Big Leagues Read online

  Otis Snow, head of security at Hohenschwangau Stadium, snickered and slapped two file folders on the granite desktop. He strolled by the indoor putting set to the boss’ liquor cabinet and eyed the aged liquids with eager deliberation. “Or maybe Tiger … if he could keep his wood in the golf bag long enough to conduct a meeting, right, Boss?” He lifted up the scotch decanter and ripped off the stopper, inhaling the rich peppery tones of the single malt.

  Erich’s jaw jutted out with a pulsing clench at the familiar jangle, but he drew his eyes back to the green mat without a word. He sank the putt. Smiling, he sauntered forward to retrieve the golf ball, turned to the hired help currently ransacking his bar, and said, “Ahem.”

  The crystal clanged as Otis shoved in the stopper and fumbled the scotch back into the liquor cabinet. Barreling over to the desk and opening the top file folder, he said, “I got it all here for ya, everything ya asked for.”

  “Ich bin ganz Ohr.”

  “Huh?”

  Erich released a heavy sigh, his patience wearing thin with the loutish guard. “I am all ears. Please continue.”

  “Well, Boss, the way I see it, we gots two options for his replacement. As long as you’re still all gung ho about sticking with the organization. I still say—”

  “I do not pay you to say. I pay you to do.”

  Otis cleared his throat. “I know, sir. It’s just I could get you a real good guy—”

  “Yes, Otis. A man who earned his journalism credentials through an inmate rehabilitation program.” Otis’ hopeful expression fell and Erich rolled his index finger impatiently. “On with the list, please.”

  “Uh, yeah, Boss. The first, Catriona McDaniel. She’s a young little thing, first season down in Porterville. Done the job so far, instant postgame recaps and some hoity toity fan crap on the website. Q&As and all that garbage.”

  Erich walked back to his clubs and lined up his next hole-in-one.

  “Her background?”

  “Uh, born and raised in Illinois. Lincoln State grad, came out west after graduating with degrees in Spanish and Mass Communication. Worked crap jobs until the gig in the farm system. Not much in the way of family, I guess. School records list her paternal grandmother as guardian. Get this! No info found on her mom, but her pops has been in the can the last ten years for GTA.”

  Erich’s head perked up from the tee, and his gray eyes sparked with interest. “Oh, please report he swiped a worthwhile vehicle. I loathe hearing about fellows who stamp license plates for anything less than the Three Series.”

  Otis snorted but did not respond, instead flipping to the next page in the folder. “Unmarried, no kiddies and lives alone. No boy toy, I guess. A butt load of debt, though. She’s got more in student loans than ya pay me in a year.”

  Erich stopped putting and allowed his lips to twist into a thin smile. “And the other?”

  Otis nodded and squinted at the next folder. “The more obvious choice, at least for most clubs. Dustin Carlyle has been our junior reporter since the first season. Real kiss-ass, too. Gets here first thing in the morning and is one of the last to leave. Rumor has it around the fourth floor that the kid actually wrote everything in Brad’s articles except the byline.”

  Erich leaned on his putter and raised an eyebrow toward the guard. Otis nodded hurriedly.

  “Uh, let’s see, Boss. Born and raised in Vegas. Went to school here, too. Decent grades in the Journalism program. Still lives with his folks on the north side of town. His daddy-o is the basketball coach for the private school brats up there. Mommie Dearest owns her own insurance agency in Sunrise Manor. Not rich but ain’t poor, ’specially in this economy.”

  Erich slipped the monogrammed head cover over his putter and placed the club in the golf bag. He gave the leather carrier an appreciative nod before gliding across the plush rug toward his desk. Reaching long fingers into the manila folder, he thumbed through the various documents. An enlarged driver’s license photo stared back at him. Otis leaned over his shoulder.

  “Gonna go with the chick, huh? I don’t get it.”

  Erich didn’t take his eyes off the photo. “Es ist mehr oder weniger Geschmacksache.”

  Otis’ mouth hung open.

  Erich rolled his eyes off the photo and toward his gaping employee. “I would not expect you to, as some things in life are more or less a matter of taste.”

