“Show me a rich sportswriter, someday,” Buddy said. “I got a National League team halfway between Boston and New York. Lot of people like National League ball, but all they got is the Sox and the Yankees. The Nutmegs are a natural rival for the Mets. Look at a map. They can draw on all of Connecticut and Western Mass and Eastern New York State. Once I make them good, they’ll pull in people from Vermont, Rhode Island.”
“You seem to have done some homework, too,” I said.
“I didn’t get this rich by being stupid,” he said. “Nothing generates fan interest like a winning club. And I’ll get there.”
He put the end of a french fry into the pool of catsup on his plate and stirred it a little before he bit off the catsup end.
“I told my front-office people to go get me the players we need, whatever it takes.” He pointed at me with the truncated french fry. “But I need to generate a little interest while we’re getting good.”
I nodded. I had been with Buddy Bollen for two and a half hours. My teeth hurt.
“So,” Buddy said. “Sunny. Here’s the deal. You seen Erin Flint; she did all her own stunts in that movie.”
“It looked like she did,” I said.
“She’s an athlete,” Buddy said. “World-class. She was track and field in college, threw the javelin, and basketball and softball. Lettered in all of them.”
“I used to row,” I said.
“Yeah? We’re in post now on Erin’s new picture, biography of Babe Didrikson.”
He paused long enough for me to gasp with excitement. But I couldn’t muster it. I nodded.
“You know who she was?”
“Great female athlete,” I said.
“The female Jim Thorpe. Played baseball, everything. Exhibition games against major leaguers she was great. Hit home runs—amazing woman.”
“And Erin is playing her.”
“Who better,” Buddy said. “Her sports achievements, her romance with George Zaharias. It’s going to rock.”
“Who plays Zaharias?” I said, just as if I cared.
“Ben,” he said. “Isn’t that great?”
“Ben?”
“Ben Affleck. The chemistry between them. Don’t sit too close to the screen. You know?”
“Wasn’t Zaharias a professional wrestler?” I said. “Huge?”
“Ben plays big,” Buddy said.
“Of course,” I said.
“So here’s the kicker,” Buddy said. “You’re going to love this. I’m going to sign Erin to play center field for us.”
“Us?”
“The Nutmegs.”
“Erin Flint?”
“She can do it,” Buddy said. “You should see her. She looks like Willie Mays out there.”
“Willie Mays,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“You really think she can play in the big leagues?” I said.
“You better believe it, Sunny. I’m announcing the week after the World Series. Give the talk shows a chance to hype it all winter.”
“You think there will be any sort of negative reaction.”
“Hell, it’ll be like Jackie Robinson. Of course there will be. That’s part of the beauty of it. But I’ll be on the side of the angels all the way.”
“You think she’ll be in any danger?”
“That’s where you come in,” Buddy said.
“I’m supposed to protect her?”
“You’re the one, Sunny.”
“How about all the security people here?” I said.
“They’re men. Erin wants a woman. You can go places with her where men aren’t supposed to go. And Erin’s a, ah, whatchmacallit, a feminist.”
“And how did you choose me?” I said.
“I had you checked out. I liked what I learned.”
“Thanks.”
“And part of the job, of course, is to keep Erin in line.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s kind of, ah, headstrong. Sometimes she forgets that she’s a public figure now.”
“Does she drink?” I said.
“Not enough to worry about,” Buddy said.
“Drugs?”
“God no. No drugs. No red meat. Her body’s a freakin’ temple, you know?”
“Sex?”
“Hey, Sunny. She’s my girlfriend.”
“I know. But I’m just trying to figure out what I should prevent her from doing.”
“She represents me and Buddyboll, and she’s the short-term salvation of the Nutmegs,” Buddy said. “She can’t embarrass me, or the company, or the ball club.”
“And if she starts to, I’ll know it when I see it, and stop her before she does.”
“On the money, Sunny.”
Buddy hee-hee’d with pleasure at his rhyme.
“You want the job?”
“Sure,” I said.
3
BACK IN my loft I gave Rosie her supper, poured myself a glass of heart-healthy wine, and called Tony Gault in LA, where it was still only three o’clock.
“Sunny Randall,” he said. “Good memories.”
“Me too.”
“You ever think about the fact that Sunny rhymes with money, and Randall rhymes with scandal?”
“No,” I said.
“Which is why I’m a big-deal Hollywood agent, and you’re a small-town gumshoe. What’s your best memory?”
“How you couldn’t unfasten a bra,” I said.
“Okay,” Tony said, “sure. But once we got past that…”
“Not bad,” I said. “I need a little information.”
“You called the right man,” he said. “Lay it on me.”
“Erin Flint,” I said.
He laughed.
“Woman Warrior,” he said.
“I saw the movie,” I said.
“The full title, not Woman Warrior: The Final Battle, or Woman Warrior: The Return, or Woman Warrior: The Ultimate Evil?”
“Nope, just Woman Warrior,” I said.
Rosie gave a nasty, demanding yap. She was in front of me, staring at me with a laserlike accusation. After she ate supper she got two rice crackers for dessert. I had forgotten them.
