"Do you remember a basketball player named Danny Marx? He signed with Craven when he was still in college. "

"He was a first-round draft pick in the NBA about five years ago, wasn't he? Whatever happened to him?"

"He committed suicide in prison last year, after being convicted of possession of heroin. He swore his innocence right to the end. That much is public knowledge. What isn't known is that Marx was a clean-living, God-fearing kid who made the mistake of trying to wriggle out of his contract with Craven."

"What do you mean?"

"He wanted to put his money into a Christian Action investment plan. Craven tried to fight it, but Marx had the fervour of a born-again and wouldn't listen. He said Craven was an agent of Satan. The summer before he was arrested, Marx began dating a young woman he had met at church. They planned to marry that fall.

"She was at the trial every day, quite the devoted fiancee. When Danny went to jail, she dropped out of sight. Now she has surfaced as the owner of a small casino on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. She didn't buy it on her salary as a stenographer. And, needless to say, she had a key to his apartment, where the evidence to convict him was found."

"Craven?"

"Or one of his mob buddies. I hope Thorson knows what he's getting into."

The conversation was starting to give me the creeps. I live a fairly sheltered life. In my world, the really bad people park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. This stuff was straight out of Elmore Leonard. I wasn't ready for it to leap off the pages into the life of someone I knew. Still, I was fascinated.

"What's Craven like? I've never met him."

"He's charming," Morris said. "He doesn't wear black shirts and white ties. His aides don't carry violin cases. He's very smooth, very amusing, an excellent storyteller, and he just walked into the restaurant."

"He just what?"

"He's standing at the door with Bert Nelson from ABC." Morris smiled at my discomfort. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Oh, Jesus, I don't know. I guess so. Yes, why not?"

Morris stood up and waved, as I turned to look. I recognized Nelson. The man with him was tall, tanned, and handsome, dressed in an oxford-cloth shirt, jeans, and a good tweed sports jacket. He looked to be in his forties, with a few lines softening the angles of his face. When he spotted Morris, he smiled, with his mouth and his eyes, and crossed the restaurant with his hands outstretched.

"Chris, good to see you. In town for the big game?"

Morris performed the introductions, and the smile swung around to include me in its beam.

"Ah, the famous Ms. Henry. I've been reading your stories for years. You write rings around most of the men."

I could feel the blush rising up my neck, an unfortunate affliction I'd never been able to conquer. Craven didn't seem to notice.

"Is this a private party, or can we join you?"

Not waiting for a reply, he motioned to Nelson and pulled out the chair next to me and ordered cognacs all around.

"I'll turn it around, Sam," Morris said. "What are you doing here? Toronto's not your usual weekend haunt."

"I've come to watch my favourite client pitch tomorrow. I have to keep track of my investments."

I bit my tongue.

"I think the Titans are going all the way. Thorson's going to prove what a money pitcher he is in the next few weeks. Bert and his network might not like a Canadian team in the World Series, but I think it's good to shake things up."

I couldn't ignore a second opening.

"I'm surprised at your interest," I said. "I thought Steve Thorson was no longer a client."

"That's just a game, Kate. Steve and I are engaged in a bit of ceremonial sabre-rattling."

Christopher was right. I spent a lovely hour listening to the three of them tell stories, each one funnier than the last. When Craven called for another round, I looked at my watch.

"Not for me, unless you want to watch me nap with my head on the table," I said. "I have to be back at the ballpark in less time than I care to think about. Thanks anyway."

"We'll do it another time, then." He stood up and extended his hand. "Maybe dinner during the playoffs."

"If the Titans make the playoffs, I'm afraid it's going to be sandwiches on the run for me."

"That is almost enough to make me root for the Yankees," he said, finally letting go of my hand. I simpered like an idiot.

"Christopher, I'll let you find your own way back to the hotel, if you don't mind." I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll see you all at the ballpark tomorrow."

I stopped in the bar to say good night to Tom and Sarah. They were sitting at their usual corner table with a blonde I'd seen before.

"Say hi to Ginny," Tom said. "It's her birthday."

At least her forty-fifth was my guess, although her leather miniskirt and low-cut silk blouse denied it. Her hair was freshly tinted and tousled and she wore enough gold to dazzle a blind man, but nothing could disguise the softness of her jaw line and wrinkles around her eyes.

