The Setup Man (27 page)

So far it’s killing me. The woman is indefatigable. The other day we were on a jog—an “easy” ten-mile loop through the foothills of South San José—and around the eighth mile my legs went wobbly and I fell down. I wasn’t hurt, and Bethany teased me into finishing the course, but it got me thinking. I realized that at some point this will happen every time I go running. I will have to retire. It’s just a matter of time. Not many people have careers that end before they reach middle age. Aside from the obvious financial trouble this presents, there is also an existential dilemma: How do you remake yourself
when you quit the game that has been your identity since childhood?
What are you going to do when you retire?
Marcus asked me that night on the mountain. He ought to know what he was talking about; he certainly forged a new life after retirement. The newspaper stories about his trial all claim that he was driven by greed, but I’m not so sure. Fear of obsolescence probably played a big part.

One thing I will say for Bethany’s workout regimen: she knows how to pamper herself afterward. This evening we are at Watercourse Om, a Japanese-style bathhouse in Palo Alto. The Stanford kids call it Intercourse Om, and that’s a nice thought, but I doubt many of them can afford the price of admission when the dorm shower is free. For two hundred dollars an hour, Beth and I get a private room with our own spa, sauna, and cold plunge. The decor is maxed-out Asian, with Buddha heads everywhere and fresh jasmine flowers in rectangular bud vases. Hidden speakers emit soothing Japanese harp music. We sip from cups of iced pomegranate green tea as Bethany shows me the proper way to alternate between dry heat, wet heat, and cold. “It’s just like working out,” she says. “You have to find your red line.”

She means, I think, the point at which you are about to pass out. I can only stand so much Jacuzzi before I start to feel like a lobster being boiled alive, so I take my tea and lie down on the wooden cot in the corner. Ten minutes later, Bethany emerges from the sauna, naked and gleaming with perspiration. She leans over me and kisses my neck.

“Maybe we should get married,” I say.

She looks at me. “What’s this?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you owned the Bay Dogs?”

“That’s fair. But I’m afraid I can’t marry you.”

“Why not?”

“I thought we had an understanding about marriage.”

“Remind me what we said?”

She shoves in close. The cot is narrow, and we just fit.

“You’re worried because I own you,” she says.

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“No?”

“I’m serious, Beth.”

“I know you are, but do we have to be married to love each other?”

She takes my hand and slips it between her legs. I want to finish the conversation, because I feel there is more to say, but Bethany is persuasive. By the time we are finished making love, I can’t remember what was so pressing. I drift off.

The door to the room opens and shuts. Bethany stands before me with two plastic cups of ice water. She hands one to me and sits down next to me. Knees up, with our backs to the wall, we might be high-school kids catching our breath after a romp behind the field house. I have a warm feeling in my stomach that I don’t want to mention, in case it goes away.

They say a second wife is more like a friend than a lover. In most ways Bethany Pham is a better match for me than Ginny ever was. My fear is that I blew my load, love-wise, on Ginny. What Bethany and I have is wonderful, even enviable. We are the best of friends. The sex is prizewinning. Is there more to love than that? I once felt like there was. But look where that got me.

“Are we going to do this?” I say.

“You’re going to make me close the deal.” The look she gives is incredulous but not really surprised.

“You know I’m a horrible closer.”

“We’re not on the baseball field. This is different.”

“Not really. This is what I do. I get close, but I don’t close. I’ve made a whole career out of it.”

“That would look funny if you wrote it down,” she says. “Close and close.”

“Marry me, Bethany.”

“There you go! Be bold. I like that.”

“Marry me now, or I will marry Glenn Close.”

“Keep it coming!”

“Marry me and I will pitch for your baseball team. But I don’t come cheap. It will cost you a million dollars plus incentives.”

This routine gets us both pretty worked up, so we knock another one off. Afterward it’s time to get dressed. The room is starting to smell, and our two hours are almost up.

Bethany finishes her water in one long gulp. “Can I tell you how much I love owning a baseball team?” She hurls her cup into the trash can. “So far, it’s all about sex.”

I wish that was the first time I heard someone say that.

Thanks to my editor, Rob Bloom, who has the filthiest stuff in publishing. Thank you, Rob, for seeing the potential in this project and helping me draw it out. Thanks also to my agent, Jennifer Carlson, for taking an unexpected manuscript in stride. Thank you to the generous friends who commented on drafts: Dave Kern, Jeremy Resnick, Victoria Dougherty, Nathan Oates, and Bob O’Connell. Thanks to my wife, Jessica, for seeing me as a big-leaguer, and to my kids, Violet, Raymond, and Rose of Sharon, for understanding that they are too young to read this book.

T. T. Monday lives in San Jose, California.
The Setup Man
is his first thriller.