TEST BOOK

by Camel Press

  “What? Why?”

  “I didn’t ask. I haven’t said much at all.”

  “That’s good. Don’t.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Are they questioning you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then probably not.” She sighed, no longer concerned with the triviality of the postgame conference. “What a mess. Is Quinn there?”

  “No, he left right after the game was over, conveniently ten minutes before the thin blue line arrived.”

  She had to admit that it gave her pleasure to finally hear the annoyance in Benji’s tone. It was about time he quit singing the Brady Bunch theme every time she complained about Quinn. Her satisfaction was short-lived when she remembered Benji’s tune was about to change channels to the Cops intro.

  “Do you want me to call him? I can’t say that he’ll come back or even pick up my call, but if the cops need to talk to him, I can try.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it right now. An officer asked if he was here and I told him no, then he wanted to know where he was, but I’m in no mood to do the cops’ jobs for them. If they want Quinn, they can go find him themselves.”

  “Benji, I don’t want you to get in trouble.” He wasn’t breaking any laws per se, but if Kahn thought he was being jerked around, it would only strengthen his resolve. The last thing she wanted on either of their tails was a resentful cop. Her dad wasn’t the only McDaniel who coined adages when it came to law enforcement.

  Cooperate or become an inmate.

  “Leave your brother alone for now. If they’re going to take me in for something, I’ll need him. Quinn’s the only person I know with enough money to make bail. He made some serious change on your game tonight.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.” She gave it a second thought. “Wait. How much money?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. He didn’t just have money on the team losing; he had money on a blown save and the underdogs coming back in the ninth. That boy’s got some serious luck. I hope it runs in the family.”

  “Trust me, it doesn’t.” Lucky families don’t make the Fourth Amendment into nursery rhymes. In fact, she doubted that lucky families gave any consideration to arrests or unreasonable searches and seizures.

  “Well, something’s up. You don’t think he could have some insider information, do you?”

  “Even Quinn isn’t that dishonest.” She paused for a beat, giving that a second thought, too. “Okay … he is, but there’s no way he could’ve predicted a blown save, especially that blown save. Adam Alvarez hasn’t—”

  “Hey, I know that name. Wasn’t he one of the guys here the other night? He goes by AA, right?”

  “Yes, and he hasn’t blown a save all season. He’s practically the best closer in baseball. Trust me, no one saw this coming.”

  “Maybe he did it on purpose.” Benji was whispering and she didn’t know if it was to keep cops crawling over their apartment from overhearing or to emphasize his suspicions.

  Cat scoffed. “And what would be in for Adam? So, he could put money on the game ….”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s a millionaire. I don’t think he needs to make a few grand on a baseball game. Besides, these guys stand to make a hefty playoff bonus if they win this series.”

  “Maybe he gets off on the rush of it.”

  Adam was the bad boy of baseball, but his rushes came from glory. “Even if that’s the case, he’s a relief pitcher. To take advantage of those odds, he’d have to be psychic. Whether or not the team is in a save situation is completely out of his control. He has no idea how many runs the team would score, if they’d even be leading …. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be coming in the game until that bullpen phone rings.”

  “Not really.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, not bothering to mask her annoyance. Sometimes Cat fantasized about sneaking into one of Benji’s lectures and challenging his expertise on mitochondrion and theories of evolution, or whatever else he was always yammering about. For a guy who didn’t even watch baseball, he sure had opinions on it. Of course, Benji had an opinion on everything. He could spend hours debating the difference between dragonflies and damselflies.

  “Your playoff preview stated that in four of the six games these two teams played each other earlier in the season, the game was decided by one run. In that Chicago is the wildcard, the Soldiers had to be the favorite to win and of course they’d bring AA in to clinch a close game. Seems to me he had a pretty good idea he’d be pitching today.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You wrote it.”

  “No, I mean, what you’re implying is crazy. There are exactly nine million reasons AA wouldn’t tank on purpose, one for each dollar he makes. Losing isn’t profitable.”

  “Tell that to Quinn.”

  Cat’s heart sunk. She was starting to enjoy the hypothetical debate, but at the mention of Quinn’s name, she remembered this wasn’t just press box fun. “What are the cops doing now?”

  “Still taking pictures of the apartment. I’m warning you right now, if the media gets a hold of a photo of my life-size Chewbacca, my students are never going to let me live it down.”

  Cat smiled. On the plus side, that might motivate him to replace the furry cardboard cutout with a ficus tree. It took up the entire corner and, even after living with it for eleven months, she was startled every time she walked into the living room.

  Reporters began to file out of the conference room and she awkwardly stayed clear of their paths. “Benji, I’m really sorry to leave you hanging with all of this to deal with, but I’m on a deadline.”

  “I know you are, don’t worry about it. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “I appreciate it, but in this case, I think ignorance would’ve been bliss.”

  “Actually, a recent reasoning-based analysis of whether or not a lack of knowledge does lead to a discernible amount of contentment concluded that—”

  “Stop. I don’t need to know how a primate would assess my situation.”

