Be My Baby Tonight (10 page)

“Unless the curse gets him first,” the guy
named Alex said, and Suzanna perked up her ears once more. The
curse? Hadn’t that kid in Pittsburgh—Joey, right?—said something
about a curse?

“Right, there’s always that. So is Moore
playing games? Or is Trehan really hurt? He didn’t look hurt, Herb
told me, and he saw him walking into the clubhouse with some hot
babe on his arm.”

“They don’t put a sling around a concussion,”
the other reporter said. “And maybe his ribs are taped. I’m telling
you, something happened out there in Pittsburgh. Something’s going
on. Why else would Moore have called a press conference for after
the game?”

Suzanna was beginning to feel very
conspicuous, all alone in this hallway with the two reporters. She
decided she might feel safer on the other side of the double doors
she and Tim had come in through earlier, and headed for them
now.

She should have kept still, kept playing at
being invisible.

“Hey, miss?”

Suzanna stopped, but kept her back
turned.

“Excuse me, but are you the gal who came in
here with Trehan?”

Keeping her back turned, she shook her head.
“No, I’m only her twin sister.”

And then she took off, not quite running, for
the door marked Women that she’d passed on her way to Sam’s
office.

Once safe inside her sanctuary, Suzanna
walked over to the sink, washed her hands as she stared at herself
in the mirror.

Hot babe?

That was nice. Very nice.

But what was this business about a curse?

* * *

“Well, that’s one down, babe,” Tim said as he
took hold of Suzanna’s elbow and led her toward an elevator tucked
deep inside the stadium. “Sam’s fine now.”

“Poor man. Is that vein in his nose still
throbbing?” she asked as she stepped inside the elevator and waited
for whatever came next.

Good old Suze. She just went with the flow.
No muss, no fuss, no hassle.

“Just a little,” Tim told her, grinning, as
the doors closed and the elevator car started up. “But now I’ve got
two minutes to get you upstairs to my private box, and get back
down to the clubhouse, change, and get out on the field. There’s a
rumor going around that I’m dead, you know. Guess somebody missed
the bulletin about us running in here.”

“Do you think Jack and his wife will be there
yet? In your private box.”

He looked at his wristwatch, shook his head.
“No, not yet. Keely will want to wait until Candy’s gone to sleep
before leaving her with Aunt Sadie. I figure they’ll be here by the
bottom of the second. But Mort will be there.”

“Oh.”

Tim looked at her quizzically. “What ‘oh,’
Suze? What’s the matter, babe? You’re not afraid of the big bad
Mort, are you?”

“No, of course not. But he’s going to have
questions, isn’t he?”

The elevator stopped, and Tim bounced on the
balls of his feet, waiting for the doors to open. “Only about six
dozen. You can handle him. I mean it, he’s a big pussycat.”

“An example,” Suzanna said, stepping out into
yet another hallway. “Give me an example.”

Tim grinned. “Okay. Mr. Bendix.”

“Benny the Bear?”

“You got it. Algebra two, tenth grade.
Remember him?”

Suzanna nodded. “Growled like a bear, but he
was always fair. If you worked hard, he gave you credit for
trying.”

“And he was a sucker for compliments,
remember? Jack once got the class out of a pop quiz just by
complimenting Benny on his new tie.”

“Your brother was shameless,” Suzanna said as
they walked along the hallway, toward Tim’s private box. “His tie,
his new sports coat. One time, I remember, he told him he liked his
crew cut.”

“He probably did.”

“Are you kidding? The man looked like he’d
been attacked by a table saw.”

“Just remember,” Tim said, opening the door
to the box, “Mort loves compliments. He can be in the middle of one
of his rants, and a compliment brings back the sunshine.
Honest.”

Suzanna nodded, then motioned for him to
precede her into the box.

“Mort, hi!” he said as his agent scrambled
out of his seat and headed toward them. “You look great. Is that a
new jacket?”

“Blow it out your ear, Tim,” Mort shot right
back at him. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I see what you mean, Tim,” Suzanna said from
slightly behind him. “Works like a charm.”

“Mort,” Tim pressed on, knowing he should
already be on his way back down to the clubhouse, “keep a lid on it
for a moment, okay? I want to introduce you to my wife, Suzanna
Trent Trehan.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Be nice, Mort.
She’s on our side.”

