Smashed Tater

By Mike Baldwin

Adored by fans in an era steroids have tainted America’s pastime, John Jensen, best known by his nickname, “Quake,” is found dead on the family farm in Burlington, Kansas. The FBI is stumped. The county sheriff said it possibly was a hunting accident. Many in his hometown believe the World Series hero shockingly committed suicide.

Highly respected for lucrative contracts she’s negotiated, Veronica Townsend, John’s sports agent, is motivated to seek the truth after her assistant, Missy, has one of her Nostradamus-like visions that suggests John may have been murdered.

While reporters descend on the two-stoplight community to provide updates on the tragic death of a national icon, Veronica steadfastly searches for clues to disclose the person who killed her esteemed friend.

Endorsed by Hall of Fame coaches and athletes, including legendary coach Barry Switzer and Hall of Fame quarterback Troy Aikman, Smashed Tater is a fast-paced, entertaining story that spotlights a rural community in southeastern Kansas but also takes readers to New York, Los Angeles, Dallas and San Jose, home of the Piranhas who were led by an All-Star first baseman who mysteriously was killed on the family farm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Baldwin
• Release date: Apr 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310130014

Mike Baldwin

A former sportswriter, Mike Baldwin has transitioned to becoming a full-time novelist who specialists in mysteries that feature female lead characters; classic whodunits that appeal to mystery fans of all ages and gender.Mike's niche is fast-paced stories about dynamic female lead characters involved in plots packed with twists and turns, capped by surprise endings. Sprinkling in humor, Mike injects thought-provoking elements to introduce readers to new experiences while they’re being entertained by a fun story.His favorite author is John Grisham because of his unique storytelling skills. Mike enjoys a well-written mystery whether it’s a page-turning novel or TV shows like Law & Order, Monk, Cold Case and Major Crimes. His favorite current series is “Suits,” simply because of the crisp, engaging dialogue. Mike’s only pet peeve is he believes many quality TV shows and commercials feature outstanding writing that rarely gets the attention it deserves.During his newspaper career at The Oklahoman, the Oklahoma City paper, Mike covered Super Bowls and Final Fours, interviewed countless Hall of Fame athletes and coaches and was blessed his career allowed him to see the country. He attended games in 80 of the 90 NFL stadiums, NBA arenas and Major League Baseball stadiums, plus visited more than fifty college campuses.The highlight of his career was when he wrote daily stories as a beat writer covering the Dallas Cowboys. For seven years, Mike covered owner Jerry Jones’ team during the Barry Switzer era when the Cowboys were led by future NFL Hall of Famers Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, Michael Irvin and Deion Sanders.An avid golfer, Mike was humbled and honored last year when he was inducted into the Oklahoma Christian University Sports Hall of Fame (class of 2015).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Missy Sykes walked to her desk and went through her routine. She started by stuffing her handbag in the bottom left drawer. She placed a bottled water on a Big Bang Theory coaster and sat a pink-kitten backpack under her desk.

Another bizarre dream was unnerving. The first one happened in high school and also was the first time she heard the name Nostradamus. Friends comparing her to the 1500’s French astrologer was the very reason Missy stopped telling people about her dreams.

The images weren’t demons. She simply detested the attention they created. Her boss believed her visions were clairvoyant. Missy disagreed. Vehemently disagreed.

This was different. Her dream the previous night was so disconcerting she actually wanted to share the details. But if she unburdened her soul Missy was certain her boss would twist the facts to fit some outlandish theory.

Highly successful in a male dominated profession, her boss blended down-home charm from her Des Moines roots with high-stakes negotiation acumen. In People magazine, a six-page story revealed Veronica Townsend had always been a high achiever; high school valedictorian, near the top of her class at Notre Dame. Her relentless drive was so legendary one Major League owner in the article compared the Real Deal sports agent to the Tasmanian Devil.

While you were on the phone Quake called, Missy said, taking her customary seat in a black leather chair in her boss’s office.

