Someone’s Gonna Pay

[Arroyos]

Someone’s Gonna Pay


“Someone’s gonna pay, somebody is definitely going to pay …”

Emma was muttering while they waited for her luggage. Roberta wasn’t sure if she was expected to respond—Emma had hardly looked in her direction when she exited the airport gate—but this was the woman who held the fate of the Bulldozers, including Roberta and the office staff, in her hands, so, just to be on the safe side, Roberta said, “Well, yes, someone, but who? We’ve got salaries to consider and then there’s—”

“No no no, I mean, s o m e b o d y [Emma stretched the word out as far as it would go] is going to pay Big Time for this fuckup! Heads are gonna roll!”

“Oh” was all Roberta could manage to say. She figured hers would be the first.

They stood in silence for several minutes before the light on the solitary luggage carousel lit up and the metal conveyor belt began its lugubrious journey around in a circle. It was another minute or two before bags clanged their way onto the carousel.

The crowd awaiting luggage was sparse. In spite of the “International” in its name, Yuma’s was a small airport, handling only 5 flights a day, all American Airlines, four arriving from nearby Phoenix. Roberta had often wondered what the justification for the international designation was.

“There,” Emma said, pointing. “That’s mine.” It took Roberta a moment before she realized Emma expected someone to gather her bags for her, and since only Roberta had come to the airport to meet the sole remaining owner of the Yuma ball club, it was Roberta who stepped forward and removed Emma’s bag from the carousel.

“Where’s the limo?” Emma asked.

“No limo, Emma. No money, remember? Just my car.”

Emma frowned at the injustice of the world—of the Yuma corner of the PEBAverse, to be exact—and then followed Roberta into the blistering Arizona sun.

“What the fuck time of day is it around here?” Emma asked, shielding her eyes.

“Four pm, give or take.”

“Why’s it so fucking bright?”

“Sun won’t set for another two hours,” Roberta explained.

“Fuck me,” Emma said. “I didn’t know I was gonna be staying in a fucking tanning salon.”

“It’s a desert. You’ll get used to it.”

“Fuck I will.”

They traversed the street to the parking lot and found Roberta’s car, a five-year old Toyota Prius. Emma gave it the once over.

“Well, at least they let you park close.”

“Everyone parks close, Emma. It’s a small airport.”

Emma looked around. The sage and sand that surrounded them was interrupted only by the narrow, two-story terminal.

“I forgot how bleak it was here. How do you keep from going out of your frickin’ mind?”

“We don’t.”

Emma looked at Roberta. “What?”

“We frequently and repeatedly go out of our minds. It’s a common pastime.”

Emma studied Roberta’s face. She wasn’t sure if Roberta was being ironic or not. After a moment, Emma relaxed and smiled. “I hear ya,” she said.

Roberta started the engine. “Which hotel did you book?” she asked.

Emma waved off her question. “Take me to see Goode’s trailer.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Roberta bit her tongue and stared straight ahead at the asphalt road that divided the endless desert sand. After a moment, Emma added, “Because just maybe he left a clue to his whereabouts.”

Roberta smiled. Apparently even Brooklyn’s acid-tongued blogger Emma Span could occasionally shame herself into something approaching a social gracefulness.

Emma added, “Because maybe one of his neighbors knows something.”

“So we’re detectives now?” Roberta asked, cheered by the prospect.

“Like Scott and Bailey.”

“Or Cagney and Lacey?” Roberta offered.

“Rizzoli and Isles.”

“Ashburn and Mullins.”

Emma did a double-take. “WHO?”

“You know, Sandra Bullock and …” Roberta drew a blank. “From The Heat. Bullock and … what’shername. Shit, I used to know it.”

“That was a movie.”

“Yeah,” Roberta said, “with Bullock and whoever played Mullins. Damnit!”

“We were naming tv detective duos. Not movies.”

“Melissa McCarthy!” Roberta burst out, pleased with herself. “Bullock and McCarthy.”

Emma was silent. She stared out the window as they drove past lot after lot occupied by nothing more than sand and sage. “Is this the main road to the airport?”

“Yup,” Roberta said. “Scenic, ain’t it?”

Emma guffawed.

