Double Switch
Page 1
Also by T. T. Monday
The Setup Man
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Nick Taylor
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd., Toronto.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Cover illustration: ball © Nikita Chisnikov/Shutterstock; bullet holes © sugardragon/Shutterstock.com
Cover design Michael Windsor
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Monday, T. T., [date]
Double switch : a novel / T. T. Monday. — First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-385-53995-1 (hardcover) ISBN 978-0-385-53996-8 (eBook)
I. Title.
PS3620.A95945D68 2016
813'.6—dc23
2015029322
eBook ISBN 9780385539968
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Also by T. T. Monday
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Paul Taylor, an old southpaw
1
The girl reporter stands outside the bullpen gate. She’s wearing a coral sleeveless jumper, belted at the waist, with vertical pleats that wink open across the chest. Yellow curls fall on suntanned shoulders. A laminated identification card hangs on a lanyard around her neck. All the regional cable networks now have on-field correspondents, usually young women, who interview players and coaches between innings for a little added color. In my experience, they are polite and knowledgeable about the game, but my experience is limited. Field reporters tend to have little interest in relief pitchers.
“Dugout’s that way,” I holler through the gate. Here in San José, the bullpens are behind the outfield fence, three hundred feet from the rest of the team. This is where I spend my time, working through buckets of sunflower seeds with the other relievers, waiting for the manager to call. Tonight’s game ended half an hour ago, and the concrete floor under the bullpen bench is covered in seed hulls, tobacco spit, and trampled Gatorade cups. The crowd has gone home. My teammates are down in the clubhouse, dressing for the flight to Denver. We start a three-game series against the Rockies tomorrow afternoon. I will join them in a minute, but first I’m enjoying a moment of peace and quiet. An empty bullpen is the closest thing I have to an office.
The reporter smiles. She has straight teeth and shallow blue eyes—pretty, but not stopping traffic. She looks familiar, even though I’m sure we haven’t met. She must be with the visiting club.
“Adcock, right? May I come in?”
“Where’s the camera guy?”
“No camera tonight. I just need some quotes.”
I look at the clock on the scoreboard. “I can give you five minutes.”
“That will be plenty of time, thanks.”
I open the gate. Her perfume is light and fruity, citrus with a hint of musk. She ducks under my arm. “You’re the detective, right?”
I pull the gate closed but don’t respond right away. Over the last decade I’ve developed a reputation for solving problems. Players come to me with cheating wives, gambling debts—issues that need resolution but which they’d prefer not to take to the police. Sometimes the work is easy. Sometimes all it takes is a couple of phone calls. A couple of times it’s almost taken my life. One morning last season, while my teammates were taping their ankles and stretching out their hamstrings in an air-conditioned major-league clubhouse, I was on my knees in a warehouse in Tijuana, facing the dark asshole of a nine-millimeter pistol. I thought I was punched out for sure, but I lived. Didn’t even miss the game.
My services aren’t just for players. I’ve helped coaches, clubhouse guys, even a couple of front-office personnel. Never a TV reporter, though.
“Am I the detective? I guess that depends who’s asking.”
“I’m Tiff Tate.” She puts out her right hand.
I pause. “The stylist?”
“We had to meet eventually, don’t you think?”
Tiff Tate is a major operator behind the scenes in Major League Baseball, right up there with the superagents and the major-market GMs. In exchange for a fee rumored to be in the mid−six figures, Tiff designs a custom on-field look for each of her clients, making recommendations on everything from uniform styling and grooming to the song that plays when he walks up to bat. In an era when star athletes can earn several times their annual salary in endorsements, Tiff was one of the first consultants to recognize the primacy of an athlete’s image, the importance of building a unique and marketable persona. She works hand in glove with the companies her clients endorse; in fact, many of her clients come to her through contacts at apparel companies. In Boston, where she is based, she created the original Caveman look for Johnny Damon and helped David Ortiz upgrade his jewelry from a cross on a skinny chain to the ropy bling you now see him wearing in postgame interviews. Lately she has been focusing her practice on beards. I’ve been told she was the architect of the “Fear the Beard” campaign that propelled Brian Wilson and the Giants to the 2010 World Series title. The year before, Wilson had been a good-but-not-great closer with a balky right arm and pretty eyes. After consulting with Tiff Tate, he was the heart of a championship club. Her work is legendary, lucrative, and highly confidential. Few players admit to using her services, but it’s not hard to guess who they are.
“When did you become a reporter?” I ask.
“You mean this?” She lifts the laminated ID off her chest. The name reads AMANDA HUTCHINS. “This is just my ticket to the bullpen.”
“I wasn’t aware you needed a ticket.”
