Double Switch

by T. T. Monday

  Sorry, safety. Sorry, Connie.

  I hit a batter today—and now this?

  I’m a bad man.

  13

  I leave the ballpark at five, after telling every reporter who asks what I told Skipper a few hours before: It was an accident. The ball slipped. If you repeat a line often enough, you start to believe it yourself. I walk out of there feeling wrongfully accused.

  The case is heating up. I want to check in with Tiff before this meeting tonight. I’ve found that if you don’t update your clients regularly—even if you have nothing major to report—they start arriving at their own conclusions, and that can be disastrous. When I first started doing matrimonial cases, I had a client, a teammate, who hadn’t heard from me in a week, so he decided to take matters into his own hands. He sneaked into the house and kidnapped his own children while his wife was taking a nap. As you’d expect, she freaked out and called the cops, who tracked him down at a nearby motel and led him away in cuffs. So, yeah—update your clients. Just do it.

  I dial Tiff, and she answers on the first ring.

  “I spoke with Ruiz this morning,” I tell her.

  “Not over the phone,” she says. “Come to the airport. I’m at General Aviation.”

  I’m surprised that she’s in Denver, until I remember what she did to Thick Will.

  “Great. I’ll get an Uber.”

  “No need. I’ll send my driver.”

  “You have a driver in Denver?”

  Tiff laughs. “I have a man in every port. Does that shock you? Are you scandalized?”

  “A little,” I admit. “I realize it’s a double standard.”

  She tells me a hostess in the GA terminal will escort me out to the plane. “Ask for John Rockenbush,” she says.

  “Who’s Rockenbush?”

  “Nobody. It’s just a name I use.”

  Just a name? I’m sorry, but “John Rockenbush” is just a name like “Doug Fister” is just a name. And “Antonio Bastardo.” And “Brad Peacock.” You’d think if she was looking for cover she would have chosen something more pedestrian, like “Tom Smith.” But this is Tiff Tate we’re talking about. I’m quickly learning that character is everything to her.

  Speaking of names, I’m eager to start digging on Pascual Alcalá. While I’m waiting for Tiff’s car to show up, I call Anibal Martín, the Bay Dogs’ Cuban scout. Don Anibal was a big star on the Cuban national team in the heady days after the revolution, and his name still carries weight in certain circles. He’s tight with the officials in the visa office, and he has been helpful on more than one occasion having nothing to do with scouting talent. The phone rings intermittently for nearly a minute—love those communist phone lines—before he answers.

  “Vale!” he grunts. I picture him sitting with his feet up on a scarred wooden desk, a fat stogie dangling from his tobacco-stained lip. Maybe there’s a girl in the kneehole? He’s an ugly old bastard, but you never know.

  “This is Johnny Adcock,” I say in Spanish. “Is this Don Anibal?”

  “Fucking Adcock! How the fuck are you, little cunt?”

  We’ve met in person only once. Martín talks to everyone like this, one reason the organization has never offered him a Stateside job. I’ve always found him delightful—a throwback to the days when front-office personnel were a little less impressed with their own importance—but I have a weakness for Spanish profanities.

  “Not bad, my friend. You?”

  “Same shit. Maybe a little worse, because I’m getting old. For the last six months, my rod won’t stand up straight. It curves to the side like a shepherd’s crook. That ever happen to you? No—you’re far too young!”

  “I’m not so young anymore, Don Anibal.”

  “Not like me, coño. You’ll see, one day!”

  We share a laugh. Martín coughs, hacks up some phlegm, then comes back. “So what’s on your mind, turkeydick?”

  “I have a favor to ask. Have you ever heard of a player named Pascual Alcalá?”

  “Alcalá? Maybe. What’s the first name again?”

  “Pascual.”

