by Leo W. Banks
I knew the GM’s answer before Roxy did. When it comes to their stories, reporters always hold on to foolish hope.
She called two hours later and let loose an avalanche of invective that involved, among other things, the GM’s relationship with his mother and his dog, which was apparently furry. Roxy mentioned his bald head, no longer furry, his journalistic bravery or lack thereof, and of course the size of his “nozzle.”
Her word. I could infer where he landed on that crucial scale.
“I take it the story’s dead?” I said.
She made a variety of jungle noises and asked me to meet her at the TV station in the morning and bring Dr. Melody’s gum.
Next day, 10:00 a.m., Charlie drove Cash’s Dodge Dart to the Goodwill store to buy clothes for Angel. Opal went with him. With Cash staying at Double Wide on Angel watch, I followed them over the mountain and tried not to choke to death on the black smoke pouring from the Dodge.
SIXTY-THREE
The day was blindingly bright and dead, one of those summer Saturdays in Tucson when only the homeless are out. Roxy met me in the parking lot with her bearded, surly, disheveled cameraman. His name was Ralph.
At introduction, Ralph gave me a grudging nod and went back to loading his gear into the back of a KPIN van. He and his sourpuss got behind the wheel and waited, his tattooed arm holding up the roof. TV cameramen don’t have last names or personalities.
Roxy and I pulled away in the Audi, Ralph following. She drove in bare feet, her high heels tossed into the backseat. She wore a black-and-white-pinstriped pantsuit, square in the shoulders, tapered at the waist, the jacket double breasted with a narrow and low V-neck.
She looked like a cold-blooded banker who couldn’t wait to line out her next foreclosure before luncheon at a place with cloth napkins.
The TV station was on the west side of Tucson near the freeway. As Roxy drove east from there along Grant Road, she said, “I’ve been thinking about Fausto. Let’s assume Rincon didn’t get his mitts on him and the kid made it out of Monterrey. He’s on the run, and we don’t know where he is.”
“Optimistic, but okay.”
“If that’s true, Mayflower doesn’t know either,” Roxy said. “All right, we go to Mayflower and say we’ve got Fausto and he’s spilled everything about Melody and the gum.”
“We already tried the ambush approach.”
“Yeah, and it worked in a way,” she said. “He called Rincon about Rolando’s hand and made sure it disappeared from Double Wide. That wasn’t what you wanted, but it told us a lot.”
“How’s this going to change your GM’s mind?”
“Forget him. He’s planning his next vacation. When in doubt, stick a camera in your source’s face and see what he says. You never know.”
When we got to Campbell Avenue, she turned north and drove up the winding road toward Mayflower’s house.
“Waiting around for something to break is torture, and I hate being bored,” Roxy said.
“You’re bringing me along to show off your new outfit?”
“Neiman Marcus.” She jiggled in her seat. “Hoo-hoo! No, you’re protection for both of us. I want to make sure Mayflower knows you’re still with me. Two is better than one. Last night they found Mace Finch dead in the Pinal County Jail. Somebody cut his throat.”
That familiar cold hand crept through my gut. “For talking to me?”
“You’re a dangerous man to hang with, Prospero. That’s why you need me.”
Roxy stopped outside Mayflower’s house. Ralph pulled in behind us. When the maid opened the front door, Roxy asked in Spanish where Mayflower was. The maid stared at Roxy and then at Ralph, who had the camera balanced on his shoulder.
Without a word, she stepped aside, gestured toward the pool, and the three of us walked through the house and out the sliding glass door.
Mayflower sat under a white umbrella at a pebbled glass table. His chair was white bamboo, and he wore a white robe over blue swim trunks. His feet were bare, and a pair of dark sunglasses sat atop his head. He used the corners of his eyes on us. His mouth twitched.
“Roxanne Santa Cruz. Don’t you know you shouldn’t wear black in the heat?” he said, and turned back to the plate of fruit on the table in front of him.
The yard was a paradise. Lush grass, tall palm trees ringing a flagstone patio, a hot tub. White-flowering oleanders hovered over the perimeter fence, except where there was a good-sized gazebo. The sun made the swimming pool sparkle.