  He laughed. “I’ll have you know the test subjects were human.”

  “Either way.”

  “Tomorrow’s game is on at seven, my time. Is the team coming back home afterwards?”

  “That’s the plan. Unless the game goes too late; then we’ll stay another night.”

  “I’ll wait up for you.”

  This was usually the part where she would tell him not to, but as Cat looked out to the hallway of her assembled colleagues—each making a point to avoid her stares as they murmured to one another—she looked forward to his welcoming arms. She just hoped Detective Kahn wouldn’t be waiting with him.

  “See you then.”

  Spencer stepped out the conference room doorway, his arms overloaded with two bags.

  “So Adam Alvarez finally does a press conference and you step out for a phone call?”

  “I know.” She took her laptop bag from his hands. “What’d I miss?”

  “For starters, he cried.”

  Cat waited for the punch line. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m funnier than that, I hope.”

  “You mean like, his eyes got watery? Maybe some sniffles?”

  “No. Big fat man tears streaming down his face.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was awful. He started sobbing about Damien and how he was his best friend and he thought he was handling it well, but when he got on the mound, it hit him. Between you and me, I think someone could stand to take an improv class. His performance seemed a little forced.”

  “What’d everybody else think?”

  “Oh, of course they ate it up with a spoon. It was nauseating to watch.”

  “Great. Now he’s a martyr.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she had hoped Adam’s epic fail would take the heat off her for a bit. Instead, he’d managed to deflect the backlash right back to her. It seemed like she’d be to blame for every bad thing that happened to the Soldiers fro
m this point forward.

  “Debbie from B-TV actually gave him a hug, and he ended by asking everyone to pray that God helps Damien find his way home. Just be glad you missed the whole scene.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “I was hoping you were called away concerning news about St. Damien.”

  “I wish, but it was just Benji.”

  “Complaining about the game?”

  She smiled, as if Spencer should’ve known better than that. “Um, no. I doubt he even watched it.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell is wrong with him?”

  “He’s not into baseball, you know this.”

  “I knew that during regular season, but this is the playoffs, doesn’t he get how important it is?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “He knows it matters to me, so he usually checks the score and attempts to make small talk but it’s just not his thing.”

  Spencer’s mouth hung open to a comic degree. She half-expected his tongue to come stair-stepping out of it. “I don’t get why that doesn’t bother you more. I won’t even go on a date with a girl who doesn’t like baseball, let alone marry her. Doesn’t it feel like he might not respect your job?”

  “He respects my job.” She considered it for a minute and broke into a genuine smile of amusement. “He just doesn’t respect Adam Alvarez’s job, but who does?”

  Spencer’s face was scrunched in deep contemplation. “You’re really going to spend the rest of your life with a guy who doesn’t even watch your favorite thing in the whole world?”

  “Baseball’s not my favorite thing in the whole world. Benji is.”

  Spencer mimed jabbing his finger down his throat. “Tell me I didn’t just hear that.”

  He grabbed her hand and started poking at her wrist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking for wires. I suspect you’ve morphed into a Stepford Fiancée and it’s only a matter of time before your transition to becoming an obedient, sycophantic housewife android is complete.”

  She jerked her wrist back. “First of all, it’d be gynoid. Androids are males.” Upon seeing Spencer’s curious amusement, she closed her eyes and cringed.

  Benji-ism strikes again.

  “Besides, those women are replaced by gynoid versions of themselves; they don’t morph. Anyway, there’s more to a relationship than baseball.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s like a sex machine in the sack? Or is sexbot the correct term?”

  “No. I mean, yes—I mean, no, I won’t tell you that, and I don’t know the correct term.” She could feel the heat spreading down her cheeks and neck. Why was she wasting so much energy defending Benji to Spencer? She started walking down the hallway and Spencer trailed along.

  “Good, I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

  “What’s with the third degree? I’m getting enough of this from the fans.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just curiosity. I was wondering what you guys have in common, since it’s obviously not baseball.”

  “I don’t know.” Cat paused as she thought about it. “Other stuff. We both like eighties movies and animals. And he’s really sweet. There aren’t many guys who are.”

  “Yeah, well, if he’s so sweet, how come you’ve been engaged for eleven months and he still hasn’t set a date?”

  “He isn’t the reason we haven’t. I am. I mean, I just … I don’t know. I’ve been busy.” It was a lame excuse and she knew it. Worse yet, Spencer knew it. He was studying her again, curious brown eyes behind his black-framed glasses.

  “You’re one of the smartest people I know. Could it be your subconscious is trying to tell you something?”

  “Yes,” she said, solemnly. “It’s trying to tell me that my friend Spencer is very nosy.”

  “I’m a journalist, that’s my job.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s no story here. Trust me. I’m just not in a hurry to get married. What’s wrong with enjoying your engagement?”

  Spencer sighed and shook his head with a small smile. “Nothing, I suppose. More people probably should. I bet we’d have fewer marriages.”

  She gave him a pointed look and he laughed.

