Las Vegas Gold (2 page)

2

The morning following the late evening encounter at the bar in Los Angeles, a more formal meeting took place in a downtown LA office building—a shiny new high rise. This meeting was in a large corner office, part of an entire fifteenth floor suite occupied by
Harrison, Bronson and Curry, Importers and Exporters.
So nobody could miss the importance of the firm and of the partners, the company name and those of the partners were printed in gold leaf on the opaque windows of the double doors. The doors opened from a shiny vestibule, which greeted anyone leaving the elevator at that floor—the company's name on the left door, the partners' names on the right.

Present were Stan Harrison, company president, Charles Bronson and Tom Currie. The latter two were junior partners of the company. They maintained offices there, but their duties really lay elsewhere in the organization. “So your man found he had a tiger by the tail, so to speak.” Stan Harrison blew smoke from his expensive cigar and aimed it at Currie.

“Well, Pat was surprised at how surly the guy is. He just basically told Pat to find him in some bar in Phoenix tonight and have his partners with him. Then he walked out.” Currie blew some cigar smoke back at Harrison, who coughed, frowned and turned to Bronson.

“Are we prepared to go higher than ten grand, do you think, Charley?” This time he did not blow smoke.

Bronson was, as usual, thoughtfully slow to answer. After a pause of some length, he replied, “Probably we should be, if this O'Hara character balks.” Bronson was the “accountant”—the money-man of the firm. He turned to Currie. “Are you going to Phoenix tonight with your man, Tom?”

Tom Currie nodded.

“Still 'n all, though,” said Bronson, “if it can be done, the pitcher is the one man who can do it, and with the way this guy is bringing on crowds in LA, we can make some real money through our Las Vegas connection.”

“Let us know tomorrow, Tom, what happens in Phoenix tonight.” Harrison was being the chairman again. “Now let's look at the shipment from Colombia that hasn't arrived at this point.”

The meeting continued with other important items to be dealt with.

* * *

Early in the afternoon in Las Vegas—a few hours after the meeting in LA—another meeting was taking place. This time the meeting was in a building that was not sparkling new, nor was it held in a plush and spacious office. The office had been newly redecorated and was noticeably clean. In fact, it had been opened so recently there was as yet no name on the door from the hall on the second floor.

Two people were meeting, a man in his sixties and a much younger woman. Those who knew them—or would have recognized them from news photos—would have known that he was Michael Malone and she was his daughter, Molly. Mike Malone had been a standout Major League Baseball player in his day, a first baseman who had three times won the league batting title and twice the MVP award. His salary in his playing days had been comparatively high for those times, and after retiring from active play he had used the savings he had conscientiously built up for carefully considered investments. While he had continued his baseball career as a successful Major League manager for five seasons, his investments continued and kept on working also. They made him wealthy—wealthy to the point where he quit the game and became a full-time businessman. Now he was extremely successful, worth more than a billion dollars, with Michael Malone Enterprises an empire, a diversified series of solid, well-managed companies.

Molly Malone had also been associated with baseball all her life, at least since she was old enough to play catch with her Dad, and she was still involved with the game. After ten years of being a recognized star in women's professional baseball, she was now a field manager, and her team, to nobody's surprise, was ten games ahead of the rest of the pack in the women's league and increasing the distance weekly. Many observers had said of her during her playing days that she could have easily played Major League baseball had she been a man.

Now they were meeting in one of Mike Malone's several offices. “So, Dad, you didn't bring me here to Las Vegas to an office you just opened only to tell me you love me.” Molly and her father had always had a happy, often bantering relationship.

“I brought you here to talk baseball business, Molly.” His voice was a pleasant baritone, and he spoke with an easily discerned tenderness. “First a little history,” rubbing his hand through his thinning white hair, a familiar gesture when he was thinking. “You aren't old enough to remember the American League once had a franchise in Washington. They were called the Senators, and when they couldn't get out of the league cellar and the bottom line was a solid red, they moved to Minnesota and became the Twins. Then there was a second Washington Senators, but in 1971 they became the Texas Rangers.”

