Las Vegas Gold (8 page)

“Would you believe he lost his shadow on the way to the stadium? Our guy still doesn't know how. A moment's inattention, I guess. It happens. The New York and LA cops are looking for him this morning.”

At that moment, the meeting was interrupted by a phone call for the FBI agent. “Excuse me,” he said, and took the phone at the other end of the room. The others could clearly hear his end of the conversation. “Both of them? How did Trenowski get back to LA that fast?…. Take them both in and hold them until the LA force can pick 'em up and take them there…. I know, Currie's gonna holler like a wounded hound dog for his lawyer. Tell him he can't see him until I give him permission. That ought to give him plenty more to yell about…. Charge Trenowski with Murder One for now. Just tell Currie he's being held for questioning…. Yeah, I know he won't like it. That's too bad. I'll see you at Los Angeles police headquarters. I'll leave as soon as I can get a flight out.”

He hung up and turned back to the group. “I guess you heard what's up. We got both those guys. I was about to tell you I talked to a friend of mine in the DEA, and they've been watching Currie and his company for their possible involvement in big time cocaine smuggling from Columbia. Arresting Currie gives us an opportunity to get a warrant and go after his associates in the company. I'll call my friend on my cell phone. Gotta' run now, but I'll be in touch.”

As soon as Tom Currie was arrested, as expected, he demanded to talk to his lawyer, and was as angry as a trapped tiger when his request was denied. He threatened to sue just about everyone he could think of, but the officers transporting him in cuffs and leg chains ignored his rants. Trenowski sat in a glowering silence. Once in custody of the Los Angeles police, they were put in separate holding cells.

Somehow the news got to the office of Harrison, Bronson and Currie. Stan Harrison and Charles Bronson sat in Harrison's office, discussing ways and means of extricating Currie from the clutches of the law.

“This could mean problems for us if the stupid bugger talks,” mused Bronson. Harrison ignored him. The statement was self-evident. “How the hell did he ever mess this one up?”

“Wasn't him directly. It was that crazy Trenowski. I should have twigged long ago he didn't have the brains he was born with. I'd like to know how he got back to LA so fast. Cops must have picked him up when he got off the plane. Tom got him to do the job of knocking off O'Hara, and he screwed it up. Naturally. Doesn't matter now. The question is, what do we do to keep Currie shut? I called Whiteside, and he said the cops won't let him see Tom. I told him to keep banging on the door and demanding to see his client, but they can hold him for twenty-four hours. That's plenty long enough to cause plenty of damage.”

“Yeah, and we got that shipment in the warehouse ready to go out. Can we take the chance of getting it out of here right away?”

“We could do it, but the arrangements are for day after tomorrow. Wouldn't you know, Currie made those arrangements too. I don't know whether we can speed things up or not. Graffitano isn't happy when plans get changed without him being in on the planning, and neither is his boss.”

The discussion was still going on a quarter of an hour later when there was a knock on Harrison's door. Before the knock could be answered, it opened and four men wearing blue wind-breakers and caps with the letters DEA prominently displayed charged into the room.

Harrrison's secretary fluttered behind them, squeaking, “I'm sorry Mr. Harrison. They just barged right by.” Everyone ignored her.

“Stan Harrison?” asked the man in front. “I have a search warrant for this office.” He laid the piece of official looking paper on the desk.

Harrison stood up, ignoring the paper. “Who the hell are you, and why would you want to search these offices? We're a legally incorporated import-export company.”

“I'm Harold Freeling, and we are all members of the department of the Drug Enforcement Agency of the United States Government.”

“So what do you want with us?” Harrison carried on the bluff. “Like I said, we're a well-known import-export company. There's nothing here that would interest the DEA. I'm placing a call to Senator Wallingham right now. He'll put a stop to this nonsense.”

“Place your call, Mr. Harrison. In the meantime, one of my investigators will see that you and all your employees remain right here in your office until we have completed our search. Your cooperation will make things easier. If you refuse, then our warrant allows us to take you into custody until the matter is settled. It's your choice.”

“We have nothing to hide,” blustered Harrison.

“Then you won't mind if we begin.” Freeling assigned his crew to various areas to begin the search. In less than fifteen minutes, two members of the search team called out from the large storage room at the back of the office suite.

“Harold, you'd better come back here and see what we found.” The great pile of plastic-wrapped packages required only a few moments' examination of just one package That was enough to show the investigators that they had a huge cocaine shipment.

