Green Monster (13 page)

Daly said there was a pizza place on South Broadway, two blocks from the Times building in downtown L.A. He could be there by seven. Sam told him he had no idea how long it would take to get downtown from Santa Monica.

“Take the 10,” Daly said. “This time of day, you can do that in a half-hour, tops.”

Heather had let the robe fall open. Underneath, she was wearing an orange and yellow string bikini that she could have carried on the plane in her coin purse.

“My driver can do it in twenty minutes,” Sam said.

“Oh yeah? Who's your driver?”

“I'll introduce you when we get there.”

“Get where?” Heather said when Sam hung up. “I thought we'd go down to the pool. Have a drink or two. Recover from our jet lag.”

“Sorry. I'm meeting Russ Daly of the Times downtown at seven. You're welcome to come.”

“Why are you talking to a newspaper guy?”

Sam could not help staring at Heather, thinking that she must spend a lot of time at the health club to keep up a set of abs that looked that good in a string bikini. And, from what he could see—and he could see almost everything—Heather did not have a tattoo. A big point in her favor; it must have been her Harvard background.

“Because right now I'm spinning my wheels,” Sam said. “I need to talk to somebody who knows the Dodgers, and knows L.A. I trust Daly.”

“You'd better be able to trust him.” Heather pulled the robe closed and headed toward the door. “If any of this ends up in the paper, Lou will fire you.”

***

It was twilight when they got back on the freeway, the time of day when Southern California is at its best. Everything seemed to have an extra glow, like one of those painted postcards of Hollywood in the '30s. Even the tail lights on the freeway had a soft neon charm to them. The oppressive heat had faded into the evening, replaced by a comfortable warmth that made Sam want to stay outside all night.

Heather didn't seem to pay much attention to the weather or the scenery. She made it her personal obligation to get to the restaurant faster than Daly's prescribed travel time. They pulled up in front of Bonfetti's Pizza in just over fifteen minutes.

Downtown L.A. is low on glamour by Southern California standards. It could be any business district in America, so when Heather opened up the driver's side door of the red BMW and slid her model-slim legs out of the car, it was as though she was delivering a little bit of Tinseltown to the button-downs. Sam was glad they weren't going undercover; then again, he could arrive with Heather almost anywhere, and no one would notice he was there.

There were sidewalk tables outside the restaurant, but Sam didn't see Daly. They went inside, where the artificial coolness gave Sam goosebumps. He glanced at Heather, who had exchanged the bikini for a miniskirt and tight white top. She had bumps, too.

Daly's bulky frame occupied half of a booth near the back of the restaurant. He had a pint of beer in front of him and a menu spread open. His thinning hair was uncombed, and his frayed navy blue golf shirt was only partially tucked into his blue jeans, and covered by a light blue, pit-stained seersucker jacket. Sam figured he had to be pulling down at least $200,000 per year for his syndicated column and his frequent TV work, but judging from his wardrobe, he was closer to homeless than famous.

Daly did a double take when he saw Sam and Heather approach.

“That's your driver?” he said, his voice nearly cracking in surprise. “I gotta tell you, Skarda, you do seem to gravitate toward nice-lookin' babes.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. He introduced Heather. “It's a beautiful night. Why don't we get a table outside?”

“I'm a big fan of air conditioning—cuts down some on the sweat,” Daly said. He waved his hand dismissively toward the door. “Heather Canby…why do I know that name?”

Daly gave Heather a slow up-and-down inspection, only partly intended to jog his memory. “I got it—Red Sox, right? You work for Lucky Louie.”

“That's right,” Heather said. She displayed the same noncommittal expression that she'd first given Sam when they'd met. Sam doubted that it meant she intended to sleep with Daly, too.

“So what's this about?” Daly said. “Or do you want me to guess?”

Sam started to explain the situation, but a waitress with streaked green hair and two thin metal rings pierced through her lower lip came up to the table. Sam ordered a beer; Heather, a Chardonnay. Daly ordered an extra-large five-topping pizza.

