[ifspuds]

In the offices of Michael Hernandez, Chairman of Hernandez Mining Consortium and President of the Silver Beach Whales

"Come in, Jim. Have a seat, won't you?"

Jim Latimer, the field manager of the Silver Beach Whales, had never been to Mr. Hernandez's office. The team owner had been to visit the clubhouse a number of times, sure. In fact, came to visit a little too often. Latimer had started looking over his shoulder at the slightest noise lately, sure that the Big Boss would be looming, right there, that polished smile and laser-sharp gaze boring into his forehead.

Managing the Whales was not for the faint of heart. Even the strong of heart would probably think twice before taking the job.

"Thank you, sir," Latimer replied. The seat offered him had no manacles on the armrests, but it already had the feeling of a primitive torture device. Comfortable, though. And the view of the bay behind Mr. Hernandez's desk couldn't be beat.

Hernandez leaned forward, resting his elbows on his wide desk. The surface, devoid of papers, shone. Everything about the office and the man who occupied it projected absolute control of the surroundings. "You're probably wondering why I've asked you here, Jim. In your shoes, I know I'd be wondering."

Latimer nodded. "Yes, sir. I am."

"My team -- our team, that is -- is playing well down the stretch, I see."

"Yes, sir. Some days I think God himself reached down and blessed Sowder with a year's worth of divine baseball talent." That was no lie. Even Josh Sowder couldn't believe the year he was having, and he damn well couldn't explain it. Might as well be divine intervention.

Hernandez laughed politely, and as the mirth died down, he let silence fall for a few heartbeats before speaking again. "We're going to catch the Knights, aren't you? They're fading, we're on the rise."

Latimer shifted in the chair. This would be a lot easier if the chair weren't so damn soft. Something to keep his mind alert. "It's going to be close, sir. It's possible."

Hernandez steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. Another of those pregnant pauses settled over the office. "Let me make this clear, Jim. My team is going to win a Bay League title before those Tifton oafs of Baxter's even sniff a winning record. Am I making myself understood?"

The team owner leaned forward again, and there was that laser-sharp gaze. Latimer could almost feel his forehead growing warm. "It would be wise of you to win the title this year, Jim. Make sure that you take care of this... requirement now. You wouldn't want anything hanging over your head, would you?"

Jim Latimer wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Must have taken all the moisture from his mouth and sent it out his pores. The sweat was cool on his hand, but for the life of him, he couldn't work up enough saliva to produce a decent spit. "No sir. No, I wouldn't want that."