Curveball (8 page)

Or not.

Cat stopped in her trek to the closet and stared at Paige’s duds of the day.

Versace, Cavalli, Gucci.

The snug royal blue dress that wrapped around Paige’s body was definitely one of the
“ees” and as such, she wore it with ease as she filed her nails at the hotel room
table. It showed off at least three inches of ample cleavage but fell precisely to
her knees—save for a six-inch slit. Cat surmised that this was as professional as
it was going to get. Sunlight streamed in through the giant window behind her, illuminating
the young woman like she was an angel. That is, until she spoke.

“Oh Em Gee, Cat McDee, was that a freaky-deaky night or what?”

Cat stood behind the louvered closet door, using it as a privacy screen. She flipped
her towel over the top and slipped into the sleeveless rayon that, up until thirty
seconds ago, had been the most glamorous dress she’d ever seen.

“You can say that again.”

“Was that a freaky-deaky—”

“Ha, ha.” She peeked out from behind the door to spy Paige’s shoes.

Another “ee.”

Fendi, this time. As Cat reached for her Payless pumps, a pang of jealousy hit her.
She dismissed it; coveting Paige’s wardrobe was like a little leaguer envying Albert
Pujols’ batting average. “What’s your deal anyway? I never figured you for a morning
person.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Nightmare city. Probably ’cause of the horizontal beachcomber.”

Cat sauntered out of the closet and shot her a disgusted glare. As she prepared her
laptop tote, it occurred to her that not even a gruesome death could pause the party
girl for more than eight hours.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

Paige hopped into the driver’s seat and Cat instantly blessed her decision to skip
breakfast. After one blown red light, two near crashes and three blocks of driving
in the opposite lane, the girls arrived at work.

“I hope the fact that we’re late on our second day goes unnoticed.”

Paige grinned and reached for a box in the backseat. “I got it covered.”

Joe’s office door was wide open. His rotund belly, framed by navy suspenders, protruded
out from the morning paper. He pulled it down enough for his curly dark hair and brown
eyes to peek out over the top.

Paige waved the white box at him. “Brought donuts, courtesy of the
La Concha Gran Hotel
. You want?”

He set the paper down and waved her over. “Any jellies?”

“No, only glazed, but I think they’re from Krispy Kreme. Can you believe it?” She
opened the box and put it on his desk. His eyes widened and he eagerly pulled one
out, pointing with it at the front page. “Did you hear about this? A dead kid washed
up on the beach near your hotel.”

Paige closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the thing—”

He tore into the donut and said, “Jesus. I scouted this kid.”

Cat snapped her head up from her perch in his doorway. “You did?”

“Everyone did.” He double-checked the name. “Gaspar Peralta, yeah. At one time, we
all thought he was going to be the next Manny.”

“That’s weird.”

“Nah, every day I hear so-and-so’s gonna be the next whomever.” Joe took another bite
of the donut and continued with his mouth full of fried dough. “I’ve seen about thirty
Vladimir Guerreros this year alone.”

“No, not that. If this kid was such a superstar in the making, then why didn’t Chance
know …” Cat turned behind her to make sure they were alone. The outer office was empty
but she closed the door anyway as she stepped into Joe’s private room.

She gave Paige the okay nod.

Paige leaned in secretively. “Promise not to tell my dad?”

Joe sat the donut down and licked the remaining glaze off his stubby fingers. “How
can I answer that if I don’t know what you’re about to tell me?”

“Come on.” Paige huffed before her annoyed voice turned whiny. “Please, Joe?”

“All right. Whatever you’ve got will stay between us.”

She scanned his face and nodded in confirmation at Cat. “Okay, so yesterday I went
to check out the beach, right?”

“After you were done working, of course.”

Cat smiled to herself; perhaps Joe wasn’t the clueless dolt she had feared. Not that
anyone in the entire Soldiers organization would dare challenge the general manager’s
daughter, but it was nice to know that they saw through Paige’s act, too.

“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I met this guy there. Really cute. Picture,
like, Robert Pattinson’s smile and Chris Hemsworth’s hair except his did this little
thing in the front and he didn’t have an accent—”

“Paige.”

