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Four hours into his red-eye to Miami, Wicker was suffering from information withdrawal. The senior flight attendant, a skeleton of a woman whose cavernous eyes and tobacco-stained teeth had already crossed her off his mile-high wish list, had brusquely ordered him to stow his smart phone shortly after takeoff. His efforts to explain to her the wireless connection had been turned off were futile, and he resignedly stashed the appliance in his carry-on bag. Unable to sleep, he alternated between following the flight’s progress on the screen up front and attempting to lock eyes with Skeletor’s colleague in the business-class section.
Either she was a master of the subtle art of avoiding undesired passengers or fate had aligned itself against Wicker. When the serving cart rolled through for dinner, it was the haggard face of his nemesis looking down upon him. She doled out a phony smile and a tilapia dinner, and moved on. As he tore into the bag that held his plastic eating utensils, the dinner trolley advanced three rows, placing the perfect ass of the younger stewardess within an arm’s length as its owner tended to the fortunate ones in the row ahead. When she bent to extract a dinner tray, her blue polyester skirt stretched tight over her rounded bottom, which maintained its perkiness even as she rose again. Wicker admired the cascade of dark curls that jounced in unison whenever she moved her head. When she came through later collecting trash, he was too engrossed studying the in-flight magazine’s overpriced merchandise to do more than fumble for his glass and napkin. Several times after that she had marched down the aisle, swiveling her head as she passed among the slumbering passengers, never looking him full in the face.
His subtle approach proving ineffective and time running short as the aircraft approached Florida, he at last hooked her arm as she passed.
“Excuse me,” he said as he read the engraved wings on her left breast, “Naomi. Can I get another Jack and Coke?”
“Of course.” Her voice carried the faintest hint of a British accent. She smiled sincerely enough that Wicker almost forgave her for not having spoken to him through three time zones.
“Thanks. And don’t be shy with it. The Jack, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Again a smile.
Wicker winked at her. “Didn’t figure you would. But my first two were a bit on the light side.”
“Must have been Melanie,” Naomi whispered. “It’s a common complaint. We’ll make up for it this time.”
She stepped briskly up the aisle, Wicker’s gaze following her until she disappeared through the curtain up front. A minute later she reappeared holding his drink. Her sleeve brushed his face as she set the glass on his tray table.
“Thank you.” Wicker reached into his jacket for his wallet.
“Don’t worry about this one,” she said. “It’s a makeup.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“We aim to please.”
Wicker lifted the glass toward her, then set it to his lips.
“That,” he coughed, “is more like it.”
“Well, we’ve got to get your trip off on the right foot, don’t we. Are you traveling to Miami for business or fun?”
“Work.” He took another small sip. “But my work is fun.”
The bronze-skinned stewardess glanced up and down the aisle, then crouched down next to Wicker, laying one hand on his armrest as she balanced on the balls of her feet. “What is it you do?”
“I’m a sports agent. Baseball players, mainly.” The line was delivered with a practiced nonchalance. Something about the profession intrigued women. Had he told them he was an attorney it would rarely, if ever, have had the same impact.
“Really?” Naomi purred. “Anyone I might have heard of?”
“Sure. I represent Del Tanner on the Twins, Paul Southworth, the pitcher for the Cardinals, Alan Voss, who’s in camp with the Marlins, and a few others. I have some guys in the minor leagues that you’ll be hearing about soon.”
“Oh, wow. How exciting.”
“I’m meeting with a kid at the University of Miami this afternoon named Bobby Beretta. Power-hitting shortstop, like a young A-Rod. Should be one of the top three picks in the draft this year. This kid can do everything. Remember that name. Bobby Beretta.”
“Bobby Beretta ... like the gun?”
“That’s it.”
“How funny. When he makes it big, I can tell everyone I met his agent.”
Wicker unleashed his intoxicating dimples. He was so close he could visualize her skirt on his hotel-room floor. To finish her, he dialed up a casual eyebrow arch and mini shoulder shrug. “Well, we’ll see how things go at lunch.” He held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “I’m this close to reeling him in.”
“We had a guy with us a couple weeks ago. Played for Florida, was it, or was it maybe Tampa. What was his name? Ohh ...” Naomi ground her fist into her forehead. “Name some players.”
“Florida guys? I don’t know, Horacio Nunez, Josh Davis ...”
“I wanna say it was Evan something.”
“Evan Longoria?”
“Yes.” She pointed at Wicker. “That was him. Sat up in first class. Nicest guy. Of course he looked like he was barely out of high school. I actually carded him, and I never card anyone.”
“Were you like, ‘are you the real Evan Longoria?’”
“What? No. I still didn’t know who he was. It was the little boy kitty corner from him who tipped me off. Kept staring at him. He asked me if it was, and I had to say, ‘wait, let me ask.’” Naomi laughed and touched Wicker’s arm. “Mildly embarrassing, as I’d just looked at his driver’s license, but his name didn’t mean anything to me the first time.”
“Ahem,” came a phony throat clearing from over Wicker’s left shoulder. He and Naomi looked up into the darkened eyes and browned teeth of her crew chief. “I hate to interrupt, Naomi, but we need to execute our final cleanup.”
The junior stewardess stood and smiled sheepishly at Wicker. “Gotta run. I’ll be back for your glass in a moment.”
Ten minutes later, after the captain had announced their approach into Miami, Naomi stopped by while checking for fastened seat belts and stowed tray tables. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he looked up into her thick-lashed eyes.
“Enjoy your stay in Miami,” she said.
“I certainly will.”
“How long are you here for?”
“Two nights. Then I’ve got to cruise over to Fort Myers to see Del. How about yourself?”
“Heading back tomorrow morning. This isn’t our home base.”
“That’s a shame.”
Naomi smiled at him. Wicker felt her wavering. Another few seconds and she’d spill her cell number.