“Mrs. Trehan,” Mort said, extending his hand,
which Suzanna took.

“Please, call me Suzanna.”

“Suzanna. I like that. Good solid name. And
I’m Mort. You can call me Mort.” Then he glowered at Tim. “And you
can call
me—
before you so much as take another deep breath.
You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Tim said teasingly. “Your wish is
my command, sir.”

“Smartass,” Mort grumbled, still holding
Suzanna’s hand in his beefy one. “Come on, Suzanna. We’ll get to
know each other while this idiot here goes down and gets into his
uniform. Maybe we’ll bury him in it.”

“Tim?” Suzanna said, looking back over her
shoulder.

“It’ll be fine, Suze, honest. And Jack and
Keely will be here soon. If Mort gives you any trouble, just tell
him how you’ve been thinking about doing that shoot for
Penthouse.
What’s it called? Oh yeah, Baseball’s Babes.”

“Tim Trehan, you know I’d do no such thing,”
Suzanna said accusingly.

“Exactly. See, Mort? She knows there are
things you do, and things you don’t do. I’m telling you, you two
are going to get along like gangbusters.”

“Yeah,” Suzanna said, shooting him a look
that actually had him thinking about wincing. “We’re going to form
a club, with Sam Kizer. I think we’ll call it the Kill Trehan Club.
What do you say, Mort? Does that have a nice ring to it?”

“Oh, Tim, I like this girl. Now go away. No,
wait. How about you tell Suzanna here that you’re going to hit a
home run for her tonight.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I don’t do that stuff,
Mort.”

“I know, but if you do happen to hit a home
run, then I can tell the press it was a wedding present to Suzanna
here. If you don’t, hey, then I don’t mention it. Now go. We’ll
meet up with you in the pressroom after the game. I’m holding a
press conference.”

“I heard,” Tim said, looking at Suzanna one
more time. He felt as if he was deserting her. “Are you going to be
all right, babe?”

“I’ll be fine. Oh, and Tim? Right center,
okay? I’d like you to hit that home run to right center. Work on
it.”

Mort’s chuckle followed Tim out the door.

* * *

Mort was a sweetheart. He asked a million
questions, definitely, but then, when the game was about to start,
he went hunting up refreshments for her.

He’d made sure she had soda, fresh roasted
peanuts, even a cheese steak. He’d actually begun to explain the
game to her, until she’d pulled out the program Tim had snagged for
her earlier, opened it to the correct page, grabbed a pen out of
her purse, and began writing in the lineups so she could record the
stats.

“You know the game?” he asked, watching as
she recorded the first out.

“I used to do the stats for Tim and Jack’s
teams, yes. I love baseball.”

“Amazing. Keely didn’t know squat, except
that she insisted she was a Mets fan. With Jack a Yankee.” He shook
his head. “But she’s getting better at it, now that Jack’s colorman
for the Yanks. This is good, really good. So, you’ve known Tim
since kindergarten?”

“Yes. Didn’t I already tell you that?”

“I know, kiddo, I know. But I want to make
sure I’ve got all my ducks in a row here.”

“I got a lot of frogs in a row, out in
Vegas.” When Mort looked at her as if she’d just grown another
head, she said, “Okay, sorry, and yes, I’ve known both Tim and Jack
since kindergarten.”

Suzanna then spent the first two innings
answering more questions, Mort taking a break only when Tim came up
third in the bottom of the first. He grounded out to second, ending
the inning.

When Mort finally ran down, and the game was
between innings, Suzanna asked a question of her own. “Mort? Why
would someone think Tim’s been cursed?”

He looked at her strangely for a moment, then
grinned. “Hey, I curse the boy every day.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s not
it. Someone said something about a curse while we were in
Pittsburgh, and I overheard a couple of reporters earlier tonight,
talking in the hallway. One said Tim is going to be traded, or
become a free agent at the end of the year, and the other one said
maybe the curse will get him first.”

“Oh,
that
curse,” Mort said, taking
out a large white handkerchief and wiping the back of his neck.
“That’s nothing. Private joke between a couple or so of the
sportswriters. Only superstition.”