“No wonder it's here instead of in a warehouse,” mused Freeling. “Shipment time must be pretty close. Okay, take the entire staff into custody on charges of possession. I'll get accountants in here to check the books. Either Harrison or somebody will tell us who the buyer is—or else the books will. If they were dealing cash and it's banked offshore, we'll find out. We won't move anybody out until we have enough agents here to guard the place, and maybe even catch the buyers coming in to pick the stuff up. I'll also get a truck and some loaders here to take the stuff away and lock it up, too.”

The media had a field day. Photos of the businessmen and their entire office staff being led away in handcuffs; details of the charges, the charge of possession and the new charge of Murder One against Tom Currie in connection with the death of Tabby O'Hara were sensational. The arrest of all the import-export company employees, including the three top people, and the charges of conspiracy to smuggle the drug, as well as possession for purpose of trafficking the cocaine all made for headline news in both print and electronic media. The murder of Tabby O'Hara was soon downgraded to inside pages of the Los Angeles papers. Elsewhere, especially in the Washington-New York-Boston corridor and in Las Vegas, Tabby was still front and center in all the media.

12

Curly Joe Agostini got another call from Achille Ricci. This time he was relaxed as he entered the office. His commission had been fulfilled.

“Joe, that was a good job. We're going to take this team down one by one until Malone has to give up. Call Sylvester in NY and tell him there'll be fifty big ones coming his way in a day or two.”

“Uh, boss, he wanted a hundred grand for the job.”

Ricci frowned, but said nothing until he had unwrapped and lighted another cigar. Then he sighed and said, “Okay. Prices do go up. I didn't give you a figure. That's my fault. Next time, we'll make it clear. And next time has come. Can you find somebody local to take down the black General Manager—what's his name?”

“Henderson.”

“And for fifty grand?”

“I should be able to do that. Any date?”

“No, soon's possible, but make it safe so it can't be traced back. Y'unnerstand?”

“Got it.” And Curly Joe left the office. He felt good at being on Achille Ricci's list of dependable organizers. The first thing he did was call Sly Sylvester in New York and thank him for the job well done, and give him Ricci's message. He was flabbergasted to hear the reply.

“I'll take the money because it was promised, but I gotta tell you, we didn't do the job.”

“What? But, but the guy's dead. He was shot.”

“Yeah, but somebody got ahead of us. My guy said he was lucky to get out of there before he got stopped and searched. Anyway, Joe, that's one I owe you. Next one's for free. You can tell Ricci for me.”

Joe agreed, but privately he decided he'd have to think about what he'd tell Ricci. A hundred thousand dollars for a job not done. That might not go over too well.

* * *

Tabby's body was released to Mike Malone, since no relatives could be found. The top management decided to have the body cremated and the ashes spread on the infield at Malone Stadium. The ceremony would be private, for team members only. Tabby's number would be publicly retired at a ceremony before the next home game. The remainder of the series with the New York Yankees would be rescheduled for later in the season. The interrupted game would be continued from where it was called at the end of the seventh as part of a double-header with the first of the two remaining games. Those decisions came from the office of the Commissioner. The Gold and the Yankees management both agreed. The series with the Tampa Bay Rays would be played at some future date to be decided.

On the morning of their second day off, the players and other staff gathered on the field in Las Vegas just behind home plate at nine o'clock. The team Chaplain, Rev. Gary Craine, read some Scripture and said a prayer. Molly stood up and gave a brief eulogy in which she described the Tabby who had arrived at the team in Arizona and the Tabby who had died. “He was a different man,” she said. “He had become a friend to us all. He
came
from a very troubled childhood, but he
be
came a man who had it all together. I believe we will all miss him as a member of the team, a friend and a human being.”

Digger Hazen, Danny Johnson, Tubby Littleton and Jerry Lyons each stepped forward and each picked up a small container. Tabby's ashes had been divided into the four separate containers, and each of the infielders moved to their usual field positions and, on Molly's signal, walked slowly forward toward home plate, scattering the ashes left and right. They walked until the containers were empty. They then rejoined their fellow team members. Mr. Craine offered a further prayer. The players remained where they were, heads bowed, until gradually, one by one, they turned and walked back to the club house, where in relative silence they changed back into street clothes and left the stadium. The management staff went back to their respective offices, leaving the field in silence. About an hour later, the ground crew walked onto the field and sprayed the entire infield with water until they believed all traces of the ashes had been washed into the soil. Then they went over the infield with rakes.

