War Party (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 2)

by Joseph Flynn

  What wasn’t John telling her?

  Even though the answer was simple enough, she didn’t see it.

  If something went wrong on her end, it would be harder to blame the Indian.

  Alone in his room after dinner, John called Rebecca Bramley.

  “Miss my voice?” she asked.

  “That and everything else. Plus, I’m almost back in Canada.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Seattle.”

  “I still have one vacation day and a few personal days I can tap.”

  John said, “I think the case I’m working should wrap up soon. Meet you in New Orleans?”

  “I’d like that.”

  John took a deep breath. “Would you mind if my mother and father join us for dinner?”

  “You want me to meet your parents?”

  “I think you’d like each other.”

  “Okay, if you’ll meet my parents, too. Say within the next year.”

  “Only fair, provided it’s not Nunavut in January.”

  Rebecca laughed. “How about South Florida on New Year’s Eve?”

  “That sounds good.”

  They left things there, happy but wondering how their relationship would turn out.

  Living and working in different countries.

  Before she went to bed that night, Ellie sat down at her laptop and wrote a detailed summary of her meeting with John Tall Wolf. She included having found Cheng Zou per Tall Wolf’s request and how the special agent had asked her to look for a connection between the Chinese billionaire and the bank robbers’ outside man.

  She sent the document to a secure cloud server. In the event that she died unexpectedly, her lawyer would open an envelope that would provide a password to access all of Ellie’s confidential files. Some would be used to sell stories to WorldWide News or other media outlets to maximize her estate. Others would be made public to destroy her enemies.

  Before closing down her computer, Ellie used an app that had been written specifically for her. It allowed her to access the guest registry files of a dozen major hotel chains, including Marriott. She liked to know if anyone special was staying under the same roof where she lodged. You never could tell where a story might be found, she thought, especially if two celebrities who thought they were being discreet were getting carnal just one or two floors away from her.

  No such luck. Not that night at the Marriott in Seattle.

  But, damn, if she didn’t spot the name Tall Wolf had just given her.

  Lamar Dekker had been a guest in the hotel.

  Had checked out just that morning.

  Ellie put off going to bed.

  Thought how she might get information about Dekker from the hotel staff.

  See if she might find the bastard before Tall Wolf did.

  Wouldn’t that make a great story?

  — Chapter 32 —

  Traveler’s Rest Motel, Tacoma, Washington

  Corey Price was drowsing in his motel room when a loud knock at the door all but lifted him off his bed. He’d been watching A League of Their Own for the ninety-ninth time. He’d always liked it, but that night he could relate to the movie more than ever. With his own team about to disappear, he truly knew the deep disappointment the women in the All American Girls Professional Baseball League must have felt when their careers ended.

  If anyone told him there was no crying in baseball, he’d bust their nose for them.

  Sipping his third bottle of Rainier Beer, still in uniform except for his cap and spikes, his mind had drifted back and forth between the film and that night’s game. The Serranos had won 1-0. The two teams had three hits between them; there’d been a combined twenty-eight strikeouts and no walks. The game was over in an hour and forty-nine minutes. You went to the men’s room with sluggish bowels in the first inning, you missed it.

  Price had his team’s only hit, a decisive home run.

  He’d never felt so sad about winning a game in his life.

  Tomorrow would be his last game, the last time he’d ever play professional ball. He could all but feel his heart breaking. Emptying the bottle of beer, he turned his eyes and his mind back to the TV screen. Maybe that’s what he’d do, start a new women’s baseball league. Begin with two recruits who looked like Geena Davis and Madonna. The way they did in the movie.

  He started to doze and dream of his plan coming true.

  Geena and Madonna were there, both begging him for uniform number 1. They’d do anything to get their way and —

  Then the knock at his door had almost given him a heart attack.

  The skipper poked his grizzled head in the room.

  “Come on, get up! Shower and get changed. The Tacoma boys are gonna show us they’re real sports. We’re going out to eat and drink on them. In honor of us playing our last game against them tomorrow.”

  Price sat up and asked, “Shouldn’t we wait until after we play our last game?”

  The skipper said, “Win or lose, how do you think we’ll feel tomorrow? That wouldn’t be a party; it’d be a wake. Besides, there’s a big storm front coming in. We might get rained out tomorrow. You think they’ll reschedule for us? We might’ve already played our last game, goddamnit.”

  The thought hit Price like a sucker punch. He rolled off the bed.

  “I’ll be out in ten minutes,” he said.

  The four FBI agents assigned to watch the Serranos at their motel that night had been bored silly, until a motorcade of eight taxis pulled up to the place. Players and coaches poured out of motel rooms. Two old guys, had to be the manager and a coach, got in the first cab. Three guys got into each of the following seven cabs. Then they all took off.

  “Where the hell are they going?” asked Baldwin, the senior agent on the detail.

  Nobody had a clue.

  The only thing the feds could do was get into their two cars and follow.

  Baldwin was about to call for help, suspecting something akin to a mass jailbreak, when the taxis pulled into a parking lot outside a sports bar in a little town down the road from Tacoma.

