Thefts of Nick Velvet (7 page)

Nick glanced at the calendar in his wallet. Two weeks would give him till August 16th. “And what is your country?”

“The island Republic of Jabali. Not far beyond Cuba, in the Caribbean.”

“I see,” Nick said slowly. “And might I ask, what the Republic of Jabali wants with an American baseball team?”

Asignar curled his lips in a sort of smile, showing again the gold-capped teeth. “Our president, General Tras, is a great baseball fan. In past years your teams occasionally played exhibition games in Jabali, but there have been none in several years. General Tras has personally trained and equipped a Jabali national team, but they have no one to play.”

“Let me get this straight,” Nick said. “You want me to steal an entire baseball team and transport it to Jabali just so your president can have competition for his private team?”

Asignar bristled a bit. “You are well paid to perform a service, Mr. Velvet. I had understood from some satisfied customers that you never questioned the peculiarity of an assignment.”

“And I don’t. But do you realize what this theft might do to relations between Jabali and the United States? There was a time when it would have brought a boatload of Marines to your shore. Even now you could hardly escape without denouncement in Congress and possibly some sort of economic sanctions.”

“As soon as the team is in our hands we plan to issue a statement that the theft is merely temporary. We will return the team safely after one game with our Jabali team. We could hardly expect to hold the American players indefinitely.”

“You’re still in for a lot of trouble from Washington,” Nick warned. But then, having said it, he accepted Asignar’s half fee—in cash.

“What are you doing, Nick?” Gloria asked later that evening. They were sitting in the back-yard patio, after dinner, as he pondered the evening paper.

“Checking the baseball standings.”

“I never knew you were interested, except at World Series time.”

“I’ll be away on another trip,” he told her. “Just wanted to see what games I’ll miss.”

Nick had already decided that the theft of the baseball team must not be allowed to interfere with the pennant races in the two leagues. But this early in August most of the teams were still in contention. He did some quick figuring and found that only one team was definitely out of it—the hapless Beavers. Though Nick followed the sport only occasionally he was—like nearly everyone else in the country—well aware of the Beavers’ plight. They had replaced the old Brooklyn Dodgers and then the New York Mets as the butt of comedians’ jokes, and after losing 14 straight games earlier in the season the sports sections had dubbed them the “Meager Beavers.”

All right, Nick decided. Since the choice was his to make, it would be the Beavers. Perhaps with the Beavers to play against, General Tras might even be victorious with his own team, and that would certainly please him.

Next Nick checked the schedules of the Beavers at home and on the road for the next two weeks. They flew to New York for a weekend series with the Mets on Thursday. Then, on Monday, they flew on to Atlanta to play the Braves before returning home. Nick checked the standings again and confirmed that the Braves were also far down in the National League. A postponed or canceled game would not affect their standing, either.

Then that’s what it would be—the Beavers on next Monday—a full, week ahead of Asignar’s deadline.

Pop Hastin had been manager of the Beavers for as long as anyone—even the sportswriters—could remember. He’d come up with the team from Triple-A baseball when the National League expanded, and it was only a high personal regard for Pop that had kept the Beavers from ridicule this long.

He was a gray, bristly man in his early sixties, and his reputation for eating umpires alive had got him thrown out of many ball games. The fans and the sportswriters loved it, of course, as they loved everything Pop did. They’d turned against his Meager Beavers only with the greatest reluctance.

“You’re a writer?” Pop asked, eyeing Nick with open suspicion. They’d met in the dressing room at Shea Stadium, just after the Mets defeated the Beavers by a score of 9 to 1.

“That’s right,” Nick confirmed, passing over a card. “With
Sports Weekly
. We want to do an article on your team.”

Pop Hastin grunted, rolling the plug of chewing tobacco to his other cheek. “More Meager Beaver stuff?”

“Nothing like that. My editors want an in-depth article with a sympathetic slant, to balance some of the other stuff.”

“How long will it take? We’re flying to Atlanta in the morning.”

Nick hesitated, then said, “I was going to suggest that I might fly down with you. That way we could talk at leisure and I’d get to meet some of your key players.”

