La Romana, Republica Dominicana

       “He’s a feisty bastard... mouth like a toilet. For a kid in his teens, he’s got the vocabulary of an old sailor. Sure you can handle him? Get him outta here with no problems?”

       The confident smile answers. The words aren’t really heard. The sports reporter is distracted, dazzled by the combination of the woman’s size and beauty.

       “The government here has been most cooperative, Harry. It seems dead relatives can depart the country more easily than live ones... with the right emolument.”

       “Yeah. The dollar talks here... real loud.”

       “What time is the game? I will need to be alone with him. Say thirty minutes.”

       “The game isn’t until tonight. Jay Handley isn’t even pitching. He’s in the locker room using the hot tub.”

       “And he meets our standards?”

       The sports writer cackles with his response.

       “Interviewed him enough times coming out of the showers. He’s hung.”

       The woman smiles. Though the reply is crass, his summation interposes images that place her in the right frame of mind for the task at hand.

       “What’s in that bag? Looks heavy.”

       Heavier than Harry can guess. The woman’s inordinate strength makes the nearly fifty pound load appear only partially burdensome.

       “Your cash, of course.”

       The duo enter the locker room of the baseball stadium. Modest yet sizeable, the Dominican league is quite popular on the Caribbean’s second largest island. Thus games draw crowds not only from the local population but typically from the city of the visiting team as well. Therefore steady attendance is assured, the teams are financially sound and quality players can be procured for winter play.

       Down a hallway, the sports writer pushes open a door, ignoring the sign in English and Spanish suggesting that only ‘Authorized Personnel’ enter. The cacophonous words of some Blue Grass song echo about the cinder block walls. Jay Handley sings in the hot tub... and not well.

       The sports writer leads to the tiled shower room where a stainless steel vessel holds hundreds of gallons of steamy, swirling water... and one promising young baseball pitcher.

       “Jay, I got you some stuff!” the reporter yells over the din of machine and insonorous lyrics.

       Gratefully, the words end.

       “Harry! Knew you’d come through.”

       A hand flips the control lever. The bath ends. A head shaved to stubble turns. There comes a look of surprise.

       “A broad in the Azucareros locker room! And well stacked! Hot shit! This is just like the fucking big leagues!”

       The profane words are uttered by a boy. The youthful features suggest precociousness… irritating precociousness. The devilish smile and snort of laughter in response to his own reference inspire the need to slap the irksome face and apply punishing soap to tongue and lips.

       Still the woman of color politely smiles. The scatology will make her mission easier. For now she will remain demure.

       “You sure the juice can’t be detected, Harry? The major league testing is getting tighter than a virgin’s pussy!”

       “Brand new formulation,” the woman of color replies, ignoring ‘Johnny Badmouth’s’ analogy. “It will be years before this compound is reverse engineered and their computer chromatographs are programmed to discern it from simple cold medicine.”

       Handley indecorously arises from the tub... no words of pardon for his indecent exhibition. The lady is pleased to see a buffed athletic form... though the male organ is miserably shriveled with the long, relaxing soak.

       Harry retrieves a towel as the young pitcher gloats, noting the feminine examination he is undergoing. The woman does not politely deflect her gaze and he misconstrues her thorough inspection as penis envy. He must consider himself quite the cocksman, the woman concludes. She will enjoy his comeuppance.

       “See something you like, sweet cheeks? Chocolate was my first ice cream. You like vanilla?” 

       “Oh, yes. I’m always curious about white dick,” the woman mimicking to verbally parry using the same brutish cadence.

       The sports writer offers the towel.

       “Don’t bother on my account, Harry. No sense covering what I’m going to need to access.”

       “‘Access’ my ass!”

       “Exactly, Mr. Handley. Injecting the large muscle of the buttocks offers the best intervention... particularly for the first dose.”

       “So you’ve got it with you?”

       “Right here in this bag.”

       “I’m pitching day after tomorrow. Scouts from the states will be here. Think it’ll make a difference?”

       “Can’t hurt, Mr. Handley.”

       “I need that extra two or three miles on the fast ball... know what I mean. At my age I could be at 100 miles per hour by the time I’m 21. Lot’s of dough.”

       “You’ll be a star. High paid. And the locker room will be full of well stacked broads.”

       The woman plays along, feeding the ego.

       “Let’s go for it! Harry paid you?”

       “For a week’s dosage. But there will be more to come.”

       Harry has taken money from Jay Handley to procure performance enhancing human growth hormones. He has also been paid to make Jay Handley accessible to the woman of color. The burned out, talentless writer is having a lucrative day.

       “Money’s no object. Three major league teams are bidding for me like I’m a fucking prized bull stud.”

       The woman smiles with the auction analogy. There will be other bidders... in time.

       “Lie on the massage table for me. I’ll make sure I hit a spot which won’t cramp a muscle.”

       A naked Jay Handley moves as suggested. With him lying prostrate, the woman teasingly smoothes her hand over his buttocks. Firm. Well shaped. Working him will be a treat.

       “I know you want to fucking kiss it, sweet cheeks. I’m a star performer.”

       The woman opens her bag, smiling with the continuing opprobr