by Leo W. Banks
Roxy sat cross-legged in the dugout. She wore those tight-fitting shredded jeans that showed patches of leg through gaping, white-fringed holes. Opal tripped through the moist grass barefoot, whirling her arms like a bird trying to fly. She returned to earth in centerfield and sat on the wet grass to watch me work.
I wound up and threw a pitch, the first since I’d walked off the field in Mazatlán. I threw a second and a third, all from flat ground in front of the mound. It was blazing hot. I threw for five minutes with undoctored baseballs.
When the sweat cleared away the initial lethargy and I began to feel loose, I moved back onto the rubber.
I broke off a small section of the gum and stuffed it against my cheek. I didn’t bite into it. I threw several pitches from the mound, all of them clean. But before each one I licked my fingers as a diversion. I didn’t want Wilson to know which balls were doctored and which weren’t.
At first I stayed with my two-seam fastball, thrown at three-quarter speed. On days when I was clicking, my two-seamer was a dandy pitch. I’m left handed, and it had a natural run that moved outside to a right-handed hitter and jammed a lefty. The run was still there and that was good to see.
After fifteen or so balls, I bit into the gum, releasing the thick liquid and that sour taste. It was like having a mouthful of Pennzoil. I wondered if Dr. Melody could enhance the flavor. If we found him alive, I’d be sure to mention that. Dark chocolate was my choice.
My first doctored pitches went wild, but soon I zeroed in. The dive at the end of its ride was sharp, not lazy, the same dramatic movement I got on my Vaseline spitter in Mexico.
I threw El Bailador again and again to get the right rhythm fixed in my head. Step off the mound and lick the fingers and dry them on the pant leg. Most of the drying pressure had to be on the last two fingers, with less on the thumb, index, and middle fingers.
That kept just enough of the saliva-sap mix in place. Step back onto the mound and throw before the ball dries. Several pitches nearly bounced in the dirt in front of Wilson and on every one of those, he nodded at me to indicate, “Yes, that’s the one we want.”
I began mixing my pitches, some doctored and some not. I threw my spitball only ten or twelve times a game. After the first one, the opposing dugout knew the pitch was there.
If I was doing my job, it stood out in their minds like a pimple on prom night. The psychology of the spitball, the choreography of deception that I went through in the mound, was as powerful as the pitch itself.
After five minutes, my fastball was hitting Wilson’s glove with a solid pop, the sound echoing around the empty ballpark.
I felt good, confident and clearheaded. It had been a long time, and I wasn’t sure I could throw the strikes consistently. But the basic skill never goes away and the muscles remember, making the routine movements automatic. The key was going to be getting my mechanics right. If I could find my arm slot, everything else would follow.
From the dugout, Roxy mimicked the hum-baby cheers of excited Little Leaguers. “Way to go, Prospero!”
From centerfield, Opal gave a piercing, two-fingered whistle and shouted, “Mr. Whip, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, nobody can!” and gave a cheerleader fist pump.
Wilson hollered out a caution not to overthrow, saying I’d been out of the game two years and should take it easy. But I couldn’t stop. The harder I threw, the better I felt, and the more Wilson liked it.
He bounced on his haunches like a young man. He hid his free hand behind his thigh, as if protecting it from a foul tip. He was fiercely alive and all business.
When I threw a hard strike, he called out, “That’s the one, Whiplash!” and pointed his catcher’s mitt at me before firing the ball back.
When I threw another, he hollered, “Ninety located. Say good night, Audrey!”
I threw El Bailador just as Rolando had taught me to throw a Vaseline spitter. I gripped the ball with my fingers on the hide, not the stitches, to reduce rotation. With a tiny amount of that thick sap on my fingertips, combined with the hide-only grip, the ball slicked out of my hand in a squirting action.
When I used Vaseline, the balls I got back had a slight sheen on them. If the umpire caught on, or the opposing manager got suspicious, they could sometimes see it. But the balls Wilson returned were dry. None of the Palmer sap remained.
No discoloration, no soft spot on the hide, no odor, no moisture.
