Free The LeBaron Secret by Stephen; Birmingham Page B

left for the day. May I help you?”
    â€œThen connect me with the house, please.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. LeBaron, but Mrs. LeBaron left instructions that she would be receiving no calls.”
    â€œThank you, Gloria.” He replaces the receiver in its cradle. Then he looks at his watch. What time will it be in New York? He mentally adds the three hours. Not quite four. He picks up the phone again and taps out a longer series of numbers. Very well , he thinks, I am now ready to play exactly the kind of game, Mother, that you will understand .
    â€œAunt Joanna?” he says when she answers. “I think I need to come to New York to see you.”
    Assaria LeBaron has ordered her driver to take her directly from lunch with the Madison Avenue boys to Candlestick Park, where her ball club, the San Francisco Condors, is in spring training. There is a great deal of fuss and to-do and general consternation when her motorized chair materializes through the entrance of the temporary field house and makes its way across the linoleum of the foyer. Harry Olsen, the team’s manager, rushes up to her, and says, “Mrs. LeBaron, the boys have just come in from the field—they’re in the showers right now!”
    â€œThat’s all right, I just want to have a few words with them, Harry.”
    â€œThey’re looking just great, Mrs. LeBaron,” he says as he hurries behind her chair. “But we had no idea you were coming, Mrs. LeBaron, and right now, right at the moment, the boys would love to see you, I know—but right now—if you could give them a few minutes, Mrs. LeBaron, I’ll tell them you’re here—but right at the moment, the boys are in the showers, Mrs. LeBaron! Mrs. LeBaron!” Hurrying behind her, as she propels herself down the long corridor, around the corner, past the massage tables and the piles of exercise mats, past the weight machines and the row of urinals, where the air smells of a mixture of camphor and winter-green oil and rubbing alcohol, toward the locker room and the sound of showers running.
    â€œDon’t worry, this won’t take a minute,” she says.
    â€œ Boys! ” Harry Olsen shouts ahead into the sound of running water. “ Mrs. LeBaron is here! ”
    Around one last corner, and into the big room full of steam.
    There is a series of sudden yelps as the players recognize their visitor, and there is a collective grab for towels, and jockstraps that have been lowered to below the knees are hastily hoisted into position as the showers are, one by one, turned off.
    â€œBoys, I know you’re busy,” Sari says cheerfully, “and I know you’ve got plenty to do this afternoon. But I wanted to drop by while I was in the neighborhood and have a few very brief words with you. There’s a little matter I’d like to clear up, and I thought you ought to get it from me, personally—straight from the horse’s mouth, as the fellow says. Now I know there’ve been published reports in the press—you’ve read them, I’ve read them—to the effect that I bought this club as a tax shelter. That, of course, is what reporters always do: speculate. Nobody knows what I do with my taxes besides myself, my accountant, and the IRS. So much for that. But that sort of speculation leaves the impression that I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether this team wins or loses. Boys, I’m here to tell you personally that that’s not the truth. Not only do I care, but I care deeply. I bought this club because I thought it was a club that had it in it to win ball games! That’s what I have faith you can do, and that’s what I want you to do, and that’s what I expect you to do. I want you all to give this club your best, and I want you to know that I’m behind you all the way . I want a team that will go into the World Series—if not this year, the next, and if not the