Three Strikes, You're Dead

By Len Koepsell

Three Strikes, You're Dead is a tale ripped from today's headlines. The novel reveals a world where baseball, a pillar of American culture, is threatened by sinister forces.

As a plethora of fentanyl overdose sweeps the nation, cases involving high school and college baseball players arouse the attention of Richard Moreland, a seasoned DEA agent now stationed in Seattle. Unsanctioned by his higher-ups, Moreland masterminds an ad hoc mission to investigate one apparent fountainhead of the drugs--Colombia's Winter League.

Vic Jennings, an amateur umpire; Whitney Westin, a DEA agent who's already demonstrated a flair for undercover assignments, and Diego Leon, a Colombian crew chief umpire, uncover an international scheme that leads back to minor leagues in the U.S. Its ultimate ambition may threaten all of America's pastime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662484230

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Three Strikes, You're Dead

Len Koepsell

Copyright © 2022 Len Koepsell

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

The story, all names, characters, and incidents in this novel are fictitious. No identification with or similarity to actual persons, whether living or dead, or to actual events is intended or should be inferred. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and all dialogues and incidents portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.

ISBN 978-1-6624-8409-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8417-9 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8423-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter two

Chapter Three

Chapter four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part 2

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Part 3

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Part 4

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

After the fifth inning, Vic excused himself and headed to the men's room on the concourse above section 107. Xiang was waiting for him inside, pretending to wash his hands.

Chapter Seventy-one

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books

Original Content: Seven Short Stories for Movie Mavens, Vol. 1

I'd Throw a Party for the Color of Your Shoes

Graveyard Ultimatums

Better than a Threesome

The Dragons of Westbury

Eisenhower and Me

My Cousin Who Drowned

Original Content

Original Content: Seven Short Stories for Movie Mavens, Vol. 2

The Fountain Room

Chanteuse

Justice Delayed

Weightlessness

Sorina's America

While Waiting for a Deer

The Fossa—a novella

Coming Soon:

Original Content: Seven More Stories for Movie Mavens, Vol. 3

Plays

Bifocals—a light-hearted homage to Benjamin Franklin

Don't Forget to Water Mama—a family comedy

The Golden Flyswatter—a contemporary dramedy

Murder's Muse—a string quartet's whodunnit

Public Storage—a mildly dark comedy

Remembering Leonhardt Frederick Paul, my father and a proud pharmacist, who read to me from the Sporting News and inspired my love of baseball.

It isn't what they don't know that's so troubling; it's what they know that isn't true.

—Ronald Reagan

Prologue

San Andrés, Colombia

Summer of 1991

Bao Xiang recited his mantra as he drove toward the airport. Imagine, believe, become. Following the unexpected call—the call that shattered his lazy Saturday afternoon—he needed to fortify himself.

He'd been watching Miami Vice reruns in his hideaway apartment on the remote island of San Andrés. He leased it for recharging getaways. Sadly, there hadn't been any since the Coconut Queen Festival weekend the previous November.

I told them you'd gone to San Andrés for the weekend, and you'd be back in the office on Monday, said his secretary, Sofia. I'm sorry, Mr. Xiang, his secretary continued, but they insisted on a meeting today.

Something important must be up, thought Bao. Normally, he'd spend days gathering statistics and press articles in preparation for a meeting with the man with a British accent. They'd met on several previous occasions in Cartagena, but never on San Andrés. The Cartagena meetings were always announced weeks in advance.

That's fine, said Bao. When are they arriving?

They're in the air now. They're about an hour out, no more than ninety minutes.

Any other instructions?

Yes. You're to meet their representative on the patio outside the executive terminal.

During the first two years in his position as their Colombian sports agent, Bao rarely took time off. He worked weekends. He worked hard, determined to impress the organization that employed him. Eventually, they'd move him up, he reasoned, to a position in the States. He'd turn down South Korea or Japan if they offered him either as a promotion. He wanted a position in South Florida—Lauderdale, Fort Myers, Palm Beach, anywhere close to Miami. That's where the life he craved waited for him.

Imagine, believe, become. A red Testarossa, he imagined, not his rented white Accord, purred then roared into a turn. He glanced at the empty passenger seat and pictured Caitlin Davies sitting beside him. And she wanted him, again. He indulged in the fantasy the rest of the way to the airport.

The executive terminal's parking lot was half full. Bao found a shady spot beneath a blooming tabebuia tree, got out, and blew his imaginary Caitlin a kiss. Once inside, a helpful gate agent said his party's flight should be on approach in about ten minutes. He purchased an iced tea then walked outside to the patio area and waited.