“Great crust here,” Daly said. “The help is kind of a freak show, but that's L.A.”

“From this point on, we're off the record,” Sam said.

“I can't even put it in my notes column that the guy who saved the Masters is in town this week with a blonde from the planet Va-Va-Voom?”

“No. You never saw us.”

“Fine. What's up?”

“Think about this: What's the best thing that's happened to Boston in decades?”

“When the Sox broke the Curse of the Bambino.”

“Right. What's the worst thing that could happen to Boston now?”

“Being nuked by terrorists.”

“What if that 2004 Series turned out to be fixed?”

Daly took a long swallow from his beer while Sam and Heather waited.

“The Cardinals played like pukes in that Series,” Daly said. “You think they threw the Series?”

“An extortionist is claiming they did.”

“How much does he want?”

“Fifty million.”

Daly whistled, finished his beer and caught the waitress' attention, pointing to the empty glass.

“You got problems,” Daly said to Heather.

“I know. And I didn't want Sam to tell you about it, either. You know what would happen if a rumor got out that the World Series was fixed?”

“Yeah, yeah—the American public would lose faith in all their institutions, the stock market would crash, anarchy would run wild in the streets, Major League Baseball would go out of business, and the Boston Red Sox would be worth zero.”

“It may be funny to you, Mr. Daly—”

“It's Russ, honey.”

“But not to me. Not to Lou Kenwood. And not to all those Red Sox fans who said winning that Series made their lives complete.”

“Why is it that the pretty ones always take themselves so seriously?” Daly asked Sam. “I know what's really bothering your boss. If this gets out, he stops being Lucky Louie, the Man Who Saved Red Sox Nation. He'll be just another rich sucker whose expensive plaything blew up in his face. Am I close?”

“I think you made a big mistake trusting this guy, Sam,” Heather said. Color rose into her cheeks as she turned back to Daly. “You've got to promise to keep quiet about this.”

“Look, sweetie, I already agreed that this conversation would be off the record. You know how long I'd have lasted in this business if I double-crossed a source?”

Heather looked back at Sam, and he nodded.

“I dealt with reporters for years in homicide,” Sam said. “They'd cut each other to pieces for a story, but they won't burn their sources. Not if they want to keep reporting.”

“I wouldn't trust a Boston writer with this story,” Heather said, now on the defensive.

“Neither would I,” Daly said.

Sam laid out what they knew: the handwritten extortion note on black paper, the deadline and procedure for the payoff, the gambling insiders who didn't raise red flags when Sam talked about the Red Sox-Cardinals Series, and the conversation with Hurtado.

“You want my opinion on that Series?” Daly said. “I actually had my doubts when Miranda threw that ball away in Game One. But the more I thought about it, the more I figured he just cracked. It was a long season; he might just have been worn out from pitching and playing third base. Nobody's been able to do that since the deadball era. And maybe all the steroid talk got to him.”

“You think he's using steroids?” Sam asked.

“Human growth hormone. As far as I'm concerned, they're all guilty now, until they prove to me they're innocent. I mean, just look at these guys. Mickey Mantle would be a shrimp today. I don't think they get that way naturally, but hey, I could be wrong. Unless they get caught receiving a supply, there's no proof, 'cause HGH doesn't show up in urine, and the union won't let the players take blood tests. But I know what I see.”

“The HGH must have quit working for Miranda in the Series.”

“It could have been a lot of things. He wasn't the first big name to choke in the World Series. Ted Williams was a lifetime .344 hitter. You know what he hit in the 1946 Series?”

“.200,” Heather said.

“Very good,” Daly said. “Nothing I like better than a pretty girl who knows her baseball.”

Heather didn't seem to be charmed by Daly's style, but Daly was used to that.

“I need to talk to Miranda,” Sam said. “If it did happen, he's part of it. If it didn't…”

“Then what?” Daly said.

“Then I've got to figure out who's trying to shake down Lou Kenwood.”

The pizza arrived, and Daly got busy making it disappear. Sam and Heather helped out.