“Sorry.” She wiped the dreamy look off her face. “Anyway, he said he was a sports
agent in town so I thought, hey, this guy would be a solid business contact.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So me and Cat both ended up going to dinner and after that we all went for a walk
on the beach.”

He held his hand up to stop her. “I just want to make sure I understand the timeline;
this all took place within your first twenty-four hours here?”

“Yeah.” She studied his face with innocent wide eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” He looked over at Cat. She was leaning on the door, hiding an amused
smile.

“I’m a very social person, you know.” Paige’s wide eyes had narrowed into slits.

“Obviously.” He brought his hand up to his mouth, hiding his own smile behind his
fist. “I’m sorry, please continue.”

“Anyway.” She folded her arms over her chest. “We were walking toward the jetty and
that’s when I saw the body and we called the police.”

Joe sat up in his chair. His expression registered no signs of his prior amusement.
He tapped pointedly on the newspaper. “You mean, you’re the
vagabunda
?”

“The
what
?” Paige reached for the newspaper. “They called me a vagabond?” She looked at Cat.
“They probably meant you. You know, because of the skirt you were wearing.”

“Hey!” That skirt had come from one of the hottest boutiques on the Las Vegas strip
and was still costing her nine percent interest at this very moment. “What was wrong
with my—”

Joe shook his head. “
Vagabunda
. Literally, it means
wanderer
but uh, yeah, it used to refer to a homeless woman.” He shrugged his shoulders at
Cat. “Sorry.”

Cat scoffed and put her hands on her hips. “Why are you both assuming it was me?”

“Maybe it’s because you didn’t have any shoes on.” Paige scrunched up her nose and
took the opportunity to scrutinize Cat’s current choice of footwear, frowning at the
worn set of heels.

Cat cleared her throat. “Let’s move on to the dead guy on the beach.”

Joe ran his fingers through the front of his thick dark hair. “I was warned that trouble
always seems to find you two.”

“Technically,
we
found trouble,” Cat said.

His forehead creased, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared outward.

Cat bit her lip and scrunched back into the door. “Semantics, I guess.”

“I assume it’s all taken care of now?”

Paige nodded. “I gave the police my statement last night, so I guess so.”

He sighed; the tension slowly began to melt off of his face. “Well that’s good.”

“But that’s not the weird part.”

The lines came back tenfold. He closed his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose
between his index finger and his thumb. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Well that guy with us, the agent? Chance? After we gave our statements and were getting
ready to leave, this hysterical woman comes onto the scene, I guess she was the body’s—kid’s—mom.
Anyway, she sees Chance and comes running up to him, pointing and screaming at him
in Spanish.”

“What was she saying?” Joe asked.

“I couldn’t understand it but Cat could.”

Cat nodded. “Everything was hectic but she was blaming him, uh, saying ‘It’s you,
it’s you’ and that she hated him.”

Paige took the conversation back. “I asked him and he said he didn’t have a clue who
she was or what she was talking about. But you said this kid was a real prospect.
As an agent, wouldn’t he know that, too?”

Joe lifted the lid on his laptop. “What’d you say this guy’s name was, the agent?”

“Chance Hayworth.”

Joe’s fingers danced across the keyboard. “Hmm … I got a listing here for a Chance
Hayward. No Hayworth.”

“Hayward, that’s it.” Cat tore herself off the door, walked around his desk and peeked
over his shoulder.

“He’s at uh, Worldwide Baseball Talent Management.” What was so familiar about that
name? Then she remembered: the business card the young man at the airport had given
her. What had he expected her to do with it?

Paige leaned over the desk and craned her head around to the monitor. “Worldwide,
that’s it. So he’s legit?”

Joe snorted. “Well, I can’t say that.”

“What do you mean?” Cat asked.

“Girls, you gotta realize something real quick about this business. For every kid
that dreams of playing
pelota
in the sunshine, there’s an
estafador
waiting in the shadows. This town’s full of scumbags with shiny business cards and
a listing in the phone book under ‘talent agent.’ Sadly, that’s all it takes to get
recruits. We don’t have a licensing program down here for agents.” He shook his head.
“It’s unfortunate but that’s just the way it is. There’s guys down here that promise
hopeful kids big futures in the
gran carpa
and tell them it’ll only cost them X amount of money to sign up, which they claim
is for paperwork fees or training overhead costs. We try to warn ’em, educate ’em
on not giving any money upfront but these snakes are smooth talkers. Even the smart
kids fall into their traps. Next thing you know, they’re out of a dream and their
savings.”