Best known by his nickname, John Jensen would have been a fan favorite in any era. Jaded by the steroids scandal, fans embraced the farm boy who smashed towering home runs. When the San Jose Piranhas’ All-Star first baseman crushed a baseball it was like an artist signing a masterpiece. Any fan lucky to be in the right seat owned a souvenir some include in their wills.

So, Ms. Townsend said firmly, what did Quake say?

He asked if you received an envelope he had someone deliver.

What envelope?

Missy shrugged her shoulders. I have no idea. I thought maybe you’d know what Quake was talking about.

What did Quake want?

It didn’t sound important. He’s riding with his father to the farm after the Piranhas’ game tonight in Kansas City. He said he’ll call you Monday.

Missy had plans to meet her best friend in Jersey later that night, but a Friday planning session would extend into the early evening since her boss had plans the following week for one of her getaways to an exotic, sandy beach. The sports agent asked her assistant to work a few hours overtime to address the most pressing projects.

I absolutely adore Quake, but with so much on our plate, Monday sounds perfect. By the way, I’m working tomorrow. Because you have plans with your high school friend don’t worry about coming into the office. Enjoy your weekend.

I really appreciate it, Ms. Townsend.

But I’m warning you there’ll be a long list of things you’ll need to jump on first thing Monday morning. Of course, I have complete confidence everything will be taken care of. Have I ever told you you’re the best assistant in the entire world?

It was one of their running jokes. You’re always over the top. Does everything have to be a big production?

We’re in the entertainment business, Veronica boasted with flair. Our clients are elite athletes who perform on a national stage.

Missy quickly learned a handful were idiots that made stupid choices while others like Quake were exemplary role models. For me, it would be unnerving to have a camera stuck in my face all the time!

Most of my guys realize how fortunate they are. I remind them how they handle being in the spotlight is part of the job. It’s fruitless to whine about a comment on ESPN. On occasion I have to remind them to play to their strengths, that they’re living every young boy’s dream.

The sports agent barely stopped to take a breath. Speaking of playing to strengths, I wish you’d let me help you. You have a lot to offer, more than you give yourself credit. . .

Their conversation was interrupted when Ms. Townsend’s phone vibrated on the table.

I need to take this, she said, glancing at the number. We’ll resume in fifteen minutes.

Missy’s thirtieth birthday was only five months away, three weeks after Christmas. To Missy, that was the first omen she was cursed. Growing up some kids whined about having their birthday the week before Christmas. She wanted to scream: ‘Try January 13th, when holiday credit card bills arrive in the mail!’ As a young girl she discovered the unfavorable timing quashed any chance of a knock-your-socks-off birthday present.

Missy was proud she played a small role at Real Deal Sports Management, a growing agency that had experienced substantial growth the previous five years. Missy’s confidence had improved working for Ms. Townsend but her dating life still stunk. Missy hadn’t had a serious relationship in three years, hadn’t had a date in six months.

When she rejoined her boss in her office, Missy was the one who asked the probing question. You’re always talking about my love life. What about yours? You’re one of the most beautiful women I know and you rarely go out on dates.

Drop-dead gorgeous, a five-foot-ten brunette in her mid-thirties, Veronica Townsend in heels stands six-three. In heels she towers over most people, including most men. A few contracts she negotiated were extravagant. A one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar deal for a pitcher was labeled absurd by fans, genius by rival agents. She also signed a Japanese second baseman, a coup for the agency aggressively expanding into a new market.

Her boss took a sip of water before speaking boldly. When I’m in a retirement home, some people will pity me -- how that poor old woman never got married, never had a family. What they won’t realize is I had hundreds of people in my family. Missy, you’re part of my family, Quake is part of my family. I visit my parents three or four times a year. I love my life, wouldn’t change a thing.

Missy charged ahead. You ignored my question.

Aren’t you in a feisty mood?

After pausing briefly, Ms. Townsend chided her assistant. I go out more than you think. Getting married and raising kids simply aren’t part of my future.

Missy wasn’t about to let the rare opportunity pass without putting her boss on the hot seat. They don’t have to be inclusive.

What are you talking about?