“There’s not a single empty lot like these in all of Brooklyn. Shit, if a developer found a lot like this—”

“Jane Marple!” Roberta interrupted. “I know, I know, she’s not technically part of a duo, but in every episode she pairs up with some cousin or niece or old friend she hasn’t seen since I don’t know when. So, Jane Marple and her endless string of relatives!”

Emma stared at Roberta. Two more empty lots went by.

“David’s trailer is just down this street,” Robert said, turning into a small lane that led between a row of rusting, leaning trailers. A few had canopies over the front door where beach chairs sat in the shade. Others looked to be utterly abandoned, the desert sand accumulating in piles along the skirting.

“David Goode lives here?” Roberta nodded. “Our manager, the $12 Million Man?”

“Former manager.”

Emma humphed. She was about to make another disparaging remark about the landscape when Roberta said, “Uh oh.”

The two women stared at the police cars blocking the road ahead. Roberta stopped and a uniformed officer approached.

“What’s your business here, ma’am?” he asked when Roberta rolled down the window.

Roberta started to answer but Emma interrupted, leaning across her to say, “Visiting the home of an employee, officer. What’s going on?”

“The name of your employee?” the officer asked.

“Not really any of your—”

“David Goode,” Roberta interrupted her boss. “You might have heard of him?”

The officer was studying the two women, so Roberta continued, “Player and manager for the Bulldozers?”

“Goode is your employee, you say?” the officer directed his question to Emma.

“Yes,” Emma said, then added, “Was. The former manager.”

The officer leaned into the car to get a good look at Emma. “You’re Emma Span, right?”

Delighted to be so well known and yet uncomfortable at being recognized by a local Yuma cop, Emma didn’t know what to say. “Uh, yeah, I suppose I am.”

“You fired Mr. Goode, right?”

Emma didn’t like the accusation. “What concern is that of the police?”

“Exactly when did you fire Mr. Goode?”

Emma was flustered. “I have no idea … what could it possibly matter?”

“August 31st,” Roberta said.

“August 31st,” the officer repeated, waving to someone across the street. “There’s a detective here will need to talk to you. Turn the motor off, please.”

“What right do you have to hold us here?” Emma shouted to the officer as he walked away.

Roberta did as instructed. They sat in silence a moment, then a tall, thin woman in sunglasses and a blue blazer appeared at Emma’s passenger window. She flashed her badge and signaled for Emma to roll the window down. Reluctantly, with much sighing, Emma did.

“Detective Beckett, ladies. Won’t keep you any longer than I have to. It’s a bitch in the heat,” the detective said, wiping her brow.

“What the hell are we being held for?” Emma snapped.

“Questions,” the detective said, “just questions. The uniform says you’re Emma Span, one of the team owners. That right?”

Emma forced a smile and said, “Yes, detective, but I didn’t fire David Goode. It was a decision of the entire board, the Consortium of Owners. We voted to release him.”

The detective nodded, then consulted her notepad. “August 31, right?”

“Yes,” Roberta said.

“And when did you see Mr. Goode after that? After he was, uh, ‘released’?”

Emma looked at Roberta, who said, “We haven’t. No one in the organization has seen him since his termination was announced.”

“No one?” the detective asked, looking at Emma.

“Heh,” Emma said putting her hands up, “I haven’t seen Goode in person since the beginning of the season.”

“That would be in April?” the detective asked.

“Exactly. Spring training. One meeting.”

“So,” Detective Beckett said, “you fired Mr. Goode on August 31 without seeing or speaking with him, and you haven’t seen or spoken with him since?”

“Yes.”

Beckett raised her eyebrows and gave Emma Span a long hard stare. “You in the habit of firing people without meeting with ‘em?”

“I’m not in the habit of firing them,” Emma retorted.

“Really?” the detective said, referring to her notes. “Did you meet with a, uh, Billy Hawk or a Pam Postema before firing them?”

Emma snapped, “What the hell has that got to do—” Roberta put a calming hand on Emma’s arm. Emma turned to her, “Whatta you want?”

“She’s just trying to calm you down, Ms. Span,” the detective said. “And she’s right. If you don’t calm down and provide civil answers to my questions, I might have to escort you to the station to complete this interview.”

