The LeBaron Secret by Stephen; Birmingham

next, then the year after that. Boys, I want a pennant, and I think you’ve got what it takes to give me that. You’ve got the right stuff , and that’s why I bought this club. I want you to know that while you’re out there, sweating and fighting and playing great ball on the field, I’ll be up there in the stands sweating and rooting and praying—yes, praying—for you. I want you to know that I’m not going to be some kind of absentee landlord. I’m going to do my best for you, and I know you’re going to do your damnedest for me, and someday we’re going to be going to the Series together—and when we get there, we’re going to win! Meanwhile, Harry here tells me you’re training great, and you’re looking great. Good! That’s what I want to hear. Keep it up! We’re in this together, all for one and one for all, and I’m behind you all the way and I know that you’re behind me. That’s all I wanted to say—good luck, good work, and God bless you all. You’ve got what it takes, and I love you for it. So now get out there—and play ball! ”
    Just as quickly as she arrived, she is gone.
    In room 315 at the Marriott, the one out by the airport, the five members—four male, one female—of the group that calls itself The Dildos are snorting cocaine. At this very moment.
    â€œSo what the fuck are we going to do?” says Maurice Littlefield, who calls himself Luscious Lucius; who, without his makeup, is badly acne-scarred; and who, though he may be its lead singer, is not the group’s brainiest member.
    â€œZip-dee-doo-dah,” says one.
    â€œHey, man, listen to this,” says another. He strikes a chord on his guitar. “Man, is that fuckin’ cool?” He lies back on one of the two queen-size, unmade beds, his legs spread apart, his eyes staring at the ceiling, the guitar across his chest. He is the tallest of the group. Their respective names don’t matter here.
    â€œBut what the fuck are we going to do? ” Littlefield says again.
    â€œFuckin’ board of directors won’t pay us for the gig,” says the tall one to the ceiling. “They’re saying we ‘presented material that was offensive to the public taste.’ They had that in the contract.”
    â€œSo what the fuck do we do? Fuckers owe us five thousand dollars.”
    â€œWhat the fuck did you have to kill Sylvia for? That was what did it.”
    â€œ The fucker bit me! ” Littlefield cries. “What the fuck do you think this is?” And he points to his bandaged upper arm.
    â€œBut did you have to do it right on the fuckin’ stage? That was what did it. Fuckin’ snake.”
    â€œI told you we should’ve took our money up front,” says the female member. “Remember I said that?”
    â€œMaybe we should hire a lawyer.”
    â€œYeah, and pay him with what? Lawyers cost fuckin’ money, man, and they want their money up front.”
    â€œWhat I want to know is how do we pay for this fuckin’ motel room? How do we do that?”
    â€œThat’s easy. We wait for dark, load our shit into the RV, skip town, and try to line up another gig.”
    â€œYeah. Like we did in Topeka, and look where that fuckin’ got us. Now we can’t work anywhere in the whole state of Kansas.”
    â€œIs that where Topeka is—Kansas?”
    â€œFuckin’ city.”
    â€œWhat we need is a hit single. That’s what we really need. A hit single. A gold record.”
    â€œYeah, and meanwhile how do we eat? What do we do?”
    â€œLike, maybe, rob a bank?”
    â€œYou mean it—rob a fuckin’ bank?”
    â€œOnly kidding, asshole.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    Still gazing at the ceiling, the tall one says, “What about that broad? Someone told me she was loaded.”
    â€œLoaded with what?”
    â€œMoney, asshole.