Sarah walked me to the door.

"I could kill Sultan Sanchez," she said.

"Why, because he struck out?"

"No. Ginny. He stood her up tonight, the prick."

"She should know better. He's a sleaze."

"I know, but still . . . By the way, who is that man?"

"I introduced you. Christopher Morris."

"No, not him. The gorgeous one who was drooling all over you when you were leaving."

"His name is Sam Craven, he's Steve Thorson's agent, and he wasn't drooling."

"Kate, trust my eyes if you don't trust yours. The man is definitely interested in you."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, as a cab pulled up. "He's not my type even if he is."

"Whatever you say, sweetie," she said, hugging me.

As the taxi bounced along the streetcar tracks heading home, I thought about Sam Craven. I had been expecting Edward G. Robinson and got Paul Newman instead. And Sarah had been right. He had certainly seemed interested.

If half of what Christopher had told me was true, he wasn't someone I wanted anywhere near me. But still, it was a bit of a kick. Maybe I would have dinner with him. If nothing else, I might get a story out of it.

Chapter 8.

Sunday morning was grey, with rain in the air, and by eleven it had started to drizzle. When I got to the ballpark, the players were in a chapel meeting in the clubhouse-a weekly exercise in hypocrisy for half of them and evangelical overkill for the rest. I waited in the dugout, smoking cigarettes and reading the paper. I wanted to see Thorson before the game.

When the meeting broke up and the pious and pseudo-pious came out, I went into the clubhouse to find him. He was sitting by his locker, but when he saw me coming he got up and headed towards the hall, brushing past me on the way.

Steeling myself, I followed him, catching up in the hall.

"Sorry to bother you, Steve," I said, ignoring his mood. "I'd like to talk for just a minute."

He whirled around and glared.

"Can't it wait until after I've pitched?"

"It will only take a few minutes."

He folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

"I thought you said you and Sam Craven were through."

"We are."

"Not according to him."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's in town. I met him last night."

"He's here?"

"He said you'd have everything straightened out by the end of the week."

"That bastard."

"He said he was corning to watch you pitch today."

"I can't talk about this horseshit. I've got to get ready to pitch."

He went back into the dressing room as Moose Greer came out.

"What was that all about?"

"I think it might have something to do with my telling him that Sam Craven is in town."

"Yeah. He called me for a ticket," he said. "Listen, have you seen Sultan?"

"Not today. Hasn't he showed up?"

"You know Sultan. There's a right-hander pitching. He's not scheduled to play."

"Still, that's cutting it a bit fine, even for him. Maybe he's sick. He stood up a date at the Fillet last night."

"He probably had a better offer. He'll show up."

I went back into the dressing room. It was full of players who would have been taking batting practice except for the rain. Instead, they were hanging around inside, full of nervous energy, playing cards or horsing around. There was an edge to all the activity, a tension. Voices were just a bit loud, the banter a bit forced. It was exciting.

I went to talk to Tiny.

"All ready for the big game?"

"I've been here before. Worry about the youngsters."

"I just wish it was game time right now," said Joe Kelsey, from the next locker. "I can't stand the wait. I was up at six o'clock this morning."

"You're lucky," said Eddie Carter. "I didn't sleep at all. The baby was sick."

Kelsey got up from the stool and wandered in his shower sandals to a table in the middle of the room, where he sat down and began signing baseballs.

"I feel like throwing up and I'm not even starting today," said Doc Dudley. Flakey Patterson nodded his silent agreement vehemently.

"Flakey, you're nuts. You haven't got anything in your stomach to throw," laughed Mark Griffin. "If we don't win today, you're going to get pretty hungry."

He turned around and addressed the clubhouse at large, making grand gestures.

"All right, guys, listen up," he said.

"Listen to yourself, rook," shouted Stinger Swain.

"We can't drag this thing out any longer," Griffin said, ignoring him. "We've got to win it for our own Gipper, Mr. Phil Patterson Esquire. The man is starving."

"Veronica could stand to lose a few pounds," shouted Swain. "It might improve his pitching!"

Patterson looked mournfully at his tormentor.

"Might even make him normal!" chimed in David Sloane.

"Forget it," laughed Gloves Gardiner. "That would be like the pope getting married."

"Or Thorson getting humble," said Swain.