedings, during the 1992-93 off-season. The Yankees had planned to get Boswell signed no matter the cost. Now, they thought what had been the unthinkable. Billy Boswell might not remain a Yankee.

  The Los Angeles Dodgers went after Billy in a big way. Billy was losing patience with all the media craziness in New York. In January, 1993, he signed a multi-year, $75 million contract with Los Angeles. It was the largest contract in the history of professional sports. Because the negotiations took place in the middle of his divorce proceedings, Desiree ended up getting an extra $50,000 a month paid to her directly by the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Times ran the headline, “Walter O’Malley turns over in grave; Dodgers add porn star to payroll.” All the usual jokes and analogies about “blowing” leads, “the Dodgers suck,” and various double entendres about the size of their “staff” and their “hard wood” bats made it an extended media field day. Jay Leno and David Letterman made use of the material until they had exhausted it.

  In his first year in L.A., Boswell won another M.V.P. award, and led Los Angeles to the World Championship. His on-field performance was absolutely unparalleled.

  After the divorce was finalized, Desiree took a $1 million offer from Larry Flynt to star in a nasty porn flick called “The World’s Biggest Gangbang.” She had sex with well over 100 men, all of whom were dressed in Dodger uniform shirts wearing Billy’s number. Eventually, she went on the road as a feature dancer at strip clubs throughout North America, billed as “Billy Boswell’s Main Squeeze.”

  Everybody who ever saw Michelle Woodward immediately declared that she was the most beautiful girl they had ever seen. She was tall, with blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect skin, and the most amazing body in the world. Michelle grew up in Tahoe City, on the California side of Lake Tahoe. She lived with her father and brother. Michelle’s father had a rare kidney condition. The doctors were not able to explain what the problem was, or how to cure it. It was extremely frustrating. Her mother had deserted the family when she was a child. Michelle loved her father more than most daughters love their fathers. They had a bond, the kind that people who survive hard times together have. They would do anything for each other.

  Michelle had boyfriends in high school and lost her virginity when she was 18, but she was not overly promiscuous. Her father was the general manager of one of the casinos. Michelle was a good student and entered UCLA. She majored in drama. Michelle found a boyfriend at UCLA and did well in her classes. After her freshman year, though, her father was fired from his casino job due to a merger. He told her the family had a lot of debts. He would not be able to pay her expenses at UCLA any more. Furthermore, he needed to continue with medical treatment for his kidney condition. The doctors still did not know what it was. He no longer had insurance to pay for the treatments. The private insurance company he was considering told him that, since it was not diagnosed, they would not cover treatment for the problem. His life was in danger.

  Michelle did not want to drop out of school. She did not want to come back to Tahoe City. She wanted to become an actress in Hollywood, so she had to stay in L.A. She decided she would work her way through UCLA. Michelle took a job as a waitress. She hated it. She came home, crying, and opened up the L.A. Times classifieds. She could not see anything that looked promising. She had picked up a free copy of New Times and looked over their want ads. She found an ad that said, “Figure models wanted. Nudity involved.”

  “No,” she said to herself.

  Michelle heard that the Los Angeles Raiders were holding try-outs for their Raiderette Cheerleaders team. She had been a cheerleader in high school, but more important she had gotten professional ballet, dance and jazz dance training. She went to the try-out and made the squad. It was a high-profile scene, but paid almost nothing.

  One of the other Raiderettes told her about a photographer who could help her get modeling gigs, so she went to see him. He took a number of pictures, and was able to help Michelle make money modeling for Swimwear Illustrated, in the Frederick’s of Hollywood lingerie catalogue, and other magazines. Michelle was sent to New York and posed for Penthouse. Then she contacted Playboy. The Playboy editor she spoke to, Marilyn Grabowski, told her that Playboy would have loved to have her for the Christmas centerfold, but once she posed for Penthouse she was no longer “eligible.” It was too bad, she said, because she would have made excellent m
oney with Playboy. Michelle did some Playboy pictorials in the magazine, in the “Girls of the Pac-10” issue, some of their spin-off publications, such as Playboy’s Girls of Lingerie, and in a few of their videos. But she was not paid the money she could have made had she been a Playmate, in particular the Playmate of the Year.

  Her father’s kidney condition deteriorated, and Michelle became desperate to make money. She picked up New Times, and again saw the ad, “Figure models needed. Nudity involved.” She called the number of the World Modeling Agency in Van Nuys and asked some questions.

  “Is this porno?” she wondered.

  “We have clients in the adult film industry,” a patient, young female voice told her, “but the majority of our new clients are young women who pose for nude magazine pictorials, with no sex involved.”

  Michelle made an appointment, and found herself seated across from Jim South. He was a crusty, bearded Southerner with a professional demeanor. South explained the various opportunities in nude modeling in Los Angeles. It sounded good, but Michelle was thinking big. She wanted enough to pay for four years at UCLA, to pay for her father’s medical treatments, and on top of that she wanted to live well. Money had always been a source of worry all her life. She was tired of it.

  “How do I make a lot of money fast?” she asked South.

  “What do you mean by a lot of money?” he replied.

  “Enough to pay for four years at UCLA,” she said, “and to buy a condo, and to take care of my daddy. He’s sick. I want to live like a human without having credit card companies sending hit men to see me. Enough to be free.”

  “I’m not sure you want me to answer that question for you,” said South.

  “I know I’m beautiful,” said Michelle. “I know I am. Why not take advantage of it. I’m sick of hearing my father complain about money. I want to pay off his debts and make it easier for him. Why not?”

  “Well,” said South, “you can do that, but it will require things you may not be prepared for.”

  “Tell me and I’ll tell you if I’m prepared for it,” she answered.

  “Alright,” said South. “Just looking at you, I can tell you that you have what it takes to be a big star in the adult film industry. It would be better if you have some plastic surgery. You should think about collagen injections in your lips and breast enlargement implants. I can recommend a couple of surgeons. The rest are butchers. I may be able to find a producer to pay for these operations so you do not have to pay yourself.

  “You should get into the best possible physical condition. You should have a personal trainer work with you. You should get on a very healthy diet. You should get as tanned as possible, very dark. Go to the tanning booth every day.

