Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (64 page)

She shrugged her shoulders and began to apply an expensive blemish cream. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a black eye, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

She made a face in the mirror. What had somebody said? You can’t pick a rose without getting pricked by a thorn?

Speaking of roses—her eyes slid down past her shoulders to the lacy slip she was wearing, and she smiled. After several disappointments, she’d found a seamstress who’d not only taken on the challenge with enthusiasm, but had done a fabulous job of recreating the slip Marilyn Monroe had worn in the movie Niagara.

Eva sighed. The only problem was that despite some padding here and there, she just didn’t fill it out the way Marilyn had. She’d even hired a personal trainer to improve her shape, but all he’d done for his hundred bucks an hour was yell at her for not exercising regularly and tell her he’d wash his hands of her if she kept eating rich desserts and drinking so much.

What was the use of being old enough to do whatever you wanted if other people still had rules about what you should and shouldn’t do? And why pay people to yell at her?

Her hair stylist was just as bad. He’d bleached her hair and cut it to look like Marilyn’s, but he’d complained the whole time, saying it didn’t suit her. Fat lot he knew! Her new look had snared one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She was the envy of thousands of women.

As for the black eye, nothing came without a little bit of pain. Her father had told her that often enough. So suck it up and get your chin up. That was another of his sayings.

She glanced over at the clock on her wall. Almost time for the interview. She never listened to sports radio, but Pat Davis, Rico’s agent, was being interviewed today on the Stasey Simon Show, and although it would be boring, she probably ought to turn it on.

She returned to her well-stocked bar to fortify herself with more champagne.

Some miles away, Stasey Simon sat at a table in the largest of WIN 730’s three claustrophobic sound rooms. The news was on, so she raised her hands high above her head and thrust her legs forward and out, toes pointing up, heels down, feeling the stretch through her muscular shoulders and down the length of her very healthy five-foot-two inch frame. She stood up as her twenty-two-year-old producer Ted Benedetto came in from the control booth.

“Is Pat here?” she asked.

“He’s in the washroom.”

“Not being sick, I hope.”

“No. He wanted to make sure he wouldn’t get the urge to go while on air.”

“Okay.” Her tone changed. “You put through a call from Lawrence.”

“I know.”

“I told you Friday—” she made eye contact with Ted, even though it hurt her neck to have to look up nearly a foot to do so “—he calls too much. Frankly, he’s starting to give me the creeps. I told you to only let him on once a week now.”

“I remember. It’s just he’s—he’s so earnest. He says he listens to your every word and he loves the show, and—”

Stasey poked Ted in the chest with her long, burgundy fingernails. “He’s totally weird. I find myself being nice and agreeing with him because I’m afraid not to. If I ever pick up a stalker, it’ll be him.”

“I think he’s just, you know, slow. Mentally challenged or whatever they call it.”

“I don’t care if he’s the head of MENSA. He gets one call a week!” She turned her back on Ted and sat down.

A heavy-set, middle-aged man wearing a brown tweed sports jacket and tan pants stepped hesitantly into the room. Ted escorted him to a chair and hooked him up with headphones. When Pat was connected, Ted leaned over to whisper a joke in his ear and was rewarded by a tight smile.

On air again, Stasey was going over the highlights from the day before. Baseball was the priority, but there had been a major trade in the Canadian Football League, a death in the golf world, and a hearts-and-flowers story in the world of horse racing. Stasey ran down the page of news items, making a comment off the top of her head for each one.

Then it was time to interview Pat.

“I have with me today a very special guest. It’s Pat Davis, the agent for Ricardo Velasquez.” She listed a few names of other sports figures who used Pat as an agent, reviewed the well-worn rumor of how Rico had been spirited out of Cuba by an unknown baseball fan, mentioned Rico’s stats, and then said, “So tell me what it’s like to represent a player who speaks very little English. Do you speak Spanish?”

Pat sighed and relaxed in his chair. Whatever question he’d been dreading, it wasn’t this one. “Well, Rico speaks some English, but not a lot. And I don’t speak Spanish. I’m well aware there can be misunderstandings when both parties aren’t completely clear about important things, so I employ two interpreters whenever I’m working on business details with someone who doesn’t speak English well.”

“So when you and Rico worked out the contract, you had two people there interpreting?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t one enough?”

“I want one there to present Rico’s side and one there to present mine. I once—years ago—employed an interpreter who was lying to a player about what I was saying. I didn’t know it, and neither did the player, and it caused a lot of confusion and hard feelings. So now I have two. I try to hire people who don’t know each other, so there’s no collusion, and I tell each of them straight out to let us know if the other one’s not on the up and up.”

“You do this for your protection?”

“For mine and the player’s as well.”

“Fascinating.” Stasey paused to light a cigarette. “So, tell me, is Rico the same person in real life as he is on the mound?”

As Stasey began her question, Pat’s thick, stubby fingers grasped the edges of the table as if he was dangling from a cliff edge. As she completed the question, his fingers dropped into his lap and he coughed once before answering. “Rico is more or less what you see. He knows a lot about baseball—not just the game, but the history of the game. He’s determined to win both a World Series and a Cy Young Award.”

Stasey inhaled from her cigarette and blew out the smoke. “Really? I’d have thought he’d be happy just to play ball and make money. Not to mention having the opportunity to live in a country where he’s free to do pretty well anything he wants to do.