The media besieged Sparky Hooper with requests for details, but he simply repeated, over and over, the service was private and there would be no details made public.

Molly, Kenny Boyce and Larry Henderson had a meeting that afternoon in Henderson's office. The topic was finding a replacement for Tabby O'Hara on the pitching staff.

“There's always Harry Mendoza,” began Molly, before Larry cut her off with an oath.

“No way. Not even an option. Forget him.”

Molly grinned. “Just thought I'd shake you up a bit. Got anybody in mind?”

“To be honest, no. I haven't been able to think of anyone who is likely to be available, although I haven't begun to do any calling. On the other hand, nobody has called either, neither GM nor agent. He paused. “Anybody at Vancouver?”

“I doubt it, but why don't you call right now?” She poured herself a cup of coffee while he placed his call to the Vancouver manager. He found him in Iowa, preparing for a game. From listening to Larry's side of the conversation, Molly already knew the answer.

“He says the only pitcher he might recommend would be Joey Grace, and he's lost his last three starts, making his record 3-5.”

“Uh-uh. No way,” replied Molly. “He's got to get himself in better shape than that. Tell you what I've been thinking. How about we move Lynn Meriweather into the rotation as the fourth man, and try a couple of the relievers as long relief and spot starters. Lynn's been around and knows the drill. He doesn't have a really outstanding fastball or a particularly sharp curve, but he mixes his pitches and gets a lot of ground ball outs. You start looking for a starter, but don't make any moves until we've had a good look at what we've got.”

Molly called Willie Fontana into her office next morning and asked him what he thought of the proposal. After only a brief hesitation, the pitching coach said he thought it might work okay. “Lynn hasn't had a lot of work yet this year. Let's see him in action.”

“You want to tell him, or shall I?”

“Molly, he'll appreciate it a whole lot more if you tell him. I don't know whether you realize it or not, but these guys, every one of them, worship the ground you walk on. They love you.”

“That's crazy.”

“Maybe, but true.”

Molly shook her head in disbelief. “I can hardly believe it, but it's nice to hear. Send him in, will you please.”

From her open office door, Molly could hear Willie's stentorian voice calling, “Hey, Meriweather, Molly wants to see you—in her office.”

In a couple of minutes, the pitcher's football running back sized frame filled the doorway. “You looking for me?” He had a deep voice and a smile that lit up any room he was in.

“Yup. Come on in and take a load off your feet.” She paused and smiled her famous smile. “How big are those feet, anyway?”

The big man smiled a wide smile. His dark skin emphasized the brightness of that smile. “Only size 14. Lots bigger ones around.” Then the smile disappeared. “What's up? Don't tell me I'm traded or going down.”

“Nope. Better'n that. You know we have a hole in the rotation now.”

“Hey—Hey! No way I can fill O'Hara's shoes—even if they were smaller 'n mine.” This time he only cracked a small grin.

“I'm not expecting to you take Tabby's place. That's the problem; we don't have anybody. But—I want you to move into the rotation. That means every fourth day, and that means the third game against Chicago.” She looked at him. “What do you think?”

Meriweather said nothing for a few seconds. Then, “I thank you, Molly, for the opportunity. I haven't pitched as much as I'd hoped so far this season. I'll give it my best.”

“I've already talked it over with Willie. He agrees. Why don't you go get him and Comingo and have a workout, and see how rusty you are and what you need to work on this week?”

When Lynn Meriweather left the office, his size 14s were walking on air.

* * *

The Gold didn't play very well in their first game against the White Sox club. Damaso Gonzalez, now the number one starter, had difficulty finding the plate and walked six batters in the first three innings, and gave up two hits as well. In addition, Tubby Littleton made one of his rare errors. But the gods of baseball must have been watching, because the Sox couldn't score on any of those gift opportunities. In those same three innings, the Gold couldn't get a man on base, either. Two strikeouts and a long fly ball to the right field corner made it a one, two, three inning for the Sox pitcher. The fans were getting restless in the third.

Finally, in the fourth inning, young Diego Martinez caught a fastball that got away from the Chicago pitcher and smashed it all the way over the center field wall into the stands, more than 475 feet away, the longest home run of the season—and the young man's career. That smash seemed to revitalize the Gold, and they began to play like the team that had run through all opponents so far during the season, and with the final score 6-3, walked off the field as Gold.

