Las Vegas Gold by Jim Newell Page B

promise.”

10
    Tabby was not very happy when he walked into Molly’s office next morning. He did knock first, though, and Molly hoped that was a good sign. After he was seated and had turned down a coffee, Molly began to go through the events of the evening before. Tabby sat quietly and listened until she came to the words “FBI.”
    â€œNo way! No damn way. I ain’t talking to the FBI. I’ll be in jail before the day’s over. That’s final. No FBI, Molly. You hear? No damn FBI.”
    â€œI get your message, but I guess you didn’t get my message. What the agent is going to want from you is the name of the guy who’s been threatening you, and what went on when you were with the Dodgers. How he contacted you and how you handled it. You don’t have to tell him about the thrown games. If the guy—Pat? whatever his name is—tells him you did, then Pat is in even bigger trouble, because persuading somebody else to commit a crime is a crime itself. Unless he’s dumber than you seem to think, he won’t give that away. He couldn’t prove it anyhow.”
    Tabby was silent. Thinking. Then, “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. What I want is the guy off my back. If they can prove he’s the guy who’s been calling, that might work.” He stopped, and then continued. “Yeah. Okay. So what do I do?”
    â€œYou’re not pitching tonight. Just go through your regular day off routine. When the guy comes, he’ll look more like a reporter than a cop, and you can take him somewhere and make it look like an interview. Maybe he’ll bring a camera man.”
    â€œMaybe I’d better have that coffee. This is gonna be one scary day.”
    They sat for a half-hour, rehearsing the program for the interview, and then Tabby got up to leave. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Molly. You have been helping me all along, and so far everything has worked out. I appreciate it. I just hope….” He couldn’t finish. He turned and walked away.
    A few minutes before ten, Molly went up to her father’s office for the meeting with the FBI agent. He turned out to be a personable young man named Jeff Turnbull who happened to be a baseball fan. He had been in the stands for the game the night before, and was generous without being overpowering in his remarks about the way Molly had managed the new Gold so far this season.
    â€œMolly,” began Mike, after all the introductions had been made, “You seem to be nominated to tell Mr. Turnbull the story.”
    â€œBefore you begin, Ms Malone…”
    â€œMolly.” She interrupted.
    â€Okay. Jeff, then.” He smiled—a charming smile, she noted—and turned to George Halverson. “Just for the record, Mr. Halverson, what is your interest in this matter?”
    â€œI’ve been retained by Mr. Malone to act on behalf of the Gold and their employees as a legal advisor.”
    â€œThank you.” He turned back to Molly. “Now, Molly, what’s going on?”
    Once more, Molly told the story, omitting the fact about the thrown games. When she finished, the room was quiet for a few moments.
    â€œSo Tabby O’Hara has begun to get threatening telephone calls from the same man who kept after him to throw games before he came to this team. Am I clear on that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd it is affecting his play, and could affect the rest of the team.”
    Molly gave an affirmative nod. “Right.”
    â€œSeems to me it might be a difficult task for a starting pitcher to give assurance enough his team would lose, or that somebody would want to bet large sums of money on that assurance.” The FBI agent paused, thinking. “Now, if a relief pitcher were the one involved, it would make more sense.”
    Larry Henderson spoke for the first time. “I’ve never been involved, to my knowledge, with gamblers, but do they have