Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

on the front page of the sports section was still held in high esteem.

He settled into his chair at a near-empty table. One of the interns who answered the phones and formatted box scores was across from him—and he was too intimidated to say a word. Cal opened his copy of the paper and read a short story about how Mexican drug cartel hit man Victor Vegas had been sentenced to life in prison for murdering four federal agents during an undercover sting operation gone awry. It wasn’t Cal’s usual reading selection, but he remembered Vegas from a brief stint with the Texas Rangers before he couldn’t hit his weight and quit baseball after being reassigned to the minors. According to the story, Vegas was recruited by infamous Mexican drug lord Fabian Munoz. The two were rumored to be behind the smuggling of three of the biggest Cuban baseball stars in recent years. It was a story Cal would’ve begged for if it had any connection to the Seattle fans—but it didn’t and was nothing more than a glitzy front-page story written by an anonymous Associated Press reporter.

He folded the paper and looked up to see Josh Moore, his old college pal who was interning at The Times during his last stint there, settle into the seat next to him. Josh ascended the ranks and was now the lead beat writer for the Seattle Mariners, the city’s long-suffering baseball team.

“So, what are the odds on the Mariners being mathematically eliminated from playoff contention before Labor Day?” Cal asked.

Josh shook his head and laughed. “Definitely good if everybody keeps going on the disabled list. I’ve never seen so many pulled hamstrings in my life. I swear I’m going to pull one while I’m walking up the dugout to do interviews during batting practice.”

Buckman shut the door softly behind him as he took his seat at the head of the table and commenced the meeting. They discussed the mundane stories slated for the next day’s paper, which turned into a session of everyone moaning about how nothing was really happening.

“Football season can’t get here soon enough,” Buckman said. “It’ll be nice when we can get back to focusing on the Seahawks.”

“There’s a story idea I have that I can’t write, but I think it would be a fascinating piece if someone else had time for it,” Josh said.

“Out with it,” Buckman said.

“Have you guys heard about Vincente Prado, the Cuban player who recently defected and was signed by the Mariners?” Josh asked.

Most everyone’s heads at the table bobbed.

“Well, he’s playing with the Yakima Seafarers, the Mariners’ rookie league team this summer, and I thought a great piece would be to send somebody on a trip with the team and capture his coming to America story.”

Buckman slapped the table. “I love it. Cal, this story has you written all over it.”

Cal’s jaw dropped. “But—”

Buckman held up his hand. “Look, I think living the minor league life for a week or so would do you some good, help you get that nasty taste out of your mouth after that gender equality story fell through and made me plenty of enemies.”

Cal sighed. “So, this is a punishment?”

“Think of it as an opportunity to grow. Besides, I’ve heard that you are a fan of Latin music. You two may have a lot in common.” Buckman slapped the table again with both hands. “Now, let’s get to work.”

Cal fell back in his chair and looked at Josh. “Thanks a lot, pal.”

“I didn’t know he was going to assign it to you. I’d gladly switch places with you. I think it has great potential, uncovering what life is like for Cuban baseball players, getting all the exciting details of his escape from the Communist island.”

“Well, if you put it like that—” Cal rolled his eyes.

“Look, I’ll send you over some background notes on Prado that I’ve gathered from my conversations with some of the team’s scouts. They seem to be really high on him, even if they didn’t pay him much.”

“What’d they sign him for? A couple million?”

Josh gave the thumbs down signal.

“One million?”

Josh continued thumbing down Cal’s guesses. “Lower.”

“A half a million? Four hundred thousand?”

“Think really low.”

“A hundred thousand?”

“Try fifty thousand.”

Cal’s mouth fell agape. “He risked everything for fifty thousand dollars?”

Josh nodded. “Far better than making peanuts in Cuba.”

“Peanuts there go about as far as that signing bonus will here.”

“But this is why I think he might be a special kid—or at the least, a special story. Who would do such a thing for a small amount of money and nothing else other than the dream of making it to the big leagues?”

“Okay, you’ve sold me on it now. Send me what you’ve got and help me get this set up.”

“We’ll need to hurry. The team is heading out of town for an eight-game road trip on Thursday night.”

Cal playfully put his hands around Josh’s neck. “After all these years and you still know how to make things difficult for me.”

A wry smile spread across Josh’s face. “As your friend, that’s my job.”

They both exited the conference room and were walking down the hall when Buckman called out. “Cal! In my office.”

“What’d you do this time?” Josh said as he punched Cal in the arm.

Cal rolled his eyes. “Probably misspelled the publisher’s grandson’s name.”

He spun and turned in the direction of Buckman’s office. Sliding into the office, he closed the door behind him. “What’s up, Buckman?”

“I just got an email that I wanted to show you.” Buckman handed Cal a piece of paper with the email printed on it.

Cal took it. “What’s this?”

“It’s the real reason I want you on that bus trip.”

Cal scanned the letter. It alleged that Prado and other Cuban players were being smuggled out of the country by a number of drug cartels. “This isn’t exactly breaking news,” he said as he handed the letter back to Buckman.

“But I think there’s a bigger story to be told.”

“So, assigning me to this story wasn’t