Hastin snorted. “This year the Beavers got no key players. We haven’t gotten more than four runs in any game all summer.”

“Still, there’s Karowitz at first base—”

“Yeah, he’s pretty good.”

“And that rookie shortstop, Nesbitt.”

“The kid, yeah.” Pop Hastin shifted the tobacco again. “Well, I guess you could fly down with us. There’s plenty of room these days. Not many of your sportswriters come along any more.”

Nick Velvet smiled. “I’ll meet you at the airport in the morning, then.”

The chartered jet which flew the Beavers between cities on the National League circuit was piloted by a young man named Farnsworth. He stood by the ramp with a pretty, long-legged stewardess welcoming the players aboard, smiling and joking with them about the previous day’s game.

Nick Velvet, walking beside Pop Hastin, boarded the plane with a friendly nod toward the pilot and stewardess. It was a clear August morning, perfect for flying, and the players seemed in a good mood considering their recent losses. There were nineteen of them making the trip, plus Pop and the coaches. A publicity man—a slight harried individual named Roswell—was also along, as were the trainer, batboy, and a few others.

“Sometimes we have a planeload,” Hastin explained, settling comfortably into his seat and strapping himself down. “But this isn’t much of a trip and a few of the regulars aren’t making it. We have a couple of injured players back home, and some of the front-office people stayed in New York for a league meeting.”

Roswell, the publicity man, dropped into the seat across the aisle, eyeing Nick with open suspicion. It had not been an easy season for him. “What sort of an article did you say you were writing?” he asked.

Pop Hastin interrupted, trying to avoid trouble. “All the equipment on board, Ros?”

“Sure it is. That’s not my job, anyway.” He turned his attention back to Nick. “We’ve had a pretty bad press the last few months—all this Meager Beaver stuff. If you’re going to write something like that, forget it.”

“No, nothing like that,” Nick reassured them. “I’m planning something that will put the Beavers on the front pages of every paper in the country and make people forget you’re in last place in the National League.”

The jet had risen smoothly from the runway and was climbing into the clear blue sky. Pop Hastin relaxed. “We’re on our way,” he said. “Now just how do you propose to give us all this publicity? Through
Sports Weekly
?”

“Partly,” Nick answered vaguely. “Suppose you introduce me to a few of the players.”

They went forward in the plane and Pop spoke to the team’s muscular first baseman. “Stan Karowitz, this is Mr. Nicholas, a writer with
Sports Weekly
. He’s going to give us a good article.”

Nick dropped into the seat next to Karowitz and started asking the Beavers’ star some routine questions, taking notes as he talked. “Do you think the Beavers are coming out of their slump, Stan?”

“It’s a little late in the year now,” Karowitz replied, “but we think our rookies might make a strong foundation for next season.”

Nick had been watching the stewardess walk past them to the cockpit and unlock the door with a key that dangled from her waist. She was carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. “Pardon me,” he interrupted Karowitz.

He moved quickly down the aisle behind the girl, catching the door before she could close it. The flight was still young, but he might not get another chance this good. He pushed past her, shoved the copilot aside, and pointed a pistol at the pilot’s head.

Farnsworth, the pilot, turned as the stewardess gasped. He started to rise, then thought better of it. “Where to?” he asked in a resigned tone. “Havana?”

“No,” Nick told him. “The island of Jabali.”

“We may not have enough fuel for that.”

Nick kept the pistol steady. “Well, let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”

Hours later, as the jet settled down on the runway at Jabali Airport, Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The fuel had indeed been low, and he wondered what he would have done if they’d run dry over the Caribbean. Or if the pilot and copilot had put up a fight. He’d never killed an innocent person during any of his assignments, and he wouldn’t have started now. More likely he would have knocked them out and tried to bring the big plane in himself—though he’d never piloted anything larger than army transports during a brief period of the Korean war.

When he stepped out of the cockpit he faced Pop Hastin, the manager’s face flushed with fury. “Why did you bring us here?” Hastin demanded.

“Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re in no danger.” He motioned with his gun for Pop and the players to leave the plane.