  4

  “Uh-uh, no way. I hate that store.” Cat stopped in her tracks.

  Tamela crossed her arms and held her ground outside the mall’s swankiest boutique. “You said you’ve never even been in here.”

  “That’s because of all the seething hate. It’s not me.”

  “This is a job interview. The last thing you want to be is you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Hey now, simmer down. I only mean, you gotta dress to impress.” Tamela scrunched her nose until it was a tiny brown button. “Right now, you’re dressed to depress.”

  Cat followed Tamela’s gaze down to her torn jeans and then over to the store window, where a mannequin was draped in a sequined kimono dress and metallic d’Orsays.

  “Fair enough. Look at those salesgirls. That one has fangs.”

  “Who cares about the salesgirls?”

  “I’m scared.”

  Tamela rolled her eyes, locked her spindly arm with Cat’s and pulled the reluctant reporter through the store’s entrance. Once inside, she snatched the black trousers out of Cat’s hands. “Uh-uh. You have to wear a skirt. No ifs, ands or bubble butts.”

  Cat grabbed the hanger back. “What? You’re crazy.”

  “Women can’t wear pants to interviews. I think there’s a law.”

  “This is the twenty-first century. I’m not interviewing to be his Girl Friday.”

  Tamela pulled open the bookstore bag and displayed the purchases to Cat.

  “Gee, I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak louder. I can’t hear you over all this information from knowledgeable sources.”

  Cat shook her head. “Knowledgeable sexist pigs.”

  Tamela reached out for the trousers and hung them back on the rack. “Preaching to the choir, sister. Doesn’t change the facts, though. They can do all the blabbity blab they want about gender equality, but if you go into that man’s world in a pantsuit, all they’re gonna see is a-a-a …”

  “Pitbull with lipstick?”

  Tamela shot her a look of disgust. “If you insist. I would’ve gone with Bulldog, at least.”

  Cat put her hands on her hips. “That’s nuts.”

  Tamela cast her eyes to the side. “Fine, don’t believe me. Check the hardback from the bookstore. The one you picked out with the little cartoons in the margins. Where do you think I got this info?”

  Cat appraised her warily and reached into the bag.

  Tamela tapped the book three times. “Says right there on the book jacket.”

  As Cat read aloud, she made no attempt to hide her indignation. “A skirt suit in navy, gray or black with a crisp white or beige blouse is the most appropriate attire for a woman’s first interview.”

  Cat grimaced and answered Tamela’s smug grin with a shrug of surrender. Raising her palms toward the skirt rack, she said, “Okay, okay. I’ll never doubt you again. You’re in charge. Do your magic.”

  “Bland is the new black.” Tamela reached out and grabbed Cat’s ponytail, inspecting the strands of hair. "Are you going to wear your hair up or down? Up is professional but this red hair is too pretty to hide ... Oh! I know. Maybe halfway back with a cute barrette. Still very working girl but with an air of working it.” Dropping the hair, she ran over to a clothing rack and clapped her hands together triumphantly. “This one’s perfect. The pinstripes will create the illusion that you and your little five-foot-six butt are one very tasty Amazonian. Try it on.”

  Cat took the jacket out of Tamela’s insistent fingers. “Whoa! Did you see the price tag? For just a jacket and skirt? That’s outrageous.”

 
; Tamela peered at the small tag on the jacket’s label that Cat held between her fingers. “Oh. Actually, that’s just for the top. The skirt comes with its own phone number.” She pulled the tag forward to show Cat the price.

  Cat hung the jacket back on the rack and stepped back cautiously, eyeing the hanger as if its satin-covered wire was holding her up at gunpoint. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Tamela surveyed the aloof salesclerk across the room. “Chillax, Cat. All you do is keep the receipt and return the swanky suit tomorrow after the interview.” Her tawny eyes twinkled with specks of gold rebellion. “Ta-da, free rental!”

  Cat’s eyes widened. “No, no, no.” She pointed a sharp index finger in Tamela’s direction. “I’ve watched enough sitcoms to know that’ll never work. I’ll end up spilling shrimp sauce or strawberry syrup on the collar, and then I’m stuck with a bill I can’t afford.”