“Sure I knew about them.
The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant
and
Damn Yankees
were both built around the Washington Senators. So what are you going to do, set up a team in Washington? Too late, the Nationals are already there.”

“No. That would be kind of stupid. I was hoping to get the franchise there when they moved from Montreal, but somebody beat me to it.”

“I was kidding!” Molly's green eyes sparkled.” So what evil
are
you up to?”

“I'm not kidding about this. I didn't get in at Washington, so I've secured another franchise—but it hasn't been announced yet.”

“Where? What city is left?”

“Yeah, like I said, they beat me to it in Washington. I would have liked to have been the one who revived baseball there, but this may be better.”

“So where are you going to put a team? Don't make me guess—
please.”
She leaned forward in obvious anticipation of his answer.

“Would you believe here in Las Vegas? That's why I opened this office. There are some bits and pieces left to complete in a short time.”

Molly leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Bits and pieces—yeah, I'll just bet. Like getting all kinds of flack about gambling.” She shook her shining red hair back out of her eyes.

“No problem. Everything is all done, signed and sealed, my dear. ”

She stared. “How in the world did you accomplish that?”

Mike rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together. “Money, Molly dear. Money.”

“How about a place to play? Not the 51s' stadium. It's too small. It won't hold twenty thousand.”

“Would you believe I have bought a couple of hundred acres of land the city offered me at an outrageous price before I bargained them down?”

“I'll bet you did, knowing you,” Molly interrupted.

“In two years, Molly me darlin', there will be a brand new baseball stadium with a retractable roof, built to the same plans and by the same contractor who built the Safeco Field in Seattle. Being the modest man I am, I'm going to call it ‘Malone Stadium'.”

“Wow!” The sound was not a huge cry, but more of a softly breathed exclamation of wonder. “I don't know what to say, Dad. Who are your partners?”

“None, Molly. Nobody. This project is all mine.”

“And what are the Blue Jays going to do with the 51s? Leave them here. I don't believe that.”

“Nope. I bought them from the Blue Jays, too. I'm going to move them to Vancouver. They'll stay in the Pacific Coast League and be the Triple A farm team for the Las Vegas Gold.”

“Good name. But why did you bring me down here to tell me all this? I know you well enough to know there's always an ulterior motive in something when you have to tell me face to face, instead of making a phone call.”

“And you are right. To state it bluntly, the reason I asked you to come to Las Vegas is to tell you that you—Molly me darlin'—are the new Field Manager of the Las Vegas Gold.” He sat back and waited for the explosion.

There was no explosion.

Molly didn't say a word. A silent minute became two. Two became three.

“Well?”

“Why do you think I can be the manager of a Major League Baseball team?” Her voice was quiet, her eyes looking directly into his. There was no smile or other facial expression.

“Why? Because you know baseball.” He rose from behind his desk, walked around to her chair and stopped beside it. He placed his left hand on her shoulder, and with the right, cupped her chin and raised it so she faced him. “But mostly, Molly, me darlin', mostly because you deserve it.”

She pushed his hand away. “Get off the phony blarney accent, Dad. What do you mean I deserve it? How do you expect it to work? I'm not a man.”

“And you never will be, Molly.” He returned to his chair behind the desk. “You're a woman, and a damn smart one, also a woman whom I happen to love having for a daughter. You know baseball and I know being a woman won't make a bit of difference a-tall, a-tall, once you get by the initial couple of days.”

“One of us is crazy, absolutely insane, and I can't tell whether it's you or me.”

“You know the old saying, ‘Don't sweat the small stuff—and it's all small stuff?' Well, after you get used to the whole thing, you will consider the appointment to be small stuff, because you'll have so much big stuff to deal with.” He smiled at his daughter.

“You won't think it's such small stuff when you see the contract I'm going to negotiate. Who's the General Manager?”

“Larry Henderson—but I haven't told him yet.”