You can get married without having kids. At that party last month, I saw you talking to the Piranhas general manager. I think you’ve got a thing for Steve Larson.

Ms. Townsend smiled. Nice try, Missy. Let’s get back to your love life.

Even though she tried to hide it everyone in the office was aware Missy was obsessed with finding a man. She desperately wanted kids. Becoming a single mother didn’t appeal to her, but she might reconsider in a few years. Eligible Manhattan bachelors probably would look at her differently if they knew Missy had a tidy nest egg of forty thousand dollars in her bank account, plus another one hundred thirty thousand in stocks.

One of those kids insensitive brats picked on in elementary school, Missy always felt like an ugly duckling. Envious of the cool kids, Missy once tried contact lenses but complained it felt like grains of sand were embedded in her corneas. Silky locks hung below her shoulders. Like clockwork, one inch was trimmed every two months. Always reminding people: That’s Sykes with a Y, Missy was kind of cute.

She wore department store clothes, although an eighty-thousand-dollar salary was ample money to shop at boutiques. To show her appreciation for helping land a major client, Ms. Townsend once gave Missy a $1,200 gown. She was unsure if her boss knew the truth. Missy never wore the red dress, fearful she’d damage the expensive garment.

Shortly before eight, close to calling it a day, Missy debated whether to discuss her latest dream. Her first bizarre vision occurred her sophomore year of high school. The best friend she was meeting later that night retold the story so many times it was legendary among the women gossips in their childhood neighborhood in Queens.

Days before 9/11, Missy dreamed terrorists dropped bombs on American soil. She was so frightened she discussed the dream with her parents. The next week shocking developments made Missy look like a prophet.

As the nation was glued to incessant footage of planes crashing into the twin towers, Missy researched the man profiled in a documentary: ‘The Man Who Could See Tomorrow.’

Missy Sykes, a modern-day Nostradamus? Preposterous!

In college she had a dream Denzel Washington was President of the United States. Aware of the 9/11 dream, some friends proclaimed Missy’s second dream was a prediction America was on the verge of having an African American President.

The following week Barack Obama announced he was running. It wasn’t earth-shattering news. Winning, however, was not assured. Missy’s dream put a black man in the White House. Normally, she would have voted for Obama, but if he won the election she was certain friends would claim it was a Nostradamus-like prophecy.

One benefit from countless sessions with her psychotherapist was Missy developed a routine that helped her suppress her dreams. Really strong visions were rare. Really strong images couldn’t be suppressed.

Every morning, the instant Missy was cognizant, she focused on a chocolate-brown koala, a present her grandmother gave her the day she graduated high school. Staring at the stuffed animal with the spoon-shaped nose and fuzzy ears impeded most dreams.

When her grandmother died the koala became her most prized possession. Her tailless companion was showing its age. She was embarrassed she asked a tailor she knew in Queens to reattach the left ear but was glad she summoned the courage. A huge smile filled her face that afternoon she walked out of the shop carrying a stuffed animal wrapped in cellophane.

Missy loved that koala. The night of her grandma’s funeral, she began calling it, Harvey. The black-and-white film starring Jimmy Stewart and an invisible rabbit was her grandmother’s favorite movie.

Because of Harvey, her dreams had been so infrequent she almost forgot what it felt like to be frightened by a vision. This time, the details were so disturbing sleep would be difficult when she returned to her apartment. Restless, unsettling feelings bubbled inside her stomach.

Missy didn’t want to spoil her friend’s weekend plans. With her two toddlers spending the weekend at her parent’s house upstate, her friend wanted to hit the town. Missy sure wouldn’t bring up she was consumed her biological clock was ticking.

Rummaging through her purse for the address of the restaurant her friend was holding her a seat, Missy admitted to herself it would be foolish to discuss the dream. Best friends since junior high, her BFF wouldn’t grasp the relevance.

The most important variable was her friend was a blabbermouth. Missy was certain her friend unintentionally would leave out critical details that would fan the flames for the gossips in Queens, women who’d exaggerate half-truths to make for a juicier story.