  The Burning Onion, Gig Harbor, Washington

  The guys on the Tacoma team competed as hard as anyone in baseball, but that night they stepped up as brothers to the Serranos. The team that would hear the magic words, “Play ball,” next spring opened their hearts and wallets to the guys who would never again have the chance to “wait until next year.”

  Food and drink came in large quantities; the guys from Tacoma were generous hosts. They weren’t alone in the spirit of good will. The owners of the place had a professional photographer take pictures of each team and the two of them together. The fans of the Tacoma team patted the backs of the guys on the opposing team, told them to come back and visit any time.

  Price, as the Serranos’ hero that night, was singled out. He signed dozens of autographs on baseballs, bats and game programs. He shook hands with people, had his back patted and was kissed by more than a few women who looked good enough to be in either real movies or the ones in his dreams.

  He did everything he could to enjoy the moment.

  Laughed at the weakest jokes.

  Said, “Yeah, you’re right,” more times than he could remember.

  Managed to keep his eyes dry most of the night.

  Having waited outside the sports bar for hours, Baldwin finally lost patience.

  “I’m going in,” he said.

  The three junior members of the detail had all taken turns watching the back entrance to make sure nobody tried to slip out that way. Nobody did. Several people, all of them fans or people simply dining out that night left the place. The number of cars in the parking lot thinned to the point where the FBI cars were now isolated, obvious to anyone who cared to look their way.

  One of the agents asked Baldwin if he could bring some takeout food and soft drinks back with him. He said no. But once he came back they could take turns going inside to use the men’s room. Muttered expressions of mock grat
itude followed. Baldwin pretended not to hear them.

  He went inside and was surprised by the quick attention he got from a waitress.

  “You order over there, sir,” she said. “Then we bring your order to your table.”

  Pegged for an outsider from the get-go, Baldwin thought.

  He wasn’t off to a good start. Trying to recover, he asked, “Can I order food to go?”

  “Of course. Same way. You order, we deliver.”

  “Thanks.” Gourmet burgers seemed to be the specialty. He ordered four with colas. Then he took a table where he could watch the players partying. Those guys weren’t limiting themselves to soft drinks. Beer was everywhere. But nobody was getting testy. Just the opposite. The guys who weren’t laughing seemed to be comforting one another.

  Baldwin’s headcount put the number of ballplayers from both teams at forty. They all seemed to look alike. Not in skin color or facial features necessarily but the fact that they were all extra large, had arms, shoulders and chests you didn’t find on normal people. Some had quick reflexes, too. A couple of guys off to one side were doing a juggling act, tossing five salt shakers back and forth between them.

  Never dropped one.

  Not while Baldwin was looking anyway. He was distracted when the waitress came back with his order, far faster than he’d expected. He’d already paid, so there was nothing left for him to do but leave. The waitress told him to have a nice night. He summoned a smile that was half genuine only because she was such a sweet kid.

  The other agents were surprised and pleased when Baldwin passed out the food and drinks, stunned when he didn’t ask to be reimbursed. Dumbfounded when he didn’t start talking until everyone finished eating.

  “I saw forty guys in there, either ballplayers or coaches. I couldn’t pick out the eight we want, and I was sitting no more than thirty feet from most of them. When the party breaks up and these guys start filtering out, any of you think you’ll be able to tell who’s who?”

  Baldwin gave them a team program for the Serranos versus Tacoma game.

  He’d found it at his table.

  The photographs of the home team were two inches square; the visitors’ pictures were maybe an inch-and-a-half square. Players on both sides all wore baseball caps. At best, the images gave hints of appearances.

  Identifying the wanted individuals across a parking lot, even using binoculars, would be a very good trick indeed. And they didn’t have binoculars.

  “We could stop everyone coming out the door,” the junior agent said.

  Baldwin pointed out, “We haven’t been told to make any arrests yet. Your way might just hint to the bad guys that something was up.”

  The number two man said, “If we can’t tell who they are, anybody looking to kill those guys won’t be able to do any better.”

  “Yeah, unless they pull up with automatic weapons and take out everyone just to make sure,” Baldwin said.

  He decided it was time to call in for guidance from above.

  He punched Deputy Director DeWitt’s number into his phone.

  He was waiting for the call to go through when the party finally broke up and people started pouring out of the bar.

  Not quite everyone left. The eight Serranos who’d moonlighted as bank robbers stayed behind, not wanting the night to end. With them was the manager of the Tacoma team. He and Corey Price sat at a table off to themselves.

  Walt Wooten, the Tacoma manager, put a hand on Price’s arm, not so much from sentiment, more like a guy checking out a cut of beef. He nodded. Approved of what he’d found.

  “I think you still got it, kid.”

  Wooten was old enough to call someone who was thirty a kid.

  “Got what?” Price said.

  “Enough bat speed to get around on a ninety-six mile per hour fastball. That’s what you hit out of the park for your home run tonight.”