  “Things have been changing. A few years ago, pretty girls like Ginger and Christy were doing very well on their looks. After the Traci Lords scandal, there was a big shake-up in the industry. Vivid still has contract girls. You could do soft core and girl/girl with them and be paid nicely. If you do more hardcore with them, you will do better. You understand what I mean by hardcore, right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Okay,” he went on. “After Traci, a lot of amateurs came on the scene. The result was a more extreme approach to depicted sexuality. The most popular extreme sex act that has emerged is the gangbang. Right now, gangbangs are the thing. A few years ago, some horny housewife could fuck her husband’s softball team, and if it was on videotape, you had a porn movie and a market for it. Now, the girls are getting better and better looking. Anabolic’s started the ‘Gangbang Girl’ series. Their girls are all hot as hell and it’s making great money.

  “So what I’m tellin’ you is that if you want to make a lot of money fast, you have to create a following and sell a lot of tapes in your first movie, or one of your first movies. You’ll have to follow the gangbang with some serious work over a short time so that your fans come to expect that they will get certain things when they rent or buy your tapes. They’ll want facial cumshots, anal, double penetration, and a willingness to be with multiple partners. I can arrange it so you pick the men you participate with.”

  “I have to do gangbangs?” she asked.

  “May I be brutally honest?” said South.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Nowadays,” he said, “just doing gangbangs is not enough. There are certain things you must do in the gangbangs. May I explain this to you?”

  “Please,” she said.

  “What you must be prepared for is to have sex with anywhere between 12 and 35 men in gangbang scenarios,” he continued. “A typical shoot will last from 12 noon until two in the morning, give or take. You will be asked to have anal sex and double penetration. Double penetration is one cock in your ass and one in your pussy at the same time. You will be asked to tongue the assholes of the men. There are showers on the premises and they are clean. Everybody is tested for AIDS and sexually transmitted diseases prior to the shoot, and they must provide proof of the test within a timely manner. In the case of gangbang movies, because of the number of participants involved, the more reputable producers will provide the medical testing themselves to assure everybody, particularly the girl, that the men are clean and safe.

  “You will be asked to provide oral sex to all the men, in various forms at the same time, in groups of two or four or whatever. If you still think you have what it takes to do this, there is a final thing you will be asked to do. There are many girls who are able to agree to everything I have described so far who will not do this final thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Michelle.

  “You will be asked to allow every man to cum on your face,” said South. “You will be asked to keep your eyes open even if cum is in your eyes. A towel will not be provided to wipe the cum off your face. The effect the producer will be looking for is cumulative; that is, your face covered by 12, 15, 25, 35 loads of cum, however many. The producer may have gathered a select group of men who are known to have exceptionally heavy orgasms, which we call ‘money shots.’ Some producers even pay the men extra to ‘hold the edge,’ as we call it. That is, to not have an orgasm for up to a week prior to the shoot, assuring that when they cum on your face it will be extra thick and gooey. Various other acts may be performed on you. Some producers like to have men spit on girl’s faces. You may be asked to mix saliva and cum on your face, and the cum will be spread out on your face. Another girl may be involved in the scene, possibly to lick the cum off your face. You may be asked to ‘transfer’ the cum with her. That is, to spit it into each other’s mouths, maybe back and forth. The camera will focus on your face and you will be asked to smile with cum on your face in a way that makes those jerking off at home believe that you love nothing in the world more than having a team of men jack off on your face. I have a producer who specializes in these kinds of movies. He is professional, nice to the girls, and pays better. He calls himself The Glazemaster. Do you still want to pursue this?”

  “Yes,” said Michelle.

  Sitting at Hennessy’s in Manhattan Beach, Stan overheard somebody say, “Taylor? He couldn’t break a pane a glass.”

  He turned, and there was smiling Dick Maslin. Stan had not seen him since his sophomore year in high school. Maslin was arrogant and looked good. He was visiting his hometown and liked to get out and about. He wanted to show himself off to everybody who had dismissed him as a loser when he was a teenager.

  “Dick Maslin,” exclaimed Stan.

  “What, not in training?” said Maslin, referring to Dick being in a bar.

  “No more baseball for me,” said Stan. “My arm hurts so bad I can’t even pitch semi-pro ball.”

  Stan was impressed that Maslin was a highly successful insurance executive in New York City. He was not the kind of guy who begrudged the success of others, even Billy Boswell. It would be nice if Boswell acknowledged his past a little better, though.

  “You ever see Billy Boswell?” said Stan.

  “I’ve se
en him around, but he and I were never close,” said Maslin. “What about you?”

  “I called him at his hotel a few times when he came to play the Angels,” said Stan. “I tried him at his parents house once or twice. I never got a call back.”

  “I’m surprised,” said Maslin. “You’re the only guy I know he respected.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?” said Stan. “That guy never said 10 words to me in my life. I played with him in all-star games. I pitched against him in high school, Legion, college, everywhere. He doesn’t know I exist.”

  “Bullshit,” said Maslin. “I heard him talk about you. He said you were the toughest pitcher he ever faced, and he said you had the best work ethic of any athlete he ever knew.”

  “He said that about me?” asked Stan.

  “He respected you and your old man,” said Maslin.

  “Are you pullin’ my leg?” said Stan.

  “Man,” said Maslin, “did I fuckin’ stutter? I grew up with Billy Boswell and that little faggot Matt Hobli. I know who was suckin’ his dick. Who do you think your talkin’ to?”

  Stan looked at Maslin. A flood of memories came back to him. Maslin always was on the inside. He always knew things that nobody else did. A light bulb went on in Maslin’s head.

  “What are you doing with yourself these days?” said Maslin.

  “I’m workin’ at my dad’s law firm,” said Stan.

  “You pass the Bar?” asked Maslin.

  “It’s a long story, man,” said Stan. “Let me buy you a beer.”

  Maslin and Stan proceeded to get very intoxicated. Stan told him about his baseball injury, his broken marriage and beautiful child. He started to cry right then and there, but managed to keep it together. He told Maslin how he had gone to law school but dropped out and resigned his active status in the Marines, did a short tour in the Gulf, coached at SC and in Europe, and now was at Adams, Duque & Hazeltine.

  “How is it workin’ with your old man?” asked Maslin.

  “It’s stressful,” said Stan, “but that’s not the half of it.”

  Stan then told him about his brilliant, short-lived fling with politics, and his mentor Peter Goode.

  “And the guy turned out to be a cocksmoker?” said Maslin, barely containing his laughter.

  “I suppose that’s as good a description of what he was doing that night as any other,” said Stan. “You have a way with words, Maslin.”

  They clinked their beer bottles.

  “Taylor, said Maslin, “are you aware of the fact that you have the best resume I’ve ever heard of.”

  “I suppose I’ve done a little bit of everything,” said Stan. “Master of nothing, though.”