The wiry man Bao saw approaching across the tarmac had the build of Mick Jagger. Today he wore a seersucker suit and Panama straw hat with a light-blue band. Bao didn't know the man's name or if his accent belied or revealed allegiance to a particular government. He didn't want to know. According to the man he was meeting, any anonymity one could retain in affairs such as theirs was priceless.

Bao was content to assume both he and the man walking toward him worked for a nameless international group of like-minded people with global influence—an organization that had preferential inroads to the majors and the pro leagues in South Korea and Japan. That access was the important thing. It was Bao's currency. It made him, as the organization's representative in Colombia, an important man.

Good day, Mr. Xiang. Thank you for meeting me. I trust I haven't disrupted your weekend.

Not at all. Although, I didn't expect to hear from you again so soon, said Xiang after they'd both sat down at an umbrellaed table. Would you like me to get you a beverage?

No, thank you. I enjoyed a bottle of Perrier just before we landed. His words always traveled with the lilt of an English lord.

And you found me on my first vacation in a year.

Yes. When I phoned your office, your secretary said you'd disappeared up here for the weekend. Shall we get right to it then?

Yes, by all means, said Xiang.

"This is about looking to the future with a new perspective, Mr. Xiang. We are refining our master plan and the roles of all our regional directors within it."

I'm honored you wanted to meet with me in person again, so soon. That should be enough ass-kissing, thought Xiang. "How will these refinements affect me?" he asked.

They will affect the scope of your recruiting and your methods.

At the academies?

Possibly, but not simply at the academies. The academies are no longer our only focus. If we are to accomplish our larger objectives, we must be about more than shattering cherished statistics.

I don't understand, said Xiang.

We expect our products will change. Steroids are in vogue now, but that will not always be the case. The leagues will have to police their players in response to fan criticism. There's talk of this already. Later, we expect, retired players will write tell-all books. Our influence within the sport, if simply by means of steroids, would fade.

How does this change our recruiting? Xiang asked.

We need more than skinny Latin lads who want to bulk up and hit home runs.

But talent will always find its way to the top, regardless of the position. Will it not?

If this were just about baseball, perhaps, said the man, shooing a fly from the table.

That's our business—baseball, said Xiang, stating what he thought was an obvious truism. He waited for the man to agree within the natural pace of their conversation. When he didn't, Xiang became uncomfortable.

Mr. Xiang, said the man after a long moment, "you cannot read War and Peace in one sitting, and I cannot explain our organization's master plan before you finish your ice tea. So, I will tell you what you need to know at this time. All right?"

Yes, sir.

Bao Xiang, twenty-eight at the time, had become more restless with each passing year while working for the Enterprise. An uncle on the Chinese mainland had helped him meet the men who eventually offered him his position as a sports agent in Colombia. He'd interviewed first in California, after graduating from the University of San Francisco, and a year later in Colombia, after he'd moved there with his parents as evidence, he wanted the position they'd dangled.

We will focus on young amateur athletes who idolize their professionals, said the man, sounding like a British foreign secretary. The younger the better. They will become our end users in the future.

Middle schoolers? asked Xiang.

Yes, of course, high school athletes also. But we won't be pushing performance enhancers.

What then?

"Mood enhancers, Mr. Xiang. The players we move into the minor leagues in the future will endorse euphoria. Everyone likes euphoria."

I'm confused, said Xiang. American kids can buy stuff to get high on street corners already.

Some can. Some do. But without much effect beyond the underprivileged.

"So, how are we getting to overprivileged kids?"

We'll continue to use the players for distribution, but they'll need to function more like ambassadors rather than idols whose stats are the attraction. Understand?

I think so.

To be more specific, we're adding ‘personality' to a list of character traits we want to screen for.

Personality?

Salesmanship, hutzpah, charisma. The capacity goes by many names. Our future athletes will need to be influencers, not simply delivery boys. You'll need to become more selective. Find us the next Roberto Clemente, the man continued, but with the charisma of Muhammed Ali.

Well, I'm glad to know this before my next trip to the Dominican, said Xiang. I wouldn't want to sign the next Clemente or Edgar Renteria if he couldn't win over a room full of twelve-year-olds seeking his autograph.

You jest? Do not jest with me about this, Mr. Xiang, said the Brit. Your peers in our network do not jest. They are grateful and excellent listeners. They recognize when an opportunity to make themselves more valuable presents itself. Then they execute. Are you such a man, Mr. Xiang?

I am.

Good. Then I expect you'll embrace this higher-level mission.

But if I may ask, why such a focus on baseball players? Isn't the organization concerned with other societal groups: artists, engineers?

