him. Stevie saw the cameraman start to reach toward Stinson with his free hand. Without thinking, Stevie blocked the guy’s arm, throwing him off balance.
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the camera guy said, stumbling backward and almost dropping his camera.
Before Stevie could answer, Stan Kasten, the president of the Nationals, whom Stevie had noticed walking aroundthe clubhouse when he came in, materialized, stepping between Stevie and the camera guy.
“Hey, fellas, you aren’t supposed to fight each other, you’re supposed to fight guys like me,” Kasten said, smiling. “Let’s all get along here.”
The TV guy was yelling at Kasten about Stinson’s not letting him do his job. Kasten had been the president of the Braves for almost twenty years and apparently knew Stinson. “Tell me in ten seconds or less what happened, Tommy,” he said.
“Sure,” Stinson said. “The four of us were talking to Wil, and this guy barged in, stuck the microphone in Wil’s face, and went off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what we were talking about.”
“Free country,” the TV guy said.
“He’s right, Stan,” Nieves said, much to Stevie’s surprise. He had watched the scuffle with a bemused smile on his face. “These guys were almost done when he interrupted.”
“Norman,” Kasten said to the TV guy, “when these guys are done, I will personally escort you back over here to talk to Wil.”
Stevie noticed that everything in the clubhouse had stopped so people could watch what was going on. In fact, he noticed several TV cameras rolling on the scene.
“But—”
“It’s that or nothing,” Kasten said. “Your call.”
The TV guy slunk away. As he turned to follow, the cameraman said to Stevie, “I’ll find you later.”
“Oh please,” Stevie said, even though a chill went through him. “What’re you going to do, hit me with your camera?”
He turned back to Nieves only to find that the circle had now grown, with others wanting to hear Nieves’s version of what had just happened. Stinson was standing next to him. “Well, I guess that takes care of getting anything more from him tonight,” he said. “You can’t win. You don’t say anything, you lose the flow of the interview completely. You do say something, you lose the interview anyway.” He put out his hand: “We haven’t met. Tom Stinson from Atlanta. Thanks for helping me out there.”
“Steve Thomas,” Stevie answered. “I’m sorry the guy interrupted. That was pretty good stuff.”
“Yeah,” Stinson said. “Worth following up on. Well, gotta run. I’ve got about twelve minutes to write before deadline. See ya later.”
Stevie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He had more than twelve minutes, but he needed to get going too.
He ran into Arnold leaving the clubhouse. “How’d you do with Nieves before the scuffle?” Arnold asked.
“Pretty good. I’d like to talk to him again without being interrupted.”
Arnold laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Come on, we need to get moving.”
Stevie followed him to the elevator, wondering about Nieves’s final comment: “Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.” The Norbert Doyle he’d had breakfast with had certainlyseemed cheerful to him—except when the subject of his wife’s death came up. But there was the whole Susan Carol-David secret, whatever that was. There was a story here, Stevie knew that for sure. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the story was.
10: THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
STEVIE WANTED TO SHARE what Wil Nieves had said with Bobby Kelleher, but there was no time. Everyone was fighting deadline when he got back upstairs. Then in the cab back to the hotel, he didn’t want to say anything with Susan Carol sitting there.
He left the personal quotes about Doyle out of his story because they didn’t really fit with what his sidebar was about: Nieves’s view of how Doyle had managed to baffle the Red Sox so
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the camera guy said, stumbling backward and almost dropping his camera.
Before Stevie could answer, Stan Kasten, the president of the Nationals, whom Stevie had noticed walking aroundthe clubhouse when he came in, materialized, stepping between Stevie and the camera guy.
“Hey, fellas, you aren’t supposed to fight each other, you’re supposed to fight guys like me,” Kasten said, smiling. “Let’s all get along here.”
The TV guy was yelling at Kasten about Stinson’s not letting him do his job. Kasten had been the president of the Braves for almost twenty years and apparently knew Stinson. “Tell me in ten seconds or less what happened, Tommy,” he said.
“Sure,” Stinson said. “The four of us were talking to Wil, and this guy barged in, stuck the microphone in Wil’s face, and went off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what we were talking about.”
“Free country,” the TV guy said.
“He’s right, Stan,” Nieves said, much to Stevie’s surprise. He had watched the scuffle with a bemused smile on his face. “These guys were almost done when he interrupted.”
“Norman,” Kasten said to the TV guy, “when these guys are done, I will personally escort you back over here to talk to Wil.”
Stevie noticed that everything in the clubhouse had stopped so people could watch what was going on. In fact, he noticed several TV cameras rolling on the scene.
“But—”
“It’s that or nothing,” Kasten said. “Your call.”
The TV guy slunk away. As he turned to follow, the cameraman said to Stevie, “I’ll find you later.”
“Oh please,” Stevie said, even though a chill went through him. “What’re you going to do, hit me with your camera?”
He turned back to Nieves only to find that the circle had now grown, with others wanting to hear Nieves’s version of what had just happened. Stinson was standing next to him. “Well, I guess that takes care of getting anything more from him tonight,” he said. “You can’t win. You don’t say anything, you lose the flow of the interview completely. You do say something, you lose the interview anyway.” He put out his hand: “We haven’t met. Tom Stinson from Atlanta. Thanks for helping me out there.”
“Steve Thomas,” Stevie answered. “I’m sorry the guy interrupted. That was pretty good stuff.”
“Yeah,” Stinson said. “Worth following up on. Well, gotta run. I’ve got about twelve minutes to write before deadline. See ya later.”
Stevie looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He had more than twelve minutes, but he needed to get going too.
He ran into Arnold leaving the clubhouse. “How’d you do with Nieves before the scuffle?” Arnold asked.
“Pretty good. I’d like to talk to him again without being interrupted.”
Arnold laughed. “Good luck with that,” he said. “Come on, we need to get moving.”
Stevie followed him to the elevator, wondering about Nieves’s final comment: “Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.” The Norbert Doyle he’d had breakfast with had certainlyseemed cheerful to him—except when the subject of his wife’s death came up. But there was the whole Susan Carol-David secret, whatever that was. There was a story here, Stevie knew that for sure. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the story was.
10: THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
STEVIE WANTED TO SHARE what Wil Nieves had said with Bobby Kelleher, but there was no time. Everyone was fighting deadline when he got back upstairs. Then in the cab back to the hotel, he didn’t want to say anything with Susan Carol sitting there.
He left the personal quotes about Doyle out of his story because they didn’t really fit with what his sidebar was about: Nieves’s view of how Doyle had managed to baffle the Red Sox so
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