  “You wanna stay at the firm?” Maslin asked.

  “I’m outta there, man,” said Stan. “Peter Goode’s got it in for me now that I discovered his secret, and my dad’s probably gonna retire soon anyway. Either I resign or get fired, sooner or later.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” said Maslin. “How’d you like to come to New York City?”

  “I wanna wake up, in a city that never sleeps,” sang Stan in a not-so-bad Sinatra imitation.

  “If you can it make it there,” said Maslin, “you can make it anywhere. That’s why I’m there. It’s a city of winners, my friend.”

  “You think I’m a winner?” asked Stan, and he really wanted to know. He was not so sure.

  “Stan Taylor,” said Maslin, “you’ve been a fuckin’ winner all your life. I was there the day that cocksucker Rico was callin’ you a faggot when you drove by with your old man. You just stared straight ahead like you were a fucking emperor and he was a peon. That shit killed him. He couldn’t get to you. He took his best shot and all he was left with was being his own sorry self. I was there when you beaned his ass and got in Wayne Fingers’ face. All those white trash motherfuckers. You never quit. You took a ton of shit and kept comin’ back stronger every fucking time.

  “I knew you were a winner when I’d ride my bike by the field in December and see your old man pitching batting practice to you. I knew you were a winner when guys were smoking in the bathroom or selling dope and you were the most dedicated motherfucker I ever saw. My friend, I know winners, and you’re a winner!”

  The combination of the alcohol and Maslin’s laudatory comments served as an elixir to Stan. He needed to be complimented, to get some credit. Nobody had been feeding his ego much lately. If he were gay he would have given Dick Maslin a blowjob right then and there. As it was, he hugged him and kissed him on the forehead.

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate that, Dick,” he told him. “So tell me about this opportunity.”

  Maslin told him how he had developed a client roster of professional athletes. He told Stan how he had decided to become a player agent. Elrod Miller had agreed to become his first client.

  “I want to bring you on board,” he said to Stan. “You offer a lot of things I don’t. I’m a hustler and a salesman. You have the background I need associated with me. Shit, man, look at you. You’re the very face of respectability. You got all the polish I need to compete with those Ivy League schmucks. Christ, USC. What was it, Georgetown Law School? You were a stud. You’re better pitcher, you could’ve gotten the guys we’ll represent out in your day. That’s a respect no amount of words can buy.

  “You’re honest. What was it, the Navy?”

  “Marines,” said Stan. He was about to tell Maslin he had supplanted his European income as an exotic dancer and porn actor, but decided not to.

  “Christ,” said Maslin, “that’s even better. That’s fuckin’ beautiful, man, it’s beautiful. The Marines. Semper fi and all that shit.”

  “Always faithful,” said Stan, “to God, Corps and country.”

  “Pro athletes’ll eat that shit up,” he said. “A few good men. There’s just one thing I want you to do for me.”

  “What’s that?” said Stan. “You got it.”

  “Invite me to dinner at your parents house,” Maslin said.

  Dan Taylor remembered Dick Maslin as a scrappy guy who made the most of what talent he had. He could appreciate that. He was impressed with the way Maslin had risen to success in New York. It seemed incongruous that this 5-8 firecracker with no athletic skills was a mover and shaker in the Big Apple, while his 6-6 All-American son had not really found himself.

  Maslin went over his game plan. They would call the company New York Sports Management, Inc. Maslin had a beautiful office in a skyscraper with one of the most prestigious business addresses in the city, and because he was Met Life’s star salesman, they had given him a conference room. The conference room would be converted into Stan’s private office. They would share his secretary and have full use of all the office needs, such as copiers, fax machines, phone lines, mail sort, and the like. Maslin would divide his time between the agent’s business and maintaining his insurance practice. Stan would work full time for the agency.

  Dick would be President. Stan would be vice-president. Stan would be paid $60,000 a year, but there were perks. Maslin lived on Long Island with his family, but he maintained an apartment on the West Side near Central Park.

  “I work late a lot, Dan,” he said, “and I stay there during the week once or twice a week.”

  What he did not tell Dan was that he used the place to screw girls. Either way, it was a great bonus for Stan, who would not be required to pay rent.

  “That way,” he told Stan “you can afford to live in Manhattan on 65K. Otherwise you’d be in Hoboken, New Jersey.”

  Then he turned back to Dan.

  “Dan,” he said, “I want to make you a vice-president. But I want something out of you.”

  “What’s that?” asked Dan.

  “I’m asking that you provide free legal counsel for the first year,” said Dick. “At first, I just need help filing business applications, getting incorporated, things like that. I want you to stay here in L.A. so we can put your law firm addr
ess on our letterhead. That’ll make us bi-coastal and I want to use your office at Adams, Duque & Hazeltine for client meetings here. It just looks good and obviously a lot of business is out here. Most of the players are from here. But I want something else.”

  Maslin leaned forward. He was a master talker and he knew he had the Taylor’s interested in his plan.

  “I mean to sell shares of stock in New York Sports Management, Inc.,” said Maslin. “I’m asking that you be the first investor. I need $100,000.”

  Dan gulped and stared at Shirley. She shrugged her shoulders. Stan was not prepared for this. He was uneasy about it. Down deep he hoped his father would say yes.

  “Yes,” said Dan. “I can have the check for you next week.”

  Stan resigned from Adams, Duque & Hazeltine. After taking care of loose ends, he loaded up a U-Haul and drove his car across the country with high hopes. He moved in to Maslin’s pad Manhattan rent-free. He kept his car at Dick’s hone on the island.

  Stan’s private office afforded a view of the Statue of Liberty. When Stan reported for his first day at work, Maslin’s private secretary, Leah, walked in his office and closed the door behind her.

  Leah had long, dark hair, gorgeous big eyes, and was stacked into a tight little mini-skirt.

  “I’m Leah,” she told Stan. “Dick asked me to introduce myself.”

  Within a few minutes, “introducing herself” meant getting on her hands and knees and blowing Stan until he shot his load. She just smiled at him, adjusted herself, and walked out of the office. In walked Maslin.

  “Welcome to New York City,” he told Stan.

  Stan felt like he was Bud Fox, and Maslin was Gordon Gekko.

