suit was talking to them. The man gestured wildly, smiling and enthusiastic and as enraptured with life as the new bom-again on the block. Myron recognized him. Sawyer Wells, the motivational speaker ne con man of the moment. Two years ago Wells was an unknown charlatan, spouting the standard reworded dogma about finding yourself, unlocking your potential, doing something for yourself-as though people weren't self-centered enough. His big break came when the Mayors hired him to do talks for their workforce. The speeches were, if not original, successful, and Sawyer Wells caught on. He got a book deal-cleverly monikered The Wells Guide to Wellness-along with an infomercial, audi-otapes, video, a planner, the full self-help schematic. Fortune 500 companies started hiring him. When the Mayors took over the Yankees, they brought him on board as a consulting motivational psychologist or some such drivel.

When Sawyer Wells spotted Win, he almost started panting.

"He smells a new client," Myron said.

"Or perhaps he's never seen anyone quite this handsome before."

"Oh, yeah," Myron said. "That's probably it."

Wells turned back to the players, shouted out a bit more enthusiasm, spasmed with gestures, clapped once, and then bade them good-bye. He looked back over at Win. He waved. He waved hard. Then he started bounding over like a puppy chasing a new squeaky toy or a politician chasing a potential contributor.

Win frowned. "In a word, decaf."

Myron nodded.

"You want me to befriend him?" Win asked.

"He was supposedly present for the drug tests. And he's also the team psychologist. He probably hears a lot of rumors."

"Fine," Win said. "You take the roommate. I'll take Sawyer."

Enos Cabral was a good-looking wiry Cuban with a flame-throwing fastball and breaking pitches that still needed work. He was twenty-four, but he had the kind of looks that probably got him carded at any liquor store. He stood watching batting practice, his body slack except for his mouth. Like most jelief pitchers, he chewed gum or tobacco with the ferocity of a lion gnawing on a recently downed gazelle.

Myron introduced himself.

Enos shook his hand and said, "I know who you are."

"Oh?"

"Clu talked about you a lot. He thought I should sign with you."

A pang. "Clu said that?"

"I wanted a change," Enos continued. "My agent. He treats me well, no? And he made me a rich man."

"I don't mean to knock the importance of good representation, Enos, but you made you a rich man. An agent facilitates. He doesn't create."

Enos nodded. "You know my story?"

The thumbnail sketch. The boat trip had been rough. Very rough. For a week everyone had assumed they had been lost at sea. When they finally did pop up, only two of the eight Cubans were still alive. One of the dead was Enos's brother Hector, considered the best player to come out of Cuba in the past decade. Enos, considered the lesser talent, was nearly dead of dehydration.

"Just what I've read in the papers," Myron said.

"My agent. He was there when I arrived. I had family in Miami. When he heard about the Cabral brothers, he loaned them money. He paid for my hospital stay. He gave me money and jewelry and a car. He promised me more money. And I have it."

"So what's the problem?"

"He has no soul."

"You want an agent with a soul?"

Enos shrugged. "I'm Catholic," he said. "We believe in miracles."

They both laughed.

Enos seemed to be studying Myron. "Clu was always suspicious of people. Even me. He had something of a hardshell."

"I know," Myron said.

"But he believed in you. He said you were a good man. He said that he had trusted you with his life and would gladly do so again."

Another pang. "Clu was also a lousy judge of character."

"I don't think so."

"Enos, I wanted to talk to you about Clu's last few weeks."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you came here to recruit me."

"No," Myron said. Then: "But have you heard the expression killing two birds with one stone?"

Enos laughed. "What do you want to know?"

"Were you surprised when Clu failed the drug test?"

He picked up a bat. He gripped and regripped it in his hands. Finding the right groove. Funny. He was an American League pitcher. He would probably never have the opportunity to bat. "I have trouble understanding addictions," he said. "Where I come from, yes, a man may try to drink away his world, if he can afford it. You live in such stink, why not leave, no? But here, when you have as much as Clu had..."

He didn't finish the thought. No