Heidi Hickman—know to some as Hellscape—sat in her highly secured Cold War bunker of a cave, out past the wild outskirts of Yellow Springs, under yards of limestone and lead-lined concrete, in front of a battery of technology that seemed to be coming in from TripleAxe and friends at a more rapid rate every week. The Nine’s budget was large, it seemed, perhaps even larger than the books would show. She smiled, seeing the bobble head at the far corner of her desk. Bo Jordan: Hall of Famer, favorite player of her father, owner and Deep Pockets of the Nine.
The headphones sat warm around her ears.
She liked that. Liked how they closed off the sound but gave her a warm sensation.
This place and the headphones made her feel like she was in a cocoon. Made it easy to think.
“I’d puke up a Jalapeño Crunch Burger, too,” the voice on the other side of the direct link said. “Those things are about as gross as the Lumberjack’s strike out rate.”
“Hitting or pitching?” Heidi replied.
“I’m an equal opportunity bitcher.”
“Ambidextrous, you mean?”
“Ambi-what?”
“I mean you can swing both ways.”
“Ah, Honey, now you’re talking my language.”
Heidi hesitated. She could almost see Kate arching her back and running her hands down the sides of her too-tight blouse to “straighten them out.” Kate was older than her, and more worldly. Her approach to data gathering was a bit more direct and to the point than Heidi’s. Where Hellscape preferred darker corners and quiet surveillance, Kate was more a “show the kid some fun and take what you want,” kind of girl. Still, Heidi admired her. Choice. It was all about who got to choose.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ve heard buzz. I know something’s happening, and I want to know who’s dropping the bugs into the Crunch Burger.”
“You hear buzz?”
“I do.”
“Then it sounds to me like you already know who it is—or at least who you want it to be—and that you just want me to go do your proving.”
Heidi smiled. “I’ve got a hunch,” she said. “But that’s all I’ve got.”
“Oh, Honey. You’ve got a lot more than that.” Kate’s voice got low. “I’ve seen you up close, you know. You’d do fine if you’d just drop all that blackness and go out and use it.”
“I do fine as it is.”
Kate sighed on the other end. “Yeah. I suppose you do.”
Heidi stayed silent. She knew Kate well enough by now. Business was business. She’d get down to it before long.
“Who do you think it is?” Kate finally asked.
“Here,” Heidi flipped the send button to pop an image on Kate’s screen. A man in a parking garage, wearing a cap. Behind him was a car, dim logo enhanced to be more recognizable. “Recognize the logos?”
“Hawks and Sox?”
“Indeed.”
“What the …”
Heidi sat silently again. Kate was sharp enough, and the big contest was all the rage these days—teams pimping their Hanski’s and their Hot Chicken over all the channels. The Portlander would make the connection.
“Omaha and Chicago? Vinnie Vitale?” Heidi could almost sense the thoughts running through Kate’s mind. She smiled. Wishing again that she was there to see in it person.
“The bacteria comes from Agri-Green,” Kate said.
“Pig shit surprise, eh?”
“Yeah. That makes sense,” the older woman replied. “The Omaha Runza is up against the Crunch Burger in that dumb ballpark boy eating frenzy contest. Dude from Omaha connects up to dude in Chicago.”
“Makes him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“You wash my back, I wash yours.”
Now it was Heidi’s voice that dropped lower. “Oh, Honey. Now you’re speaking my language.
Kate laughed.
“I can’t prove it, yet,” Heidi said. “But it does make sense. The guy from Hawk Nation did something down there in that parking garage to help out Vitale. Tried to loop Portland into it somehow, but that went astray because, well, face it, the Stats guys there in Oregon are maybe doing more of the loco than the motion.”
“But then the Sox owed the Hawks, and now the Omaha gang is calling in the debt.”
“Probably went straight to Vinnie the ass …” suddenly Heidi stopped.
“What is it?” Kate said.
“No,” Heidi replied in a distracted tone. Her mind was racing. No. A double blind this complicated couldn’t have been Vinnie. Come to think of it, the whole ‘fake out and blame it on Portland’ thing was too much for his brain. No. “This goes higher than Vinnie the asshole,” she muttered.
“What? Who is higher than the Chief Bloviator?”
“Benny,” Heidi said, suddenly knowing to the depths of her soul she was right. “Benny Vitale’s the connection. Somehow. She’s more than tied to Agri-Green. She’s running rings around poor Vinnie the Asshole. She did this.”
This time it was Kate who remained silent.
“The only question,” Heidi said, “is how to dig up the dirt to prove it.”
“Oh, Honey,” Kate said. “Now you’re back to talking my language.”
