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of his abilities and defiance about her own, as though she were daring him to dismiss her. He was trying not to judge her by her looks, but so far the effort was failing. He could tell she knew it.
    â€œPour yourself a drink, Mr. Skarda,” Heather said. She said it politely, while demonstrating that she wasn’t there as a cocktail waitress.
    â€œIt’s Sam,” he reminded her. “And I’d be happy to. It’s been a busy day.”
    He put ice cubes into a glass and found a bottle of Woodford Reserve on the liquor hutch. He poured himself a couple of fingers, took a sip, and sat down in a chair opposite the couch.
    â€œI don’t drink on the job,” Sam said, in case his prospective employers were wondering.
    â€œThat’s not iced tea in your glass,” Heather said.
    â€œI haven’t taken the job yet,” Sam said. “What’s this about?”
    Kenwood pulled a black envelope from inside his suit coat pocket and put it on the table in front of Sam. Sam reached over, picked it up, and read the extortion note in white ink that was signed by “Babe Ruth.” He put it back on the table.
    â€œHas that been dusted for fingerprints yet?”
    â€œNo,” Kenwood said. “I don’t dare show it to anybody. I don’t think I can trust anyone to read the message and not tell someone about it.”
    â€œI can do it for you, if I can get my hands on a fingerprint kit,” Sam said. “If there are any prints on it besides yours and mine, I could lift them and send a scan to a friend of mine with the Minneapolis cops. He wouldn’t have to see the note.”
    â€œNo,” Kenwood said. “I’m afraid someone would talk. Whoever wrote that note is right: A gambling scandal would devastate baseball, and ruin what I’ve—what we have built here.”
    Sam took another glance around the office, which seemed to be a shrine to Lucky Louie Kenwood as much as it was to baseball or the Red Sox. No doubt a gambling scandal would seriously damage the game, but it was Kenwood who would be devastated.
    â€œIt would be like the Curse was never broken,” Heather said.
    â€œWell, you’ve won twice now,” Sam said.
    â€œThe first one was the one that changed everything,” Kenwood said. His voice nearly cracked with emotion. “If this—this lie—should become public, the press would tear that accomplishment to shreds. The newspapers, the twenty-four-hour cable channels—every day for weeks, for months, the story would be about investigations, gambling, and cheating. Here we’ve put together the best organization in the game. We’re finally on top. Instead of celebrating our success, we’d spend all our time defending ourselves, while the media digs through our garbage.”
    â€œYou know how the press is,” Heather said. “They’d start questioning everything that’s happened here since 2004.”
    â€œWe beat the Rockies so easily, they’d probably start investigating that one, too,” Kenwood said.
    â€œThe fans would stay with you.”
    â€œIf anyone’s more cynical than the Boston writers, it’s the Boston fans,” Kenwood said. “On top of everything else that’s happened to this franchise, a thrown World Series would be ten times worse. I can’t put our city and our fans through that.”
    â€œAny reason to think it’s true?” Sam asked. He held Kenwood in his gaze while he took another sip of his bourbon.
    â€œNone,” Kenwood said. “We won that trophy fair and square.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Sam asked. “Maybe the Babe knows something you don’t.”
    â€œThat’s your professional advice—that we should pay this guy off?” Heather said.
    â€œCan you afford it?”
    â€œTheoretically, I can,” Kenwood said. “But $50,000,000 is a lot of money, even for me, Mr. Skarda.