"Fats, I think that I'll be hanging up my spikes after this season."

Vernon "Fats" Miller was the team's veteran catcher, who was generally viewed as having forgotten more about baseball than anyone else on the team had ever known -- probably including the head coach. So it was to be expected that the younger players oft-times turned to him for advice.

Fats stared out the window of the team's refurbished, bright-red school bus that trundled them across the backroads of America's heartland, from one flea-bag hotel -- and three-game series --  to the next. Such was life in the minors. After a short spell of silence, during which time Fats spat a stream of tobacco juice out the window, he turned to face Sam. The veteran's expression was serious, with a touch of sadness. It was always tough to tell a kid that it was time for him to give up on his dream.

"I think you got the right of it, Jackrabbit," Vernon said. "Jackrabbit" was Sam's team nickname, because of his speed in chasing down fly balls in the outfield and when running the base-paths, as well as his ability to change directions on a dime and give back a nickel in change. Vernon knew that the kid was plenty smart, too, but "Brains" wasn't as cool a name as "Jackrabbit".

"You got plenty of talent -- just not enough to get you into the Bigs. If you ain't careful, you'll spend the next ten or twelve years of your life doin' this," here Vernon waved his hand dismissively at the dirty, smelly interior of the bus that probably should have been sent to the junkyard and scrapped ten years ago, "and have to retire with nuthin' to show for it. If you stay healthy -- which ain't a given -- you might make it to Triple-A . . . no better'n that."

Sam nodded his head glumly. He had been hoping that Fats would try to talk him out of it, try to convince him that he had what it took to be a major-leaguer. But it seemed that he didn't, because Vernon hadn't.

"If 'twas me in your shoes, I'd head to one of the coasts -- east or west." Vernon thought for a moment and spoke again after spitting some more tobacco juice out the window. "West coast, definitely. Maybe L.A. The weather is a helluva lot better out there -- it never rains or snows -- it's nice an' warm year-round, and the girls is prettier. What's not to like?"

Sam was a midwestern farm boy, born and raised in the cornfields of Iowa during the idyllic years before America got into the Great War. He had been too young to go to war, but his father had gone, along with a goodly number of the adult men in the county. Sam's father had been in the Marines, and had survived the mud and horrors of the trenches and Belleau Wood, only to come down with influenza after the war and die on the troopship coming home. The influenza epidemic had touched nearly every family in America -- either someone in the family had died from it, or a relative or someone they knew had. In Sam's case, in addition to his father, Mary Beth Ragnarsdottir -- the girl he had planned to marry -- had been a victim who died the year after the war ended.

Young and healthy, Sam had survived unscathed -- at least physically. A natural athlete, baseball became his passion, and he resolved to devote his life to the game that he loved. But things oft-times do not work out the way that one plans them, and so it was for Sam.

Taking Vernon's advice, Sam had left the Des Moines Mud Hens after the end of the season, and moved to L. A. -- the City of Angels, some called it. He ended up in an apartment house in a lower-middle class part of town, which was where he met Sean O'Reilly.

Looking back on it, Sam realized that moving to L. A. and meeting Mister O'Reilly was the best thing that had ever happened to him. A tough L. A. cop, O'Reilly had put in his years walking a beat, and was now a plain-clothes detective. One evening after Sam had gotten home from his job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant, Mister O'Reilly had invited him into his apartment for a "wee dram."

"Och, boyo, no offense -- but are you happy with what ye're doin' with yer life?" O'Reilly asked after both men had settled into easy chairs with drinks in hand. He nodded upon hearing Sam's response that he was just working to pay the bills until he found something better to do.

"Much as I thought, lad. I've given it some thought, an' I'm convinced that if ye're willin' to apprentice yerself out an' learn the trade, you'd be a natural at what I do."

Sam perked up at that. "So, I should join the L.A.P.D.?"

O'Reilly guffawed. "Not what I had in mind, laddie -- not at all. If you were to do that, you'd be walkin' a beat for the next ten or fifteen years, and followin' orders -- which would mean lookin' the other way an' not seein' what was takin' place right before your very eyes -- more times than you'd be comfortable with, unless I've misjudged you."

O'Reilly tapped his bad knee and said "I'm five years away from retirement and my pension, and with the lead in my leg, I'm not sure that I can last that long. You've seen that I walk with a cane, and I can't run at all any more."

Sam nodded his understanding, and O'Reilly continued. "You can be my legs, Sam -- and to a lesser degree, my eyes. I can get you on the payroll as a 'Confidential Informant', and convince the lieutenant that you are essential to me doin' my job -- which will be true, only not in the way that everybody thinks. And 'Confidential' is exactly that -- nobody but me will ever know your name."

"To be sure, you won't be gettin' rich -- but you'll be able to pay your bills -- which is all you're doin' now. An' I can speak to the Widow McAdams and get her to reduce your rent -- she thinks that you're a sweet boy, and she likes me, too." O'Reilly winked to emphasize his point.

"The main thing is that you'll be watchin' me an' seein' what I do, every day." O'Reilly reached over and lightly tapped Sam's forehead. "You'll be earnin' most of your pay right up here."

"And by the time I retire, you'll be ready to get your license as a P. I. -- a private investigator. Seein' as how you're honest, it's not a job you'll get rich at, but you'll be your own boss -- and let me tell you laddie, after decades of taking orders from lesser men than my ownself, that's a real bonus, I'm here to tell you."

And so it was that Sam found himself learning his trade from Sean O'Reilly. When the old cop retired and married the widow McAdams, Sam was ready -- or at least he thought that he was -- he had cut his ties with the L.A.P.D., gotten his license, and found a place where he could afford to rent an office . . .