  “An Easter baby, huh? I don’t know the name, but I’ll check it out. Give me a couple days?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  I give him some gossip about the front office in San José, and he reciprocates with a detailed anatomical description of Raúl Castro’s new twenty-six-year-old mistress, a former volleyball star who evidently makes Sofía Vergara look like Bea Arthur. Before we hang up, I instruct him to write down my cell number and read it back twice.

  I have one more call to make. This one I’ve been dreading. I feel bad for breaking tonight’s date with Connie, but I’ve decided it’s better than just standing her up.

  “Listen,” I say when she picks up. “I have some bad news. Something came up, and I can’t make dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for telling me.”

  “That’s it? I thought you’d be pissed.”

  “You mean because you’re calling at five o’clock to cancel?”

  Ouch. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We’re still on for July?”

  She has been planning to come to San José during the All-Star break. “Of course. I can’t wait.”

  “Me, neither. Take care, John.”

  I barely have time to dwell on the chilliness of her sign-off—“Take care”?—before Tiff’s driver pulls into the players’ lot. Behind the wheel of a black Town Car sits a man about my age with curly ginger hair and a pale, freckled complexion. He looks like a grown-up Ron Weasley. The window inches down and he says, “Mr. Adcock? I’m Keith. Miss Tate says hello. Get in.”

  14

  Twenty minutes later, Keith leaves me at the door of Denver International’s general-aviation terminal, a place I know from dozens of team charter flights. In many ways, I prefer the commercial terminal to the GA, because there are better stores and real people. Private-jet patrons are either rich or robotic, and they want to pretend that they’re alone, traveling in a hydraulic tube where the rest of the world does not exist. There are no distractions in the GA terminal, no TVs or communal waiting areas. On the commercial side, you have crying babies and other annoyances, but it’s far more colorful and fun. On the GA side, a sports team is about the most colorful group you’re going to see.

  As promised, the terminal’s receptionist escorts me to a plane parked about fifty yards from the building. At the base of the jet’s stairs, we’re met by a tight little blonde with enormous eyes. She has the powerful but girlish mien of an Olympic gymnast, with a well-muscled undercarriage packed into a pair of pin-striped slacks. Her chest is as flat as a boy’s under a cream-colored cashmere sweater.

  The blonde smiles warmly at the receptionist, as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

  “My name is Erica. I’ll be caring for you and Miss Tate tonight.” The way she says “you and Miss Tate” makes it sound like we’re a couple. I wonder if this is part of the script. “Miss Tate is in her stateroom. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

  “Soda water with lime, if you have it.”

  At the top of the stairs, I duck to enter the plane. The main cabin is surprisingly generic. I would have expected Tiff to decorate, or at least add some mood lighting. The walls and carpet are a bland beige, and the seats are the same gray leather recliners you see in off-the-shelf corporate jets. Maybe she’s worried about resale value.

  Erica invites me to sit, and I flip through the magazines on the galley table: Sports Illustrated, GQ, Black Tail, and Hustler. Thoughtful selections. Tiff knows her clientele.

  Erica delivers my soda in a chilled highball glass.

  “Erica,” I say. “That’s a flower, isn’t it?”

  Call it a dirty trick, but I’ve made it a point to remember not only names but also their meanings. I know which are flowers, which are colors, which are saints, and so on. It’s not all that complicated; I�
�m surprised more guys don’t make the effort.

  “That’s right,” Erica says. “Most people assume it’s the female version of ‘Eric,’ but actually it’s ‘heather’ in Latin.”

  “Heather in Latin. I like that.”

  She smiles. “It’s my e-mail address.”

  “At Gmail?”

  She shoots me a look that says she knows what I’m doing. “How about you? What does your name mean?”

  “What, ‘John’? Pretty sure it just means ‘man.’ Maybe ‘ordinary man.’ ”

  “I meant ‘Adcock.’ ”

  “Oh, that I’d have to show you. But not here.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. This Erica has the routine down pat. I change my mind about Tiff’s decor: the furniture may be boring, but she did the important things right.

