The Final Detail (Myron Bolitar 6)

Show me a boy who didn’t dream of being a big leaguer before age seven, before Training League or whatever slowly began to thin the herd in one of life’s earliest lessons that the world can and will disappoint you. Show me a boy who doesn’t remember wearing his Little League cap to school when the teachers would allow it, keeping it pitched high with a favorite baseball card tucked inside, wearing it to the dinner table, sleeping with it on the night table next to his bed. Show me a boy who doesn’t remember playing catch with his father on the weekends or, better, on those precious summer nights when Dad would rush home from his job, shake off his work clothes, put on a T-shirt that was always a little too small, grab a mitt, and head into the backyard before the final rays faded away. Show me a boy who didn’t stare in awe at how far his father could hit or throw a baseball—no matter how bad an athlete his father was, no matter how spastic or what have you—and for that shining moment Dad was transformed into a man of unimaginable ability and strength.

Only baseball had that magic.

The new majority owner of the New York Yankees was Sophie Mayor. She and her husband, Gary, had shocked the baseball world by buying the team from the longtime unpopular owner Vincent Riverton less than a year ago. Most fans had applauded. Vincent Riverton, a publishing mogul, had a love-hate relationship with the public (mostly hate) and the Mayors, a techno-nouveau-riche pair who had found their fortune through computer software, promised a more hands-off approach. Gary Mayor had grown up in the Bronx and promised a return to the days of the Mick and DiMaggio. The fans were thrilled.

But tragedy struck pretty fast. Two weeks before the deal to buy was finalized, Gary Mayor died of a sudden heart attack. Sophie Mayor, who had always been an equal, if not dominating, partner in the software business, insisted on going ahead with the transaction. She had public support and sympathy, but Gary and his roots had been the rope tethering her to the public. Sophie was a midwestemer, and with her love of hunting mixed with her background as a math genius, she hit the prenatally suspicious New Yorkers as being something of a kook.

Soon after taking over the helm, Sophie made her son Jared, a man with virtually no baseball experience, co-general manager. The public frowned. She made a quick trade, gutting the Yankee farm system on the chance that Clu Haid still had a good year or two left. The public cried. She had stood firm. She wanted a World Series in the Bronx immediately. Trading for Clu Haid was the way to get it. The public was skeptical.

But Clu pitched amazingly well during his first month with the team. His fastball was back over ninety, and his curves were breaking as if they were accepting signals from a remote control. He got better with each outing, and the Yankees grabbed first place. The public was appeased. For a little while anyway, Myron guessed. He had stopped paying attention, but he could imagine the backlash against the Mayor family when Clu tested positive for drugs.

Myron was led immediately into Sophie Mayor’s office. She and Jared both stood to greet him. Sophie Mayor was probably mid-fifties, what was commonly called a handsome woman, her hair gray and neat, her back straight, her handshake firm, her arms tawny, her eyes twinkling with hints of mischief and cunning. Jared was twenty-fiveish. He wore his hair parted on the right with no hint of style, wire-rimmed glasses, a blue blazer, and a polka dot bow tie. Youths for George Will.

The office was sparsely decorated, or maybe it just appeared that way because the scene was dominated by a moose head hanging on a wall. A dead moose actually. A live moose is so hard to hang. Quite the decorating touch. Myron tried not to make a face. He almost said, “You must have hated this moose,” à la Dudley Moore in Arthur but refrained. With age comes maturity.

Myron shook Jared’s hand, then turned toward Sophie Mayor.

Sophie pounced. “Where the hell have you been, Myron?”

“Excuse me?”

She pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

Like he was a dog. But he obeyed. Jared too. Sophie stayed on her feet and glowered down at him.

“In court yesterday they said something about your being in the Caribbean,” she continued.

Myron made a noncommittal “uh-huh” sound.

“Where were you?”

“I was away.”

“Away?”

“Yes.”

She looked over at her son, then back at Myron. “For how long?”

“Three weeks.”

“But Miss Diaz told me you were in town.”

Myron said nothing.

Sophie Mayor made two fists and leaned toward him. “Why would she tell me that, Myron?”

“Because she didn’t know where I was.”

“In other words, she lied to me.”

Myron did not bother replying.

“So where were you?” she pressed.

“Out of the country.”

“The Caribbean?”

“Yes.”

“And you never told anyone?”

Myron shifted in his chair, trying to find an opening or gain some sort of footing here. “I don’t mean to sound rude,” he said, “but I don’t see how my whereabouts are any of your business.”

“You don’t?” A sharp chortle passed her lips. She looked at her son as if to say, Do you believe this guy?, then redirected her laser grays back toward Myron. “I relied on you,” she said.

Myron said nothing.

“I bought this team and I decided to be hands-off. I know software. I know computers. I know business. I really don’t know much about baseball. But I made one decision. I wanted Clu Haid. I had a feeling about him. I thought he still had something left. So I traded for him. People thought I was nuts—three good prospects for one has-been. I understood that concern. So I went to you, Myron, remember?”

“Yes.”

“And you assured me he was going to stay clean.”

“Wrong,” Myron said. “I said he wanted to stay clean.”

“Wanted, was going to … What is this, a lesson in semantics?”

“He was my client,” Myron said. “It’s my job to worry about his interests.”

“And damn mine?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Damn integrity and ethics too? Is that the way you work, Myron?”

“That’s not it at all. Sure, we wanted this trade to happen—”

“You wanted it badly,” she corrected him.

“Fine, we wanted it badly. But I never promised you he’d stay clean because it’s not something I or anyone else can guarantee. I assured you we would try our hardest. I made it part of the deal. I gave you the right to randomly test him at any time.”