A shirtless black man stood over the water working the net pole. He had granite abs, muscle lines on his thighs, arms like railroad ties, and a white Speedo with a sack of summer berries stuffed inside. His hair was cut into lightning bolts above his ears.
He dropped the pole and started toward us. Mayflower stopped him with a raised hand. “It’s all right, Reggie.”
Roxy knew how to make an appearance. She strode across the cool deck straight to Mayflower’s side using her bouncy walk—long steps, shoulders high, elbows high, hips swaying, her face sculpted and resolute. Her high heels hitting the cool deck sounded like small arms fire.
The creator of the pantsuit doesn’t get enough credit. Properly worn, it’s a diabolical thing. Its power rests almost entirely on mystery. But still, lean over slightly to pick up an orange slice, letting the V of the jacket billow out just enough, and a man can forget his name.
Then let some of the orange juice dribble down the chin, with a sweeping tongue in pursuit, and the pantsuit is suddenly more effective than a bikini. Throw in the heels and somebody better call the cops.
Mayflower did a poor job pretending his brunch was more interesting.
Roxy said, “I’m producing a story, and I’m going to tell you what I know.”
Without looking up, Mayflower raised an indifferent hand as a go-ahead.
“To succeed at your job, you needed to find an edge and in the service of that idea, you hired the genius botanist Dr. Arthur Melody,” she said, and pulled the gum out of her pocket. “He came up with this.”
Mayflower gave as little effort as he could to looking at it, just a fast back-and-forth glance. “What exactly is that, please?”
“I don’t know what to call it,” Roxy said. “What do you think, Prospero? Let’s try Dr. Melody’s fabulous tequila gum. It has nothing to do with tequila, but what the hell. I like the name.”
Mayflower dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Sounds impressive. Please, go on.”
“You needed access to the agave on Paradise Mountain and that brought you to Roscoe Rincon, who owns that mountain as part of his smuggling operation,” she said. “The two of you made a deal. He gives you the access in return for laundering his heroin money through Skin.”
She leaned forward, turning her head. “Skin is your company, correct, Mr. Mayflower?”
He said nothing and glanced at Ralph as if seeing him for the first time. A good cameraman masters the art of not being there. The camera is there, changing everything in the most fundamental way. But the man behind it is a ghost.
Roxy continued: “Everything is going peaches. Fausto is burning it up in Mexico and the plan’s working. El Bailador is the next big thing in the game. But Roscoe Rincon makes the terrible mistake of killing Rolando Molina, and that brings this dogged character onto the scene.”
She motioned to me. I gave Mayflower a goofy smile.
“Now,” Roxy said, “Fausto has run out of his gum and your whole scam has fallen apart. I’m sure you know Ed Bolt is in jail on burglary charges for trying to retrieve it and his partner has been murdered. You and Roscoe Rincon can’t kill enough to keep this quiet anymore.”
She grabbed another orange slice from Mayflower’s plate and popped it into her mouth. She used her index finger to collect the excess juice from her chin and sucked it clean.
She said, “Before you comment, I should mention that I have Fausto Molina in a secure location in Tucson. And that young man is talking like crazy.”
<
br /> The red in Mayflower’s face turned a sickly white, the first crack in the facade. He dabbed his lips with a napkin again and put it down. He stared at his plate, stood up, and fought with his robe before pulling it tight and pointing at Ralph.
He said, “I want you to come in tight. The frame should have my face only. This side, please.” He raised his jaw and patted his left cheek with his palm. “Are you ready, sir?”
Ralph pointed at Mayflower like a director beginning a scene.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mayflower said, in a robotic voice. “I’ve never heard of this Dr. Arthur Melody. As for heroin smuggling—preposterous. I’m a baseball man. But if one of my companies has fallen off the straight and true, I will of course cooperate with authorities in correcting it and telling them everything I know.”
He smiled without a hint of pleasure. “I’ll have no more to say this afternoon. Reggie, can you show our visitors out?”
