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his own. They all sat. “You’re probably wondering why we brought Harvey down here from Boston.”
    “I was?”
    “Well, in any case, you may be seeing a lot of him. Harvey’s a licensed private investigator.”
    “Wait a second,” Harvey said. “I haven’t agreed—”
    “Of course not,” Marshall said, making a meaningless adjustment of his eyeglasses.
    “I’m a little confused,” Moss said.
    “You’re not alone,” said Harvey.
    “Wait a second.” Moss looked from Marshall to Harvey and back. “You want him to look after me?”
    “With your permission,” Felix said. “Look, I think we all agreed yesterday that, for the time being, the less attention we call to this thing the better. You know what the press would do with something like this.”
    Moss nodded. “For the Chihuahuas it’s like fuckin’ crack.”
    “And we agree, if I’m not mistaken,” Marshall added, “that we don’t want to involve the Providence police.”
    “They’ll talk to the Chihuahuas.”
    “Plus, once this gets out, you’ve got to worry about the copycats getting into the action,” Marshall added. “We need to handle this quietly, if we can, and let you go about your business.”
    Harvey listened, looking at the box.
    “We’re going to do a routine security upgrade here at the park,” Felix said. “But we’re mum about the threat, right?”
    “That’s right,” Moss said. “Let’s keep it low.”
    There was a knock at the door. Marshall and Felix quickly exchanged looks and shrugs. “Who’s there?” Marshall called out.
    “Mickey Slavin. I’m looking for Harvey Blissberg.”
    Harvey was out of his chair in an instant, opening the door only a foot or so. “Hi,” he whispered.
    “Can I come in?” She asked. Her complexion was orange from her TV makeup.
    “Not right now.”
    “Who’s in there?”
    “Nobody.”
    Mickey craned her head for a better look. “That looks like the back of Moss Cooley’s head.”
    “It’s not.”
    “Bliss, what’s going on?”
    “Nothing. We’ll talk later.”
    “Okay. Meet you at Haven Brothers?”
    “Give me an hour.”
    “Okay. Bliss, that’s the back of Moss Cooley’s head.”
    “Whatever.”
    “And, if I’m not mistaken, that’s Felix Shalhoub’s leg.”
    “No comment.”
    “And you’re in Marshall Levy’s skybox office.”
    “That I can’t deny.”
    “Something’s going on.”
    “We’re having a motivation meeting. I’ll see you in an hour.”
    When Harvey sat back down, Moss was shaking his head, muttering, “Chihuahua.”
    “More like a fox,” said Marshall Levy. “Is she going to be a problem, Professor?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Nobody can know about this, not even Mickey.”
    “She won’t be a problem.”
    “You two an item?” Moss said.
    “More like a deeply flawed long-term proposition.”
    “Then I apologize for my comment.”
    “Forget it,” Harvey said. “I don’t like the press, either. Now where were we?”
    “The cops,” Marshall said.
    Moss shook his head. “No way.”
    “Exactly,” Felix said.
    “Not until we know what we’re dealing with,” Marshall said. “Which is where Harvey comes in.”
    “Anyway, Harvey was a private investigator after he left baseball,” Felix explained to Cooley. “Till he entered the lucrative world of motivational speaking. But we’d like him to keep an eye on you.”
    “I don’t need a bodyguard,” Moss said.
    “Just think of him as handling the situation,” Marshall said calmly. “Officially, we’d be bringing him on as a motivational coach. You’d have to go along with that. Look, Cool, there’s just too much at stake. You’ve got a chance to make history.”
    Harvey coughed lightly. “What’s in the box?”
    “Yes, the box,” Marshall said, standing, placing his hands ceremoniously on top of it, as if it were the Torah or something. The box had no markings on it. “Two nights ago, someone dropped it off outside the gate to the player’s parking lot. It