"Of course, what we do is only part of a broader effort. In all areas we are coming at them through what they care about, and they certainly care about baseball. It's such a part of their ‘Americana.'" He said the word with a sneer.

Then perhaps, if I better understood the big picture—the goals of the organization—it would help me in recruiting ideal ‘ambassador' candidates.

All right, Mr. Xiang. I will indulge you, but remember, with added knowledge comes higher risk for you, should we ever question your allegiance.

I understand, said Xiang, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Increasing drug use in the American population moves their do-gooders to micromanage users' treatment options. This also appeals to Big Pharma, in which, by the way, we are also heavily invested.

Xiang nodded.

Ultimately, we will rule them, and we'd rather have a nation of victims in treatment programs than millions of Rambos going to shooting ranges on the weekends.

That I can understand.

"Minorities from low-income or limited educational backgrounds are easy. To crumble the middle class will require finesse. We're working on the mission from several angles. Baseball is our little piece of the puzzle. It's an important bridge."

The Brit leaned back and clenched his hands behind his head as if ready to take a nap. We across the pond, he continued, used to admire ourselves like the Americans do now. Pax Britannica and all that. Oh, well. Never mind.

You don't like the Americans very much.

Sitting up straight, the man crossed his arms before saying, Who I like is of no consequence, his words now more clipped. The Americans are simply an impediment to our mission, for now.

They dismantled the Berlin Wall. No one thought that would ever happen. Are you sure this mission will succeed?

The Soviets tried to impose their will with a steel fist. We will guide the world into compliance with a velvet glove.

Who are we to admire then, asked Xiang, when this is all accomplished?

That, I expect, will be revealed in the fullness of time, as the preachers say.

Xiang nodded as if in agreement then said, Thank you, sir. I have no more questions.

Good, said the Brit, looking off toward his waiting airplane. Then I've accomplished what I came here to communicate.

Changing the subject, Xiang asked, Will you be staying here on the island for dinner tonight?

No. I'm on a tight schedule today. I have a meeting tonight in Miami.

Oh, I see, said Xiang, feigning disappointment.

The Brit stood and adjusted his hat, making sure the brim shielded his eyes from the sun.

Good day, Mr. Xiang, he said. Please keep me informed of any progress you make toward our new objectives.

Xiang nodded. Before he could think of a closing remark, the man without a name turned and walked back across the tarmac to the waiting Learjet 55.

Part 1

Chapter One

The American Dream hung on at the start of the second decade of the twenty-first century, still understood as an ideal throughout many communities large and small. But behind some ivy-covered walls, inside electrified perimeters, and within power circles, both foreign and domestic, the Dream was in trouble. In these bastions, well-educated persons proclaimed they'd found a better way to inspire populations.

In cities and towns like McCall, Idaho, the Dream became redefined by some as hope and change. Still, it continued to inspire. Middle-class Marys and Joes worked more than one job to get ahead. On cold January days, those who remembered home runs, no-hitters, and steals of home looked forward, as they always did, to another spring, when life would begin again, on baseball's opening day.

* * *

McCall, Idaho

January 2012

Vic Jennings stomped the wet snow from his shoes on the doormat's short stiff bristles. Unlocking the front door, he entered the apartment and closed the door, shutting out the cold of the January afternoon. Even though he'd just been fired from his main job, selling timeshares at the Timberline Lodge, Vic felt happy to be home. He was a newlywed, still basking in the glow of finding his soul mate.

The living room curtains were drawn closed. Vic turned on the overhead light. Where's the furniture? he called out. The big screen was gone and the rose-patterned couch. He'd been reluctant to sit on it and its companion chair. The small living room stood empty as the day they moved in. He took off his gloves, stocking cap, and jacket and tossed them on the floor. Courtney? he shouted.

Paying a last shiver to the winter outside, Vic kicked off his loafers. He walked the short distance toward their bedroom, fluffing out his matted brown hair in anticipation of finding Courtney napping. When he opened the door to their bedroom, a single pillow atop their queen-size mattress looked up at him. Without its mate and the ivory comforter, the pillow seemed to say I don't know where she is.

Vic took out his phone and checked the time—4:10 p.m. Then his phone chirped. Hello, he answered.

Is this Mr. Victor Jennings? said a man's voice.

Yes, speaking.

Mr. Jennings, I'm Mr. Karutz, from Antler State Credit Union. I'm calling about your joint checking account you and your wife have with us.

Yes? said Vic.

Is your wife with you?

Just a minute. Vic checked the bathroom. There was nowhere else to look.