But if Missy didn’t reveal the mystifying details with her friend, the only other option was Ms. Townsend. All day long the Real Deal assistant weighed the pros and cons. Maybe she’d bring up the dream with her boss on Monday morning. Missy Sykes ‘with a Y’ would think about it over the weekend.

CHAPTER 2

The two fishermen were unaware of an intruder’s plan being put in motion at the truck. A white power concoction was poured into a twenty-ounce Coke, the lid wiped carefully, returned to the ice chest. One down, one to go.

Repeating the process, a plastic bag filled with protein supplements was jostled back and forth until the sleeping potion blended in. Ahead of schedule, there was ample time to drive to the abandoned farmhouse not far from where John Jensen and his father were fishing Big Creek, their favorite spot.

At the cove, a half-mile from the truck, John wondered if his father was capable of change or a classic example you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. The past five years the relationship had disintegrated. Gray around the temples, one month shy of his sixty-first birthday, Howard embarrassed his son three times.

On national television!

A six-foot-six giant of a man, John discovered there weren’t rehab centers that specifically addressed his father’s problem. Drugs and alcohol were never issues. His father’s addictions were money and fame. The problem was his father wasn’t wealthy or famous.

It was John who earned millions slamming home runs off Major League pitchers. It was the strapping farm boy with sandy-brown hair America loved. A USA Today poll ranked the Paul Bunyan-like slugger among the ten most popular athletes in America.

With a flick of the wrist, John’s shiny silver lure soared fifty feet, landing on top of murky, brown water. John reeled until the plastic minnow returned to the six-foot, graphite rod.

Before they left the house, John vowed to keep communication lines open, hopeful his father would accept his proposal. Pushing his biggest concern aside, John stopped fishing.

It’s too hot. Since we’re not going to catch anything, let’s talk.

His father sounded like he was reading from the Farmer’s Almanac. His tone was glum. I’m concerned the corn might not make it.

Dad, we need to talk about the wedding.

John was dealing with delicate issues with both his father and his future father-in-law. The December 12 date was creeping up. In four months, John Charles Jensen would exchange vows with Meagan Harrington Brinkley at a Catholic church in Los Angeles. Baseball fans adored Quake, but Niles Brinkley never hid feelings his daughter, an accomplished violinist, deserved better than some hick raised on a farm in Burlington, Kansas.

Let me guess, you’re going to tell me to stay home because you’re worried I’m going to embarrass you in front of all your friends.

John rolled his eyes. For once, can we have a normal conversation like most fathers and sons? Why do you always have to make things so difficult?

His father groaned but did not speak.

Dad, you like Meagan, right?

She’s great. I have no idea how you two hit it off. You’re complete opposites. You love sports and country music; she’s into classical. She’s clueless about baseball, but I really like Meagan. It’s her uppity father I have a problem with.

He thinks we’re all a bunch of hillbillies. He’s not too thrilled I’m joining the family.

His father pounded his fist on the ground. That’s exactly my point. Most fathers would celebrate you marrying their daughters. Not Niles Brinkley. Look up artsy-fartsy snob in the dictionary and you’ll find his picture.

The fishing trip was a favor to his mother, who asked John to talk some sense into the stubborn old goat. Once again, the stubborn old goat wasn’t cooperating. Let’s fish for a while.

His father always put up a fight. He’d argue just to argue. Following a brief silence, his father offered a rare compliment. I know it was a huge mistake when I signed with that lawyer out of Wichita. It was genius when you hired Veronica Townsend.

One problem demanded immediate attention. Problem-solving was one of John’s strengths but this was a delicate matter that could explode if mishandled. Thinking of Veronica, John was confident she would find a solution.

Veronica is more than an agent, she’s a really good friend, John responded.

I’ve only talked with her that one time at the World Series, but I was impressed, his father said. Plus, she’s easy on the eyes.

John never told his father about their one date, but that was years ago. I’m so fortunate to have someone like her I can use as a sounding board. In fact, I need her help once again. I asked our clubhouse attendant to deliver a note. I need her help with a really tough decision.