Fausto won fifteen games with El Bailador and not a single umpire figured it out, though a lot tried. It was a desert plant, after all, and the substance evaporated on the way to the plate.
Sixty feet, six inches, evidence gone.
When Wilson stopped the session, he looked like he’d stepped out of the shower. His sweats were drenched. He used his forearm to dry his face. “What’s in that stuff again?”
“A sap from the agave plant.”
Wilson’s face wrinkled in confusion. “Like tequila?”
“It’s a different agave, but yeah. The ball sure likes it.”
“Hell, yes. Yes, it does. My word, what a pitch.”
Roxy whistled and stood up in the dugout and waved us over. We listened as she spoke on the phone. She said, “Okay, George, sounds good. Right. It’ll be a sweet piece.”
Wilson mopped the back of his neck with a hanky as he listened.
Roxy said, “Sure, George. I’ll let you know as soon as we have a date. I can’t wait, George. Okay. Will do. Take care, my friend.”
She ended the call and said, “That was a guy I used to work with. He’s an ESPN producer for Baseball Tonight. If we can give him a date certain, he’ll have a crew here to cover Whip Stark’s return.”
Wilson’s jaw departed his face. ESPN showing up at a minor league ballpark was a blizzard in July. It just didn’t happen.
“That’s one phone call, Daniel,” Roxy said. “I’ve got a million contacts. You want me to start calling around? The gate will make your whole summer.”
Wilson pondered, drawing excited breaths. He whipped out his cell, called his on-field manager, and walked in circles as he spoke. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he said, “We’re home in thirteen days, and you’re on the hill two days later, Sunday afternoon, July 20.”
Roxy piped up: “We’ll call it Tequila Sunday.” She pressed her lips together and nodded, impressed with herself. “They call that marketing, Daniel. Pretty good, don’t you think?”
“It’s brilliant,” Wilson said, and looked at me. “Can you be ready, Whip?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Two years is a long time. You’re sure you can throw that ball in front of ten thousand people and all those cameras?”
“I’m the Phenom, Danny.”
He studied me, eyes burning. “Yes, you are. Roxanne, start making calls.”
We went into Wilson’s office. I signed a single-game contract for a dollar, and then Danny had to ruin it by joking that I was worth twice that much. Like every other joke a general manager ever told, I didn’t think it was funny.
SIXTY-SIX
Roxy summoned her crew to Hi Corbett and her piece aired that night. She filmed me sitting on the dugout bench wearing a Thunder jersey and cap, and split that with B-roll of my twenty-strikeout game. I couldn’t believe how young I looked.
I watched the 5:00 p.m. show on my kitchen TV, Charlie and Opal there with me.
“The excitement builds at Hi Corbett Field tonight with General Manager Danny Wilson promising major surprises for the big game. That’s in addition to the drama of watching Whiplash Stark return to the same mound where he won fame as a teenage superstar. On Sunday, July 20, Tucson and the nation will learn if the Phenom can recapture that faded glory.
“Live on KPIN with the real story, this is Roxanne Santa Cruz reporting.”
Soon as I flipped off the TV, Opal said, “I didn’t know you were so big.”
“Gargantuan,” I said.
She sipped her Pepsi. “Cool beans.”
Charlie pointed at me. “This man struck out A-Rod. Jeter, too. In the same inning!”
Opal tried to look impressed, but it was obvious she had no idea who they were.
“Easy, Charlie,” I said. “A-Rod got me three innings later—a four-hundred-fifty-foot bomb.”
Roxy called wanting to know what I thought. I scolded her for not mentioning that even though I was far from a teenager, I was still devastatingly handsome. And the “faded glory” line was a lamentable cliché. She agreed but said anything original would’ve confused her boss and sent her to the editing room to cut it from the piece.
“I’ve already had two texts from New York media looking for you,” Roxy said. “They’ll come in bunches now.”
“I’ve been through the frenzy before.”
