Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  Erich König had a dream, too. The dream of success. A businessman for fifteen years before coming to Las Vegas, he perfected the formula to achieve his dream: win at any cost. He had another formula, too, the chemical concoction for a designer drug created at Königetix Research. It goes like this. Promising players enter Hohenschwangau clubhouse and roll up their sleeves for a weekly B-12 injection from their trusted team physician. They leave the clubhouse as the doped victims of a synthetic amphetamine, masked and therefore undetectable in the league’s drug screenings. On the field, the Chips are strong baseball players with keen concentration and an aggressive edge. When the game is over, they’re unknowing lab rats with a nasty case of withdrawal and deteriorating organs. The side effects are a high price to pay for success, but Erich König is playing with house money.

  Oberpfalz Lab labeled the drug XT-736. The media will coin the drug the König Conspiracy. Future generations might deem the drug was the payoff pitch to baseball’s innocence. We have to look at the history and ask the question—what innocence? We’re long from the days when baseball was a sunny afternoon pastime. This isn’t the same game children play in parking lots and cornfields. It’s a ruthless testing ground for boardrooms and underground laboratories. After a century of bribes, fixes, gambling and drug abuse, the gate was wide open for Erich König to join the playing field.

  Las Vegas. Brad Derhoff. Jamal Abercromby. They started with a dream. Erich König gave them a nightmare.

  Cat had churned out the article while waiting for the late night meeting. A part of her wanted to upload it to the website, run out of the building and never look back. Career-wise, it would be suicide, although even if Commissioner Ramirez returned her call, it was no guarantee she’d get the story. In fact, he’d no doubt hand her byline over to a veteran.

  Still, if she published the piece without giving the league a heads-up, she risked burning a bridge in the industry. There were other bridges, of course—local newspapers, national outlets and websites around the world that employed sportswriters. None of these jobs could compare to working for a real team.

  The trade deadline was in thirty-six hours. Even for a late night, it was surprising that the commissioner was incommunicado, so much so that Cat wondered if higher-ups had another number for him.

  Cat debated contacting various names in the league directory, but the more she played these conversations out in her head, the more she realized her only choice was to go straight to the top. She couldn’t risk her words being distorted through the chain of command, or worse, being intercepted by a friend of Erich König’s. Thanks to his charm and many bank accounts, the Chips owner had made a lot of friends in high places on his way into the game.

  Erich’s charisma didn’t work on everyone in baseball, though, which was why Cat knew the commissioner was her only option. If the whispers were true, Joseph Ramirez wasn’t a fan of the league’s newest owner. Although the commissioner and the Las Vegas playboy weren’t pulling each other’s hair on the front page of tabloids, the grapevine had reported he and Erich had first clashed during the designing stage of Hohenschwangau Stadium. The commissioner believed the gambling motif to be in bad taste, and more than one informer from the Owners’ Meetings had leaked the fact that the commissioner was annoyed about the casino sponsorship. Though the rumor had yet to be proven, some baseball aficionados claimed that Commissioner Ramirez never officially accepted the Chips’ inception.

  The sources were unconfirmed, but the sports bar gossip was enough to make Cat confident the baseball boss would take her claims seriously. That is, if he ever called her back on her—

  Where’s my cell phone?

  When she unzipped the side pocket of her Burberry bag to take it out, she saw the potholder but no phone. The indispensable piece of evidence was still nestled inside. She gently removed the potholder and placed it out of harm’s way, next to the keyboard. The potholder fell open to display the syringe. She moved her wallet around and checked in the plaid pockets. Her phone wasn’t there. She checked again, digging to the bottom. Wallet, lip gloss, tampon, cough drops … no phone.

  How could I be so stupid?

  The one time she’d forgotten to double check before she left the house and—Cat gave her head a little slap. Then she reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the cell phone from a pouch where she’d crammed it after calling the commissioner.

  She held her breath as she checked for a signal, fearing her reception had been intentionally compromised.