  Stan’s New York City experience was unbelievable. He and Maslin partied like there was no tomorrow. Maslin stayed at the apartment in the city a couple nights a week, usually when he hooked up with one his bimbos. They went to Yankee Stadium, Shea Stadium and Madison Square Garden. They hung out with professional athletes, and were regulars at strip clubs likes Scores, Café Royal, Flash Dancer, Wild West NY, Paradise Club and New York Dolls. Stan and Maslin took athletes to McSorley’s Ale House near NYU, the China Club, Le Cirque, Toot’s Shors, Asia de Cuba, Tavern on the Green, the Hard Rock Café, and Hogs ‘n’ Heifers. New York was great because he could party and not worry about his car. They worked hard and lived hard. Often, Stan did not drag into the office until the afternoon after a long night of drinking, but he worked late every day. He worked seven days a week plus holidays. He stayed in shape at the gym, and was part of the hip Manhattan scene.

  Stan saw porn stars that visited New York’s strip clubs as feature dancers. He viewed their videos in the privacy of his apartment. He visited his favorite rental shop and came across a tape that set his pulse to racing. The cover showed the most beautiful woman Stan had ever seen. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, enormous 44DD fake breasts, and her figure was measured at 44-24-36. She was tall and very tanned. She had the face of a Botticelli angel, with collagen-injected lips coated in the reddest lipstick Stan had ever seen. She wore her hair in a French twist, and was decorated in lingerie. She had high heels, black fishnet stockings, garters, and a push-up bustier. In the cover photo, studly men pawed and surrounded her. The name of the tape was “Ashley Michelle’s Facial Cumshot Gangbang Fantasy”. Under that it read, “Raiderette cheerleader sucks her way to the Sex Hall of Fame.” Ashley Michelle was Michelle Woodward.

  Lord Almighty, thought Stan, and he really did think about the Good Lord. He thought about the duality of his personal feelings. On the one hand, he was a loving father to a beautiful little girl. He was convinced that she was a gift to him courtesy of his personal savior, Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he was shaking with excitement at the prospect of watching this pheenom get gangbanged by all these men.

  He turned the tape over, and stiffened harder than he had when Kimberly Biagini blew him in the car. A series of still shots showed this new porn slut, who he had never seen before, displayed with enormous loads of cum on her face. She was getting double penetration, and performed the most wanton possible acts of sexual depravity.

  “Ashley Michelle, the sexiest woman in the history of adult films, makes her debut in the most outrageous, extreme gangbang of all time,” read the description. “A former Raiderette cheerleader, Ashley has been seen in Penthouse and Playboy, but only hardcore can satisfied her lust for cocks.

  “See Ashley take on 47 of the most hung studs in the jizz biz in a festival of DP’s, ass licking, ball sucking, deep throating, cock worship and massive, multiple facial cum shots, leaving every inch of Michelle’s face covered in enormous loads of dripping jizz. If this tape doesn’t make you explode, consult a physician.”

  Stan rented it, went straight home, pulled out the Astroglide, and popped in the tape. He had never seen anything like it. It was new, exciting and extreme. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

  The tape started, and Ashley Michelle faced the camera.

  “Hi, I’m Michelle Ashley,” she purred. “This is my first porn movie. You might know me from my appearances in Penthouse and Playboy. I’m also a former Raiderette cheerleader. I know what all you guys were fantasizing when you watched me dance, or saw me in men’s magazines. Now I’m making those fantasies reality.

  “I just love sex. I will have sex with any man if he is attractive and I know he is safe and clean. I’ve never been married and I’ve really not even had a boyfriend. I don’t have any children. I’m every man’s ultimate fantasy. I like to meet men at clubs and pick them up for sex. Sometimes I invite groups of them over to my house on Saturdays for gangbang parties. I decided to become a porn star because I knew this was where I could have the most outrageous gangbangs. I want to be a pin cushion for an army of rock hard cocks, and I want every one of them to shoot all their cum on my face.

  “I’ve assembled 47 of the hardest studs in adult films for my facial cumshot gangbang fantasy today, and they have all arranged ahead of time to go at least a week without shooting their loads. That way, I’ll be assured of getting the hottest, thickest cum loads on my face. I bet you can’t wait.”

  Stan was drooling. The tape lived up to the girl’s hype in every way. She had sex with 47 guys, taking it anally, two at a time, in every orifice and in every way. True to her word, every guy came on her face. Within no time, her face looked like it was covered in thick toothpaste, yet somehow she managed to keep her eyes open, smiling all the time at the camera while making nasty commentary.

  I’ve never seen anything that approaches this, Stan told himself.

  On the business side of things, Stan worked long and hard trying to make the New York Sports Management successful. The bills were supposed to be paid out of Maslin’s insurance practice. They were coming from Dan’s hundred grand. Stan immediately was worried. Maslin spent money like it was going out of style. He insisted that Stan live the life of a New York player, too. It was too much fun for Stan to say no. He had been frugal in the past. During his marriage, he had skimped and saved, much to Karen’s disdain. Karen had decided Stan came from a rich family and she should spend all their money. Being in the Marine Corps and going to law school had not afforded Stan much time to spend money and have fun. He had tried after college to make his own way, and keep the freeloading off his dad to a minimum. He had hit the bar scene pretty hard in L.A., but living at home with Dan and Shirley saved a lot of dough. This was the Big Apple, and Stan was not about to take anything less than the biggest bite he could. He did not mind the maggots.

  The agency was hinging its hopes on Elrod Miller. Miller was a nice guy most of the time, but he was capable of being a monumental red-ass. He was 6-2, 225, very fast, and he possessed terrific hand-eye coordination. He was a hard-nosed, hustling player, the kind of guy a manager likes on his club. He was a winner.

  Entering his second big league season, he had signed with Maslin. Maslin was giving him $2,000 a month in “walking around m
oney,” which was coming from Dan’s investment. Dick seemingly knew everybody. He did favors for Miller and other players. He arranged for them to play at exclusive golf courses, and set them up with beautiful “escorts.”

  Miller’s old agent, Rick Joseph, was a salt-of-the-earth guy who handled mostly Pittsburgh athletes.

  “I wish you’d come to your senses,” Joseph told Miller. “I don’t know who this Maslin guy is, but he looks like a slickster if you ask me.”

  Stan’s partnership with Maslin helped alleviate Maslin’s “hustler” image. Most of the baseball players knew who Stan was from his days at USC and in the Cardinals organization. He was respected.

  “Stan’s the most honest guy I’ve ever known,” Maslin told his prospective clients. It was a true statement, but somehow it seemed skewed that Dick Maslin should use Stan’s honesty as a marketing tool.

  Stan had a good legal mind, and he also could write, something Maslin had no compunction for. Stan drafted press releases, PR brochures, and other things that glorified Maslin, Miller and the company. Stan also applied with the M.L.B.P.A. as Miller’s agent, and was approved.

