Big Leagues (2 page)

A laughing voice flittered over the PA
system.

“Paging Kitty Cat. Kitty Cat, you have a phone
call. Here kitty, kitty …”

Cat rolled her eyes and jogged back to the
office. Tamela met her outside the door.

“I put ’em on hold for ya.”

“You know it’s probably another one of those
damn salesmen peddling mouse pads shaped like home
plates.”

“It’s only a matter of time before they wear
you down.”

Cat laughed and shook her head. “That’ll be the
day. I’ll meet you in the stockroom, ’kay?”

“Bring me a Coke, too, will ya?”

“Whatever you wish, you sassy minx you.” Cat
shot her a wink before dragging her feet to the desk. When it came
to Porterville, the salesmen’s daily cold calls were her only
complaint. She’d wished for this career since her grandmother had
brought her to her very first baseball game at Wrigley Field. Only
in her dreams—the ones formed in the upper deck on the north side
of Chicago—would Cat have fathomed anything more than the minor
leagues.

“Catriona McDaniel speaking.”

“Ms. McDaniel, good afternoon. This is Lynette
Sanders from the Las Vegas Chips. I’m Erich König’s executive
assistant.”

“Uh, h-hi.”

Cat stammered a bit whenever she was trying to
get her bearings, a holdover from a mild stuttering problem she’d
had in gradeschool—one of the reasons she hated public speaking. A
childhood as messed up as hers had its consequences.

“Hello,” Lynette said. “I assume you’ve been
made aware of Brad Derhoff’s untimely passing?”

“We’re all so sorry to hear about it here in
P-Porterville.”

“Yes. Well, so are we. However, his departure
has also left the Chips with an opening for a senior reporter.
Would you be interested in interviewing?”

“Interviewing …?

“For senior beat reporter, Ms.
McDaniel.”

Cat sucked in her breath. She scouted every
nook of the empty office, expecting to see her coworkers jump out
from behind the copier with a video camera and cackling
laughs.

Me? The girl whose career less than a year ago
was sanitizing crab crackers, senior reporter for the Las Vegas
Chips?

“B-but I just got here eight months
ago.”

“Ms. McDaniel, you were personally selected by
Mr. König as one of the top candidates for this position. We
realize this request is short notice but, while Mr. Derhoff’s
passing is tragic, it’s imperative we fill his position with the
team as soon as possible. If you’d like to pass on this
opportunity, you may. Your decision will in no way jeopardize your
standing with the Porterville Bulldogs.”

Cat rushed to reply, worried Lynette was
getting ready to retract the dangling offer. “N-no, please, I
definitely want to come. Just tell me when and where.”

“Mr. König has tomorrow afternoon open at his
Hohenschwangau Palace office. That’s downtown. Two o’clock. I’ll
forward the directions to you via your Bulldogs’ e-mail
address.”

Cat fought to smother her gratitude under the
sound of the unenthusiastic assistant’s diligent keyboard clicking.
“Great! I’ll be there. Thank you so much!” She paused for a reply,
but didn’t receive one. “Okay well, I’ll see you tomorrow
afternoon.”

“That’s two o’clock, Ms. McDaniel.”

Cat waited for the click before she placed the
phone in its cradle, still gripping the hard black plastic. The
skin across her ivory knuckles tightened to an even paler shade
akin to the hue of a fresh baseball. She unclenched her fist, and
the cowhide gave way to a blotchy, scarlet flush. The skin tingled
as she pulled her trembling hand from the warm handset. She
quivered through a deep breath and began a therapeutic count to
three.

One … two …

Three was replaced with a scream. Like a
baserunner playing hit and run, its echo took off on the pitch and
zipped around the ballpark.

Her celebratory cry was interrupted with a
gasp. She sat back and swallowed the office air. A wave of wonder
washed over her and splashed her with goose bumps from her auburn
ponytail to the chipped pink polish on her toenails. Cat braced her
unsteady hands on the desk and attempted to lift herself from the
chair. As she deemed by their comic wobbling, her knees were now
just for show.