“What the hell is that?” Tony said. “You still have that overgrown guinea pig?”
“My Rosie,” I said. “Wait a minute, I forgot her dessert.”
I went and got two crackers and gave them to her one at a time, adroitly, without losing a finger.
“There,” I said to Tony. “I gather then that Erin has made several Warrior Woman movies.”
“Yeah, sure, it’s a huge television franchise. She does a couple a year.”
“The movie was awful,” I said.
“Yeah, and so is she. But people love her.”
“She’s something to look at,” I said.
“Too big and sinewy for me,” Tony said. “She appeals to guys who like to be spanked.”
“I understand she has a new picture coming, a feature about Babe Didrikson.”
“Yeah, she’s been banging the producer, who, now that I think, is from out your way.”
“Buddy Bollen.”
“That’s right, by God you are a detective. Anyway, he’s spent a fortune, which I gather he can spare, on the movie and will spend another fortune promoting it.”
“That’s what I was hoping for when I took up with you,” I said.
“And instead you got ecstasy.”
“Or something,” I said. “Is there buzz on the movie?”
“Sure,” Tony said. “It’s a given, of course, that Erin Flint is an Olympic-level fucking pain in the ass.”
“Artistic temperaments can be hard,” I said.
“Artistic?” Tony said. “Artistic is a joke word out here anyway, and in Erin’s case deserves to be. She’s got the artistic sensibility of a horseshoe crab. For Christ’s sake, she thinks she’s important.”
“Of course she does,” I said. “Everyone tells her she is.”
“But nobod
y means it,” Tony said.
“You represent her?”
“Hell, no,” Tony said. “She’s in the life’s too short folder. We represent the director.”
“He happy?” I said.
“No.”
“Is she as good an athlete as they say?”
“I heard she was,” Tony said. “She does most of her own stunts except the dangerous stuff. She’s the franchise, they don’t let her do dangerous stuff.”
Rosie came over and glared at me again and did another hideous yap.
“Excuse me,” I said to Tony and put the phone down and spread my hands firmly as if I was making a safe sign, and said, “That’s it!”
Rosie looked at me silently for a moment. Can’t blame a girl for trying. Then she turned away and jumped up on the couch, made several circles, and lay down.
“Have you heard anything about her playing baseball?”
“Baseball?”
“Men’s major-league baseball,” I said.
“Nope, haven’t heard that. But Buddy’s got a team, right?”
“Tony, you amaze me,” I said. “Nothing startles you.”
“I’m a Hollywood agent,” he said. “And it makes a kind of perverted Hollywood sense. The movie will promote the baseball team, and the team will promote the movie. And she’ll be the star of each. Man, talk about synergy.”
“You think it will work?”
“No, of course not. But everyone out here will think it’s smart, until it all tanks, and then they’ll deride the whole idea.”
“What would make it work?” I said.
“Good movie, good team,” Tony said.
“And both depend on Erin,” I said.
“Tank City,” Tony said. “What’s your interest.”
I told him. As I talked, I heard him laughing softly.
“What?” I said.
“I’m just wondering whether you’ll shoot her or not before it’s over.”
“She’s that bad?” I said.
Tony was quiet for a moment at his end of the line. When he spoke again, the laughter was still in his voice.
“Unlike you and me,” he said, “you and Erin are not a good match.”
4
BUDDY BOLLEN brought Erin Flint to my loft in South Boston. I watched out my window as the limo pulled up and a black Expedition pulled up behind it. A member of the Blue Blazer Corps got out and opened the door and Buddy got out with Erin Flint. They walked across the walk and into the front door of my building, and shortly thereafter into my loft.
Wow.
She was everything she was supposed to be and more. She was actually taller and better-looking in person, with great hair and perfect skin. She towered over Buddy Bollen. And, sadly, me. Rosie got off my bed and came trotting down to see who was there.
“Hi,” I said to Erin, “I’m Sunny Randall.”
“You’ll have to put that dog somewhere,” Erin said. “I don’t like dogs.”
“Her name is Rosie,” I said. “She lives here.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Erin said, “if her name is Oprah Winfrey, I don’t want her around me.”
“Then go outside and sit in the car,” I said.
Erin stared at me as if I had spoken Algonquin. Then she stared at Buddy. Then she looked at me again.
“Do you know who I am?” she said.
I wasn’t sure I had ever heard that actually spoken aloud before. Rosie apparently sensed the absence of simpatico and went back to my bed and jumped up and began to scratch up a nice lie-down spot on my bed.
“Well, do you?” Erin said.
“I do know who you are,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“Well, are you going to put the dog someplace?” Erin said.
“No.”
“Erin,” Buddy said.
“Fuck you,” she said to me. “I’m out of here.”
Buddy stood in the doorway. He looked like a dumpling blocking her way.
“I want you to stay here, Erin,” Buddy said.
“Get out of my way,” Erin said.
On the bed, Rosie was lying with her head on her front paws, watching us beadily with her black, oval eyes.
