Big Leagues (6 page)

Then the Porterville Bulldogs had thrown her a
bone.

“All right,” she told her grandmother, “have
fun tonight. Don’t steal those poor old ladies’ money.”

“I’ve never stolen anything in my
life.”

Cat giggled as her grandmother feigned
innocence over the phone line, but she knew better. She had many
years of experience on the other side of her grandmother’s card
table.

“Yeah, yeah. Somehow you’re always dealt five
wild cards in one hand."

"Next time we play I won't take a single one
and I bet I'll still win."

"We’ll see if you can back up that smack talk
on my next visit."

"Be careful, Catriona. Grandma loves
you."

"Love you, too. Take care. No
cheating!”

She hung up before her grandmother could
protest and peeked out the window. An orange moving truck rounded
the corner.

Cat had arrived. Not just in the figurative
dream-job sense, but literally in the
five-hours-around-Death-Valley sense. Her clanging Jeep rolled off
the I-15 exit and rattled in the final stretch toward her new home.
The picturesque complex looked exactly the way it had online. Its
six buildings sat a hundred feet off the road, shaded by palm
trees, adorned with perfect landscaping and encased by a sandstone
privacy fence. She slowed to snag a better look from the road.
Although it translated to Seaside Estates, making it a ridiculous
name in the desert, her one bedroom apartment—
villa,
the
condescending leasing agent had reminded her twice during their
telephone call—at Villa La Playa came with a reserved parking spot,
walk-in closet, fitness room and heated pool. Besides, the complex
was within walking distance of Hohenschwangau Stadium. For that
short of a commute, they could call the place Villa La Cucaracha
and Cat would sign the lease in blood.

They wanted something a lot harder to make than
blood—money. The security deposit alone had wiped what little she
had to her name. Because the new gig was year-round, Cat’s new
salary was triple what she’d made in Porterville, but she would not
receive a paycheck for two weeks. This money would be gobbled up by
the student loan payments and credit card bills that had subsidized
her dream-chasing. The suffering had all been worthwhile, but
that’s the thing they didn’t tell you about being a martyr. The pay
sucks.

She hesitated as the Jeep’s turn signal
click-clacked through her thoughts. The movers had still been
packing her other belongings when she’d exited Porterville, and she
didn’t expect them to arrive for another hour. It turned out her
perception of moving men as hunky stevedores with rippling biceps
had been inspired by late night cable and proved about as accurate
as her grandmother’s assessment of Sin City. Cat had expected at
least one of the overweight men to keel over while moving her sofa,
leaving her possessions in limbo while the ambulances or the morgue
came to haul him away.

She drummed her fingernails on the steering
wheel. Since the Jeep was packed with nothing but forty-seven
bobbleheads to unwrap in her new home, Cat took one more look at
the luxurious apartments and hit the gas pedal. The roar of the
rusty Wrangler spoke for her.

Home sweet home can wait.

Hohenschwangau Stadium was home to more than
just the Las Vegas Chips. The ballpark also housed the biggest
JumboTron in Las Vegas, the longest concessions concourse in
professional sports and more memorabilia shops than the Mall of
America. Erich König had spared no expense in making the arena a
showplace of glitz and glamour—the perfect embodiment of “Las
Vegas.” The seats circled the playing field in alternating shades
of red and black, so that from the sky the park looked like a
roulette wheel. In the outfield, the scoreboard masqueraded as a
giant slot machine. After a Chips’ player hit a home run, the
screen flashed three cherries, and a whooping siren alerted every
man, woman and dog within the stadium’s three block radius.
Jackpots were common at Hohenschwangau Stadium; the team had led
the league in the long ball for two years straight.

The Chips didn’t have a mascot, unless you
counted the Hohenschwangau Palace und Kasino’s showgirls. Each home
game had four women on hand, and in between innings, they danced on
the dugouts and tossed the crowd a variety of souvenirs, ranging
from t-shirts to casino chips. The showgirls came clad in feathers,
big smiles and little else.

Today was an away game for the Las Vegas Chips.
The team would fly back from San Francisco tonight. Cat had learned
in Porterville that without spectators and players, baseball parks
were as boring as any other office in America. Just the
pencil-pushing staff, none of whom had to worry about persistent
paparazzi, devoted fans or rabid autograph hounds waiting for them
outside the gates.

The giant coliseum wasn’t hard to find. She’d
seen the unlit stadium lights towering over the palm trees as soon
as she’d exited I-15. Cat pulled her Jeep up to the parking lot’s
security booth.

Ah, the moat.

She thumbed through the package Lynette had
sent her. The guard in the booth opened his window and smiled,
revealing a pair of stained dentures. “What can I do for you,
little lady?”

“Uh, hi there. I’ve got a parking pass in here
somewhere, just a sec.”

“Oh! You must be our new reporter. You
certainly are a lot prettier.” His face fell. “Sure was awful what
happened to the last one, a damn shame. You don’t even listen to
the rumors, you hear me?”

“Oka— Wait, what rumors?”

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “People like to
stir up trouble. Got nothing better to do than turn a tragedy into
a scandal. Maybe it helps them cope, I don’t know. But you don’t
mind them none, just do your job and I’m sure you’ll be fine
here.”

“Oh uh, okay.”

His face lightened up. “Now I wasn’t expecting
you until tomorrow. McDaniel something, wasn’t it?”

Cat returned his kind smile. “Uh-huh. I’m
Catriona McDaniel. I just got into town, and I was kinda anxious to
see my new office. Is that okay?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “Of
course, dearie. You can park anywhere in the lot. Do you know where
you’re going?”

Cat blushed. “Not really.”