  A door opens in the wood-paneled rear wall, and Tiff walks out. It appears that the rumor about her mutability is true—she looks completely different from when we met in the bullpen in San José. Today her hair is black, pulled tight, and mounted atop her head in a neat chignon. A red silk flower rests behind her right ear. Her skin is much paler than I remember, although the blood-red lipstick helps with that. Her black gypsy dress, which flows all the way to the floor, has ruffles at the shoulders and a scoop-neck décolletage. Her perfume smells vaguely of grapefruit.

  “Thanks for coming,” she says, taking a seat in the recliner opposite mine. She sits on the chair as though it were a pedestal, legs crossed and hands folded neatly over her knees. Her posture is erect; her eyes are bright and clear. I feel overmatched.

  “No trouble at all,” I say. “Nice plane.”

  “You have an update?”

  So it’s like that: Business first, party later? Maybe no party? I can’t read her.

  “Turns out Ruiz has a sister.”

  Tiff purses her glossy lips. “That may be. He said his whole family was being held hostage in Havana—”

  “She’s not in Cuba. She’s here, in Denver.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We met last night at a restaurant. She and Ruiz were there together. I went over to say hello, to introduce myself, but Ruiz wouldn’t talk.”

  Tiff nods. “That makes sense. I told you, he’s not allowed to speak with anyone outside the Rockies organization.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me, correct.”

  “Well, his sister was happy to talk. Enriqueta is her name. She told me lots of things—for example, that she wasn’t aware her family was being held at gunpoint. Also that, as far as she knows, Yonel has plenty of money.”

  “That’s probably just her perspective. Cuba is a very poor country.”

  “Well, she’s staying at the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “You followed her?”

  “I did a thorough investigation.”

  Tiff smiles. “I see. Tell me what she looks like.”

  I give a basic physical description. When I get to the mismatched eyes, Tiff shifts in her chair.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Yonel once told me about a woman with eyes like that. She’s an associate of the Venezuelans. They call her La Loba.”

  The wolf. I think about those climactic minutes in the hotel room, staring into those crazy eyes. I remember also how interested she was in Tiff. “Do you know her?”

  “Only by reputation. She’s a contract killer.”

  “A hit woman?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t make sense here. Why would she be out for dinner with Yonel if she were trying to kill him?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t trying to kill him,” I say. “Maybe she’s branching out. Maybe she’s handling negotiations for the Venezuelans. Maybe she tags along to make sure he doesn’t speak to anyone. Or maybe, I don’t know…maybe they’re involved?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tiff says. “She might be appealing, but she’s a professional killer. Who would agree to lock themselves in a room with her and turn out the lights? Yonel isn’t stupid.”

  I feel my dick shrivel. “It’s just a theory.”

  “Your theory is that La Loba is handling Yonel?”

  “Could be. Something else happened today.”

  Tiff frowns. “You hit Yonel. I saw the clip on ESPN. What were you thinking? You could have hurt him.”

  “Not that. I got a call this afternoon, a disguised voice on a blocked number. Whoever it was knows I’m working the case. They said they have information I may find useful. I’m supposed to meet them tonight at eight.”

  “Where?”

  “Some warehouse on West Forty-fourth Avenue.”

  “You need to be careful,” Tiff says. “Do you have protection?”

  I wonder how often she says that.

  “What do you mean by protection?”

  “You’re in Colorado, Adcock. The crossing guards carry Bushmasters.”

  “I’m not going to carry a rifle.”

  “No, a pistol. Something quick and easy.” She winks to make sure I’m on board. I say nothing, but she presses on anyway. “Go right now. Keith will take you.”

  “Now? It’s already…” I look down at my watch. It’s not even six o’clock. “Fine, call him.”

  Tiff taps a message on her phone. I realize she’s right. I would feel more secure with a little something under my arm.

  She crosses her legs and sits up straight. “She said she was his sister, huh? Well, I think it’s fair to say they’re not related.”