She shrugs. “I wanted to meet you—and I’ve never tried the reporter look.” She lays her head back and shakes out her mane. “So far I like it.”
“Well, I’m grateful that you made the effort, but I’m happy with my look.”
In a glance, she sizes me up: a thirty-six-year-old white man, six two and 190 pounds. Slate-colored eyes, straight nose, a hint of gray at the temples. No facial hair. No jewelry of any kind, not even a tan line from a wedding ring (that faded years ago). White baseball pan
ts loose to the ankles. Blue undershirt. San José Bay Dogs jersey number 39.
“What I mean to say is, thanks, but I don’t need you.”
“Right,” she comes back, “I need you.”
“How’s that?”
“Did I forget the code word? My understanding is that you solve problems.”
“I used to.” It’s June, two and a half months into the season, and I haven’t worked a case all year. I’ve had plenty of inquiries, mostly matrimonial work, but I’ve turned them all down. My appetite for cheating wives has vanished. There’s no mystery to it: the owner of the aforementioned nine was a player’s wife.
“You can talk,” I say, “but I’m not promising anything.”
Tiff Tate nods. “It’s about Yonel Ruiz.”
Now she has my attention. Ruiz, the Colorado Rockies’ rookie outfielder, is the story of the year, a Cuban defector who escaped the island in a Zodiac powerboat, hidden under a tarp with a couple of political refugees and a Santería priest. Just making land was a triumph, but Ruiz has done more than that. He’s absolutely crushing the ball, on pace to hit thirty-five homers and drive in 120 runs in his first major-league season. He also steals bases at will and cuts down runners from right field like an army sniper. So far, no opposing pitcher has figured him out. The scouting line is nothing more than wishful thinking. The man swings the bat like a maniac, like each plate appearance could be his last. Which makes sense, given what he’s been through.
Cuba is hemorrhaging ballplayers. The real exodus started in the early nineties, after the Soviet Union fell apart and the island became desperately poor. As I remember it, the first defectors to make a serious impact in the major leagues were Liván Hernández and his brother Orlando, aka “El Duque.” With their All-Star résumés and paychecks full of zeroes, Liván and El Duque inspired other Cubans to make the leap. The trickle became a flood, and now it seems like every club has one or two on the roster. The Tigers’ All-Star left fielder is cubano, as is the White Sox’s first baseman, the Reds’ closer, and half the Yankees’ rotation. It’s hard to believe there are any talented players left in Havana. Major League Baseball has been lobbying in Washington to have the visa rules relaxed, or at least to have ballplayers separated from cigars and other Cuban produce regulated by the trade embargo. The current compromise requires that clubs pay a luxury tax if they exceed a spending cap on Cuban players. Bidding wars have driven salaries to eight figures with mind-blowing frequency. Then again, guys like José Abreu, Aroldis Chapman, and Yonel Ruiz keep delivering the goods. I hesitate to use the word “obsessed,” but I’ve been following the Cuban thing very closely, as have most American players.
“I’m listening,” I say.
“Can I assume this conversation is confidential?”
I toe the dirt. “Sure, why not?”
“Yonel’s people came to see me about six months ago. This was right after he arrived in the U.S. I told them I would do a consultation, but they had to respect my rules. The sessions had to be private, just me and him. No managers or agents in the room.”
“They wanted to watch?”
“I have to protect my intellectual property. If I let them watch, I’d have Scott Boras on the phone asking for the same privilege.”
“You can’t have that.”
“Not at all. So I met with Yonel, and he turned out to be a real pleasure. His style presented itself right away, a kind of Caribbean night horse with MMA appeal. Chin beard, zircon studs, Hong Kong gangster ink…” She ticks off the menu on the fingers of her left hand.
I picture the muscle-bound slugger in the batter’s box, coiled arms heaving, sweat glistening on his sharp facial hair. “You did well,” I say.
“Thanks. With most of my clients, I have monthly check-ins where I perform adjustments, maybe add a piercing or change the color of the undershirt, that sort of thing. You need to evolve the look. Anyway, during one of these visits Yonel asks if he can tell me something. He has these really dark, sad eyes….”
“ ‘Sad’ isn’t the word I’d use. But okay.”
“He tells me he’s being blackmailed by the Venezuelans who smuggled him out of Cuba.”
“Venezuelans, huh?”
“They control the Caribbean smuggling racket.”
“I’ve heard it’s lucrative.”
“What else have you heard?”
“Just that it costs an arm and a leg to get off the island, and that half the time you get caught by the Coast Guard or the Cuban authorities, and there are no refunds or rain checks.”
