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

“It was—but I would’ve reassigned it to you after seeing that email. This is your kind of story.”

“So you want me to travel with the team under false pretenses?”

Buckman shook his head. “If what’s in that email is true, I think you’ve got a tremendous opportunity. The first story is a creative idea—but this story? This is the kind that win you awards.”

“I don’t write stories to win awards, Buckman. I just write award-winning stories.”

“Well, how about you do both with this one?”

“So, what do you want me to drill down on?”

“With all the talk about trafficking, this story is about the seedy underworld of smuggling players out of Cuba and how clubs must look the other way as to how the players arrive on friendly foreign soil. It’s not pretty, but it’s a story that must be told.”

“Nobody is going to want to talk about this. You know that, right? Because if anyone had been willing, there would’ve been a major expose by now.”

“That’s why I want you embedded with the Seafarers for a few days. Cozy up next to Prado, see if he’ll tell you anything.”

Cal rubbed his forehead and grimaced. “I don’t know. That just feels slimy to me. I’d rather take a more direct approach.”

“Okay, fine. If you don’t feel comfortable doing it my way, at least go and see what you can find out. If you can’t find out anything, we’ll drop it. But if you do, I want you on this. I think this could be big.”

“Deal. I’ll get this set up right away.”

CHAPTER 4

VICENTE PRADO STARED DOWN the pitcher standing just over sixty feet away on a clay mound. The Seafarers trailed the Tillamook Churners 3-2 in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, yet all they needed was a hit from Prado to win the game. A blooper to left field, a double off the wall, a line drive to the outfield, a seeing-eye single—anything. All Prado had to do was hit it where someone wasn’t.

He watched the first pitch whiz past him for strike one.

He’s definitely not El Gordito.

Prado had only managed one hit in the Seafarers’ opening series. It was a swinging bunt that he beat out in the eighth inning of an 11-3 blowout loss two nights ago.

But now, they needed him. They needed a hit, the kind of hit they hoped to get out of him when they paid him fifty thousand dollars to sign a contract. If he was ever going to play in the big leagues, he needed to start proving to everyone watching that he was capable of not only playing but succeeding at this level and beyond. No more swinging bunts.

He stepped out of the batter’s box and looked toward his coach at third base for any signs. There weren’t any, other than “swing away.” Behind him, a sparse Thursday night crowd clapped to the rhythm of a digital recording of an organ.

The pitcher rocked back and fired a fastball that dipped as it neared home plate. Prado swung hard but managed only to foul the ball straight back and into the stands.

Desperate for a comeback win, the home crowd began chanting “Roque! Roque! Roque! Roque!”

A faint smile flickered across Prado’s lips as he awaited the next pitch. He hated disappointing fans, especially these fans—the ones who paid far more than twelve cents to see his team play.

He rocked on his back foot as the pitcher hurled another screaming fastball toward him. Prado uncoiled and smashed a line drive to the gap in left center. He put his head down and ran, pumping his arms and legs. He could see the crowd rising to its feet and then collectively gasp, awaiting the final outcome of the ball. He hit first base hard and looked up in time to see the Churners’ center fielder stretch out to make a diving catch for the out, ending the game.

Prado stopped and squatted on the base path between first and second, burying his head in his hands. The moan from the crowd was torture enough. He’d let them down. He’d let his team down. He’d let himself down.

His manager Hal Morgan, nicknamed Mudcat by his first manager in the big leagues and stuck with him ever since, shuffled over to Prado and patted him on the back.

“Good rip, son,” Mudcat said. “Can’t win ‘em all. There’s always tomorrow.”

But there wasn’t always tomorrow. His dream felt like it was slowly turning into a nightmare. He didn’t receive enough in his signing bonus to ensure the safe passage of both Isabel and Liliana to the United States using smugglers. Instead he’d have to save—and save as much of his salary as he could. He needed at least twenty thousand. His signing bonus wasn’t much after taxes and all the other things he needed to save for. He resigned himself to the fact that it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. And if he continued to play the way he did during the team’s first seven games, he concluded it might never happen.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t return home—that much he made sure of when he stole his uncle’s money with Yunel. He didn’t even know where Yunel was or what happened to him. The last time he saw Yunel, his cousin was standing on a desolate Mexican airstrip as he soared skyward in his agent’s plane.

Prado trudged back toward the team’s dugout and stopped to sign a few autographs from admiring fans who still didn’t seem bothered by the fact that he’d been unable to produce with the game’s outcome hanging in the balance.

He dipped into the dugout and grabbed his glove. He retreated to the locker room and started to stuff all his equipment into the bag his team had given him.

As he was putting his cleats into his bag, he noticed the picture of Isabel at the bottom. He picked