His own face in the mirror looked the same. Clean-shaven. Green eyes. Strong chin. He could see his jaw clench. What the fuck? he whispered. Returning to the bedroom, he held the phone to his ear. No, she's not here, he said. What's the problem?

We're holding several bad checks for insufficient funds that came in today. They all have your wife's signature. He said it as if he didn't have a wife.

How much are the checks for? Vic asked.

They total twelve hundred and seventy-five dollars.

Can I authorize you over the phone to transfer funds from our savings account to cover the overdrafts?

You could, Mr. Jennings, but your joint savings account only has a balance of twenty dollars.

That can't be right, said Vic.

Your wife made a sizeable withdrawal yesterday. I'm sorry, Mr. Jennings. Perhaps you should come in tomorrow morning and we can discuss a personal loan to cover the shortfall.

All right, I'll do that.

Thank you, Mr. Jennings.

Vic disconnected the call then stood up, thinking next he should look in the bedroom closet and her dresser drawers. Courtney's clothes were gone.

The next morning

Mr. Karutz stared from across his desk like a perturbed librarian as Vic pledged his car as collateral. Here, you might need these, he said after Vic had signed and initialed in all the right places.

Thank you, said Vic, for helping me out with this.

Then, armed with complimentary copies of Courtney's bad checks, Vic drove his deflated ego to the McCall Police Department.

Could your wife have returned the furniture to the place you bought it? asked Officer Blumen from behind his desk. The policeman with a Rollie Fingers mustache looked down at his notes. Chalmers's Home Furnishings? he added.

No. I called them this morning, said Vic. According to them, I still own the stuff. So, what's she guilty of? Defrauding a husband?

"We simply call it theft, Mr. Jennings. Some states call it larceny. If the items she took total more than $1,000, or if it's part of a pattern of behavior, it becomes grand theft."

The furniture and the TV are worth about fifteen hundred. The bad checks come to just under another fifteen hundred. And she emptied our savings account, just under four thousand.

Grand theft territory, definitely. Do you have a picture of Courtney?

Vic pulled a photo of the two of them on their honeymoon from his wallet.

A beautiful redhead, said the policeman as he stared at the photograph. She looks like Emma Stone. When was this taken?

Last October on our honeymoon, outside a wedding chapel in Coer d'Alene.

How long did you know Courtney before you got married?

A couple months.

A whirlwind romance?

Yeah. That it was. Vic took a deep breath. And she was pregnant.

Are you sure? Did you see a sonogram of the fetus?

Yes. She showed it to me. She said it was going to be a boy. I wanted to do the right thing, and our relationship was solid.

So you think she became pregnant when? asked the policeman.

Vic thought for a moment. Sometime in early September, he said, I guess.

Did your wife appear pregnant to you the last time you saw her?

Hard to say. Not really. She's been wearing looser clothing lately.

"Mr. Jennings, I suspect Courtney was and is not pregnant. We had a report of a similar case in Portland last year. The woman used the urine of a pregnant friend to obtain a positive pregnancy test and paid for someone else's ultrasound picture. She used the pregnancy test to obtain public benefits from Oregon's Department of Social Services."

Vic thought of himself as street-smart. Yet he'd been duped, taken for a sucker. How? he wondered. He hadn't been looking for a close relationship. Of course he'd relished all the benefits. It had been a while. Did I forget what not to say, he wondered. Ever since he broke up with Dee Dee, the blond bombshell, a dozen years ago, what not to say was the rule he lived by when it came to dating. Dee Dee from Massachusetts had been an all-in proponent of Michael Dukakis. When Bush Senior trounced him in the presidential election that year, Vic made a few I told you so quips, and that was it. Dee Dee never forgave him for being so insensitive.

Since then, through two decades of bachelorhood, his relationships were perfunctory and short-lived. Until Courtney. She'd come out of left field, literally—an angel walking in from the outfield grass after a night game he umpired last summer.

How could I have been such a fool? asked Vic out loud, snapping himself out of his reverie.

Don't feel like the Lone Ranger, Mr. Jennings. You're not the first older guy to fall for a young hottie, said the policeman.

She really played me. So, what happens now?

We'll open a case file on Mrs. Courtney Jennings, alias Courtney Fletcher, but realistically, the chances of her being apprehended are remote.

She's probably wearing a wig on a bus to Reno by now, said Vic. What ever happened to the long arm of the law?

Officer Blumen held up his palms toward the ceiling and shrugged. What are you doing for the rest of the day? he asked.

Looking for a job. I've got lovely rose-patterned furniture to pay off. And then I'm going to Confession, on a barstool. I've got six months of my life I have to atone for.

What's your line of work? asked the officer.