Pat shifted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table in front of him and interlacing his fingers, thumbs pressed together in a steeple. “Well, of course, he’s thrilled to be living here in Canada, and to be on a Major League team. The other things—they’re just dreams he’s added on now that he has the ability to dream. In Cuba, his future was simply to keep playing until he was too old to play. Now he has the joy of playing for a great team, making a very good living, and dreaming new dreams.”

“Pat, you’re waxing poetic on me here. So tell me—” Stasey leaned forward, her eyes gleaming, “—if Rico is so happy to be here and all, why is it the players on his team would be glad to get rid of him?”

Pat pressed his back against his chair and squared his shoulders as though taking part in a tug of war with an invisible rope. His voice rose slightly. “I think you’re generalizing. There may be a few players who don’t like Rico—”

“Oh, come now—” Stasey’s tone of voice didn’t change “—most of the players and everyone else who knows what goes on in the locker room think Rico is a jerk.”

Pat cleared his throat. “He’s in a strange country where he doesn’t speak the language very well, and he’s anxious to succeed, so he might have stepped on a few egos. People need to be more tolerant.”

Stasey took a fourth puff from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the chipped saucer Ted had found in the station’s tiny kitchen and now put out for her use every day. “Pat, I realize you’re making a lot of money from the guy, so you have to defend him. But, can you honestly tell me it doesn’t bother you to go to all the effort you have—even your two interpreters—and then have to clean up after his messes? You’re an intelligent man. Is the money worth it?”

With his right hand, Pat rubbed the front of head, displacing strands of brown hair that had been carefully combed to cover his thinning pate.

Dead air space beckoned.

Stasey grinned. “Pat, tell us the truth. Did you know what he was like when you took him on?”

Pat licked his lips before answering. “I knew he was a great young pitcher,” he said doggedly.

“Did you know anything about him as a person?”

Pat glanced toward Ted, busy in the booth. “Not much,” he said slowly.

Stasey was lighting another cigarette as she said, “It must have been an unpleasant surprise to discover what he’s like.”

“He’s not as bad as you’re making out. He’s—”

“A jerk.”

“—just getting accustomed to living here and being famous. It’ll take a while. Lots of players find it hard to make the adjustment to a new lifestyle. And being in the public eye is hard for anyone.”

“And meanwhile, he has that very nice signing bonus and that very nice contract, and you’re getting your share, right?”

“I—I—”

“We have to take a break for a sports update. Back in a jiffy to take your calls.”

When he was sure they were off the air, Pat said, “I thought you wanted to interview me. All you did was attack Rico.”

“I said what I thought my listeners wanted me to say,” Stasey said. “Those are the questions they wanted asked.”

Pat’s eyes went past her. “So there’s nothing personal in your making me look like a money-hungry fool?”

“Nothing.”

Pat sighed. “You know, I really wish you’d give Rico a chance. With your influence, you could change the way people think.”

From the control room, Ted’s voice interrupted. “Back on the air in five…four…three…two…one.”

“This is the Stasey Simon Show and my guest today is Pat Davis, agent for Ricardo Velasquez, fondly or perhaps not-so-fondly known by his fans and teammates as Rico. Why don’t you give us a call with your question for Pat?” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “So, Pat, you think Rico has been treated unfairly? You think we’re expecting too much of him?”

Pat cleared his throat before responding. “He’s a bit like a kid visiting a candy store for the first time. He’ll settle down. People need to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Translated, I guess that means as long as he pitches well, he should get away with behaving like a spoiled brat?”

“That’s not what—”

“Okay, here’s our first caller. Joe, how are you doing?”

“I’m doing great, Stasey. You know, I don’t think we need players from Cuba coming in and taking jobs from our North American players. Look what’s happened in hockey with all the European players coming in! I don’t like it. I think Rico should go back to Cuba and play there. Leave the job for one of our own people.”

“Okay, Joe. Always on your toes, aren’t you? Who’s our next caller? Brian, what have you got to say?”

“Hi, Stasey? How are you today?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just fine, Brian. What’s on your mind?”

“Hi, Pat. Stasey, I like Rico. Sure, he gets a little upset with the other players if they make a mistake, but I like that. I’d rather have someone with his emotions on his sleeve than someone with no emotions at all. And the last caller was crazy. If we didn’t have players from outside the U.S. and Canada, we wouldn’t have had Fernando Valenzuela, Roberto Clemente, George Bell, Alfredo Griffin, Tony Fernandez, El Duke, Hideki Matsui, and many other fine players. I want to see the best, Stasey. And I don’t care where they come from.”

“All right, Brian. Thanks. And you’re so right. We’ve had lots of fine players from outside North America—many of whom were also fine people.” She paused for a second. “Anyone else out there have a question for Pat? Annie, you’re on the Stasey Simon Show.”

“Thanks, Stasey. Mr. Davis, the report in the paper says he trashed the locker room. I teach high school, and I shudder to think my kids might copy him. And saying he’ll settle down eventually is ludicrous. No one ‘settles down’ without discipline. He has to learn what’s right and wrong, what’s appropriate behavior and what isn’t. You have to give him rules to follow and hold him accountable. As his agent, it’s your responsibility to be a mentor to him.”

Pat rubbed his hands together. “Well—Annie, is it?”

“Yes.”