  Tamela raised an eyebrow, and her mouth curled into a smile. “Please explain why you’ll be dining on shrimp puffs and strawberry crepes at a job interview?”

  The index finger shot back up, aiming directly into Tamela’s amused face. “You know what I mean.”

  Tamela leaned against the rack and took a gentler tone. “Sweetie, if you want people to treat you like a professional, you have to look the part. You cannot go into this billionaire’s office wearing a suit that cries ‘polyester pauper.’ Dress to impress, remember?”

  Cat eyed the beautiful pinstriped jacket with longing. She reached out and caressed the soft, silky wool of the matching skirt. “I guess I could use my emergency life-or-death credit card.”

  Tamela bounced on the balls of her feet and grinned. “That’s my girl! Now go try it on so we can head over to shoes.”

  Cat opened her mouth to reply but then closed it. Green daggers would suffice. She gave her best friend one futile glare before trudging to the fitting rooms.

  5

  Cat whipped her left leg over her right and leaned back in the chair. Squinting at the clock, she uncrossed her legs, tapped her feet on the floor and crossed her legs again. She looked down at her swanky new red shoes, yet another item she couldn’t afford. Tams had insisted that men notice shoes. If so, they would certainly notice these, which in Cat’s mind rivaled Dorothy’s ruby slippers. She raised one foot and twisted her ankle back and forth to better admire the effect. If she got this job, maybe she’d be able to afford to pay for them some day. She glanced at the clock once more and frowned.

  In the distance, Cat heard the humming of slot machines and the jingling of a lucky winner.

  Who goes gambling at two o’clock in the afternoon? Apparently a lot of people.

  She’d circled the massive parking lot twice before sneaking her Jeep into a compact spot.

  People with a lot less worries than me, that’s who.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip and followed the swirled maze in the burgundy carpet’s pattern. She snuck another peek at the clock.

  That can’t be right.

  She swiveled her head toward the exit doors.

  I could leave now. Beats the humiliation that waits behind the wall.

  Lynette in person had been as unenthusiastic as on the phone. From the way the assistant had peered up from her desk and adjusted her lime green glasses, Cat knew what she was thinking behind those framed apathetic eyes.

  You’re in over your head, kid. This is a job for a real journalist. Not a girl whose writing accomplishments consist of scribbling the Soup of the Day on a chalkboard.

  Cat clutched her chest. Everything made sense now. She’d only been half joking when she saw the book in the bookstore and scooped it up to show Tamela, who’d read the title with glee.

  “Iss-Yous! A Guide to Your Own Neurosis. If ever a book was written just for you. They forgot the rest of the subtitle: The Catriona McDaniel Story.”

  “Iss-Yous?”

  “Iss-Yous, issues? As in, you’s got ’em?”

  “It’s lame.”

  “But it’s you.”

  Cat knew it, too, so she’d bought the self-help manual along with the three guidebooks Tams swore would win her the job. Last night she’d been too busy trying to absorb the interview techniques to bother with her bargain bin afterthought. After tossing and turning for the thousandth time, Cat had rolled out of bed for midnight reading, despite violating interview rule number one—always get a good night’s rest. She had ignored the flashing alarm clock and nestled into bed with the fresh book; the smell of its pressed inks had been more invigorating than a steaming cup of coffee. Cat had cruised past the first chapter after recalling the morning’s flattering conversation she had carried on with the mirror. Tams was right, she had many issues, but poor self-esteem was not one of them.

  Cat had scanned the passage about superiority complexes but felt those pages would be a waste of time. She reminded herself that anyone who spent the wee hours of the morning in flannel PJs, self-diagnosing mental disorders with a five-dollar paperback, could only feel so superior. She’d skimmed past the sections on obsessive-compulsive disorders, all the manias and phobias regarding nearly everything—except for job interviews.

  When Cat reached the last chapter, she heaved the book across the room, declared it useless and snuggled in for what was left of the night.

  Now here she sat in the executive waiting room of Hohenschwangau Palace und Kasino, fidgeting in a tapestry armchair and cursing the section she finally realized had been written especially for her: Iss-Yous! Chapter 3.