“Well, don’t fret none. That’s what I’m here
for. Now what you’re gonna wanna do is go through those doors right
there.” He pointed to a set of double steel doors. “Now those don’t
open without a key code. You have to punch in your employee number
before they’ll unlock. Did they give you your employee number
yet?”

“Uh …” Cat fumbled through her pile of
paperwork. “Ah, here we go.”

He nodded. “Okay, good. Punch that in the
keypad; then you’ll hear the door unlock. Follow the tunnel on
through ’til you get to a hallway. You’ll go past, oh gee, I
believe it’s four doors. They’re labeled ‘groundskeeper,’
‘maintenance’ and so on. I’m sure you know the drill.”

He stopped. She nodded confirmation, and he
smiled.

“Then you’ll come to the hallway. There’s a set
of elevators to the left, just before the clubhouse and player
areas. Take the elevator up to the fourth floor. That’s where
you’ll find your office.”

“Thank you so much, Mr., uh …”

“Oh, dearie, you can call me
Winston.”

“Winston. Nice to meet you.”

He hit a button in his booth and the striped
gate lifted. They exchanged a wave as she passed
through.

The elevator doors opened with an echoing ding.
Cat gingerly stepped into the fourth floor lobby. The lights were
off and there wasn’t a single person in sight.

Okay, kinda creepy.

Her frazzled nerves welcomed the quiet, albeit
ominous, calm of the vacant department. She strolled down the
corridor and eyed the various cubicles and desks. Each space was
stacked with papers and decorated with photos of loving spouses,
adorable kids and happy pets. As she stepped into the back corner
of the floor, her eyes were riveted to the nameplate on the
mahogany door.

Catriona McDaniel, Senior Reporter.

A small smile formed on her lips, and she
brought her fingers up to the door to caress the polished
brass.

My own office? I’ve never even had my own
cubicle before.

Truthfully, she’d written most of her Bulldogs
articles at home in her pajamas with John Fogerty blaring in the
background, but Cat wasn’t about to turn down a corner office. Her
fingers squeezed the doorknob. Fumes of fresh paint emanated from
the beige walls. She forgot about the chemical stink and dull shade
of paint when she spotted the splendor on the right wall—a window
with a view of the field. The possibilities that window presented
flooded into her mind.

No more guessing if the sluggers have started
batting practice, wondering if the team is sporting their alternate
uniforms, questioning if the seats are filling up or debating if
we’re looking at a rain delay.

She watched the grounds crew tending to an
extensive irrigation system in the outfield.

I guess that last one probably won’t be an
issue.

“Boy you don’t waste any time, do
ya?”

Cat shot up three inches and spun around at the
sound of the voice booming behind her. A tall man with thick
glasses framing a set of glowering brown eyes stood in the doorway.
He crossed his skinny arms and gaped at her. She squinted through
the faint daylight in the office and attempted to place his
familiar face.

“Dustin Carlyle. Junior reporter.” He laced the
junior
with thick contempt, as though Cat had just carved
the word into the rusty blade of a dagger and shoved it between his
shoulder blades. His snotty tone triggered memories of their first
meeting.

She cleared her throat. “Y-yeah. I believe
we’ve met before.”

He ignored her. “If you’re wondering why
there’s no welcome wagon waiting for you, the reason would be
because everyone’s at Brad Derhoff’s wake.”

Her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She should have
known there weren’t many reasons for an entire office to be empty
at four o’clock in the afternoon on a gameday. That the reason
might be Brad’s wake hadn’t even occurred to her. Suddenly she felt
very much like the vulture Dustin was implying she was. Cat knew
nothing about the deceased reporter, other than the impressive
credentials listed in the team’s media guide. She’d met Brad
Derhoff only once at the beginning of the season and he’d treated
her, along with the rest of the minor league staff, with the same
condescension affected by every other visitor from the Las Vegas
team. Cat had excused his superior attitude since, given his status
with the team, he was indeed superior
.

“He’s a real reporter,” she’d prattled to
Tamela after Brad turned up his nose at their break room coffee pot
and requested that she fetch him a caramel macchiato.

Tamela was unimpressed by anyone from the
parent club, unless his signature appeared on her weekly paycheck.
“So are you.”

No. I’m just taking a break from slinging hot
dogs.

Back then, Cat couldn’t have fathomed that the
ace reporter might have been dealing with his own inadequacies too;
that was shockingly clear now. Her eyes registered their concern
for the sneering coworker in her new office.

“Uh, I’m sorry for your loss. Were you and Brad
close?”

Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Close? Well, let’s
see, Derhoff and I have been a team since the franchise formed.
Worked together every day, side by side. I saw him as my mentor,
and he was grooming me to one day fill his shoes as senior
reporter. Guess he overlooked a minor league reporter with a
whopping eight months of tenure. You never know. Since apparently
Erich König likes to promote from below—er, I mean,
within
—maybe they’ll ask me to be general manager
instead.”

Cat clenched her jaw upon hearing his
insinuation. She got the message. Dustin was the veteran pitcher
and she was a rookie slugger crowding
his
plate.

Or what he
thought
was his plate. His
territorial reaction was understandable. While it wasn’t
unprecedented for a minor leaguer to whirl through the farm system
and be called up to the big leagues in his first season, the
called-upon was usually a player, never a sportswriter. Cat would
be the first to admit that Brad’s junior reporter would have been
the logical choice for a midseason replacement.

But was he?

As her blood heated, she recalled the exact
details of the encounter with Dustin Carlyle at the beginning of
the season. The Chips’ third baseman was rehabbing an injury in
Porterville. Cat had been looking to snag a quote from the two-time
All-Star, when a sportswriter from Vegas sidestepped her on the way
to the dugout.

“Sorry, missy. Real reporters only. Why don’t
you get on those macchiatos instead?”

At the time, having been with the team only a
couple of months, she’d been too meek to respond.

Not anymore.