basketball team in the hands of the Fulton Fucking Connecticut Police Department.”
“Then hire yourself a private investigator.”
“Going with a private investigator I don’t know is the same as going with lawyers I don’t know,” Salter said. “I know you. And I know I can trust you. You were a schmuck when you were a player.You were with the Yankees ten minutes and you were running all that union shit in the clubhouse like you were Jimmy Hoffa. But everybody said you were an honest schmuck.”
“Honest has nothing to do with it,” DiMaggio said. “It’s all juice.
Jurisdiction.
You’re not listening here. When I was with Dowd on the Pete Rose thing, we
were
the cops. Baseball commissioners used to run baseball like the commies ran Russia. People had to talk to me. You talk about the Mets thing? The ballplayers that girl accused, they
still
haven’t talked to the cops. Your guys aren’t going to help the cops, and they’re sure as shit not going to help me.”
“They work for me,” Salter said. “I’m old-fashioned enough to think that still counts for something.”
DiMaggio said, “That’s not the way these assholes look at it. They think you’re just another rich guy put on this earth to take care of them.”
They went around and around, Salter saying he wasn’t going to hire a private investigator, he didn’t trust goddamn lawyers, he wanted a pro. Salter saying he’d want DiMaggio to work alone, he didn’t want the whole thing turning into the leak-a-thon—Salter’s expression—the O. J. Simpson case had been from the start. And Salter finally saying he’d overpay if he had to, at least fly up from Florida and talk to him in person. Which DiMaggio finally said he’d do. Salter had been out in California when he called; he flew back on the Fukiko jet. DiMaggio caught the early Delta out of West Palm. They met in DiMaggio’s suite at the Sherry-Netherland. DiMaggio always stayed there. There were flashier New York hotels, but he liked the suite they always gave him at the Sherry, one of the two they had with a piano. Sometimes DiMaggio had to travel with his little pack-up baby Yamaha keyboard if he wanted to play, but he didn’t like to use it if he didn’t have to, it always made him feel like some dufus accordion player with Lawrence Welk.
Salter sat at the dining table and sold him on taking the case.
Salter said, “I’m not looking for you to acquit or convict. I don’t need something from you that will stand up in court or in front of a jury or as some kind of show on Court TV. I want to know what happened that night. If Adair and Collins did it, I want to be able to hand them your report at the end and say, ‘Here it is.’ And I want tomake sure that my Japs are prepared in the event this woman brings some kind of civil action against us down the road. If they didn’t do it and you can prove it to my satisfaction, I want as much ammo as possible.”
Salter moved his coffee cup out of the way, leaning forward, cuff links making clicking noises on the glass tabletop, like he’d had this sudden rush of being earnest, the big guy playing the big guy now in the Sherry. He had blond hair slicked back and tiny round tortoiseshell glasses and what looked to DiMaggio to be a tanning-salon tan.
DiMaggio thought: another one of the yuppie gangsters who had taken over sports.
Salter said, “Adair is as much a representative of Fukiko as the star of any television series. He has a cartoon show of his own on Saturday mornings, for chrissakes. NBC did a prime-time special last season built around his goddamn birthday. So you have my backing on this, and the parent company’s. Richie Collins is just a sideman here, believe me. A nobody. We’re worried about Adair. If you can prove he raped this woman to our satisfaction, he’s out of here. We’ll get somebody else to dunk the fucking ball.”
“There’s something you ought to know,” DiMaggio said. “They probably
“Then hire yourself a private investigator.”
“Going with a private investigator I don’t know is the same as going with lawyers I don’t know,” Salter said. “I know you. And I know I can trust you. You were a schmuck when you were a player.You were with the Yankees ten minutes and you were running all that union shit in the clubhouse like you were Jimmy Hoffa. But everybody said you were an honest schmuck.”
“Honest has nothing to do with it,” DiMaggio said. “It’s all juice.
Jurisdiction.
You’re not listening here. When I was with Dowd on the Pete Rose thing, we
were
the cops. Baseball commissioners used to run baseball like the commies ran Russia. People had to talk to me. You talk about the Mets thing? The ballplayers that girl accused, they
still
haven’t talked to the cops. Your guys aren’t going to help the cops, and they’re sure as shit not going to help me.”
“They work for me,” Salter said. “I’m old-fashioned enough to think that still counts for something.”
DiMaggio said, “That’s not the way these assholes look at it. They think you’re just another rich guy put on this earth to take care of them.”
They went around and around, Salter saying he wasn’t going to hire a private investigator, he didn’t trust goddamn lawyers, he wanted a pro. Salter saying he’d want DiMaggio to work alone, he didn’t want the whole thing turning into the leak-a-thon—Salter’s expression—the O. J. Simpson case had been from the start. And Salter finally saying he’d overpay if he had to, at least fly up from Florida and talk to him in person. Which DiMaggio finally said he’d do. Salter had been out in California when he called; he flew back on the Fukiko jet. DiMaggio caught the early Delta out of West Palm. They met in DiMaggio’s suite at the Sherry-Netherland. DiMaggio always stayed there. There were flashier New York hotels, but he liked the suite they always gave him at the Sherry, one of the two they had with a piano. Sometimes DiMaggio had to travel with his little pack-up baby Yamaha keyboard if he wanted to play, but he didn’t like to use it if he didn’t have to, it always made him feel like some dufus accordion player with Lawrence Welk.
Salter sat at the dining table and sold him on taking the case.
Salter said, “I’m not looking for you to acquit or convict. I don’t need something from you that will stand up in court or in front of a jury or as some kind of show on Court TV. I want to know what happened that night. If Adair and Collins did it, I want to be able to hand them your report at the end and say, ‘Here it is.’ And I want tomake sure that my Japs are prepared in the event this woman brings some kind of civil action against us down the road. If they didn’t do it and you can prove it to my satisfaction, I want as much ammo as possible.”
Salter moved his coffee cup out of the way, leaning forward, cuff links making clicking noises on the glass tabletop, like he’d had this sudden rush of being earnest, the big guy playing the big guy now in the Sherry. He had blond hair slicked back and tiny round tortoiseshell glasses and what looked to DiMaggio to be a tanning-salon tan.
DiMaggio thought: another one of the yuppie gangsters who had taken over sports.
Salter said, “Adair is as much a representative of Fukiko as the star of any television series. He has a cartoon show of his own on Saturday mornings, for chrissakes. NBC did a prime-time special last season built around his goddamn birthday. So you have my backing on this, and the parent company’s. Richie Collins is just a sideman here, believe me. A nobody. We’re worried about Adair. If you can prove he raped this woman to our satisfaction, he’s out of here. We’ll get somebody else to dunk the fucking ball.”
“There’s something you ought to know,” DiMaggio said. “They probably
Similar Books