“Shut up,” Buddy said. “You’re staying.”
Erin seemed to stiffen. She didn’t look at me.
“Sit down,” Buddy said, and pointed to one of the chairs at my table by the window.
Erin seemed frozen.
“Now,” Buddy said.
Erin turned suddenly and walked quickly to the chair and sat down. Buddy gestured me toward another chair with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm.
“No,” I said. “You take that one. I’ll sit here.”
He smiled at me.
“Establishing your turf early, Sunny?”
“I like to sit here,” I said.
Buddy sat across from Erin. Erin was rigid in her chair. Staring at nothing. I sat on a stool and rested my elbows on the kitchen counter.
“Erin’s an artist,” Buddy said. “She has an artistic temperament. It’s part of what makes her Erin, but it needs to be guided.”
Rosie apparently sensed that the action was over and the rest would be blah, blah. She still lay on the bed with her nose pointed toward us and her chin on her paws. But her eyes were closed. I envied her.
“I don’t like dogs,” Erin said.
“I explained the plan to you, Sunny,” Buddy said. “And we agreed that Erin needed somebody to help her concentrate on what she needs to do.”
“And that person has to be a woman.”
“Men are good for fucking,” Erin said. “And not much else.”
“Some men,” I said.
Erin’s face brightened stiffly.
“Yeah, lot of them aren’t good for anything,” she said.
I smiled at Buddy. He didn’t appear offended.
“So I hope you folks can work together. My people tell me you’re the best woman I can get to do this work.”
“Good help is hard to find,” I said.
“So talk to each other,” Buddy said. “I want this to work.”
“Okay,” I said. “First things first. If you get me, you get Rosie. You don’t have to love her. But you have to be nice to her.”
“I don’t like dogs,” Erin said.
She had not looked at me since Buddy had intervened.
“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s a package. Rosie and me, or nothing.”
Erin didn’t speak.
“That’s fine,” Buddy said. “We can live with that.”
“Good,” I said. “And I’ll need some reassurance that in matters of security, my judgment prevails.”
“I don’t want her telling me what to do,” Erin said to Buddy.
“I will try to do what’s in your best interest,” I said to Erin. “And, if I take the job, I do not wish to be fighting with you every day.”
“Of course,” Buddy said. “That’s fair.”
“Do you have any questions?” I said to Erin.
She finally looked at me again.
“Are you married?”
“Not at present,” I said.
“Got a boyfriend?”
“Not at present,” I said.
“You live alone?”
“With Rosie,” I said.
“You straight?” she said.
“Yes.”
She nodded as if all that was crucial.
“You don’t look very tough to me,” she said.
“It depends on your definition,” I said. “If you mean can I swap punches with a two-hundred-pound man who knows how to fight? No. If you mean could I shoot him if needed? You bet.”
“You have a gun.”
“Yes.”
She was silent.
After a time, she said, “You ever shoot anybody?”
“Yes.”
Again she was silent. During the silent periods she would look away. She made eye contact when she spoke.
“You date
much?” she said.
“Sufficient to my needs,” I said.
“Do you have sex?”
I smiled and didn’t answer. I understood that Erin thought she was supposed to ask questions and she was asking the only ones she could think of.
“You have been married, though?”
“Yes.”
“Divorced.”
“Yes.”
“They’re bastards, aren’t they.”
“Richie wasn’t a bastard,” I said.
“So how come he dumped you?”
“Nobody dumped anybody,” I said. “We just couldn’t make it work and we finally gave up.”
Buddy was fidgeting in his chair.
“So, Sunny,” he said. “You ready to start?”
“I can’t wait,” I said.
5
ERIN LIVED with Buddy Bollen at SeaChase, and while she was there she was protected by Buddy’s security people. When she left I went with her, and some of her staff joined us. It took a considerable staff to help her be Erin Flint. She had a personal assistant, a personal trainer, a personal nutritionist, a chef, a publicist, a hairdresser, a makeup artist, a nurse/EMT…and me. Everyone but me occupied a wing of SeaChase, next to the gym. Every day she went to Taft University and worked in the indoor cage with a hitting instructor Buddy had requisitioned from the Connecticut Nutmegs.
Today, like most days, I sat in the stands near an indoor batting cage and watched Erin work with the hitting instructor. Erin’s personal assistant, Misty Tyler, was on one side of me. And her personal trainer, a woman named Robbie, sat on the other side of me. A kid who had pitched for Taft the previous season was pitching to her, and a lean, bald guy with big hands was standing outside the wire batting cage, watching. His name was Roy Linden.
“Don’t pull off the inside pitch,” he said.
Erin wore a tight-fitting black tank top and white short shorts and some sort of spiked baseball shoes. She had on gloves and a blue bandana folded and tied around her head as a sweatband.
“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Erin said. “Tell him not to throw it inside, Roy.”
“Remember what I told you about clearing your hips,” Roy said.
“So how do I do that without bailing out?”
“Don’t clear with your feet,” he said. “Look.”
He stood outside the batting cage with a bat and showed her.
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