Son, you know I’m not big on poetry but people tell me your poems are really good.

They’re basically notes, but a note can brighten someone’s day.

John was perturbed by a phone call he recently received from the farmer up the road. If I didn’t have to worry about Mad Man Martz she’d have gotten more than fifty-five million.

Why are you blaming me? his father lectured. That was your decision to sign that extension, not mine.

John took a deep breath before speaking. I had no choice but to sign that new deal because of your stubbornness. Why in the world you’d ever call Mad Man is beyond me.

# # # # #

While the Jensens rehashed a sore subject, it was time for the second phase of the master plan. This was the easy part. They parked in the far southwest corner of the Jensen farm and strolled two miles, hiding in a shadowy corner inside a rickety, abandoned farmhouse. Everything was set provided the Jensen giants staged one of their traditional shootouts. All that was left was to sit and wait.

# # # # #

Back at the cove, John spoke while rising to his feet. If you don’t want to talk about Mad Man Martz, I’m taking a walk. Just so you know, I’m planning on talking to Mad Man tomorrow before the game to make sure you two old codgers don’t mess everything up.

As John meandered through rocks and twigs, his father tossed his line in the brown, murky water.

Never one to complain, John reminded himself he was a million times blessed. Little league parks across the country were filled with boys that imitated his batting stance. He was engaged to a beautiful strawberry blonde with a masters’ in social services who moved to San Jose after she graduated last spring.

The fifty-five-million-dollar deal paled compared to exorbitant contracts floating around baseball, but money never motivated John. Because of his roots, John respected Coffey County residents who worked hard to provide food and shelter. Most farmed or clocked in forty hours a week at the nuclear plant.

Two years ago, he was smitten by kids unlucky to have been born into a dilapidated, crime-ridden neighborhood. One thing John liked about the money was it helped him make a real impact with his San Jose charity, plus a future project he planned to launch after the season.

Having captured two of the previous four World Series, the Piranhas owned the best record in the American League. Quake’s bat was as hot as the Kansas weather. He had smashed four homers the past six games, including one the previous night when Burlington resembled a small community traveling en masse to a high school football game. The difference was dozens of dusty pickup trucks and cars trekked one hundred miles to Kaufman Stadium to watch their hometown hero bat cleanup for the San Jose Piranhas.

With dozens of hometown friends attending Friday night’s game, Burlington filled an entire section. Several brought homemade signs with cute phrases centered on the All-Star slugger.

Off the field, John was in a major slump.

Right on cue, a horrible week was ending with a man who veered off course the day John was drafted. Nationally, sportswriters and radio commentators raved about the home run champion from the Kansas farm. Genuine role model. A much needed breath of fresh air. His father’s favorite phrase: ‘We can do better.’

Usually upbeat, John, an only child, was troubled by several predicaments. In addition to his father unexpectedly teaming up with Mad Man Martz, the rotten week began when two heated confrontations got out of hand. First, an argument with the Piranhas’ crusty manager made national headlines.

Later in the week, John rebuked himself for his role in a quarrel with teammate Morris Johnson, the home run slugger’s first fistfight since junior high.

When he rejoined his father at the cove, John talked about the drought. He couldn’t remember the last time the water level was this low at John Redmond reservoir. Like every kid born in Burlington, John was told the story of the dam before he learned his A, B, C’s.

Over a thirty-year span, the Neosho Valley flooded fifty times, including a Noah’s Ark-like flood in 1951. Old-timers love to talk about it, labeling it the Great Flood, describing floodwaters thirty feet deep. Forty years ago Congress approved construction of a concrete dam that produced two economic bonanzas.

Ten-thousand water acres trapped by fourteen vault-like gates created one-thousand jobs at the Wolf Creek Generating Station, the only nuclear power plant in Kansas. The other benefit was the two-stoplight community overnight turned into a fishing hotbed. It doesn’t require Einstein wisdom to explain why anglers flocked to John Redmond Lake; there’s not much water in Dorothy’s home state. Fishing was so good, a billboard on US 75 once touted Burlington the Catfish Capital of the World, albeit a self-proclaimed title.