“I have something to say, and it’s important, Prospero. As of tonight, Mayflower and Rincon know if this game goes ahead, all the dirty laundry’s coming out. About El Bailador, heroin, the murders, Dr. Melody’s fabulous tequila gum, all of it. They know this isn’t about Whip Stark’s comeback.”
“They’ll be ticked off. I get it.”
“They can’t let this game happen. And with Wilson committed, he can’t back out. That leaves you a sitting duck at Double Wide.”
“Kill me and the trouble goes away—is that it?”
We both knew that was it exactly. Stop me from taking the mound and using the gum. Stop me from broadcasting the conspiracy to the world.
Cash stepped into the Airstream.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Roxy. “My security chief’s on hand, and he’s a crackerjack.”
Cash scratched his stomach and saluted. He stood his AR against the wall and sat at the table.
I said, “I talked to Benny Diaz an hour ago about getting the county to patrol out here. He’s going to make it happen.”
“What you need is a babe with a gun at your side.”
“I’ve been thinking you should come out and talk to Angel. I’ve tried three times to get him to tell me more about Rolando and can’t get anywhere.”
“I’ve got a couple of stories to edit before I go anywhere. Let’s see…how about Saturday?”
“Laura Lace.”
“Laura…what?” Roxy said. “What’re you talking about?”
“Your dancing name. I’m stuck on the alliteration thing.”
“Not even close.”
“I’m coming to the end of the alphabet. Sapphire, Scarlett, Sierra. At least tell me if I’m in the ballpark.”
“Saturday.”
“If you want to use a day, Tuesday’s better. Remember Tuesday Weld?”
“No, no, no. I’m coming Saturday for dinner. Do you like crab tacos?”
SIXTY-SEVEN
The next day, Sunday, I was national news. The local paper followed up on Roxy’s piece, added more detail and it moved on the AP wire. Within an hour ESPN put up a crawl announcing Whip Stark’s return to baseball.
Roxy threw up a Facebook page touting the upcoming game and got twelve messages from reporters trying to track me down. Wilson had his own stack. They came from as far away as Mexico City and London.
But I had plenty of time to talk to the media. My priority was defending Double Wide against Roscoe Rincon.
I went through Gil Pappas’s storage shed and found two portable stanchion-mount spotlights. Charlie and I rigged one of them to the corner of his trailer. The light shone down Main Street, bright at Charlie’s end, diminishing at mine, but it was something at least.
We set up the other light out by my entrance sign. It threw a glow over the county road, not much beyond, and served as more of a decoy. I was fine with a decoy if it made that part of my perimeter less appealing to intruders.
The work was hot and took all of Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. But the hammering was comforting, evidence of a plan rather than just sitting around waiting for Rincon to act.
I called Oscar Molina. He should’ve arrived in Mexico City by now. No answer. I left a message.
Over those three days, I followed the same routine. Up early, Maxwell House, shower, shave, breakfast for me and Opal, and then, with Cash on guard duty at Double Wide, we drove over the mountain to Hi Corbett.
Even early in the morning, satellite vans waited in the parking lot. Wilson served coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts to the news crews. He walked around with the satisfied smile of a man in the middle of something exciting and loving the attention.
From his office, I did phoners with a Mexico City paper, the LA Times, Yahoo Sports, and DeadSpin, and sit-down interviews with Fox Sports and ESPN Deportes.
The national correspondents made assurances about how they’d handle the story of my cocaine arrest in Mazatlán and the sensitivity they’d show in talking about my father’s situation. But as soon as it was wheels up, they’d toss the promises and do what they needed to do to make the piece work.
Nothing is more dangerous than an out-of-town reporter.
After the interviews, I worked out with Danny again, until the Thunder’s regular catcher flew back to town from the road trip. Danny wanted the two of us to spend as much time as possible together before the game.
Rodrigo Peña was a black Cuban with a shaved head. After our first session, I told him about El Bailador, explaining that a scientist had created the gum with a sap from the agave plant. He gave me a shocked face, as if I might be joking.