  Stan put together a glossy public relations piece announcing formation of the company. It included photos of Dick, Dan and himself. It had their biographies, the goals of New York Sports Management, Inc., with a photo of the skyscraper that housed their offices. He included news of Miller’s signing on with the agency. He sent it out to a huge mailing list of friends, family, media, and prospective clients within the professional and amateur ranks.

  The piece went to a number of Miller’s teammates on the Pirates. They all found it in their mail at Three Rivers Stadium when they arrived after a road trip. Center fielder Andy Van Slyke got a hold of it. He was completely nude and read it while lying on his back on the carpeted clubhouse floor.

  “What’s this shit?” he said. “Who the fuck is Dick Maslin? Hey, Elrod.”

  “Yeah, Andy,” said Miller.

  “Who the fuck’s Dick Maslin?” repeated Van Slyke.

  “Whaddaya mean?” asked Miller.

  “I got this sales pitch from your new agent,” said Van Slyke.

  “You what?” said Miller.

  “Didn’t you see this shit?” Van Slyke. “Half the team got this.”

  Miller walked over and looked at the brochure that Stan had mailed.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  Van Slyke read Stan’s biography.

  “Oh, this is impressive,” said Van Slyke. “This guy’s a washed up pitcher who attended Georgetown Law School. Dude, ever thought about getting an accredited lawyer?”

  Miller was black but turning red-faced.

  “Oooooh, Ellie,” Van Slyke said.

  Miller did a slow burn.

  “Daniel Taylor,” said Van Slyke. “Of counsel. Hooey. That’d make me feel better when my guy’s going for an extra two years and $15 mil. Havin’ a guy of counsel. And not only that, baby, Dan Taylor was born in 1932. Hey, hey. 61 years old. There’s a Young Turk for ya. Father-son agents. But he played for Rod Dedeaux at USC. Impressive. When did he play, the dead ball era?”

  Miller tried to smile. It was nothing more than standard clubhouse jockeying, but Elrod had never cottoned to it. Van Slyke was a respected veteran. Miller was not going to get into a “smack down” with him. He saved his wrath for Dick Maslin.

  Maslin was banging one of his Filipino mail order brides in a hotel room at 2 a.m. He and one of his pals liked to order brides from the Philippines and Russia. If they looked ugly at the airport they just left. If they could screw, give head and were halfway decent looking, they kept them around. They never married them and gave them just enough money to survive until the guys were tired of them.

  “Who are they gonna complain to?” Maslin had told a disbelieving associate. “The State Department? Corazon Aquino? Shee-it.”

  “Hahter,” the Philipino girl said. She meant “harder.” “Hahter. Hahter.”

  Maslin was into the short strokes when the cell phone rang. He thought about not answering it, but he knew if it were Miller, Elrod would give him heat for not being at his beck and call 24/7.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Goddamn motherfuckin’ motherfucker don’t EVER fuckin’ embarrass me again,” Miller screamed into Dick’s cell phone. “I will fucking kill you. Do you hear me? You will motherfucking DIE! DIE! I know where you motherfucking live and I know where your fucking children are. Motherfuckers.”

  Maslin stayed on the phone babysitting Miller until 4:47 in the morning. The Filipino girl fellated him to conclusion, while Maslin talked to Miller without missing a beat. She finally went to sleep in frustration, having come this close to orgasm when Miller’s call interrupted them.

  Maslin was a master at damage control. “Stan’s just over eager,” he told Miller.

  “Motherfucker don’t ever let that motherfucker send shit out with my name on it,” said Miller.

  “I know, El,” said Maslin. “He’s just proud to be associated with you and wants the world to know it. It’s like a guy who’s got a hot new girlfriend and just wants people to see her on his arm.”

  Miller liked the analogy. He eventually calmed down and reverted to his usual, pleasant self. When Maslin had him taken care, he called Stan.

  “Ugghhaa,” Stan said. He was in full REM sleep.

  “We’ve been fired and you’re to blame,” said Maslin. “You’re out of here. I want you packed on a plane back to L.A. I don’t wanna see you again.”

  Stan jerked wide awake.

  “Dick?” he said. “What?”

  Maslin played him on the “fired” angle like Lyndon Johnson berating a staffer. Then he laughed.

  “Just kidding,” he said.

  “What?” said Stan.

  Maslin loved that kind of thing. Stan then remembered the time he had called Mrs. Lodeen to tell him he was a highway patrolman and her son had been killed in a traffic accident. Maslin told Stan he had been doing a good job, just to turn the heat down a little.

  When the conversation was over, Stan felt nothing but appreciation for Maslin’s keeping him on the job. He felt like he had dodged a bullet and would do anything for Maslin. Stan had been girding himself to question Maslin on why a young company trying to make a go of it needed to pay a big league ball player $2,000 a month. The “Van Slyke incident” ended that. Miller was money hungry. He counted every penny, and itemized his checkbook and accounts within an inch of their lives, every month. But Stan knew the money was going to Elrod’s girlfriends. Every month he had to send that check out, and he resented it.

  Another thing about Miller bothered Stan. Miller was notorious about cheating on his wife. Cheating was an art to both Maslin and Miller. Stan hesitated to judge this too harshly. It was true that he had never cheated on Karen, no matter how sexually non-existent she had gotten. But he had plenty of baggage of his own. Stan felt he was not in a position to cast stones. He had participated in swing parties and a porn flick. The porn movie starring Ashley Michelle had put thoughts in his head that placed him in a dangerously immoral place. Fun City was taking its toll on Stan’s Christianity. He never made it to church the whole time he was there. Stan had enough guilt to deal with all by himself. He talked to sweet Kaitlyn once a week, but his status as an absent father gnawed at him constantly.

  Who am I to judge anybody? he thought to himself. All I do is party and screw women, first in Europe, then L.A., now here, while my little girl goes without her father. In a strange way, though, his guilt was good for him. Guilt, he thought, was what separated good men from evil men.

  This brought him right back to Miller and Maslin. Not only did these guys feel no guilt about cheating on their wives, they took pride in their skills at doing it. They compared notes, bragging about the ingenious ways they kept the “little woman” in the dark.

  Maslin had a voicemail number that he called the “love line,” which was what he ga
ve to the women he met. They would call it and hear simply, “This is Dick. Leave a message.”