The previous winter, after Ruiz established residency in Mexico, the Rockies signed him for six years and fifty million dollars—at the time the largest deal ever for a Cuban defector. Everyone said it was a foolish move for the club. Now the same people are saying Ruiz should have held out for more.
“Honestly,” I say, “if clubs weren’t paying these guys so much, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Tiff eyes me. “His family is being held at gunpoint in Havana. As soon as Ruiz signed the contract, the Venezuelans seized them as collateral. They’ve been unable to leave the house for months.”
“What’s the ransom?”
“Originally it was a million, then they raised it to five, then ten, then twenty. Eventually, they decided to take it all.”
“But it’s a six-year deal,” I say. “He doesn’t get the whole amount up front.”
“They know that. They’re asking him to have his salary paid into an account they control. They already take his endorsement money that way.”
“How do they expect him to live?”
“He’ll have an allowance. Enough to keep up appearances.”
“Did they set an ultimatum?”
“Two weeks. If they don’t get confirmation from the bank next payday, they start shooting the family. They have his parents, his siblings, his wife, their little daughter….” She’s upset, maybe more upset than you’d expect a consultant to be over a client’s personal troubles.
“Help me understand,” I say. “You’re here out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Yonel is a friend. Have you ever helped a friend?”
“So why didn’t he come to see me himself? Everyone in baseball knows what I do.”
“He can’t. He isn’t allowed to speak with anyone outside the Rockies organization—no reporters, no fans, not even players from other teams. The only person he’s allowed to see privately is me, and that’s only because the smugglers are convinced that they need me in order to maximize their investment.”
“You know I don’t have any strings to pull with the Venezuelan Mafia.”
“Of course not. I just need you to find them.”
“Ruiz must know who they are.”
Tiff shakes her head slowly. “These guys are sophisticated. It’s a blind hierarchy all the way to the top. The men in the Zodiac boat hand you off to operatives on the shore in Mexico, who give you to the immigration expediters, and so on. At some point you pass over into the legitimate world. Yonel’s agent is with IMG.”
“The agent is involved?”
“Not directly. The Venezuelans pass him messages through a go-between. The shepherds in the U.S. never show themselves. Yonel gets calls from untraceable numbers, unsigned notes in his hotel room.”
“Can I see the notes?”
Tiff frowns, as though it hadn’t occurred to her that I might want to examine the evidence. “I’ll ask Yonel to bring them next time we meet.”
“Tell me more about the phone calls. Is that how he received the threat about his family?”
“I think so. I mean, that’s how they communicate.”
Something doesn’t feel right here. God knows I’m sympathetic to Ruiz’s situation, but if I were in trouble that deep, there’s no way I would trust my salvation to a stylist with a vague grasp on the facts.
I can’t decide how I feel about Tiff Tate. On the one hand, she’s obviously in the snake-oil game. Monthly fi
ne-tuning for a beard and advice on how to wear your pants? Who is she kidding? She’s exploiting ballplayers every bit as much as these Venezuelan coyotes. And she’s a liar—or at least she’s comfortable doing business in a disguise. On the other hand, I like her attitude. Most people, ordinary citizens, regard Major League Baseball with a reverence bordering on foolishness. They believe an institution so old and storied must be honest at its core. Even after the ’94 strike, even after steroids, they continue to believe. Baseball is the drunken uncle America keeps inviting back to Thanksgiving, even though we know he’s going to puke and pass out on the floor. I like that Tiff isn’t averting her eyes.
“Call the police,” I tell her. “As long as Ruiz is here legally, I don’t see any reason they couldn’t help him out.”
“The police? You think the Denver police can just push their way into Cuba and fix this?”
“Not the Denver police. I’m talking about FBI, ICE, one of those federal agencies.”
Tiff pushes out her jaw. “Maybe Yonel was right.”
“About what?”
“We should have called Jim Feldspar.”
Feldspar is Major League Baseball’s new Director of Personnel Security, a position created last off-season by the commissioner’s office, ostensibly to assist players in their dealings with the law—and also, I have to believe, to keep an eye on us. Feldspar is a former player whose pro career fizzled out in the minors. That’s usually the beginning of a sad biography ending with an hourly job in a sporting-goods store, but Feldspar reinvented himself after baseball. He joined the Secret Service and spent twenty years protecting presidents and their families before circling back to his first vocation. We’ve never met, but I have his number on the back of my stadium keycard, placed there by the clubhouse staff during spring training, on a sticker with the innocuous label MLB HELPLINE. Rumor has it that, in the few months Feldspar has been on the job, he has already hushed up half a dozen DUIs and at least one concealed-weapons charge. Nice work, if it’s true.