Roswell pushed his way through the crush. “You had no intention of writing any article! It was all a lie to hijack this plane!”

“It wasn’t entirely a lie,” Nick pointed out. “You’ll get plenty of publicity out of this.”

“Publicity?” Pop Hastin looked out the window at the welcome signs. “You mean somebody wanted to kidnap the Beavers?”

Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Welcome to Jabali.”

The President of Jabali, General Tras, was waiting to greet them with his eight cabinet ministers. He was an imposing man in his full military uniform, smiling broadly yet giving an unmistakable picture of power. There were armed bodyguards on both sides of him, and his gloved fists were clenched with expectation.

“We had your radio message, Señor Velvet. You have truly fulfilled your mission! Let us proceed to the National Hall, where I can more formally greet my guests.”

Jorge Asignar stepped forward, wearing the purple sash of a cabinet minister. “I have the balance of your money,” he told Nick. “The President is very pleased.”

“What are you? Secretary of Kidnaping?”

“Minister of Information,” Asignar replied with a thin smile. Then, motioning toward the plane, he questioned, “Who are all these people?”

“Baseball teams aren’t just nine men and a rack of bats. Not these days. They need a trainer, batboy, and press agent. They need pitching and batting coaches. They need—”

Stan Karowitz came barreling over, looking for a fight. “What is this, anyway? Are we prisoners here?”

Nick tried to calm him. “Their president likes baseball. You’ll be home in a few days.”

“
A few days!
”

But already the armed guards were moving in, steering everyone toward a big waiting bus. There was no opportunity for argument. Nick rode to the National Hall in the black, limousine of General Tras, sitting in the back seat between the President and Asignar. On the front fenders fluttered the flag of Jabali—a field of red with a wild boar’s head in the center, enclosed by a black triangle with three seashells along each of the triangle’s sides.

“Jabali,” Nick observed. “The wild boar?”

“At one time they overran our little island,” General Tras remarked. “Now they are confined to the zoos and a few game preserves back in the hills.”

Here and there along the highway were people to cheer and wave as the big presidential car went by. When the marble-faced auditorium came into view, the crowds grew thicker.

“This was really Jorge’s idea,” the President said, patting Asignar approvingly on the knee. “I had been training our own team for some years as a hobby, but it all meant nothing without real competition.”

“I hope you’re prepared to risk the wrath of my government,” Nick commented dryly.

Tras dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “The Beavers will be safely returned after a single game with the Jabali team. No one will go to war over it.”

The auditorium was about half full when they entered. Asignar motioned Nick to a seat on the side, saying, “General Tras and the cabinet ministers always sit in row J. You can follow the proceedings from here.”

“Fine,” Nick agreed. He’d been sitting only a few moments when a strikingly beautiful girl with long black hair slipped into place next to him.

“You’re Nick Velvet?” she asked quietly.

Her English was perfect, which was his first surprise. And she knew his name. “That’s right. And you are—?”

“Maria Tras.”

“The President’s—”

She laughed lightly at his hesitation. “Daughter.”

“Are you a baseball fan too?” Up on the stage Asignar was beginning to speak. Nick’s slight knowledge of Spanish indicated he was introducing the President.

“Not like my father,” the girl was saying in answer to his question. “In fact, I was against this whole scheme. I was at Columbia for four years and I know how seriously you Americans take your baseball.”

“That’s what I tried to tell Asignar.”

“That man!” She made a face.

“What does your father want? Just a game?”

“That’s all. It was wise of you to steal the Beavers. At least it’ll be something of an even match.”

General Tras mounted the stage and held up his hand for silence. Surprisingly, Pop Hastin was at his side. Tras spoke a few words in Spanish and then switched quickly to English. “I want now to welcome a fine and famous American baseball manager, the pride of the National League—our guest, Pop Hastin of the Beavers!”

Even Pop seemed taken aback by the applause with which the introduction was greeted. If he’d planned to denounce the kidnaping from the stage he must have had second thoughts. He cleared his throat, grinned weakly, and said, “I can’t approve of being brought here against our will, but I am pleased at the reception we’ve received. We look forward to meeting the Jabali team on the field.”