  One day Maslin met a waitress at a golf course in Connecticut. It was not one of his regular courses. He knew he had relatively free reign there. He took the waitress to a nearby hotel and banged her silly until three o’clock in the morning. He invented a lame excuse for his wife about car problems. The next day he told Stan all about how he had gotten away with it. Dick was elated at how cleanly he had orchestrated the whole affair.

  The waitress missed her period a few weeks later. She was sure that Maslin was the culprit. She started calling the “love line.” The first call was innocent enough.

  “Hey, Dick, it’s Maria from the golf club,” she said. “Please call me.”

  A few days later, she left a similar message. Then the messages started getting edgier. They built up in frequency and urgency. She started crying, leaving long, sustained, and heartfelt messages to Dick.

  Dick kept them all. He never called the girl. He played them for his pals, laughing and joking at her desperate pleas for acknowledgement. Nobody thought the thing was funnier than Elrod Miller. Dick never knew what the girl did. She had an abortion.

  The whole episode left Stan feeling sick to his stomach. He had always known Dick to be a hustler, ever since little league. He took dishonesty to new levels. Somehow Stan tried to convince himself that Dick had business “acumen” that was needed in the cutthroat world of sports representation. He also tried to convince himself that, because Maslin had been a family friend whose ties to the Taylor’s went back more than 20 years, he would never use his dishonest ways against him. Stan told himself that, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

  Stan was also ashamed of the role he played in Miller’s obsession with cheating on his wife. Miller had a mistress (another unattractive white chick) who traveled with Miller when the Pirates were on the road. It was Stan’s job to fly her sorry ass to various National League cities in accordance with Pittsburgh’s schedule. It was all done in such a way that it left no paper trail leading to Elrod. It bothered Stan that the company picked up the tab. It was not coming out of Dick’s insurance profits. It came from his old man’s investment.

  The company also provided Miller a calling card number. Miller would make hours of long distance calls, all charged to New York Sports Management, Inc. Maslin never looked at the bills. It was Stan who handled all of that. He knew they were spending money hand over foot.

  Miller could call his various girlfriends, mistresses and barflies on the company calling card. His wife never had any access to the bills. This worked out especially well when the Pirate wives got suspicious of their husband’s road activities and started calling the hotels they stayed in. They asked for phone records to be sent for “tax purposes.” A lot of Buccos got nailed on that, but Elrod escaped scot-free, thanks to the calling card number that traced back to his agent. He thought Maslin was a “fucking hero” for coming up with that little perk.

  Stan knew that trusting Maslin was being purposely naïve in the ways of the world. The company made it through for a year based on commissions garnered when they set up marketing opportunities for Miller in Pittsburgh, mainly doing commercials and autograph-signing sessions at various car dealerships.

  One dealer had a son in the Allegheny Little League. Stan, who spent days scouring the Pittsburgh phone books on Miller’s behalf, arranged for Miller to sign autographs on Saturday morning at the league’s field. The problem was that the night before, the Pirates went 18 innings and lost to the San Francisco Giants at Three Rivers Stadium. Miller came home at 2:30 in the morning. He slept in the next morning, making no effort to make it to the signing. Hundreds of Allegheny Little Leaguers showed up, in uniform, hoping to get Elrod Miller’s autograph. After an hour, the dealer picked up his cell phone. He had Miller’s home phone number, because some weeks earlier, in preparation for the event, Miller had called him. Miller never gave out his home number, referring everybody to Maslin in New York, but the dealer had captured his number on caller I.D.

  Miller groggily answered the phone, and heard the irate car dealer giving him what-for about being a no-show with all the kids. Miller listened. Then he hung up the phone and called New York Sports Management, Inc. Stan worked seven days a week. He came in to the office in the afternoon, and checked voicemail. This is what he heard:

  “You fuckers if you ever give out my fucking home phone number again I’ll kill you. I’ll kill somebody. Somebody will die. Motherfucking bastards will die. I don’t ever wanna get woken up by no motherfuckers again. Motherfucking white cocksuckers. Somebody’s gonna die. You have no idea how lucky you are that a thousand fucking miles separate you from me right now because if you were in front of me you would fucking die.”

  Stan immediately called Maslin, who called Elrod Miller in Pittsburgh, where he was getting ready to go to a Saturday night game. Maslin again went into damage control, soothing the prima donna. It was explained to Miller that neither he nor Stan had given the car dealer the phone number. It was determined that he must have gotten it from caller I.D. Miller calmed down, and reverted to his “nice guy” side. But the tone in his voice on the message had scared the hell out of Stan. Stan knew that he was dealing with a man capable of real, criminal violence.

  Maslin negotiated a one-year contract with the Pirates, and the commission helped keep the company going. The agreement with the team was that they would give Miller a big, multi-year deal after the 1994 season.

  In 1994, Miller was off to a great start. He hit with power, batted .300, stole bases, scored runs via daring hustle on the bases, and played excellent defense. He was Pittsburgh’s lone representative at the All-Star Game, which was played in the Steel City.

  Stan and Maslin flew to Pittsburgh for the game, and engaged in negotiations with general manager Cam Bonifay. Bonifay loved Miller, a fan favorite with the blue-collar Pittsburgh fans. The contract would be a multi-million dollar deal over several years. The commission would insure the success of the company. Furthermore, it would solidify their reputation as legitimate agents. It would help them land other players.

  The negotiations went well, and it looked liked a deal was going to get done. Then, on August 12, the baseball players struck. Negotiations with Bonifay ended. No deal.

  The marketing commissions for Miller ended, too. Miller still wanted his $2,000 a month. Maslin told him that as long as the players were on strike, he could not pay him that. Miller went ballistic, and upped his demands. Not only did he want the $2,000, he wanted New York Sports Management, Inc. to pay him what he was making from the Pirates before the strike. There was no way the company could do such a thing. They had burned through Dan’s one hundred grand and had no income left.

  Stan met with Maslin. Maslin spelled out the situation.

  “The truth is,” he told Stan, “I had a big insurance year a few years back, and I’ve been riding that. Since you came out here I’ve concentrated on building up the sports side, and I’m not makin’ much on insurance anymore. I got a huge monthly nut - the house, the apartment, travel - and I’m having a hard time making that. We gotta shut things down. I can’t afford to pay you anymore.”

  Dick went on to explain that he had a couple of big insurance deals with clients out of Atlanta. When those hit, everything would be good again. He would have enough to keep the company going, pay Stan, and make ends meet until the strike ended. Then they could get the commission on Miller’s contract.

  “You’re my friend and I’m loyal to you,” Stan told him, “so I wanna propose something. To keep the company afloat, I’ll be willing to secure a personal loan. I’ve been looking into it. I can get a loan for a hundred grand. I’ll do it, and keep us going that way, if you promise that you will step up and bail me out once you get back on your feet.”