  Hearing that made Price smile. That pitch had looked like a beach ball floating in when he’d swung his bat. The fact that Wooten knew just how fast the pitch was told him Tacoma could afford a radar gun to clock the speed. The Serranos didn’t have anything like that.

  Wooten continued, “I think if you play first base instead of catching your legs would last another five years, too.”

  “So you think I have a future?” Price asked.

  The manager leaned forward, “I don’t think you’ll make it to The Show.”

  The big leagues.

  As much as he tried to be a realist, it still hurt Price to hear that.

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “I think you could show the young guys coming through Triple-A how to improve their chances of becoming big leaguers.”

  Price laughed. “Yeah? That and five bucks will get me a latte, right?”

  Wooten sat back in his chair. “Tell me something. The day you signed your first contract, did you do it for the money?”

  “I wasn’t a bonus baby. Well, not more than a $5,000 bonus baby. I signed because somebody showed interest. Was willing to pay me something.”

  “So you played for the love of the game, basically.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Figured the big money would come when you earned it.”

  Price nodded.

  “You still think the big money’s gonna come?”

  “No.”

  “You still love the game?” Wooten asked. “Some guys get bitter.”

  “None of them could hit a ninety-six mile per hour fastball, I bet.”

  The Tacoma manager laughed. “Damn few of them anyway. So you still love the game. What I’m offering you is a chance to play for us next season. You do what I think you can, down the road, I could see you managing a team. Maybe even become a coach or a manager in the big leagues. I believe you’ve got the smarts. That’s how I can see you getting to The Show … if you’re interested.”

  Price glanced up. The nearest TV had the local weather forecast on. A radar image showed the storm front getting close. Heavy rain was predicted to last for two days. Looked hopeless that they’d get their last game in.

  Wooten followed Price’s gaze, saw the forecast, too.

  “If you’re not interested,” the Tacoma manager said, “at least you’ll go out like Ted Williams, hitting a home run in your last at-bat.”

  Price looked at Wooten in disbelief. Then he laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair.

  “Me and Ted Williams, mentioned in the same breath. That’s the funniest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Wooten shook his head and started to rise.

  “Wait, wait a minute,” Price said.

  The manager sat back down.

  “What about any of the other guys?” he asked.

  “Your teammates over there?” Wooten shook his head.

  Price sighed and asked, “If I sign with your team, will you give me a bonus?”

  “I might get you something real modest, enough to keep you in lattes for a while.”

  “I was thinking of something else. How about you let me and the guys go back to your park and take one last turn at batting practice together?”

  Wooten was touched by that. He asked, “You want me to get my pitching coach to throw to you?”

  Price shook his head. “Nah, a pitching machine is good enough.”

  “Okay. We got a Casey 3G. Spits ‘em out up to a hundred miles per hour, if you want. Throws breaking balls, too. You set it up the way you want. I’ll have the security boys put it out. They’ll let you and your friends into the ballpark. That do it for you?”

  “That’d be great,” Price said.

  The two men stood. Wooten extended his hand. Price took it.

  “The offer to join my team is good for a month,” Wooten said.

  — Chapter 33 —

  Puget Sound Stadium, Tacoma, Washington

  John Tall Wolf got a call from Deputy Director DeWitt, explaining the situation that the FBI detail watching the San Bernadino Serranos had encountered: the
San Bernadino team’s trip to the sports bar, the party with the Tacoma team, groups of ballplayers going off in different directions, the FBI agents being unable to follow all of them.

  “In other words,” John said, “we don’t know where our Indians are.”

  “No. The best we can say is we’re working on it.”

  John respected the man’s candor.

  “You have any ideas?” DeWitt asked.

  “Maybe one. If that doesn’t work, then I don’t know,” John told him. He added, “I’ll need a couple of your people to help me. You want to come along?”

  “I would, only I’m not in Seattle at the moment.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way back from San Francisco, the next stop on the vice president’s fund-raising tour.”

  Better you than me, John thought.

  He said, “My idea works out, you want me to call you?”

  “Yes, no matter how late,” DeWitt said.

  John told the deputy director, “Have your people meet me at the Serranos’ motel.”

  Two FBI agents met John at the Traveler’s Rest Motel and the three feds went looking for the team’s manager. They found him unconscious in his room. The motel desk clerk had to let them in. The two FBI agents got the manager stripped and into the shower. They wrapped him in towels and poured coffee into him.

  Five minutes later, he was telling his story.

  “Best damn party I’ve been to in the past twenty years. Jesus, I’m gonna miss this game.” He started to cry.

  John got down on one knee in front of him.

  “Sir, this is really important. We need your help. We’re trying to save the lives of eight of your players. Will you help us do that?”

  The manager looked at John as if he was crazy. Then he started to get angry. The guy was still inebriated and emotional.

  “Somebody’s tryin’ to hurt my boys? I’ll kill them.”

  John got him settled down, told him the names of the players he wanted.

  “That bunch? The best of them is Corey Price. Why, I gave the Tacoma manager permission to talk to Price about joining their team next year. He won the game for us tonight. Came back to this dump still wearing his uniform. I had to tell him to change for the party.”