“Are you saying Chance is a hustler?” Paige reached across the desk and smacked her
on the arm. “McDee, did you hear that?”

Cat pulled the newspaper off Joe’s desk. “He said the woman probably recognized him
and blamed him because her son wasn’t as good as she thought.”

“That’s possible, too.” Joe rolled his eyes. “I’ve dealt with a few mama bears of
my own. Some of these parents want a contract more than the kid does.”

Cat scanned the headline and focused on the picture. The young man looked happy in
the photo, but there was something else drawing her in. She took a closer look.

“This kid.” She held the paper in front of Paige. “Does he look familiar to you?”

“You mean without the seaweed and stench of dead fish?” she replied.

“No, take another look. I think this is the kid from the airport, the one making the
scene at the rental car counter.” Cat squinted at the photo. “I’m almost positive.”
She pointed at his upper cheek. “I remember the scar.” She showed the paper to Joe.
“It reminded me of the one Don Long got from that maple bat shard.”

Paige grabbed the newspaper out of her grip; it rustled as she skimmed the article.
“He was throwing such a fit. He got hauled away by security and everything.”

“Did you girls hear what the ruckus was about?”

“He wanted a car.”

Paige chimed in. “Real bad.” She sat the newspaper down and crossed her arms. “You
don’t really think that Chance is one of these dirty agents, do you?”

Cat shrugged. “Chance said he’d met with him, plus that business card that Gaspar
had at the airport was Worldwide Baseball Talent Management, I’m almost sure of it.
He might be.”

“That would be awful.” She paused. “’Cause he’s so cute.”

“Yes, only ugly people should be crooks.”

“I’m just saying it’s a perfectly good waste of washboard abs.”

“Do you ever stop and listen to yourself? What do abs have to do with a dead body
on the beach?”

“Um … the dead body had abs, Chance had abs.”

Joe watched their exchange like a tennis referee, his head bobbing back and forth
between the two women. He interrupted before Cat could tear into Paige. “Girls. Want
my advice? Check out his operation for yourself. See what kind of office he has, what
services they offer, that sort of thing.”

Paige nodded. “Okay.”

He looked at the wall clock. “I got some calls to make.”

Cat took one last peek at the newspaper photo. She smiled up at Joe, who was concentrating
on the last half of his donut. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for. Or wait, I thought that’s what Paige was here for?”
He gave her a wink and she laughed.

Paige stuck her tongue out at him. “I’ll shut the door on my way out. How’s that for
help?”

“What would I do without you?” He shoved the rest of the donut in his mouth and picked
up his phone.

How Boys Become Men in the Baseball Business

When I was sixteen, I was frying French fries for five dollars an hour. I squealed
when I saw my first paycheck had three digits. When Antonio Peña was sixteen, he signed
with the Buffalo Soldiers for a record five million dollars. Rumor has it, he fainted
when he saw his check had seven digits. I sat down with the Soldiers’ top prospect
today, where it all started—his hometown of Santo Domingo.

CM: Antonio, first off, let's clear the air. Did you really faint when you got the
offer?

AP: Oh, I’m never going to live that down. Yes, I hit the floor like I was ducking
a wild pitch.

CM: Your signing bonus was a record $5 million. Does that put any extra pressure on
you to succeed?

AP: Not really. When I’m on the field, I’ve got one objective: to give one hundred
percent so my team can win. It doesn’t matter if I’m playing a pickup game in the
street or under the lights at the Soldiers Dome. I play to win, not for money.

CM: So when did you start playing baseball?

AP: I played for as long as I can remember, but then I only had a stick for a bat.

CM: A stick?

AP: No one in my neighborhood could afford a real baseball bat, so we made do. Of
course, now manufacturers send me boxes of bats for free in an attempt to get me to
endorse their brand.