I've been selling timeshares out at Timberline Lodge, but they let me go yesterday.

Yesterday? Jeez, what did you do, piss off the Almighty?

We haven't been speaking lately, so, I really don't know.

Do you own a laptop?

No, said Vic, patting his jacket pocket. Just my trusty Motorola android. Why, do you think I should try online dating?

That made the cop laugh.

No, I think you should check out Craigslist and eBay. Might find some of your stuff listed. Wouldn't hurt. Tell you what, I'll set you up at one of our empty cubicles and you can browse the web a bit while I get the file finished and uploaded.

Oh, all right. That's kind of you, said Vic.

They both stood up. Vic forced a smile.

C'mon, follow me, said the officer. How do you take your coffee?

* * *

Vic slid into a chair in front of a computer screen. Officer Blumen leaned in and hit the space bar to rouse the computer from sleep.

She's all yours, he said.

The resort town of McCall didn't rate its own Craigslist, so Vic typed in Boise Craigslist and began looking for furniture. By the time Blumen returned with a cup of coffee, he'd given up and moved on to eBay.

Find anything? asked the officer.

No furniture, but look at this.

Blumen leaned in. What is it? A baseball?

That, said Vic, is my genuine autographed Hank Aaron home run baseball. I thought I lost it in the move when Courtney and I decided to cohabitate.

Maybe she was testing you already back then, to see if you missed it.

Vic sighed and leaned back. Yeah, she probably was. Damn.

* * *

Ordering three sliders and a side of slaw, Vic contemplated his next move. Of all the diners, dives, and sports bars in McCall, that night he chose Second Base. Their food was decent, and he knew Earl, the bartender.

After Earl turned in Vic's order, he came back, ready to kibitz. His long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back and constrained into a low ponytail.

What's up, Vic? Haven't seen you since…

The club tournament in Boise last summer.

Yeah, that's right. Whatcha been up to?

I'm thinkin' of pulling up stakes, Earl, finding a new field of dreams.

Move? Out of McCall?

Uh-huh.

You can't move, said Earl. My kid's gonna be a starting pitcher on varsity next year. He says you're the best umpire, the fairest.

Earl stepped away to grab a bucket of ice from a fresh-faced bar back.

A fair umpire? Yes, I'm that, thought Vic, among other things. Over the years, he'd cobbled together an eclectic mix of avocations: telemarketing salesman, radio DJ, amateur umpire. And he'd been good at all of them. At least he thought he was. Who helped break an unknown UK band into national stardom from a little radio station in Podunk Colorado? He did. Who sold a collection of rare Spanish coins to a retired Yale professor? He did. Who counseled a gangly kid pitching for the Grand Junction Rockies of the Pioneer League on how to mix up his pitches? He did.

Vic wondered if he could claim a Michelangelo as a job description to encompass all his exploits over the last two decades. No, he decided.

Hey, Earl, he called out. Bring me another Pilsner, please.

Here you go, Ump, said Earl a moment later, delivering a frosted golden glass. He seemed ready to continue their conversation.

Yeah, well, wherever I end up, I'll keep umping, said Vic. It's in my blood.

Better than drugs, said Earl.

You got that right. Besides, umpiring lets me sublimate my natural tendencies.

Earl squinted and scratched his beard. Translate to English please, he said. I barely passed Psych 101.

I like calling balls and strikes, Vic explained. "I can't do it with women, so I do it behind the plate. You can tell a woman when she throws a strike, so to speak, but never a ball. If you do—"

"She'll bust your balls," said Earl.

Right. Exactly.

Earl snagged a towel and began wiping off the bar beside Vic. Without looking up, he said, I thought you were married to some hot young chick.

I was. Until yesterday.

What happened?

She crossed me up. I was expecting a nice slow curve, easing into the future. Instead, she threw me a high hard one, and I fanned.

I don't understand, said Earl.

It's probably better that you don't. I want my reputation intact if I do leave town. We were just another May and September romance that didn't work out. She wasn't what I thought she was.

That's too bad, Vic. What are you gonna do until the snow melts? Don't tell me you're dining in here every night.

No, while you're waiting on those folks that just walked in, said Vic, gesturing toward two young couples now filling up the other end of the bar, I'm gonna call the only person who probably still loves me.

Who might that be? asked Earl.

My only living relative, my kid sister.

Earl nodded and sauntered off.

Vic pulled out his phone and found Becky's number in his list of contacts. He hadn't called her since the wedding. She answered after three rings.

How's life in Kennewick? asked Vic.

Vic?

"Yeah, it's me, your big brother. Thought I might come and visit you.