“Cat! Sweet Jesus, you’re okay. Gimme a dang
heart attack, why don’t ya?”

Tamela’s black tendrils poked out of her
crooked headband. She bent over in the doorway and clasped her
chest, still panting from her sprint. Cat looked at her friend and
shook her head. Tamela hobbled over to their shared desk and
scoured the vacant office with worried eyes.

“Was it a ghost? It was, wasn’t it? Shoeless
Joe? Moonlight Graham?”

The corners of Cat’s lips lifted into a
smile.

“Tell me!”

“Tams, I’ve got twenty-four hours to prepare
for the best interview of my life.”

Since their admittance into the league three
years ago, the Las Vegas Chips were baseball’s biggest deal, thanks
to their ambitious founder. Once a German wunderkind in his
father’s research company, Erich König had spent the decade
developing into one of America’s biggest juggernauts. Nine years
ago, he splashed into Las Vegas from Bavaria upon the construction
of one of the Strip’s newest and shiniest additions, his
Hohenschwangau Palace und Kasino. Only months after his hotel broke
ground, Erich had schmoozed his way through every clique, committee
and chairman in baseball, until his bid for a new franchise was
unanimously granted. In addition to serving as both the team’s
owner and CEO, Erich König also assumed the role of the club’s
general manager. This kind of multitasking had been unheard of
since the sixties. With everything he put his name on, the charming
playboy owner played to win.

“Otis, my dear man, when the contest is
executive golf, I am second only to Jack Nicklaus.” Erich König
eyed his shot with the calculation of a hungry tiger. He placed the
fresh Titleist on a tee.

Otis Snow, head of security at Hohenschwangau
Stadium, snickered and slapped two file folders on the granite
desktop. He strolled by the indoor putting set to the boss’ liquor
cabinet and eyed the aged liquids with eager deliberation. “Or
maybe Tiger … if he could keep his wood in the golf bag long enough
to conduct a meeting, right, Boss?” He lifted up the scotch
decanter and ripped off the stopper, inhaling the rich peppery
tones of the single malt.

Erich’s jaw jutted out with a pulsing clench at
the familiar jangle, but he drew his eyes back to the green mat
without a word. He sank the putt. Smiling, he sauntered forward to
retrieve the golf ball, turned to the hired help currently
ransacking his bar, and said, “Ahem.”

The crystal clanged as Otis shoved in the
stopper and fumbled the scotch back into the liquor cabinet.
Barreling over to the desk and opening the top file folder, he
said, “I got it all here for ya, everything ya asked
for.”

“Ich bin ganz Ohr.”

“Huh?”

Erich released a heavy sigh, his patience
wearing thin with the loutish guard. “I am all ears. Please
continue.”

“Well, Boss, the way I see it, we gots two
options for his replacement. As long as you’re still all gung ho
about sticking with the organization. I still say—”

“I do not pay you to say. I pay you to
do.”

Otis cleared his throat. “I know, sir. It’s
just I could get you a real good guy—”

“Yes, Otis. A man who earned his journalism
credentials through an inmate rehabilitation program.” Otis’
hopeful expression fell and Erich rolled his index finger
impatiently. “On with the list, please.”

“Uh, yeah, Boss. The first, Catriona McDaniel.
She’s a young little thing, first season down in Porterville. Done
the job so far, instant postgame recaps and some hoity toity fan
crap on the website. Q&As and all that garbage.”

Erich walked back to his clubs and lined up his
next hole-in-one.

“Her background?”

“Uh, born and raised in Illinois. Lincoln State
grad, came out west after graduating with degrees in Spanish and
Mass Communication. Worked crap jobs until the gig in the farm
system. Not much in the way of family, I guess. School records list
her paternal grandmother as guardian. Get this! No info found on
her mom, but her pops has been in the can the last ten years for
GTA.”

Erich’s head perked up from the tee, and his
gray eyes sparked with interest. “Oh, please report he swiped a
worthwhile vehicle. I loathe hearing about fellows who stamp
license plates for anything less than the Three Series.”