  Anxiety.

  Cat had all the symptoms. The room was spinning like a cement mixer slider. She felt like a catcher was crouched on her chest and digging his cleats into her heart. She was sweating worse than a September call-up in his first at-bat.

  She tried to remember the calming techniques suggested in the book.

  Take a deep breath.

  Smile.

  Another deep breath.

  Smiling tightly, Cat tapped her foot against the wooden chair leg.

  She wished she could blame this pent-up energy on the five and a half hour drive from Porterville but it had started well before her eight a.m. trek. She had no doubt relief would come the second she was out of city limits, that is, if she didn’t take Lynette up on the offer of free hotel accomodations.

  Waiting.

  She placed the palm of her hand on her stomach. The book hadn’t offered advice for nausea and the casino’s fancy carpet didn’t need a new pattern.

  I should go.

  Her panicked eyes darted to the emergency exit.

  I could sneak out the side door and hit the stairs.

  Lynette’s phone chirped. She murmured into the handset and stood up. “Ms. McDaniel, Mr. König is ready for you now.”

  Cat’s heart pounded in her ears. Her stomach stopped churning and jumped into her throat. She smiled at Lynette through gritted teeth. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and stood up.

  Stupid book.

  6

  “Ms. McDaniel, welcome.”

  Erich König rose from his oversized chair as she entered the lavish office suite. He walked around his grand desk, which Cat estimated to be twice the size of the twin bed in her downtown Porterville studio apartment, and clasped her hand in a firm shake. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  She hoped he hadn’t detected her sweaty palms.

  Talcum powder! Why had none of those damn books suggested that?

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr. König.”

  “Oh, please, call me Erich.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and escorted her to a sitting area across the room. “Have a seat, wherever you would like.”

  Cat had never encountered the infamous Erich König during one of his few trips to Porterville, but she knew what to expect. The female staff around the ballpark gushed over the owner’s gray eyes and chestnut hair, and they melted over his boyish good looks. Cat had verified their descriptions for herself and now believed photographs didn’t do the handsome man
justice. His eyes weren’t just gray. They were smoky and smoldered with a provocative intensity. His chestnut hair was as thick as steel wool, and yet each strand looked silky to the touch. If it were any thinner, his chiseled face might be considered gaunt. Instead, his alabaster skin stretched over a pair of marbled cheekbones and down to a prominent jaw. Add in a slight German accent and an air of European charm, and Cat could see why Erich König had remained, incontestably, one of Vegas’ most eligible bachelors, year after year.

  “May I offer you something to drink, perhaps tea or coffee?”

  “Um …” A vision of the salesclerk’s sneer as she tried to return the swanky suit with a giant coffee stain adorning the jacket’s lapel popped into her mind. She shook her head quickly. “No thank you.”

  Good looks aside, Erich König had taken her by surprise. In her dutiful Googling, Cat had discovered old clips of Hohenschwangau Palace commercials starring the casino’s founder in his younger days. “Geiz ist geil! Geiz ist geil! Check out our specials to save some Grün!” Standing in front of his brand new hotel, Erich König had uttered the catchy slogan with a thick brogue she couldn’t detect today. Growing up in a small Illinois farm town, the only German culture Cat had been exposed to was reruns of Hogan’s Heroes and a dog-eared copy of Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. However, Erich didn’t sound like Colonel Klink, and as her eyes trailed down his physique, she saw he didn’t take fashion advice from Augustus Gloop, either. Instead of cloaking himself in clichéd Lederhosen, Erich wore the fanciest suit Cat had ever seen. In comparison his jacket made her own ensemble—despite costing two dear paychecks—look like a rosin bag. She held back an urge to reach out and pet the silky fabric hugging every inch of his lean body.

  I bet it’s Armani. No, Gucci. Definitely Gucci.

  She’d never trusted a man in a suit. The police detectives who’d crashed her thirteenth birthday party with a search warrant had worn suits. The bank manager who’d deemed her grandmother too high a credit risk had worn a suit. The scholarship committee who’d regretfully informed her she was the runner-up had worn suits. She’d been on a different team then, though. Now she donned their prestigious threads of elitism.