The Home Chapter 8
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Tuesday morning I plugged my phone back in. The first call I got, while my coffee mug was still in the microwave, was from Andrea Jepperson.
"Did you think about what I asked?" she said instead of 'hello.' Eventually I figured out that she almost never said either hello or good-bye. She did not believe in wasting time.
"Good morning," I said, "thanks for the good meal. Best food I've had in a long time."
"You're welcome," she said. "Well?"
"I slept on it," I said. "I heard you on Fox last night, on TV. You sounded pretty good."
"We were on our way to the NBC studios. Did you see the interview?"
"Nope," I said. "Missed that."
"I told him I had plans, that I was thinking about making some changes. I think they used about thirty seconds, and it took me more than an hour to get over there and then wait and get wired up and do the thing. They always showed my legs for some reason, long shots."
I suppressed a laugh and wondered if she did not know she had good legs. "Make them come to you from now on," I suggested, wondering why the kid from Fox had not called me back.
She laughed. It was a good laugh, nothing girlish about it.
I waited, extracting my steaming coffee before the oven buzzed.
"The reason I called," she said, her voice low and serious, "I'm going in to the office now and will talk to Buzzy around eleven after I take care of some league paperwork and confer with our attorney and a couple of other people I trust."
"You mean to fire him?"
"Oh yes," she said, "exactly, of course, right away. He's obviously incompetent. Anyone with eyes could see that."
"That might get a bit loud," I said.
"I suppose," she said, "and by lunch time, I want an answer from you. There will be a news conference at the office at one o'clock, TV, the usual thing. That has been announced. If your answer is yes, I would like you to be there. If it is no, I will be disappointed."
"Two questions," I said, thinking hard since I had gone to bed at least slightly undecided.
"All right, but I must hurry."
"Are you going to be the general manager as well, as your husband was?"
"Hm," she said, exhaling loudly, "should I be?"
"I don't think so," I said, "we need to make some trades pretty quick. You don't know the game that well yet."
"All right. That's true, " she said, "I'll hire one."
"Second question, if I say yes, I want a three year contract."
"Fine," she said, "how much?"
"What I'm making this year is okay and twice that next year if we don't end up in the cellar and then doubled again if we have a winning record the second year. That would get me to about a million I think."
"That sounds fair," she said. "I'll have them draw up a new contract for you with a signing bonus, a nice healthy one."
"Then the answer is yes," I said. "I'll do my best for you."
"I am sure you will," she said in a tone that suggested I had better believe it. "See you at one." The phone went dead. I wondered briefly how much I could have gotten if I had an agent and negotiated a bit.
I put the handset down, finished my coffee and called Bob Philips at the Post. He was not in so I got his voice mail and left him a message saying that I was taking the job as manager of the Nats and that I would be glad to give him an interview that afternoon.
The Washington baseball team had an office suite in the MCI Center in the middle of town, near two very large, recently-refurbished art museums. I guess it is kind of odd for a baseball team to have space in a place built for basketball and ice hockey, but that is where Jepperson had rented a second-floor corner of three rooms. I later found out that the offices at RFK were all torn apart and being completely modernized. He had the lavish headquarters of his many corporations and far-flung ventures somewhere in Northern Virginia, in a mirror-faced highrise with a heliport on the roof so he could come and go in his blue and gold whirlybird anytime he wanted to. He did not stay long in one place.
The Metro took me right to Gallery Place, and I made my way up to the offices after stopping for a hot-dog and a Coke on the first floor since I was hungry as well as a few minutes early. As I came in with my paper bag of lunch, Buzzy Harder was just emerging from the door behind the secretary's desk. She had both her hands over her ears as Buzzy howled and cursed; he was not saying "blank" either. He grabbed a stapler off the girl's desk and threw it at a white sofa. Poor old Marvin Marshall stumbled out behind him, shushing him and trying to keep him under control.
Then Buzzy saw me, and he stalked across the rug with his lower jaw stuck out. "This yer idea of a joke, you busher?" he yelled, balling his hands into fists.
"Calm down," I said to him, hiding my lunch behind me.
"You washed up has-been, you stupid-assed lush, I hope you rot," he yelled, and he banged through the glass doors and was gone with Marvin trotting after him. He had gasped out a quick "Sorry" as he passed me.
I told the young secretary who I was as I handed her back her stapler. She said, "I remember," pushed a button, said, "He's here," and then looked up at me. She blinked her eyes a time or two and then she stood and stuck out her hand. "I'm Lucy Weatherby," she said, "good luck."
The door from which the furious former-manager had emerged re-opened and Andrea Jepperson stood there, clothes wrinkle-free, hair still perfect, posture grand and smile equally stunning. I wondered if her parents had taken her to an orthodonist when she was a kid, a very odd thing to think about at the time. "Glad you didn't miss the fireworks," she said, holding the door open and waving me in. Everything matched: dress, scarf, shoes, jewelry, the whole expensive shebang. She made me feel shabby.
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