Emma’s eyes and mouth opened wide, but Roberta cut her off. “Detective. Emma fired both Billy Hawke and Pam Postema by telephone. She was in Brooklyn, where she lives, until this morning when she flew out here to help us get through this crisis.”

“And what crisis might that be?” the detective directed his question at Roberta this time.

“The owners, all except Emma here, seem to have absconded with the team’s funds.”

“Absconded?” the detective chortled. “Alright then, Miss … uh?”

“Tipitina, Roberta.”

“Thank you, Roberta. If neither of you has seen or spoken with David Goode since he was fired, then you can go on about your business. We will—”

“Our business,” interrupted Emma, “was with Mr. Goode. I take it he’s gone missing?”

Detective Beckett took a deep breath and seemed to make a decision. “David Goode’s body was found late last night in an arroyo south of the airport.”

“What?” Roberta leaned across Emma to try to read the detective’s face. “What happened?”

The detective leaned into the car, ignoring Emma Span, and said to Roberta, “We don’t know and we couldn’t discuss it if we did, but the preliminary indication from the Medical Examiner is … that he was murdered.”

“Murder!?!” Roberta was aghast.

“Just what we needed now,” Emma said. Roberta slapped her thigh.

“Shut up! David’s dead. Your petty concerns aren’t important right now.” Then, to the detective, Roberta added, “Is there anyone we can contact, detective? He has no family that we know of. Even his father went missing a couple years ago.”

“Yes,” the detective said abruptly. “We’ll be contacting the next of kin, which as far as we can tell is a sister in Florida. You know her?”

“No,” Roberta looked at Emma, who shook her head. “I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

“Then we’ll take care of it. Thank you for your help. You can turn around right here and head out the way you came, alright?”

Roberta nodded and started the engine as the detective backed away from the vehicle, then swung the car in a tight U-turn and headed back out to the main road into town.

Emma was grumbling, “Arrogant bitch. She wasn’t gonna tell us any more than she had to about David. Think they’re gonna let us know who did it? Not if high-and-might Detective Beckett has anything to say about it!”

“She’s just doing her job,” Roberta said. “Besides we’re not family, or friends really, so they have no—”

“Don’t fucking split hairs with me, missy. We’re as close as David had to family, after his father disappeared. You never heard of any sister. Me neither. All he had was his Dozer family.”

They sat in silence as Roberta followed the asphalt through sage and sand and on into the sparsely populated neighborhoods of Yuma, Arizona, home of the Bulldozer Baseball Club, bankrupt.

[Borealis]

OMG!

(checking the internet - how do you kill some one in OOTP?)...

[Lions]

(checking the internet - how do you kill some one in OOTP?)...

Have them sign a contract with Yuma, apparently.

[Arroyos]

(checking the internet - how do you kill some one in OOTP?)...

Have them sign a contract with Yuma, apparently.

I think it takes getting fired by Yuma. Of course, a missing father, embezzled funds, and the Mafia have all been part of this plot too.

[Fishermen]

OMG!

(checking the internet - how do you kill some one in OOTP?)...

Judging by what I read so far, many teams in the PEBA have the tendency to murder somebody. Can't finish 5 news/blogs without reading someone wanting to kill someone else. How violence can a baseball league be? I thought it's a mild and gentle sport?!

[Arroyos]

OMG!

(checking the internet - how do you kill some one in OOTP?)...

Judging by what I read so far, many teams in the PEBA have the tendency to murder somebody. Can't finish 5 news/blogs without reading someone wanting to kill someone else. How violence can a baseball league be? I thought it's a mild and gentle sport?!

A mild and gentle sport? Ah, youth. Ah, innocence. Read Coover's UNIVERSAL BASEBALL ASSOCIATION, HENRY J. WAUGH, PROPRIETOR to discover how endemic violence is to baseball's rituals.

[Borealis]

Based on Bob's recommendation YEARS AGO, I read this, and he speaks truth...

[Arroyos]

Based on Bob's recommendation YEARS AGO, I read this, and he speaks truth...

Thanks, Mike. It's a brilliant novel, isn't it? I haven't read it in 4 maybe 5 years. As soon as I finish this month of novel writing mania, I will. A midwinter treat to tide me over until spring training.

[Sandgnats]