  “You’re a real stud,” Maslin said, shaking Stan’s hand. “That’s what I call stepping up for the team.”

  Stan went
to the bank. The banker knew Maslin.

  “Stan,” said the banker, “I’m not supposed to turn away business, but if you expect Dick Maslin to pay you back – all I’m sayin’ is he’s not to be trusted. I like the guy, I play golf with him, but I wouldn’t trust him with money.”

  Stan was not listening to reason. Down deep, in fact not down so very deep, he knew Maslin was a charlatan, but he secured the loan anyway, which he used to keep the office going, pay himself (a smaller portion than his original, contracted-upon salary), and to pay Miller to keep him in line. For a few months, it went on like that, but Miller wanted more. Stan could not pay Miller more, and tried to explain the situation. Miller did not want to hear about any of it.

  “You motherfuckers can afford strippers and hookers, a fuckin’ apartment in New York and an office in the fucking sky,” he said, “but you can’t feed my family. I want more.”

  Shortly thereafter, Stan came into the office and checked voicemail.

  “You’re fired,” is all Miller said on the machine.

  That was that. Miller went back to his old agent, Rick Joseph. Eventually, the strike ended and Joseph negotiated Miller’s large contract with Pittsburgh. It would have netted New York Sports Management, Inc. half a million dollars. Instead, they got the doughnut. It was “Jerry Maguire” without the happy ending.

  Maslin never cut the big insurance deals in Atlanta, and never re-paid a dime to Stan, who was left holding the bag. When Stan sued him, all he got in response was a letter from Maslin’s attorney, stating that Maslin had declared Chapter 11 Bankruptcy. His creditors were listed on the court documents enclosed. Maslin left hundreds of creditors from one end of America to another hanging to the tune of over $800,000. He moved to Riverside, California. A few years later, he was indicted for insider stock trading, but avoided jail time when he ratted on a couple of partners. Maslin never spoke to Stan again.

  Elrod Miller became a popular, productive player in Pittsburgh, but left the club to sign a free agent contract with Seattle. His first Spring Training with the Mariners got off to a bad start when he was arrested by F.B.I. agents at the club’s training facility in Tempe, Arizona.

  Miller had continued to fly mistresses around the United States. He got rid of the girl who Stan had flown around. One of her replacements went with him to Las Vegas in the off-season. Miller got drunk and took her to an Elvis-style chapel, where they were married.

  The next day, the girl made a big deal about being Elrod’s new wife. Miller told her she was crazy. They were not married, he told her.

  “We sure are married,” she told him. She showed him the official papers from the Elvis chapel. Elrod became enraged. He pulled a gun out of his bag and stuck it in the girl’s mouth.

  “I’ll fucking O.J. you,” he told her.

  The girl escaped and went to the police. She told the Vegas cops that she had married Elrod Miller and he had stuck a gun in her mouth. By the time they checked his hotel room, he had left the state. Upon further investigation, it was determined that he was a Major League baseball player, now with the Seattle Mariners. It was also determined that he already had a legal wife in Pennsylvania.

  Since he had committed bigamy with inter-state implications, and because he was now in another state, it became a Federal case. Miller’s agent, Jeff Moorad, managed to get the charges reduced. Miller paid a fine, did probation, and avoided jail time.

  The 1994 baseball strike and its aftermath was a terrible blow to Stan. He had pinned all his hopes on the success of the company. Now he was out of a job, in debt, and his dad was out his money.

  God, as it has been said, works in mysterious ways. He had his hand in directing Stan’s fate. The wreckage of his entrepreneurial venture in New York City would have a silver lining. His name was Bo Belinsky.

  It started when the company was flying high. Stan read a copy of Sports Illustrated in Maslin’s office. The magazine carried a classic article, written by Pat Jordan in 1972, titled “Once He Was An Angel.” It was the story of Belinsky, a New Jersey pool shark who signed on as a pro baseball player to evade the rackets. Belinsky rose to the Major Leagues with the 1962 Los Angeles Angels and threw a no-hitter. Belinsky rode the no-hitter and his good looks for all it was worth. He had a way with women, told great stories to fawning writers, and became a bon vivante and Hollywood man about town. Bo hung out with Frank Sinatra, Hugh Hefner, Walter Winchell and other L.A. Beautiful People. His career spiraled into the chaos of drug and alcohol abuse, but his story was the stuff of legend.

  “Bo Belinsky!” Stan said to Maslin. “Now there’s a guy who knew how to live.”

  Maslin said nothing. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

  “Bo Belinsky please,” he said. “Dick Maslin.”

  Stan’s ears perked up.

  “You gotta be shittin’ me,” he said.

  “Bo,” Maslin said into the phone. “Whas’sup? Hey man, I gotta a guy here I want you to talk to. Stan, pick up line two.”

  Stan punched up the line and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hey, amigo,” came the voice of Bo Belinsky.

  Stan and Bo hit it off like old friends. Stan knew everything about Bo. He came to New York and played golf with Stan and Dick.

  “I’ve been getting some feelers from producers lately,” he said.

  “What producers?” asked Stan.

  “Guy I know in Hollywood,” said Bo. “Guy I knew when I lived in L.A. I think Hollywood wants to make a movie about my life.”

  “You kidding me?” said Stan.

  “I kid you not, amigo,” said Bo. “One guy’s associated with Bob DeNiro. DeNiro grew up a fan of mine, because I was a street guy from Jersey, you know. The gumbas in New York loved me, you know? Anyway, I’m talkin’ about doin’ this movie.”

  “Bo,” said Stan, “I got an idea.”

  “What’s that, amigo,” said Bo.

  “Bo, “ said Stan, “I went to the University of Southern California School of Cinema and TV. My grandfather was a producer, a director, a screenwriter, a playwright. He was a stud in Hollywood and New York back in the day. Bo, I’ve written scripts and got straight A’s at SC. That’s no chicken feed school. It’s the best film school in the country. Guys like George Lucas, Robert Zemeckis, all the heavyweights, they all went there.

  “The point is, my friend, I know how to write a screenplay. I know your life back and forth. I’m an ex-player. I can describe the smell of those fucking bus rides when you were in the bush leagues, man. It’s in me!”

  “I thought you were a sports agent, my man,” said Bo. “Writing a screenplay’s a full-time job.”

  “I can do it in my spare time,” said Stan.