“Excuse me, miss?” A woman from two rows behind called. “My son isn’t feeling well.”
Naomi raised her eyebrows playfully and turned to attend to the sick child. Wicker watched after her for a moment, until he heard retching. He turned toward the window, trying hard to tune out the sounds coming from behind. If he saw it, he might be next, and what an impression that would make. The next, and last, time he saw her was when he disembarked. Maybe, just maybe, she’d slip him a folded piece of paper with her number scribbled on it. But all he got as he passed was a smile and a carbon copy of the “good-bye” she gave every other passenger on the flight.
As he waited in line for his rental car, Wicker spotted a discarded Miami Herald sitting atop a trash barrel. He plucked the sports section and was greeted with the headline “Errant pitch sidelines Canes’ Beretta.” His face hardened as he read the story, though the wrinkles in his forehead smoothed and a wry smile formed by the time he finished. His potential meal ticket had taken a pitch off the forearm in batting practice. Though X-rays were negative, he’d be held out of this weekend’s series against Florida. If anything, it might allow Wicker more time to schmooze the star shortstop during his visit.
Below the Beretta article another title caught his eye: “Steroid allegations stir dissent in Twins camp.”
Veteran outfielder Danny Jorgens had to be separated from a reporter Tuesday following questions about teammate Del Tanner’s alleged use of performance-enhancing drugs. Galen Hartsell of the Fort Myers News Press, was one of several reporters questioning Tanner, last year’s American League Rookie of the Year, when Jorgens leapt a stool and lifted him off the floor by his shirt collar.
Hartsell was uninjured in the melee, which was broken up after Tanner and several reporters intervened. A team spokesman refused to comment on the incident pending an internal investigation by the club.
The tensions arose after Tanner, who hit 27 home runs for the Twins last year, declined to answer reporters’ questions about his inclusion on a list of suspected users this winter.
“I’ve got nothing to say about any of this,” Tanner said, when asked about his use of human growth hormone. After Hartsell attempted to follow up, Jorgens sprang at him, catching the writer and others in the vicinity by surprise.
Tanner has been tight-lipped about the reports linking him to performance-enhancing drugs since they leaked out last November. Several of his Twins teammates have been more willing to share their opinions on the subject. While Jorgens, who was suspended after testing positive for Nandrolone in 2006, is clearly in his corner, pitcher Greg Norcross is not.
“Look, I don’t know if he used it or didn’t,” said Norcross, a third-year Twin who broke in with the Tigers as a 31-year-old rookie in 2004. “I never saw him doing that. But I’ve never seen anyone doing that stuff and we all know people have done it. Did he? You’d have to ask him. But if he did, he just lost a ton of respect in my eyes.
“I spent ten years in the minor leagues. I had to go to Taiwan for a year to make enough to pay off the bills from when my daughter was born two months premature. I spent four winters in Mexico just trying to impress someone enough to get an invite to big league camp somewhere. But I never used that crap, and it pisses me off that other guys did and took those chances I could have had.”
Tanner’s name was on a list of 11 players being investigated by the commissioner’s office over the winter for alleged use of steroids or other performance-enhancing substances, such as human growth hormone. Only Andy Weldner, a relief pitcher for the Rangers who missed most of last season while recovering from an elbow injury, has confessed to using a banned substance.
“Son of a bitch.” Wicker snapped his phone out of the holster on his belt and tapped a series of buttons with his thumb. Del answered on the fourth ring, just as the clerk summoned Wicker to the counter.
“Wicker?” Del mumbled, his throat still thick with sleep.
“Morning, Del.” Wicker pinned the phone between his shoulder and ear as he grabbed his bag and stepped toward the counter. “What the hell’s going on over there?”
“What do you mean? I’m just getting up.”
“So you haven’t seen the paper yet this morning?”
Wicker fumbled in his carryon for the printout of his rental reservation as the clerk shot him a cross look. At last he produced his confirmation and smoothed it on the counter.
“No,” Del sighed. “Let me guess.”
“The Miami guy buried you. And Jorgens. What happened?”
“Nothing really. Those clowns kind of ganged up on me yesterday. Danny just told them to leave me alone.”
“He didn’t,” Wicker scanned the story again, “leap over a stool and lift a reporter off the floor by his shirt collar?”
“Sir,” the Hertz representative interrupted, “I need your driver’s license and a credit card, please.”
As Wicker reached back for his wallet the phone slipped from his shoulder, clattering onto the counter face down.
“... touched the guy.”
“I missed that, Del. Sorry. Dropped the damn phone.”
“I said he barely touched him. He didn’t leap a bench or whatever that said. That’s a total exaggeration.”
“What happened?”
“The kid mouthed off a little about Danny being a convicted user or something, and he just grabbed him by the shirt and told him to be more polite.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“You didn’t ... uh, intervene along with several reporters?”
“Pfff. Hardly. I just slapped his shoulder and said let the kid go. And he did.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. We went into the cafeteria for lunch.”
“What about this ... hold on a second.” Wicker took the pen offered by the clerk and scratched his signature on the rental agreement.
“Where are you?”
“Miami airport. Getting my car.”
“Thought you weren’t coming until Sunday.”
“I’m not. I have to see a kid here first. Bobby Beretta at Miami.”
“Oh,” Del said. “That your new boy?”
“Maybe. I got a shot with him. I’ll know better after tonight.”
“Well, good luck with him. I guess I’ll look for you Sunday then.”
“Arrighty. Hey, hold on. I meant to ask about Norcross.”
“Norcross?” Del asked. “What about him?”
“Don’t sound like he’s in your corner.”
“What’d’ya mean? We’ve always got along.”
“Just go down to the lobby and get a paper to read while you take your shit. And try to stay out of trouble until I get there.”