With his father in an upbeat mood, John played his trump card. In February, the week before he reported to spring training, John defeated his father four consecutive times at the shooting range. You remember what you told me my senior year? Win three in a row and I’d get your Browning. I barely won three times in ten years. The worm finally turned.

It landed Gerald, but I’m no welsher, his father answered, referring to a sixteen-point, white-tail in his den constructed after his teenage son received a two-million-dollar signing bonus.

A couple minutes later, John returned with his father’s rifle. The baseball superstar momentarily fondled the weapon.

John was excited. You’ve never let me touch it, much less fire it.

Walking towards the edge of the cove, John spotted an old tennis shoe trapped against a log. Closing his left eye, he scoped his target and fired. He missed by inches. Water splashed. The second shot was a tad left, embedding into a long, skinny log with a knot on top.

His father’s response was tinged with enthusiasm. Maybe it’s my day at the range. . . I guess I’ll have to use your gun.

Take your gun, Dad, I could never own it. Like you said, it bagged Gerald.

Keep it. You won it fair and square.

Seriously, I couldn’t own it. You ready for lunch? I’ll get the ice chest.

The large plastic box with a luggage-like handle debuted years ago on a Colorado hunting trip, one of John’s favorite childhood memories. The ice chest was durable enough to support either Jensen giant. Today, it contained a grocery sack that contained lunch.

John pulled out a Gatorade he purchased at the convenience store, sat it to the side, then grabbed the Coke and handed it to his father. Reaching into the brown sack, John removed a bag filled with protein supplements. Cupping his left hand around the rim, John funneled a powdery mix into the orange-flavored beverage. He shook the bottle, allowed the fizz to settle, leaned back and guzzled most of it in one large gulp. It was nearly noon and it was getting hot.

Protein shakes are good. Staying in tip-top shape is essential.

Goading his father just to get a rise out of him, John pretended to look around the cove. This can’t be my father. He never gives me a compliment.

Whatever, his father snorted.

On occasion his father acted like a fool but actually was highly intelligent. Overzealous decisions made Howard Jensen look like a country bumpkin, which simply wasn’t the case.

I really want you to think about my offer, John urged. It’s best for everybody.

Grabbing a handful of ice out of the chest, his father rubbed the ice on his neck until it melted. I’ve given it some thought. I’ll let you know after the season is over.

Over the next ten minutes, six ham-and-cheese sandwiches were devoured. Three each. Two slices of Martha Jensen’s blue-ribbon apple pie were consumed by bare hands. It was the type of lunch they shared when John was a highly touted prospect on every Major League Baseball team’s radar years ago when scouts watched nearly every game the summer before his senior season in high school.

After lunch, the fishing gear packed away, his father spewed dust in his Hemi-powered truck. The farm was three miles from Big Creek. They would arrive in five minutes.

The destination?

The shooting range.

When John was fourteen, trying to gain his father’s favor, he announced he could beat his old man in a shooting contest. His father set up some targets. Dad dominated. Over the next four years John improved but was no match for his father, the best rifleman in Coffey County.

The month before he was drafted, John finally beat his old man. Everyone in Burlington heard about the stunning upset, although the son failed to mention his sleep-deprived father had just completed a graveyard, double-shift at the nuclear plant.

The following day, John’s father constructed the shooting range.

Howard started by digging four holes, two on each end. Similar to a crew installing a sidewalk, concrete was poured inside five-inch-tall boards that formed a thirty-foot foundation. Twenty-four hours later, the concrete dry, four posts firmly in place, his father sawed and hammered together a six-foot-tall structure that looked like a long, skinny table.

Today would be the two-hundredth father-son shootout. Rough estimate. Before he seized bragging rights, John had won only four times: his senior year -- the reason the skinny table existed -- twice the winter after he won Rookie of the Year; plus one other time.

For as long as he could remember a shootout with his father was anticipated almost as much as facing an All-Star pitcher.