Otis snorted but did not respond, instead
flipping to the next page in the folder. “Unmarried, no kiddies and
lives alone. No boy toy, I guess. A butt load of debt, though.
She’s got more in student loans than ya pay me in a
year.”

Erich stopped putting and allowed his lips to
twist into a thin smile. “And the other?”

Otis nodded and squinted at the next folder.
“The more obvious choice, at least for most clubs. Dustin Carlyle
has been our junior reporter since the first season. Real kiss-ass,
too. Gets here first thing in the morning and is one of the last to
leave. Rumor has it around the fourth floor that the kid actually
wrote everything in Brad’s articles except the byline.”

Erich leaned on his putter and raised an
eyebrow toward the guard. Otis nodded hurriedly.

“Uh, let’s see, Boss. Born and raised in Vegas.
Went to school here, too. Decent grades in the Journalism program.
Still lives with his folks on the north side of town. His daddy-o
is the basketball coach for the private school brats up there.
Mommie Dearest owns her own insurance agency in Sunrise Manor. Not
rich but ain’t poor, ’specially in this economy.”

Erich slipped the monogrammed head cover over
his putter and placed the club in the golf bag. He gave the leather
carrier an appreciative nod before gliding across the plush rug
toward his desk. Reaching long fingers into the manila folder, he
thumbed through the various documents. An enlarged driver’s license
photo stared back at him. Otis leaned over his shoulder.

“Gonna go with the chick, huh? I don’t get
it.”

Erich didn’t take his eyes off the photo.
“
Es ist mehr oder weniger Geschmacksache
.”

Otis’ mouth hung open.

Erich rolled his eyes off the photo and toward
his gaping employee. “I would not expect you to, as some things in
life are more or less a matter of taste.”

“Uh-uh, no way. I hate that store.” Cat stopped
in her tracks.

Tamela crossed her arms and held her ground
outside the mall’s swankiest boutique. “You said you’ve never even
been in here.”

“That’s because of all the seething hate. It’s
not me.”

“This is a job interview. The last thing you
want to be is you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hey now, simmer down. I only mean, you gotta
dress to impress.” Tamela scrunched her nose until it was a tiny
brown button. “Right now, you’re dressed to depress.”

Cat followed Tamela’s gaze down to her torn
jeans and then over to the store window, where a mannequin was
draped in a sequined kimono dress and metallic d’Orsays.

“Fair enough. Look at those salesgirls. That
one has fangs.”

“Who cares about the salesgirls?”

“I’m scared.”

Tamela rolled her eyes, locked her spindly arm
with Cat’s and pulled the reluctant reporter through the store’s
entrance. Once inside, she snatched the black trousers out of Cat’s
hands. “Uh-uh. You have to wear a skirt. No ifs, ands or bubble
butts.”

Cat grabbed the hanger back. “What? You’re
crazy.”

“Women can’t wear pants to interviews. I think
there’s a law.”

“This is the twenty-first century. I’m not
interviewing to be his Girl Friday.”

Tamela pulled open the bookstore bag and
displayed the purchases to Cat.

“Gee, I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak louder. I
can’t hear you over all this information from knowledgeable
sources.”

Cat shook her head. “Knowledgeable sexist
pigs.”

Tamela reached out for the trousers and hung
them back on the rack. “Preaching to the choir, sister. Doesn’t
change the facts, though. They can do all the blabbity blab they
want about gender equality, but if you go into that man’s world in
a pantsuit, all they’re gonna see is a-a-a …”

“Pitbull with lipstick?”

Tamela shot her a look of disgust. “If you
insist. I would’ve gone with Bulldog, at least.”

Cat put her hands on her hips. “That’s
nuts.”

Tamela cast her eyes to the side. “Fine, don’t
believe me. Check the hardback from the bookstore. The one you
picked out with the little cartoons in the margins. Where do you
think I got this info?”

Cat appraised her warily and reached into the
bag.