  This isn’t a TV show and the Chips aren’t the NSA; they’re a freaking baseball team. Erich König cannot countermand a cellular tower … can he?

  Nope. Five bars of signal, just no missed calls. Her eyes drifted to the laptop. She thought about how often she monitored her Chips e-mail account, even when off duty. She wondered if Commissioner Ramirez did the same. His confidential e-mail address was listed next to the phone extension. Before she could even reach her keyboard, she’d composed the message in her head. Her hands trembled as her fingers punched each letter.

  Commissioner Ramirez:

  As you know, I was recently hired as the Chips’ senior reporter after the passing of Brad Derhoff. I have reason to believe Brad’s death wasn’t a suicide. I think he and I have made the same discovery regarding the team. Information obtained from Dr. Kevin Goodall’s office points to an illegal performance enhancer being disguised as a B-12 supplement and being dispensed to the players without their knowledge. This information lists the drug’s side effects, which may relate to Jamal Abercromby’s death, as well. It’s imperative we speak immediately. Please call me at 559-555-0526 as soon as you read this message, no matter what the hour.

  —Catriona McDaniel

  She quickly scanned the short paragraph for spelling errors and hoped it didn’t scream of a drunken practical joke.

  No joke, but I could use a drink.

  She flagged the message as urgent and slammed the send button. The computer beeped and an error notification box popped up.

  “Subject is empty. Are you sure you want to send the message?”

  She drummed her fingernails on the mouse pad.

  What would get the old coot’s attention?

  She brought her chipped nails back to the keyboard and opted for Urgent situation with Las Vegas Chips over the spammer catch phrases. Her shaky index finger felt for the send button again, and another error box responded.

  “Ugh, what now?”

  “Unauthorized transmission. Your server has terminated the connection.”

  She reread the error.

  Unauthorized?

  Alarm put her senses on high alert and knotted her stomach into a Hohenschwangau Pretzel. They were onto her. She couldn’t thought-bubble a positive spin on this one, nor could she assure herself she didn’t hear footsteps outside the office door. She held her breath and listened. The thumps weren’t a paranoid delusion, they were real this time.

  “Maria?”

  The footsteps became louder.

  Closer.

  “Dustin?”

  Perhaps it’s just a janitor coming to empty the trash can.

  Clomp.

  Or maybe it’s Mr. König coming to tell me to empty my desk.

  Clomp.

  The footsteps stopped. Her eyes dropped to the key evidence still sitting on her desk, as obvious a focal point as a dish of candy. She reached over and crammed the syringe into the deep pockets on the front of her sweaterdress. Cat’s throat began to swell as the doorknob turned. The door opened at such a dramatically slow speed. In her favorite horror movies, the action would be accompanied by a bone-chilling creak. Instead, the door didn’t make a sound. It was what waited behind the mahogany frame that sent a ripple down Cat’s spine.

  41

  Every inch of her went numb. The head of security stood in the doorway, his belt’s mysterious holster now empty, its contents pointed at her. Cat couldn’t take her eyes off the very large gun, gripped firmly in
his right hand.

  I suppose that’s the point.

  She heard a voice from behind the trigger.

  “Evenin’ there, Red. I think it’s high time you and me had us a little sit-down.” She tore her eyes away from the firearm, then shifted her focus from his stout fingers to his black eyes. “M-Mr. Snow, hi. I was just killing uh-time in my office. Dustin called me and said there’s a trade announcement.”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Killing, uh, time.’ Is that what you call trying to email the commish?”

  Cat stared at him and blinked a few times. “Joseph Ramirez? I just wanted—”

  “Shut it. I may be stupid but I’m not dumb.” He leaned on the door jamb. “You’ve been snooping around here all week.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Red, you might be better lookin’ than all the whores in Nye County, but you can’t lie for shit. Why couldn’t you just leave it alone? Damn it, I even liked you. You’re different than the rest of these front office dicks.”

  He waved the gun behind him.