He said, “This is how we make our living now? With a forbidden substance?” After more of the somber routine, he broke into a huge grin, his face full of larceny and gold-capped teeth. “Whatever it takes, baby.”
His attitude reminded me of Rolando, and that made me feel good.
I returned from those workouts around lunchtime. Over the remainder of the afternoon and into the evenings, Cash and Charlie and I worked to clear brush from between the trailers and along the entrance road. The less cover Rincon had, the better our chances to react.
Angel’s health had improved and he was eager to help. He made quite a sight, lurching down Main Street on that bandaged ankle, taking a long step and a short one, jerking his arms up and down to generate momentum.
He wore Charlie’s Goodwill clothes: a blue railroad shirt, long sleeved with flap pockets, and dark-blue work pants with the cuffs rolled up several times. The pants and shirt were so baggy he practically disappeared inside them.
Cash said, “He’s been going into the desert to hunt for food for his mysterious friend. But he won’t tell me who it is.”
“That kid hasn’t got a friend in the world.”
“He makes spears out of saguaro ribs and stalks through the brush. When the critters come by, he pounces. He’s like a Injun out there.”
“Keep your eyes on him.”
“He don’t go nowhere without I’m watching.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
I caught a break in the search for Bunny Slippers. On Saturday, I got a call from the same Las Vegas number that showed up repeatedly on Bunny’s bill. A grouchy female said, “How come you keep calling this number?”
I said I wanted to hire Bunny for a gig. The caller said she was Bunny’s sister and vamped around for a few minutes while deciding whether to tell me where she was. “Well, Bunny needs the money for sure. Try the Mustache Room on the Strip. She’s doing two nights a week over there.”
Within minutes I was looking at the Mustache Room’s website. No mention of Bunny Slippers. I called the place and got stuck in phone jail until I pushed the right button, and a girl picked up and said, “Dressing room.”
I didn’t ask for Bunny. The clubs work hard to shield the dancers from troublesome men, which would make the direct approach tricky. Still working on the theory that she and Melody were together, I asked for Arthur instead.
The girl said, “Who?”
“Arthur Melody. Bald, big ears.”
“Oh, the professor. He comes in with Bunny and sits around. He ain’t here. Try tonight. Bunny works tonight.”
&n
bsp; Bingo. I’d found Arthur Melody.
Roxy rolled into Double Wide at seven thirty.
Opal, Cash, and Charlie were just leaving the Airstream when she stepped from the Audi. All eyes settled on her. She wore skinny black jeans, the legs stopping high enough to show six inches of sculpted ankle. Below that she had on bright-red shoes that looked like ballet flats.
Her shirt was white lace and almost sheer, revealing the faintest outline of the black bra underneath. Her hair looked blacker than normal as though newly colored. She had added a blond splash to the streak of purple behind her left ear.
She wore only a silver-band thumb ring on her left hand, the one with the half pinky. All the attention went to her right hand. A ring decorated every finger. The stones were all coral and not small. The color matched the ballet flats.
Roxy came around the Audi and posed for me, stretching her arms out and pointing with both hands back to her body. “What do you think? Is this gonna get Angel talking or what?”
“The kid doesn’t stand a chance.”
“That’s the idea. What about you, Prospero? Anything?”
I let the question slide and told her about finding Bunny and Melody. She was surprised and impressed. “You’re getting to be like Sam Spade or somebody.”
“Now we’ve got to figure a way to get him back from Vegas for the press conference.”
“Simple. We call him up and say if he comes back, he gets to shape the story of his involvement. First time the public hears about this is key. It can go good or bad, depending on how he handles it.”
“I haven’t decided what to do yet,” I said. “The last thing I want to do is spook him.”
“While you’re thinking, give me a hand with the groceries.”
She popped the trunk, and we each grabbed a bag. I caught a whiff of Roxy’s perfume. Flowery, but too discreet to stand out above Double Wide’s beguiling aroma of motor oil and decay.
As Roxy passed Cash and Charlie, she nodded, and they seemed to nod back, although the mechanical up-and-down movement of their heads might’ve been involuntary man tics.