  “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I’m only looking out for you. I just—I mean, it’s marriage. Forever’s a long time, just remember that.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Chapter 14

  Cat hurried down the wide sidewalk outside the ballpark, fending off sales pitches from the vendors who had already set up their makeshift stands in anticipation of this evening’s do-or-die game. They sold knit caps for the under-dressed fans, unlicensed tees with funny slogans and bags of peanuts that they promised were much cheaper than those sold inside the stadium.

  As she patiently waited at the crosswalk, she rubbed her gloved hands together and crossed her arms over her chest, appreciating the cold, crisp day. Autumn was undoubtedly Cat McDaniel’s favorite season. Your average baseball fan sprung with spring; a month of practice games in a beautiful climate before begetting baseball’s official start, Opening Day. Shivering on the street corner, she nevertheless decided the boys of spring could have their pollen. Then there was summertime, when your average Chicagoan heated up; sailboats on Lake Michigan, Lollapalooza and the Taste of Chicago food extravaganza. The fallen leaves crunched under her soles as she made her way across the street. The Second City was first in her book, but the summer lovers could have their hundred degree pavement. Last but not least, wintertime, the season every Buffalonian waited for—ice fishing, skiing and undoubtedly, football. Her new home was a wonderland, but the snow bunnies could have their blizzards. She flashed her press badge at the security guard and bumbled inside the stadium, casting one last, longing look out at the fall day before the door slammed behind her. She was a baseball fan, a native Chicagoan and a current Buffalonian, but the seasons all turned for this one. Besides, she’d spent two hundred bucks at Nordstrom’s Half-Yearly Sale on a pair of suede Charles David knee boots that had been collecting dust on her closet floor all summer long. The sun had officially crossed the celestial equator two weeks ago, but this morning was the first day when the air was telltale crisp and worthy of winter boots.

  She stepped into the press room and immediately looked around. Her shoulders sank when she didn’t see Spencer. She knew she was getting terribly dependent on his presence, but a part of her didn’t care. She’d spent her entire career fighting to establish herself among her colleagues and with one stupid night, her reputation in the box had gone from burgeoning journalist to girl who parties with the players. This was supposed to be her year in the playoffs, too; instead she was looking at another rebuilding year. With Spencer, though, she didn’t have to force smiles or fake praise. It was a relief to just be herself. She looked around for him again.

  The heels of her suede boots clicked on the tile floor as the reporters watched the pregame rituals. The two managers met at home plate and exchanged lineup cards. Cat peeked out to the scoreboard and checked the time. It was only a few minutes before the umpire would shout, “Play Ball!” The media had the game hype on full blast, as they should. If the Buffalo Soldiers won, the team would take the series back to their home turf for game 5. If they lost, that was it. The season was done and the players would head back to the clubhouse, pack up their Speed Sticks and batting gloves and head home.

  See ya at Spring Training.

  “Hey, just the girl I wanted to see.” Cat looked up just as Spencer pulled out a chair next to her. Another relief. The empty chair had made her feel like even more of a leper in the crowded room. It seemed her colleagues would rather stand for three hours than sit next to her.

  Bad luck is contagious.

  “I’m here and ready to get this game underway.”

  “Me, too, you wanna know why?”

  His boyish grin brought a grin to her own face, despite her pregame anxiety.
<
br />   “Very much so.”

  “You know the News Herald’s music critic?”

  “Uh … the guy with the mullet and sleeveless shirts?” His picture graced the entertainment section of Spencer’s newspaper and ironically shared the page with Missy Prissy’s fashion column. The News Herald’s copyeditor had a wicked sense of humor.

  “His name is Lance Youngblood, and to be fair he’s growing his hair out, so it’s technically a ponytail now.”

  “Is that what has you so happy?”

  He chuckled. “No. He came to town with me because some Buffalo garage band is the opening act at the House of Blues for a benefit concert. He just called and told me he was able to get a couple extra tickets if I want them and I’m telling you because … wait for it.” He held his finger in the air. “Wait for it.”

  Cat nodded anxiously, her eyes locked on his as they danced with anticipation. The game, only minutes away from starting, was just a speck on her radar.

  He whipped out two ticket stubs and waved them in her face, pulling them back when she tried to snatch them. “Ah, ah, ah. I said ‘wait for it’ not ‘grab it.’ Just for that, I think I’ll make you wait a little longer.”

  “Come on, tell me!”

  “Tom Morello is the headliner, baby!”

  She smacked his arm and squealed. “Nuh-uh!” The commotion attracted looks from the other reporters, but by now she was used to their stares and merely ignored them.

  “As real as AA’s blown save last night. I know you’re a fan so I thought I’d see if you wanted to come with me.”

  She grinned and then cocked her head. “How’d you know I’m a fan? As far as music goes, the only thing we’ve listened to together is ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,’ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ and ‘Jump.’ ”

  No nine innings were complete without the Seventh Inning Stretch, the National Anthem and a little pregame Van Halen.

  “I hacked into your iPod.”