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I head straight for the exit.
It’s time for a quick online search of Buck Remsen. If he checks out, I’ll be shaking the man’s hand within the hour.
***
“My ex-wife would have killed for a chance to meet you.”
It’s not the greeting I was expecting from Buck Remsen, but I’ll take it. The gray-haired man is indeed Trey Hale’s agent and if the evidence I found online of that wasn’t enough, this office is.
There are framed photographs of Buck with some of the biggest names in sports today, and yesterday. The picture of him and Hale is front and center.
His reputation for being cutthroat in negotiations on behalf of his clients was evident in the two archived New York Times articles I read on my phone during the cab ride over here.
If he had any experience in the realm of the arts, I’d be tempted to fire my representation and convince him to take me on.
“You’re not an easy guy to track down, Alex.”
I don’t mind the familiarity. Hell, I welcome it. This guy has a direct connection to Alvin’s hero. It seems that Melody was speaking the truth back at the café.
“I’m a busy man.” I laugh. “You can relate, Buck.”
“One day.” He holds a hand in the air. “One day I’ll leave this earth. That’ll be the day I relax.”
This guy is hardcore to the extreme. I try to carve out time in my schedule for relaxation at least a few times a week. My frequent visits to Phoebe’s place usually top the list when I have a spare hour or two.
I cut to the chase because I came here for one reason only and that’s not idle chatter. “When I spoke to Melody she mentioned a surprise for my nephew.”
“What’s his name?” He lifts his chin in the air. “I need the kid’s name.”
I don’t question what for because this guy represents one of the greatest pitchers to ever take to the mound. “Alvin Costa.”
He reaches for a pen and a pad of paper sitting on his desk. He writes down something. I’m going to assume it’s Alvin’s name. I take that as a good sign.
“Look, Alex.” He leans his hand against the desk. “I’m going to be straight with you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and nod, unsure of what he’s about to say. “Please. Go ahead.”
“When Trey found out that the signed jersey you bought for Alvin was stolen, he wanted to step up and do the right thing.” He glances at the framed photograph of him and Trey. “Trey loved the game when he was a kid too and he knows how much the jersey will mean to Alvin, but he wants to do more.”
“More?” I question.
“We want to get Alvin down to the park for the first game of the World Series.” He clears his throat. “I’m talking two club seats, refreshments, the jersey, a team jacket, some pennants. Hell, we’ll give the kid a ball signed by the team.”
I sense a but coming.
Buck delivers it with ease. “All we need from you is twenty minutes with Trey and a few dozen cameras. You bring Alvin to the locker room before the first pitch is thrown, we do a quick interview on camera for the local news, snap some pictures and you’re free to enjoy the game with your nephew.”
I get it. They want the opportunity to showcase Trey Hale’s benevolence. “I’ll have to run it by Alvin’s mom, but I don’t see a problem.”
He claps his hands together. “Looks like Alvin’s going to have a birthday to remember. I’ll need your direct number so we can arrange all the details.”
I text a simple, thank you, to the number Melody gave me at the café.
Buck’s phone beeps. “Got it. I’ll be in touch, Alex.”
It’s my cue to leave, but I’m not about to. I welcome the effort he’s putting in to make Alvin’s birthday one for the record books, but I want to know who the hell is behind this.
I wait a beat and then casually ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to since I walked into this office and saw the picture of Hale on the wall. “How did you hear about the stolen jersey, Buck?”
