"That would be the New York Yankees. Worth over twice what we are."
"And I assume they've got the biggest payroll as well," I said.
"You'd assume wrong," said Israel, "that would go to the LA Dodgers, though the Yankees come up a close second."
I nodded.
"So with Ensor out of the way," I said, "who has the most to gain?"
Israel looked at me steadily for a moment. Then he looked out at the field as a batter hit a fly ball that the catcher caught.
"You're asking me some hard questions."
"Probably asked by the CPD too," I said.
Israel nodded and then returned his gaze to me.
"The pitchers have the most to gain."
"Anyone in particular?" I asked, looking at Stark.
Israel looked down for a moment.
"That would be Stark, but I don't think he'd do it."
"Why's that?"
"He's a good guy. I just can't see it. If you've known him as long as I have, you'd think the same."
That wasn't half as reassuring as I was hoping it'd be. Generally, character witnesses don't stand in for alibis.
"How much you paying him?" I asked.
Israel and I had moved up a bit from where Stark stood. He might not have been able to hear Israel, but he could sure as hell read my lips.
"Around five mill per year. His contract's up this year. He'll want more."
"You've just given him motive," I said, smiling as if I'd just been handed a million bucks.
"I suppose, but I don't see it."
"He's getting a fifth of what Ensor was earning, right?" Israel nodded. "And now that Ensor's out of the way he's got the most to benefit. Am I right?"
Israel shrugged.
"I suppose."
"Well, the way I see it, he either does or he doesn't. Is there someone else that you're gonna replace Ensor with who isn't Stark?"
"There are a lotta good guys out there. But you're probably right, Stark might be the best we can afford at the moment."
"So he bumps up to top dog and a pay raise. Maybe ten mill, and you're no better at winning, but the math looks better."
"Yeah, he'd probably get bumped to ten or so," agreed Israel.
"Now I've given you motive," I said.
Israel laughed and shook his head as if I'd told him a funny off-color joke.
"That's outrageous," he said, but he showed no anger. "With Ensor we had a good chance of winning. You probably already know that if you've put money on us. But with him gone, we're the underdog for sure."
"So you didn't do it?"
Israel shook his head at me like I was a chump.
"No, I didn't. Let me tell it to you real easy so you can understand. I make seven figures a year. I'm happy with that. I was never gonna be a ball player, but I can manage. With Ensor gone, my contract's not looking good, which is also up this year. Like I said. If we had Ensor still, I'd put money on my own team. More than that, my contract would be renewed, one hundred percent, and there's an incentive bonus of five hundred grand for me personally if we win this World Series. So tell me again, in what universe does me killing the golden goose make any sense?"
"Maybe you didn't like him."
"I liked him just fine. Some of the others not so much. Some of them have got big egos. Ensor wasn't like that. He came from humble beginnings and he never forgot that."
"Did he have any disagreements with his team mates?" I asked.
Israel looked down at the ground between us and then back up at me.
"Yeah, he did. Him and Stark didn't always see eye to eye."
"Why's that?" I asked.
"You talk to him and you'll figure that out real quick. But the salary difference was one thing."
"Anyone else?"
Israel shook his head.
"Nothing that would give me pause. You know how it can be with some of these guys. Our left fielder Vance Gibb has a hot temper. He's a good hitter. Over five hundred and fifteen runs so far. Some think he might beat Bonds' record. I'm not one of them, but he and Ensor didn't often see eye to eye."
"Why don't you think he'll beat the record?"
"Well, he's got enough time to do it, but he doesn't have the temperament. He keeps blaming everyone but himself. But he has just as many at bats as any other player in the league."
I nodded.
"I see," I said.
"Plus, he thinks he should be the highest paid player on the team."
"What does he get?"
"Just over six million. But his contract's not up for another couple of years."
"And he'll bail, I guess?"
Israel shook his head and chuckled.
"You're not a big fan, I can tell. That's all right. Gibb will be lucky to have his contract renewed if he continues the way he's going. He's good, no doubt about it. But his shine has come off quick. Three years ago, he hit four oh one. That's phenomenally impressive. He did it over half a season, and he still brags about it..."
"Four oh one?" I asked.
"Yeah," said Israel, nodding his head. "That's his batting average. The number of hits divided by the number of at bats. Over four hundred is hardly ever seen anymore, at least for as long as a full season. A good batter is over three hundred. Currently, his career average is at three oh three, still really good. But it's heading in the wrong direction and he's still got years left. In fact, this season he's heading towards the Mendoza line."
Israel smiled sadly at that and looked down again.
"Mendoza line?"
"Yup, named after a short stop, a good one, who couldn't hit a rolling beach ball with a tree trunk. It's considered an average of two hundred or less, though the real Mendoza managed around two fifteen I think if I remember correctly."
Israel smiled again, looking down, before looking back up at me.
"In fact, that's becoming his nickname around here, Mendoza."
"So what's his average?"
"Two oh seven this season and likely to break under two hundred in these last games if he doesn't get his shit together."