In the clubhouse after the game, Molly locked the door before the media could get in. “Well,” she demanded, “has anybody got something to say about that first half shambles?”

For a couple of moments, nobody said a word. Then Damaso lifted his head and said, “Yeah. I was thinking about Tabby. You tol' me I am now number one starter. I don't think of myself like that. I'm no way as good as Tabby.”

T.Y. Hollinger, the rookie left-hander who was scheduled to pitch the next night spoke up. “Who said you were supposed to be as good as Tabby? Let's face it, guys. Tabby's gone. He ain't gonna' pitch for us no more. An' none of us are gonna' be as good as him. But we can be as good as we have been all season. Damaso, you're now six wins and only two losses. That's as good as you usually are at this time of year. So quit worrying about pitching as good as Tabby did and pitch as good as Damaso does, and for the rest of us—Tabby's gone. We ain't gonna' forget him, but let's get on with what we are getting paid big money to do. Win ball games.” And the kid sat down.

“T.Y.,” said Bobby Joe Comingo, “that may be the best speech you'll ever make. I don't know about the rest of the guys, but I needed to hear every word. Thanks for speaking out.”

There were sounds of agreement from various corners of the room, and smiles began to break out instead of the hangdog looks that players had brought in from the field.

Molly began to laugh. “I think you guys have got your shoes on your right feet now. Sounds to me like we're ready to go again. How do you feel about things now, Damaso? You really didn't pitch a bad game, you know. Any time you win, it was a good game. And Quincey and Mac, you did what you were supposed to do.”

Damaso grinned at her. “I'm okay now.” He walked over and held out his hand to the rookie. “Thanks, T.Y. I needed that. Dinner's on me tonight.”

T.Y. won his game the next night, a 4-2 final. He went into the eighth inning before Molly called for help from the bullpen, and got good relief pitching from Freddy Greeley. Center fielder Martinez hit another home run, and so did Steve Hostetler, playing one of his occasional starts in place of right fielder Porter Kipping, his first home run for the season.

On Saturday afternoon, Lynn Meriweather was set to make his debut as a starter. Lynn was nervous, but a big play from Danny Johnson got him safely out of the first inning. The shortstop raced far out into left behind third base and snagged a high pop-up caught by the wind that kept moving away from him before he managed to get a glove on it.

In the second inning, Diego Martinez made one of his circus catches in deep left center field for the first out. The next batter dropped a dinky little single over Tubby's head, but he was erased on a double play grounder to Digger Hazen, who flipped to second for the force out; Danny wheeled and threw a strike to Jerry Lyons at first.

The players all approached Lynn on the bench to tell him how well he was doing. Then Porter Kipping drew a walk, Corry Van Dyk advanced him to second with a drag bunt down the first base line, and when the pitcher fumbled the ball in attempting to pick it up, Corry was perched safely on first himself. Jerry Lyons stepped up and cleared the bases with a home run that just made it over the right field fence into the visitors' bullpen, and Lynn had a three run cushion.

The White Sox finally caught up to the big man in the fifth inning, but he got out of that jam also, leaving the bases full by striking out the last two batters. He ran to the dugout after the last strike and found himself in the arms of Molly Malone, who gave him as big a hug as she could manage with his huge size.

The other players were also showing congratulations, and when he went out to pitch the sixth, Meriweather was all pumped up. He pitched eight innings before reaching a hundred pitches, and the bull pen finished up for an easy 8-2 win, Meriweather's first of the year. The
club
house was a
mad
house after the game, everybody yelling and jumping around with joy. They were back again as the strutting Las Vegas Gold, still leading both leagues in wins versus losses.

Shortly after the end of the game, the phone rang in Larry Henderson's office in Las Vegas. When he answered on the second ring, a hoarse voice said, “Okay, Mr. High 'n Mighty. Tabby's dead. Guess who's next? And after you, the bitch.” Larry knew the voice, he had heard it somewhere, but his mind just couldn't place it.

“Who
are
you?” he asked.

“Never mind. Just prepare to die.” The caller hung up. Larry tried to trace the call, but quit when he discovered it was from a pay phone in Kyoto, Japan.

Henderson wasn't frightened. He was puzzled. Hadn't Tabby's murderer been arrested? Was this a copy-cat thing? Could they have got the wrong guy? He picked up the phone and called Jeff Turnbull's office. Turnbull was out, but Larry left word for him to call. The call came about eight o'clock that evening at Henderson's home. When he had related the phone call, the FBI agent was stunned.