As if on a spring, Reggie lunged toward the camera. I got there first and hip-checked him into the pool. He departed the cool deck in a spasm of gorgeous limbs, and thrashed around in the water until he could pull himself out.
Mayflower jumped up and blocked Reggie from getting to me. He was hot, jumping around in his Speedo. Holding Reggie back, Mayflower said, “I won’t have that in my house, Reggie. I’ll show our guests to the door.”
Mayflower followed us through the house. He waited until Ralph and his camera were far ahead, and then he called Roxy and me back.
“Don’t make a mistake here. A deadly mistake.”
He paused to let that sink in.
“You have one source, a seventeen-year-old Mexican boy, and what is he saying? That I hired a mad scientist to produce a heretofore unknown serum with properties never before seen outside an H. G. Wells story? And these properties cause a baseball to move in an unhittable manner? A pitcher whose record these past weeks is quite pathetic?”
He plunged his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Is anyone going to believe that? Or do you think they’ll laugh until they cry?”
SIXTY-FOUR
Roxy tossed her high heels into the backseat of the Audi and sat behind the wheel huffing in frustration. “I thought I’d enjoy that more,” she said. “I half expected Mayflower to break down and admit everything.”
“Did you catch the mistake he made at the end?” I said.
“He didn’t dispute that we have Fausto.”
“Right. He wouldn’t do that if Roscoe Rincon had found him.”
“Okay, we know Fausto’s alive,” Roxy said. “But we don’t have him and when I don’t air this story, Mayflower will know we don’t have him. And I can’t find Arthur Melody.”
“If we find Bunny Slippers, we’ll find Melody.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been back to her house three times, and it looks exactly like we left it. What about that Vegas number she was calling?”
“Tried it fifteen times. No answer, no call back.”
“She’s a ghost, Prospero. Gone. Before long, Mayflower will know I don’t have jack. The cover-up is going to work.”
After that, we didn’t talk much on the ride back to the station. We pulled into the back parking lot. The rear of the building was a solid block wall broken only by a high strip of blurred windows and a single gray door.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and one of the male on-airs was tossing a football to his female desk mate. She made sure to drop it, and then giggled, chased it, and threw it back to him, and he made sure to catch it.
Roxy pulled up beside the Bronco, and we sat watching the footballers. They were the weekend team, brand new to the job, still happy, not yet ready to go at each other with ball-peen hammers, and by their faces, fresh out of eighth grade.
They saw Roxy and waved, though you might describe it as more of a salute. Roxy didn’t wave back.
She said, “If you stay past thirty in this market, you’re a legend.”
We stepped out of the car, and Roxy walked toward the station. As I reached the Bronco to leave, the football rolled to my feet, and the female anchor bounded over in her pink go-to-work sneakers to retrieve it. I ignored her and whipped it across the parking lot.
Instead of trying to catch it, the man ducked to avoid certain decapitation. He survived with his hair in place. He probably used prime product. All the best ones do. Roxy opened the gray door and held it wide. She gave the two young anchors an exhausted wave meant to summon them in out of the heat. They obeyed at once.
I got into the Bronco and started the engine. As I drove toward the street, I heard a loud bang. In the rearview I saw that Roxy had thrown open the station door, thumping it against the wall, and she was running after the Bronco in bare feet. I braked and poked my head out the window.
“Wait up! Wait a minute!” she called. “I said we’ve got nothing and Mayflower knows it, right? But that’s wrong. We have Dr. Melody’s fabulous tequila gum.”
“You want to put the gum on camera?”
“No, I want to put you on camera. I saw the way you threw that football.” Breathing hard, Roxy tucked a wild strand of purple hair behind her ear. “That’s the most powerful evidence we have. All we have to do is show people how it works. That’s your job, Prospero. Show them!”
“You want me to pitch again?”
“We wouldn’t be telling people what this stuff does to a baseball—we’d show them!”
“That’s crazy.”
“It isn’t crazy at all,” she said. “Think about it. We can make this into an event. Everybody loves a comeback story, right? This could be the greatest comeback of all time. It could be huge!”