I looked back out over the bleachers looking for a man I knew nothing of.
"Who is Gibb?" I asked.
Israel looked down the stadium and pointed at an African American leaning against the last railings of the first row seats. He was by himself. I nodded.
"I don't get how the death of a pitcher would help him," I said.
Israel shrugged.
"I don't see it either. You just asked me who Ensor had grievances with."
I nodded and looked back down at Vance. I could only see the back of him. Then I looked back at Israel.
"What about your bat boys?"
"What about them?"
"I don't see them," I said, scanning the bleachers for what I already knew wasn't there.
"It's a school day," said Israel. "Junior O'Riley will be here around three after class. Starting Friday he's got special permission to miss school during the event."
"Junior O'Riley?"
"James, Jimmy, but we call him Junior O'Riley. His father is James O'Riley."
Israel said that like we'd been high school pals and he was talking about the principal. I shook my head.
"Who?"
"Right, you're not a big fan. James O'Riley played for us from ninety-three to oh three. Junior is his kid."
"And that's how you become a bat boy. You need an inside hand?"
"It helps," said Israel.
"And the pay's good?" I asked.
Israel laughed again and shook his head.
"Nope, but the kids want to do it. We have some kids been on the waiting list for three years. They'll never be a bat boy, or girl."
"How come?"
"Well, you've gotta be fourteen at the youngest. If you've been waiting three years that puts you at seventeen, and there's still another six names ahead of yours. And between me and you, that list is meaningless. The only way you're gonna get on is if you have an inside track
like you said."
"And how many of these lads do you have?"
"Six boys. Though the five of them get the scraps that Junior doesn't want."
"They don't see many games?"
Israel nodded.
"So if it doesn't pay well, why do it?"
"Why do men seek to earn lots of money and date beautiful women? Why do we do anything?"
I shook my head. I wanted him to answer his own questions.
"Prestige, plain and simple. If you were going to buy a car logically you'd buy something Japanese and likely a midsize sedan. They're just the most reliable and economical. Plain and simple. But guys like us, we'll buy a Mercedes or a Caddy. Why? We'll pretend it's because of all the high end features and other crap, but honestly, it's because we seek prestige. That Camry will get you home just as well, and probably more reliably, but we're monkeys at the end of the day and we want to show shiny things off to others. Bat boys get around twenty-five bucks for a days work. So why else would they do it?"
"Not because they want to buy a Mercedes," I grinned at him.
"Because being a bat boy if you're into baseball is like owning a Mercedes."
"You've sure been helpful. Anything you can think of I might want to know?"
Israel shook his head.
"Nah, I'll let you get to Stark, but I think it's a smart move to talk to Junior though."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because they're treated like the hired help. I don't let the players haze them or anything like that, but they're not really seen, and when you're not really seen, what you can overhear is probably interesting. That's all I'm saying. I like to stay out of my player's business. It's better for me that way."
I nodded.
"So the cops are looking into speaking with Junior then too?"
Israel shook his head.
"Nope. Didn't even bring it up. Maybe that's why the Windy City has the homicide clearance rate it has. At least it's good to see they brought in a real professional for this one."
Israel went to walk past me and give me some privacy to speak with Stark. Before he did, he put his hand on my shoulder.
"Just between me and you. I haven't been this confident in the CPD in years. Where can I get the tickets to you?"
I told him where I was staying. It was walking distance from here.
EIGHT
In Stark Contrast
I walked up to Stark. He was leaning on the railings with both forearms. I had my hands in my pocket. I also had on a light windbreaker. It was warm in the stadium with the sun shining down. The breeze had neglected the field, perhaps skirting around the edges of this murder scene. Afraid to ask the hard questions. I wasn't. Stark folded a long rectangular piece of gum into his mouth, crunched the wrapper into a ball and flicked it into the seats in front of him. I didn't like that. There was a trash can just a few feet from him.
He didn't look at me as I walked up and leaned on the railing, mirroring him. I looked over at him. He didn't look over at me. He had a thick black mustache across his upper lip that drooped on each side of his mouth. He chewed with his mouth open like a cow. I disliked him even more. From his profile his nose was as hooked as a crack prostitute giving blowjobs for a hit.
"You Stark?" I said, starting the conversation. He still didn't look at me.
"What's it to you?" he said.
"Seeing you live up to your name," I said. "I'm liking you for the murderer right now, that's what's it to me."
He turned towards me and leaned on the railing with his left hand and sneered at me.
"Fuck off," he said. "I don't feel like talking to you."
"That's too bad," I said, "because I'm in a chatty mood and I aim to talk your ear off."
Stark stood up tall, trying to tower his couple of extra inches over me. I moved closer. This was getting fun.
"I'm not interested. Unless you've got a warrant, I'm not talking to you and you're no cop."
"You're not the sharpest knife in the drawer," I said, smiling at him. He was still sneering and looking down at me. He moved a little closer. We could have reached out and embraced each other for the fox trot. But I felt a different dance coming on.
"What you mean?"