  “You never know,” I say. “There’s one in every family.”

  15

  The shop is called National Standard Guns. It’s open till midnight seven days a week. With its scuffed glass display cases and solicitous, slightly seedy clerks, it reminds me of the baseball-card shop where I used to spend my allowance in middle school. “Anything I can help you with?” says the clerk by the door. He’s a dead ringer for Randy Johnson, nearly seven feet tall, with the same long nose and Yosemite Sam mustache. For a minute I believe he might be the Big Unit himself, before I remember reading somewhere that Johnson has taken up photography in his old age. Cameras, firearms—I was close.

  “My friend here would like to purchase his first weapon,” Keith says. I let the driver come inside with me, not only because I could use the advice (Keith claims to be a firearms expert) but because it felt mean to say no. He was so enthusiastic—like a toddler at a construction site. “I’m Keith, by the way.” Keith and the Big Unit shake hands. The clerk’s name turns out to be Keith as well. They have a chuckle about that, and then they get down to business. Within five minutes, we’ve established that I’m looking for a handgun, no modifications, and that I would prefer something new and reliable, given my lack of experience.

  “You do know how to fire a weapon, correct?” Big Unit looks at me over the smoked lenses of his glasses.

  “He does,” answers Driver Keith.

  “Yes, I do,” I add, because I feel like I should answer for myself, and because it’s true. Growing up, I would often visit family in Redlands, which back then was just orange groves and trailer trash. My cousins had a little firing range behind their house where my uncle would let us shoot his .22 target pistol, a shiny chrome number with a long barrel and elaborate scrolling on the stock. I always liked target practice. It was like pitching, without all the effort.

  “Why don’t you hold this and see how it feels?” The clerk hands me a squared-off pistol with a black matte finish. “That’s your standard Glock nine.”

  “Standard is your specialty,” I say.

  Both Keiths look at me.

  “It’s the name of the store,” I explain.

  Humor, it turns out, is not appreciated at National Standard Guns. Smiles are okay, but only as reactions to the great and awesome power of the weapons for sale. I heft the Glock and stare down its barrel. (“Point it away from me, fella,” Big Unit says. “Like this.”) Then Keith the driver takes a turn. He grins as he holds the weapon at arm’s length
. The romance surrounding firearms in this town freaks me out. Deranged teenagers open fire in high schools and movie theaters here with such regularity that it’s practically an annual season. It makes me wonder if Tiff’s driver isn’t a kind of civic booster sent to indoctrinate me.

  “This is great,” I say. “You sell bullets, too?”

  “You don’t want to see any others?” the driver says. “They’ve got three-fifty-sevens, revolvers, looks like a pretty good selection of convertible semiautos—”

  “An excellent selection,” Big Unit corrects.

  “No, just this one, please.” I pull out my wallet and draw out the first card I find. I expect the odyssey to end here. This is where Big Unit tells me that there’s a waiting period, that I can buy the gun today but can’t take it away till Monday, or next Saturday, or whatever it is. I should have asked about this up front, but I decided to play along, just in case. Maybe it’s like getting carded, with some discretion left to the salesman.

  Big Unit takes the credit card and asks to see my driver’s license, which he hands to an associate. Then he tells me the price. It’s much less than I was prepared to pay.

  “That includes ammunition?”

  “Two boxes are included, and you get a ten-percent discount if you buy more today.”

  “You should buy more,” Keith suggests. “Ten percent is excellent.”

  The two Keiths seem to be working together. It reminds me of the time I went to India on an exhibition tour with my college team. The taxi drivers would agree to take you to the Taj Mahal, and then, on the way back to your hotel, they’d recommend stopping at the very finest rug shop in all of Agra, which I learned later meant that it gave taxi drivers the very finest kickbacks for delivering leads. Maybe Keith the driver gets a free box of ammo for every two I buy?