  “Most of them can’t even tell ya my name, but you call ‘mister,’ that’s cool. I thought we were the same. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  “I like you, too.” He didn’t react to that, so Cat continued. “Nobody’s gotta hurt anybody. I don’t know anything, really. I won’t say a word.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah. That’s what Derhoff said.”

  “Derhoff?”

  “That pansy reporter had his nose stuck in the air. He sneered at me since his first day here, but there he was begging me to keep my secrets. When I told him I didn’t need a confidant, the snob turned to God for help.”

  A tiny gasp escaped her lips. She slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Otis leaned over.

  “Ironic, since I had to wait until the wife and kiddies left for church to murder the godless bastard.” He said it without a hint of remorse. In fact, with the gleam in his eyes and half-smile on his lips, he looked almost proud.

  “I thought it was suicide.”

  “I guess it was in a way. He had a choice to take the pills nice and easy or wait ’til the fam came home; then I’d shove them down his fucking throat after putting a bullet through the missus’ face.” He laughed. “It’s true what the papers said; Derhoff really was a family man.”

  Cat stood on wobbling legs and took stock of his position in the doorway.

  “Now, now, you’d do well to pop a squat and listen up. I ain’t seeing no scene-ario where you can make it through this doorway past me.”

  She swallowed hard, not taking her eyes off him.

  With a hearty laugh, he added, “After all, I’m bettin’ if ya had any ninja moves, ya woulda done put the hurtin’ on that mugger.”

  She blinked twice and answered him with a defiant tone. “He wasn’t a mugger.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was supposed to be a lesson.”

  She steadied herself with a hand on the corner of her desk. “Excuse me. I’m leaving now.”

  “Are ya deaf? I said we’re gonna have a little bull session, about company policies and whatnot.”

  Cat took a step farther. She reached into the pocket of her dress and clasped the cylinder of the syringe. “I think I know all I need to about the company policies.” She took a shaky step nearer the door. “Get out of my way. I’m leaving.”

  Otis broadened his stance, his large frame now filling the doorway both vertically and horizontally. “You ain’t going nowhere. Sit your little ass down.” He lightly pushed her shoulder back with his unarmed hand.

  Her hand clenched around the barrel of the syringe. She ripped the tube out of the knit pocket and brought her arm up. Before Otis could react, she jammed the sharp needle into the corner of his left eye. The needle sank into the gooey pit with a sickening slurp.

  Cat screamed and recoiled at the sight of his punctured eye, which was spurting blood and soaking the front of his white shirt red. Otis staggered backwards and let out the howl of a tortured animal, his agonized cry mingling with her own shrieks. He pulled out the syringe and flung it against the wall as she gave the wrist of his gun hand a chop, loosening his grip. The weapon hit the floor with a thump. As Otis stumbled back, Cat seized the moment to slither past his hunkered body.

  “Oh no ya don’t, you little bitch.”

  Holding his mangled eye with one hand, Otis grabbed her arm with his other and yanked a hold of her jacket. Like a wide receiver juking away from a defender, Cat twisted her way out of the sleeves and left the coat in Otis’ arms. The loss of tension caused him to fall back. She ran for the reception area, feet vibrating against the floor and knees wobbling like Jell-O. She looked behind her to see if he followed. She’d seen him hobble to his feet, hand still clamped over his eye. He didn’t appear to be on the chase. Turning her head back, Cat increased her speed. The stairs were in sight now. As she rounded the corner of a cubicle, she slammed straight into another body.

  She staggered backwards and opened her eyes. The room was shrouded in a fuzzy haze. Her eyes regained their focus just in time to register the presence of Erich König as he whipped his arm up and smacked the back of his hand across her forehead.

  The jolt snapped her head back. Something—his signet ring?—had ripped into her brow bone. Tears sprang into her eyes. Erich’s shove sent her backwards, where she was caught up in the bulky arms of Otis and held firmly by the shoulders. She kicked the heels of her boots against the floor, scrambling for purchase as he dragged her back toward her office. His grip yanked at her hair with every step as they passed each desk in the fourth floor bullpen. Once they reached her office, he tossed her toward her desk chair. Her back hit the armrest first and she flinched in pain before sliding down into the leather seat with a painful plunk.