“This guy, Babe Ruth,” Daly said between bites. “He says a player will come forward and admit to throwing the Series if Kenwood doesn't cough up?”

“That's right,” Heather said.

“Think he's really got someone?”

“I don't know.”

“And would he go through with it if Kenwood doesn't pay?”

“I think Kenwood will pay, if I can't find who's behind this,” Sam said.

He looked at Heather. She shrugged her shoulders, looking discouraged.

“Why would a player do that?” Daly said. “First, why would he throw the World Series? There can't be enough money in it, compared to what these guys are already making.”

“That's what the bookies tell me,” Sam said.

“And why would he come forward? Somebody would have to be leaning on a player pretty fuckin' hard to get him to ruin his career like that.”

“That's what I was thinking,” Sam said. “Maybe the player's being blackmailed.”

“And who'd do that?”

“Have you heard of a guy named Sid Mink?”

The columnist snorted.

“Who hasn't? He's the biggest crook in town.”

“Could you see him being involved in something like this? Miranda started his career in L.A.”

Daly rubbed his hands across his face and leaned back in the booth.

“He's into drugs and prostitution, for sure,” Daly said. “Beyond that, I don't know. The L.A. mob has always been considered a bunch of underachievers. They're called the Mickey Mouse Mafia. The East Coast families push them around. They can't keep their territory under control.”

Daly went into a brief history of the L.A. mob since Bugsy Siegel, who came out from New York in the '30s to cut himself in on the West Coast rackets and establish gambling in Las Vegas. When Siegel was murdered in 1947, Jack Dragna took over and developed some influence with the labor unions in Hollywood. But he couldn't keep Siegel's underboss, Mickey Cohen, from holding on to a big piece of the L.A. vice action. The mob tried to kill Cohen a half-dozen times, but they never hit him. He eventually went to jail for tax evasion—the Feds had to get him, since the local cops and the movie industry seemed to tolerate, if not take orders from, Cohen. Now Sid Mink was the guy who ran the rackets in L.A., but he was no better than any of the previous bosses at keeping the other local hoods in line.

“Is Mink into sports?” Sam asked.

“He's always at the Lakers games, and I see him at the track. He's got a box seat at Dodger Stadium, too.”

“You don't need to go to a game to fix one,” Sam said. “You don't even need to be in the same town.”

“Lemme put it this way,” Daly said. “If Miranda was involved in this, Sid Mink might know about it. But would he be behind it, or be able to do anything about it? I don't know.”

“I need to talk to Mink.”

“That shouldn't be hard to arrange.”

“But first, Miranda. Got a number?”

Daly pulled out his cell phone and began scrolling through his directory. When he got to Miranda's entry, he pushed the button and waited. He got Miranda's voice mail and left a message for the player to give him a call.

“Weeknight off, I'm guessing he'll be at a club somewhere. He'll get back to me.”

“What kind of a guy is Miranda?”

“I thought he was a good kid when he came up as a rookie—before the Dodgers traded him to the Cardinals. He was just a scared, skinny kid from South America who didn't know much English and had warning-track power. But he started bulking up while he was here, and then he blossomed in St. Louis. I was glad the Dodgers got him back, steroid rumors and all. But he's changed. A hell of a ballplayer, but he's kind of a playboy now. You don't always know what to expect with him after a game. Some nights he'll make sure to give you something you can use, and other nights—more and more, lately—he'll blow you off.”

Daly went back to eating, and his phone rang five minutes later. It was Miranda. Daly told him he had a guy who wanted to talk to him about an opportunity to make some money.

“No, I don't want to call your fuckin' agent, Alberto. I'm just doing you a favor. This guy's a friend of mine. He'll be leaving town in a couple of days.”

Miranda agreed to meet them at a nightclub called Quasar, in Hermosa Beach. He'd be in a first-floor cabana with a few of his friends.

“We'd better get moving,” Daly said. “I hear that place fills up by eleven.”

“Dance there often?” Heather asked.

“Do I look like I dance?”

He pried himself out of the booth and waddled toward the front door, brushing pizza crumbs off his sport coat and onto the floor.