"Nobody needs a warrant to talk to someone. You need a warrant to obtain evidence. What you mean to say is that you're gonna plead the fifth. See, it's the fifth amendment that gives you your right to silence, or more specifically not to incriminate yourself. But that's usually when speaking to police or other arms of the government. Like you said, I'm not police so it doesn't apply."
Stark shook his head angrily.
"You're a douche bag," he said, pushing me with his hand.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you."
"I told you to fuck off, gumshoe, get the real police here if you want to ask me any questions."
He did it again. The fucking idiot pushed me again. I stepped back and gave him a right straight to his beak of a nose. It didn't crack. I hadn't wanted to break it. That was more trouble than I was willing to get into. I wanted to give him another but he wasn't expecting it and stumbled back and fell flat on his ass. He brought his hand to his nose and looked up at me in surprise.
"Shit, man, there was no need for that," he said.
I walked over to him and offered him my hand and helped him up.
"If you talk to me there'll be no need for any more of that," I said. "So long as we can have a civilized conversation."
Blood had started dripping down his nose and onto his nice Chicago Cubs windbreaker.
"Where do you keep the ice?" I asked.
"There's some in the locker room," he said.
"All right, let's go. Pinch the bridge of your nose and tilt your head back, it'll help."
"Why'd you do that?" he asked, genuinely interested. "You broke my nose for fuck's sake."
"I didn't," I said. "And if you've got to ask why, you're dumber than a bag of baseballs."
We got into the locker and I found some ice. I put it in a cloth and handed it to him. I also wet another cloth for him to clean up the blood. I gave that to him too.
"Put that ice on the bridge of your nose. It'll help the swelling."
He did like I told him.
"Now are we gonna have a nice and pleasant conversation?"
He didn't say anything. But the look he gave me was less angry this time. He had simmered down a bit. A surprise punch on the nose will do that. I sat on a bench opposite him. He wiped at the blood on his nose. He tilted his head back slightly and placed the cold ice on the bridge of his nose. Already his nose was giving up leaking blood.
"You must have heard what Israel and I were talking about. He said you had grievances with Ensor."
"So did most of the other pitchers," he said.
"But looks like you've got the most to gain."
He shrugged and I leaned in towards him on my elbows.
"I mean you do, right?" I said, it wasn't so much a question as a statement. "With Ensor out of the way you're going to be the Ace pitcher, no?"
He shrugged again.
"Yeah, so?"
"So, that gives you a good motive to kill him. What's more interesting is that you found him. That often means you killed him. You know, finders keepers and all that."
He shook his head.
"That makes no sense. Finders keepers. What the fuck is that about?"
"Do you own a gun?" I asked.
He looked at me down the bridge of his nose.
"No," he said.
His hand was holding the cloth of ice against the bridge of his nose. It looked like a trunk sprouted from between his eyes. I bet it felt nice. Better than the straight he took earlier.
"So tell me how you found him?" I asked.
"It's like I told the cops. We were leaving to head on over to The Red Herring. That's a bar we sometimes go to. A sports bar. Ensor had gone out earlier to throw some balls. Keep his arm oiled as he liked to say. I went to get him, to tell h
im we were leaving. I found him laid out on the grass up by the dugout."
"Describe how he was to me?"
"What do you mean?"
"What position was his body in? What did you notice? That sort of thing."
"Well, he was lying face up. His head was pointing towards the dugout and his feet were towards home plate. There was blood on his chest. He had been shot."
"How many times?"
"Twice," he said.
"How do you know that?"
Most times, it's hard for witnesses to determine how many times a body has been shot if it's center mass. They're just too confused, not thinking straight, the blood has darkened most of the front. It's not a pretty sight. Not like how it looks in movies. So I was curious how he knew that. If he had truly found Ensor he probably was in shock and not noticing those kinds of details.
"That's what the police said when they arrived."
"Or is that what you saw?"
"Man, I don't know. Maybe, I can't remember. This is the first time I'd seen a fucking dead body, alright?"
"So what did you do when you saw him?"
"I freaked out. I looked around a bit. I dunno why, maybe I was looking to see if the killer was still around. Then I checked his pulse. I mean there was blood all over him. I couldn't feel a pulse so I called 911. Then I went back inside and told everyone else."
"Was his baseball cap still on when you found him."
Stark took off his cloth of ice and frowned at me.
"I don't fucking remember. Jesus, man, what are you thinking, that I was taking notes?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe. Or maybe you killed him, went someplace to bury the evidence and then called 911."
Stark shook his head.
"That's bullshit. I didn't kill him."
"Was there a baseball in his hand when you found him?"
"I dunno. Fuck, man, I told you, I don't remember that sort of stuff. I mean, I know he had been throwing some balls. There were balls by the net, but I don't remember exactly how he looked."
"What did you do after you'd told everyone?"
"Well, they all left to go see for themselves while I took a shower."
"Why'd you take a shower?"
"I felt sick. I felt pretty fucked up, unclean. I dunno, I just wanted to wash off what I'd just seen."
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 58
