Three Strikes and You're Dead Read Online Free Page B

snake-skin belt with a giant turquoise buckle, and dark brown tooled-leather cowboy boots. All this on a six-foot six-inch frame graced by a full head of white hair. Judge Duffy was no wallflower—on or off the bench.
     
     
    Meanwhile, Theo still droned on. “The Rattlers are lucky to have the MVP of the season and of the game, Ty Ramos, here in Mesa. Helluva shortstop. It’s a tough position. Requires agility and . . .”
     
     
    I glanced over at the adjacent table, where Ty sat with about half the team’s members. He was clearly uncomfortable that he was still the center of the attention coming from the podium. The MVP trophy, awarded earlier, sat next to his untouched plate of food. When his teammates had razzed him about winning the award, he’d plucked some of the flowers from the centerpiece to fill the cup at the top of the tall trophy. “Come over later and I’ll fill it with Gatorade for you.”
     
     
    Carter had smirked. “I’d rather have beer.”
     
     
    “You’d end up on the floor.”
     
     
    “It ain’t that big of a cup.”
     
     
    Junior sat at the next table with the other half of the team. His sullen expression was matched by those of his friends, who squirmed at the praise Theo was heaping on Ty, their eyes darting from Junior to the ceiling to the tabletop, trying to avoid looking as if they were listening to anything Thompson was saying. As the host clapped his hands, trying to start another ovation, Junior pushed his chair back with a jerk, stood, and marched toward the door. When he passed my seat, it sounded as if he muttered an ethnic slur under his breath before storming out of the room into the lobby.
     
     
    Had he really said that? It was sad if he had, but I feared it was true. I may be getting older, but all of my senses work quite well, including my hearing. I looked at Hualga to see if he’d heard what I’d heard, and his scowling countenance confirmed it.
     
     
    Upon witnessing Junior’s defiant departure, Thompson backpedaled a bit with a couple of “ums” before finally saying, “But let’s face it, there is no ‘I’ in the word ‘team,’ and this whole team, each and every player, is to be congratulated for an incredible season. Best of luck to all of these fine young men. And God bless.”
     
     
    He started to step away from the microphone—and not a moment too soon—but grabbed the mike again and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, please. One more thing.” He waited while the buzz in the room quieted. “Thank you. I almost forgot. Please join me in a big round of applause for the Mesa Hilton for donating this wonderful hotel facility to the Rattlers for this marvelous dinner.”
     
     
    The crowd applauded once more, as much in gratitude that Thompson had finally left the stage as in appreciation for the meal and the venue.
     
     
    I was sitting between John Hualga and a man who’d been introduced to me as a baseball agent. Sylvester Cole was a handsome fellow in his thirties who I’d been told had played in the major leagues for the Seattle Mariners before a nagging groin injury sealed his fate. If a seductive personality and a killer smile were all it took to stay in the Big Show, he’d surely still be there, whether his bat was connecting or not.
     
     
    He leaned into my shoulder and, when I turned toward him, looked deeply into my eyes and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher?”
     
     
    “Not at all. I’ll be happy to answer if I can.”
     
     
    “You’re an artist, a writer. You must be a sensitive woman. Am I imagining it, or are you picking up the same negative vibes I’m getting?”
     
     
    “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
     
     
    “The atmosphere in this room and on the team. I’ve been around plenty of conflict in locker rooms and at team dinners, but nothing like this.” He faked a shudder and rubbed his arms as if he were cold.
     
     
    All evening,