Suzanna chewed on this for a moment and
decided Mort was being way too casual for such an intense man.
“Superstition? Tim’s big into superstitions, you know, when it
comes to baseball. He always wore the same socks when his team was
winning. He always eats spaghetti before every game. He phoned a
restaurant from the car on the way here to order some delivered to
the clubhouse. He has to have three pieces of bubble gum stuck in
his cheek. And then there’s that thing he does at the plate. You
know? With his bat? There’s probably more.”

Mort bent his head, scratched at his cheek.
“He keeps a photograph of his mom and dad wrapped inside plastic,
stuck in his right sock.”

Suzanna felt a tug at her heart. Both Mr. and
Mrs. Trehan were gone now, passing away about a year apart while
she was still in California. It was just like Tim to do something
like carrying their photograph onto the field with him. Neither one
of them ever missed one of the twins’ games, all through
school.

“That... That’s nice,” she said, blinking
quickly because her eyes had begun to sting. “So it’s not some
curse that guy was talking about? Just a superstition?”

“Right,” Mort said quickly. Too quickly.
“Nothing to worry about.”

“Mort.” Suzanna shifted on her seat, looked
deeply into the agent’s eyes. She’d read everything she could find
on Tim and his career over the years, but never anything about a
curse. A private thing between sportswriters? It didn’t compute.
“We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

“What’s the hard way?” Mort asked, obviously
a man who always looked at all the angles.

Suzanna smiled. She could lie with the best
of them when she put her mind to it. “The hard way, Mort, is me
sitting behind a microphone at the press conference and stating,
very firmly, that there is no curse. Then, when a reporter raises
his hand, and tells me about the curse, and asks me why I don’t
think there is one, I can—”

“Okay, okay,” Mort said, cutting her off just
as she’d run out of lie. “I get the picture. What’s the easy
way?”

She looked up at him after recording the
Cardinals’ first out in the top of the third, a pop to short. “Need
you ask? You tell me about the curse, Mort. Right here, right
now.”

Mort shook his head. “And you look so nice,
too. That hair. It’s cute, all sticking up like that. And you’ve
got a great smile. Really terrific. Fooled me completely. You’re as
tough as Keely, aren’t you? Maybe tougher?”

“I haven’t met Keely yet, so I couldn’t say,”
Suzanna told him. “Now, talk to me. I’ll give you a peanut?”

Mort looked out onto the field, then pointed
to Suzanna’s program. “Myers struck out swinging,” he said, so she
could record it. Then he sat back, his bulk filling the chair.
“Okay, the curse, the superstition, whatever you want to call it.
It’s about Jack.”

“Jack? What about Jack?”

“He had to leave the game last year, before
the season even started.”

Suzanna nodded. “Yes, I know. Rotator
cuff.”

“So you know that. And, since you’ve known
Tim since you all were kids, you also know that almost everything
Jack did, Tim did at the same time, or right after. Broken bones,
grades, the teams they played on, the colleges they were both
accepted to—all that stuff.”

“Go on,” Suzanna urged, beginning to
understand.

“What’s to go on with? Jack got knocked out
of the game, and Tim’s worried he’s next, that’s all.”

“But Tim’s never been injured. Except near
the end of last season, when he ripped a tendon in his finger.”

Mort nodded. “And the two games he missed in
spring training, after running into that wall chasing a foul
pop-up. And the three-game series he missed three weeks ago because
he hyperextended his knee trying to beat out a grounder at first.
Jammed his leg on the bag. Damn near kept him out of the All-Star
game.”

The Cardinal left fielder made the third out,
but Suzanna didn’t record it. “And the other day? When Sanchez
barreled into him at home? He was down for a while, Mort.”

“I know. They’re keeping count. The
reporters, that is. Tim, the guy who never gets hurt, is getting
hurt. Some jerk figured out that business about Tim doing almost
everything Jack did, said something to Tim about it after a game,
and everyone else picked up on it, like some sort of private joke.
Drives Tim nuts.”

“He believes it, doesn’t he?” Suzanna asked,
watching as Tim walked to the dugout, his mask off, his ball cap on
backward, his uniform partly covered by his catching gear.

Long, tall, at ease in his own skin, he was
the epitome of any boy’s childhood dream, the perfect baseball
player. He’d been born to play baseball; he lived for the game.

“Mort?” she repeated when the agent didn’t
answer her. “He believes it, doesn’t he?”