“I haven’t picked up a baseball in two years.”
“Isn’t this exactly what Mayflower was trying to do with Fausto? Create a circus atmosphere around this young guy and his fabulous pitch? Everybody still knows your name, and I can guarantee serious publicity. The national boys will turn out big time for this.”
Roxy was gleeful. She dragged her hand over her head to make an air headline: “Come watch Whiplash Stark’s return to the mound! The Phenom is back!”
“You’re forgetting something, Rox. I don’t have a team.”
“Yes, you do. The Tucson Thunder.”
“You think Danny Wilson would go for something like this?”
“Wilson lies in bed dreaming of drawing fans to the ballpark,” she said. “Show him how this stuff works, and he’ll sign you in a heartbeat. Whiplash Stark is back. Are you kidding me?”
I started to speak, but she interrupted.
“After the game, we hold a press conference and spill everything. We’ll screw Max Mayflower to the wall—tell how El Bailador is a doctored pitch, how he hired Melody to create this stuff using the sap from the Palmer agave, laundering drug money through his club, the whole bit.”
“He’ll deny everything.”
“So what? A million eyes have just seen proof. If you pitch well, hold the gum up for the cameras, say what it is, how it came to be, it’ll be riveting. Who knows, maybe we’ll have found Melody by then.”
“Roxy, I don’t even know if this stuff works.”
She wasn’t listening. She snapped her fingers as she bounced from foot to foot on the hot pavement. “This is epic! This is huge! Wait, where’s your mitt? You kept your mitt, right?”
“Of course. I’m not a barbarian.”
“How about I call Danny Wilson right now? Set something up at Hi Corbett? If the stuff works, we’re in business.”
Roxy already had her cell out. She was so excited I didn’t think she’d be able to hit the numbers. As she waited for Wilson to pick up, she leaned in the driver’s window and kissed me, a real smooch.
“Daniel,” she said, and gave me a confident nod. “Roxanne Santa Cruz here. Clear your schedule for tomorrow morning.”
SIXTY-FIVE
The next day, Saturday, we pulled into the parking lot at Hi Corbett at 9:00 a.
m. It was me, Roxy, and Opal, and when we walked into Wilson’s office, he fixed on Opal. “You brought your maid? Are you trying to tell me something?”
“She’s my friend, Danny,” I said, and tossed my glove onto his desk and sat down.
He caught my irritation and gave a “surrender” nod.
Opal paid no attention. She had her hair in a ponytail and wore a loose, yellow-and-blue tie-dyed shirt. Her legs were dimpled behind the knees and stuffed into spandex denim shorts. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted black.
With her flips-flops hooked under one finger, she strolled barefoot around the office looking at the pictures on the walls and examining various exotic office items, like the stapler.
Roxy and I laid out the plan. As we talked, Wilson’s eyes bounced between us. He listened carefully with a wry look on his face, nodding from time to time.
I explained that nothing would be off limits. At the postgame press conference, I’d produce the gum for the cameras and tell everything I knew about El Bailador and how it came to be. I’d talk about Dr. Melody and Roscoe Rincon and the heroin connection. I’d describe my background with Rolando and how he tried to help Fausto reach the big leagues.
The off-limits part wasn’t entirely true. I said nothing about Rolando’s hand or my decision to withhold it from the cops.
The only time Wilson blanched was when I said he’d be sitting at my side to tell the press he knew that I was going to use an illegal substance. But he could say he did so to expose what he considered a serious threat to the integrity of the game, in the person of Max Mayflower.
“The integrity of the game,” he said. “That’s true. I have thought about that.” He bunched his lips and made a thinking face. “You’re sure you can make this pitch dance like the name? If you can’t, the whole thing falls apart, and we look like fools.”
“Come on,” I said, and grabbed my glove off the desk.
Wilson changed into sweats and met us on the field. It was empty and silent under a cloudless blue sky. Our voices echoed in the empty stadium. The air smelled of wet grass from the groundskeeper’s morning work.