  “You’re trying to put this agency together,” said Bo. “I don’t see how you can do both.”

  “Dick,” said Stan, “tell him.”

  “Bo,” said Maslin, “this guy’s a fucking maniac. He has work ethic like nobody in history. He’s the Babe fucking Ruth of work ethic. He’s relentless. He’s Bud Fox. If he says he can write a screenplay in his spare time, he won’t sleep for three months and it’ll be a good screenplay. He doesn’t do anything unless it’s first rate.”

  Shortly after that, Bo signed a two-year deal giving his life story rights to Stan, for free. He put Stan in touch with longtime New York Post sports columnist Maury Allen, the author of Bo’s 1973 biography, “Bo: Pitching and Wooing”. Maury mentored Stan and gave him a three-year free option on the rights to his book. Bo put Stan in touch with some Hollywood producers who were interested in the film adaptation of Bo’s life. The firm signed Bo as a client, and represented him. He was popular at old timers events and autograph-signing memorabilia shows. Many of those are held in Las Vegas, where Bo lived. It was a good arrangement.

  Stan wrote the screenplay, “Once He Was An Angel”, in one month. He slept about three hours a night. He handled all of his regular sports agent duties by day, a
nd every spare minute was spent writing the script. It was a good script. When he was finished, he began the process of shopping it to Hollywood. Some of the producers who had been speaking with Bo were put off that this unknown rookie screenwriter had gotten Bo’s life rights, the rights to his book, and written the script. Stan had locked up Bo and placed himself in the command position.

  At first, the project had great promise. Stan submitted it to some screenplay contests, and earned awards. DeNiro’s director of creative development at TriBeca Films in New York took a meeting with Stan, and sounded hopeful. Oliver Stone’s agent at the Creative Artists Agency had Stan submit it. The response was good, and Stan earned praise, but the project did not materialize as quickly as Stan thought it would.

  The company disintegrated under the weight of Maslin’s false promises, lies and failure to live up to his word. It disintegrated under a hail of Elrod Miller’s swearing tirades and greed. But good things came out of the carnage.

  “Once He Was An Angel” did not sell immediately, but it was a cathartic experience for Stan. It taught him that writing was his life’s work and passion. Baseball had been his passion. He had taken that as far as he could, and was satisfied that he had given it all he had. Now, writing made him truly happy. Writing the Belinsky screenplay had been nothing less than liberating. It had, in fact, been the closest thing he had ever known to a Zen experience. Stan knew that catering to greedy, Dumbellionite athletes was not his destiny. God works in mysterious ways.

  Stan thought back on the choices he made, and those that were made for him. He thought about his high school journalism teacher, who had given him a B- when he wrote an essay on the 1951 pennant race worthy of a doctoral dissertation. She called it “trite.” She could have given him the push he needed towards a career in writing. Instead she kicked him off the student newspaper.

  He thought about his years at the USC Film School. His baseball career and the responsibilities of marriage had derailed his screenwriting aspirations. He thought about opportunity, failure and disappointment. He thought about his beautiful daughter, ripped from him by his fat, evil ex-wife.

  Dammit, he thought, I’m gonna do something for me.

  Stan was 30 years old. He was ready suck it up and move back in with his parents in Palos Verdes Estates. He would try to sell his Belinsky script, and create a body of work in Hollywood. Before doing that, however, Stan made a fateful phone call to Brad Cooper’s brother, Darren.

  Darren was also living in New York City. He had tried to make it as an actor, but found that his real talents were in organizing, bringing people together, and raising money. In other words, producing. He had been at USC’s drama school when Stan was in the film school, and had read one of Stan’s student scripts. He read his Belinsky script and was impressed. Darren then said the words that made Stan want to kiss him.

  “Listen,” he told Stan. “If you’d consider staying in New York I have an opportunity for you. I’ve raised some dough for a stage play. I’m going to produce it Off-Broadway and if it has any success, take it on the road. It’s about a southwestern cop who kills a family for contract, then tells the story to a writer. The writer writes it into a screenplay, and it becomes a big hit with Hollywood. Sort of ‘True West’ meets ‘Natural Born Killers’. I can pay you fifteen hundred a month to write it and put you up at my place.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Stan.

  Darren had an apartment near Little Italy with two floors. The top floor was his office, which he converted into Stan’s bedroom. They shared the apartment’s bathroom and kitchen quarters. It was a very pleasant time for Stan. Writing the play gave him a chance to think about things other than failing in business, not to mention Dan’s $100,000 down the tubes. Then there was his own debt, which he had to service. He never would tell his father about that.

  Every time Stan walked out of the apartment, he felt like he was on the set of a Marty Scorsese film. He made do with the $1500 a month salary because he completely cut out all the nightlife that had dominated most of his sports agent experience. All he did was write, in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night.

  “I’ve never seen a writer like you,” said Darren. “Every writer I know invents a million and one excuses not to write. You have no fear of writing. I think you’re the first writer I ever met who likes to write. Actually likes it.”

  “I love it,” said Stan.

  “Killer” was written in a month a half and attracted an excellent cast. The lead, an Okie psychopath named Jason, was a meaty, machismo role for any male actor. Then Stan stepped forward.

  “I think I could play Jason,” he announced.

  Darren laughed.

  “Writers write,” he said. “Actors act. Producers produce. Directors direct.”

  “Horseshit,” said Stan.

  As a lark, Darren let Stan read for the role. Stan nailed it.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Darren. “Where’d you learn how to act?”

  “With your brother,” said Stan, “screwing around like dumbasses while you were being all efficient and shit.”

  “You got the role,” said Darren.

  “Killer” opened at the SoHo Playhouse to solid reviews. After five months, it went on the road. It’s first non-New York production was at the tiny Coast Playhouse in Los Angeles. Darren and Stan packed the house with hometown friends. Among the audience was Darren’s brother, Brad. Brad had established himself as a television star on a French detective show called “Stingray”, in which he played a Tom Selleck-type American private detective who helps the gendarmes solve various crimes, usually involving jewel heists and the like.

  When the curtain went up, Brad came backstage to congratulate his brother and his best friend on their successful play. They headed out to the Rainbow, got roaring drunk and chased girls, just like the old days.

  After the pretty Hispanic bartender at the Rainbow refused their final, desperate advances, kicking them out because the bar was closed, Brad and Stan hauled their intoxicated selves to the International House of Pancakes on Hollowell. Sitting there eating fajitas and drinking coffee, Brad then brought up a subject that had been on his mind for a while.

  “I want to ask you about something,” he told Stan.