  Otis pointed a bloodied finger in her face. “Stay down!”

  Cat was choking on bile as the room filled with the scent of sweat and blood. Erich’s powerful form filled the office doorway. He was twisting his neck around like a slugger in the on-deck circle loosening up for a power swing. Despite the skirmish seconds earlier, Erich’s attire was only slightly mussed. He nevertheless straightened his tie and smoothed the sleeves on his suit. Otis’ crimson hand covered his gory socket, and his remaining good eye glared at her.

  “I told ya we shoulda let the mugger finish the bitch, Boss.”

  “Halt die Schnauze!” Erich whipped around to Otis, eyes afire. “Shut up! You will speak when you are ordered to speak.” Cat could barely understand his orders due to a thick, seldom heard accent. Otis nodded obediently.

  Erich approached her desk, tossed her prized Ron Santo frame behind him to make room, and sat in his usual spot on the oak surface. The card hit the ground and the glass shattered. A twinge of anger cut through Cat’s pain and fear. Her eyes shot to the shard-covered card, and its significance surged through her.

  The night she received the memento had been one of the coldest Januarys on record for the Windy City. Ailsa McDaniel had bought two sets of two tickets, one for a round trip to Metra and the other for the annual event. They’d bundled up in parkas, scarves, hats and mittens to wait outside the hotel, and she’d stood in line at the fan convention for four hours in hopes of meeting the baseball legend. The line had been too long, so the booths had closed before she even reached the table. Her grandmother had led her back out into the bitter chill, promising her crestfallen granddaughter they’d get to the convention earlier next year. They were almost to the train station when the beloved player had flagged them down. Cat knew he couldn’t have done that for every kid who waited in his line; perhaps he’d noticed the tears streaming from her sad eyes—eyes that had already shed too many over the past thirteen years. “Oh, you save that card, little lady,” he’d said. “I’ve got another one just for you.” The towering hero pulled a card from his jacket pocket and added an autograph. “To the best Cat to ever cross my path.” He’d swirled his signature before placing the card in her awestruck palm, and
it was on that January evening so many years ago Cat decided she’d do whatever it took to make baseball her life. The rare rookie card could have fetched enough money for a semester of journalism school if auctioned on the memorabilia market. Instead, Cat kept her treasure on her nightstand all through college. She’d waded through shrimp veins every night but had fallen asleep to this precious reminder of her ambitions.

  Cat’s gaze left the card and settled on Erich.

  Interlocking his fingers and placing them quaintly on his lap, Erich said, “You are a vexing individual.” His accent had gone into hiding again. “I am at a loss as to what I should do with you.”

  Somehow Cat was able to summon an air of false confidence. “Hmm. Maybe you could go to your secret lab and cook up a homemade prescription for me, too.”

  She shifted her eyes back and forth between the icy demeanor of Erich and Otis’ sullen stare, noting that the bloodied gun had returned to the guard’s meaty paw. Cat refused to cower. She braced her shoulders and ignored the stabbing pain that jolted down her back.

  Erich’s soothing delivery rivaled a Vin Scully broadcast: “I must admit. I am astonished. Why, Mr. Derhoff had these walls decorated with an Ivy League diploma and years of writing commendations. Nonetheless, he did not get beyond a few meddlesome inquiries. However, when I elevate the kewpie doll from Little League, she places my entire organization in jeopardy within a matter of weeks. I did not give you enough credit.”

  His mouth curled into a thin smile, reminding her of a dog about to turn on its owner.

  Except this is the other way around.

  Cat felt another shudder coming on.

  “Sadly, your cunningness does not extend far enough. Let me impart some wisdom to you, Catriona. I took you from meaningless box scores and gave you a sportswriter’s paradise, the opportunity to cover a championship team for millions of fans. But you, you … Otis, what am I looking for here?”