“I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but…” Molly shook her red head, took a deep breath and said slowly, “when do I start work?”

“In ten days time. As I said, when the announcement will be made and I want you here. We won't be fielding a team until two years from now—the year after next. I promise you, you will have the best players money can buy. We are definitely not going to have a typical expansion team here. We're going to live up to our name.”

* * *

Tabby O'Hara was in uniform, but after the previous night's effort not pitching in the first game of the Dodgers' series against the Diamondbacks in Arizona.

As usual in such occasions, he sat by himself at one end of the bench, farthest away from the water cooler and the bat rack. He spoke to nobody, and none of the players spoke to him. He was obviously giving his full concentration to the ballgame. He made numerous notations, short notes laboriously written with spelling only he could decipher in the notebook he carried, notes about the Diamondbacks hitters, and also about the positions Dodgers' players took when different hitters were batting.

Tabby knew baseball. He just didn't know people.

Following the game, he took no part in the usual post-game hilarity that followed a Dodgers victory. He showered, dressed quickly and left the clubhouse all by himself.

Later on, sitting in a bar fairly close to the stadium, just as he was draining the last of his second glass of beer, he looked up to see coming toward him the man who had accosted him the previous night in Los Angeles, followed by a second man. The second man, dressed in a dark gray suit with light blue shirt and dark tie, was a man he was sure he had never met. The first man slid into the booth opposite Tabby, motioning the second man to follow.

“Who's he?” Tabby indicating with his thumb the second man. “In fact, who're you? You didn't gimme a name las' night.”

“You din't ask. I'm Pat. This is Tom. First name's all we need at this point.”

“So, who's Tom?”

Currie, for that's who it was, answered. “I'm the money-man for this meeting. You told Pat last night you wanted him to bring me along tonight. We keep our promises.”

Tabby didn't answer. He looked at his beer and found the glass empty. He got up, went to the bar and got another. He pointedly did not buy one for the other two. When he had resumed his seat, he still said nothing and kept his eyes on his beer.

“So. Did you do any thinking about what we talked about last evening?” Pat leaned forward, keeping his voice low.

“Nope. Why should I? If your offer is worth ten big ones to me, must be worth a helluva lot more to you. 'S my job on the line. I could get chucked out of baseball for life, jus' like Pete Rose.”

Tom answered again. “Tabby, there's nothing to say ten thousand is our final offer. We have to start negotiating first. But even before that, we need to know whether you are even interested in working this thing out.”

“Gimme a phone number. I'll call you. Don't call me.” He laughed a sardonic chuckle and pushed a paper napkin at Pat.

Pat turned to Tom. “Yours,” replied the latter. Pat scribbled some numbers on the napkin and slid it across the table. O'Hara picked it up without looking at it, shoved it in his Dodgers' warm-up jacket pocket, stood up and walked out of the bar without looking back, or from side to side, either, for that matter. The two men remaining in the booth looked at each other. Pat shrugged, but didn't say anything. They also left.

* * *

The news of Mike Malone's baseball coup hit the sports world like an atom bomb. Front pages all over the U.S. and Canada, as well as those in Japan and the Caribbean areas carried the story. TV newscasts and sports reports in all those countries carried clips from the press conference among their lead stories. Which made the biggest impression was impossible to tell: the establishment of a Major League franchise in Las Vegas, placed in the American League and becoming the fifth team in the Western Division, or the announcement of Molly's appointment as Field Manager. Both parts of the story were treated with equal incredulity. The appointment of former Major Leaguer Larry Henderson as General Manager of the new Las Vegas Gold hardly drew a mention, even though he would be only the second African-American G.M. in Major League Baseball.

Malone, in making the announcement, repeated his claim the Gold would not begin in the same way as most expansion teams had done in the past. “We are going to be in the market for top players—free agents—as well as drafts to trade up for recognized stars. There is money available for salaries, and we will pay those salaries. We'll be competitive in our first season, which will begin in two years' time.”