"Or wash away any evidence."
More head shaking.
"I told you, I didn't kill him."
"Did they swab your hands?"
"For what?" he asked with a squinted face.
"For gunshot residue," I said. "Though that would have been the whole purpose of taking a shower I suspect."
He shook his head.
"No, they just took my statement."
I nodded. It was quiet in the locker room. Cold too, like a meat locker. Stark's nose had stopped leaking. He'd probably have a bit of bruising around an eye or two, but nothing to prevent him from playing. I started thinking that maybe I shouldn't have punched him. But come on, he had gone begging. And I could see now how he might not have been the most liked. He was an arrogant prick. Self entitled.
"Tell me about the beef between you and Ensor."
"What beef?"
"Now you're just playing coy with me. Don't do that. You're wasting my time and I get upset when that happens. Everybody knows you two didn't get along."
Stark looked down, his wet, bloody cloth in his right hand and the ice cloth in his left hand.
"Don't do that," I said.
"What?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Don't look down, your nose will start leaking again."
He thrust his chin up towards me and looked at me down the barrel of his nose. He put the ice cloth back on the bridge of his nose.
"All right," he said, "I didn't much care for him."
"Why's that?"
"He was an arrogant asshole," said Stark. I was thinking the kettle was calling the pot black.
"Tell me about that."
"He thought he was one of the best pitchers out there."
"Well, from what I've heard of him and his stats, he was."
Stark wagged his chin at me as he looked down. He was trying to shake his head. It looked odd at this angle.
"Yeah, he was good, but he was also not giving me a chance to build my career. He was hogging all the games, going for more and more strikeouts, looking for that elusive perfect game."
"Those sound like things that help the team," I said.
"Help him more than us."
"School me."
"He wasn't going to get a perfect game. They usually happen earlier in a pitcher's career or maybe mid career, but not later in the career. Not usually, and at thirty-seven, Jim was getting old. Most guys peak in their early to, maybe, their mid thirties. Most are retiring by forty."
"But there's always the exception to the rule."
Stark nodded.
"But not with Jim. He was slowing down. This season you could really see it, but he wanted to play it out because his contract was coming for renewal and if you look at his last, say five years, it looks good. But the last year has not been as good. He was trying to keep himself on life support to get more money than he was worth and that pissed me off."
"Why?"
"Because he was a selfish asshole. I mean come on. He was making twenty-five mill a year and he was hungry for more. Greedy asshole. Yeah, he might have been a better pitcher than me, but he wasn't five times better."
"Why five times?"
"Because he got paid five times what I got. My ERA is 3.23 which is good. And I'm in my prime..."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-one. I've got some good few years left to peak. I can feel it. But Jim wouldn't give up the reign."
"You've just given yourself motive."
Stark wagged his chin at me, then he lowered his head. We were now eye to eye. He took the ice cloth of his nose. It was dripping now as the ice melted. He wiped at his upper lip with a corner of unstained cloth from his right hand. There was no blood there.
"Thing is, I didn't need to kill him. I knew he was on the way out."
"How's that?"
"He was having trouble with his elbow. He'd already had one Tommy John a few years ago, and I could see that he hadn't really fully recovered. He'd come back in too strong and it was taking it's toll. I'd be surprised if he had another two years left in him."
"What's Tommy John?" I asked.
"Surgery on the elbow where they replace a tendon with another good tendon from somewhere else in the body, often from the forearm. It was named after the first pitcher who had the operation done. Worked out well for him. Thing is, Jim was impatient. He just wanted to get back to pitching as soon as he could, and these things take a long time to heal."
"How's your elbow?" I asked.
Stark put down the cloth in his right hand and massaged his left elbow.
"My elbow's just fine. I take care of it, we have great therapists here. Plus I don't use it that often. On a good game I'll maybe get an inning or two in."
"And you get five mill for that. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is I should be playing more. It's not about the money, though we could all use more, right?"
I didn't say anything to that. It was hard to talk serious financial troubles with millionaires when I was just hoping to make next month's rent.
"Well, trust me, it's not just about the money for most of us."
"Then what's it about?"
"The game, man, the game." Stark shook his head at me like I was imbecile. "I started playing baseball because I love it. I still play it because I love it and I want to play it more. There's nothing else in the world I'd sooner do. And improving stats is important too."
"So if you didn't kill him, who did?"
Stark shrugged. Then he shook his head as it pointed at the floor. Then he looked back up at me and turned his mouth upside down.
"I don't know. I just don't know. I mean we had our problems but it's not like I hated the guy. Israel told you about Gibb, I suppose."
I nodded.
"There's a guy with a temper. Man, does he have a temper. Heard he was brought up on assaulting his wife once but it was let go."
"How was it let go?"
"Word was he let her have a divorce and gave her a good chunk of money. In fact, there's a guy who probably needs more money if there ever was one."
"How so?"
"He's got four kids with her and his alimony is off the charts. At least that's what I hear anyway. I'm surprised he hasn't killed her..."
"Why's that?"
"Because he's said as much, at least to some of us. Man, he hates that ex of his. But now killing Ensor, I don't know about that."
"Then how do you know they had such a hate on for each other?"
"Because Gibb figures he should be the highest paid. And he makes good money. Second highest paid here at around six mill so I hear. Anyway, he's on his way out, but he's looking to blame everyone else. You've probably heard his batting average is hitting the shitter?"
Stark looked at me straight for a moment. I nodded at him. I was still leaning in on my elbows.
"Yeah, something about the Mendoza Line."
Stark nodded and grinned.
"What's so funny?"
"That's his nickname. Though we don't say it to his face. He'd go fucking ape shit."
"So he blames Ensor for his problems. How does the pitcher have anything to do with a fielder's troubles?"
"Couple of reasons, at least how Gibb sees it. First of all, the other guys practice against a baseball pitching machine, but they also practice against us too. There's nothing like facing a real pitcher to hone your skills. Trouble is, Gibb keeps arguing with Ensor that Ensor's not giving him his best balls, and that really upsets Gibb."
"Well, was he?"
"Holding back, you mean?"
I nodded my head. Stark nodded back.
"Yeah, of course. It's fucking hard work pitching baseballs. It ruins you, your arms at least, but the back problems, knee problems and hip problems we have to deal with in our retirement years, it's debilitating, I'm telling you."
"I'll take your word on it."
"Really, the amount of force we throw with, the whipping of the joints. You have no idea."
>
Stark glanced off at the lockers. He sighed and then held his left arm out straight and rotated his fist, turning his elbow this way and that, cradling it with his right hand.
"Sure the elbow's good?"
He looked back at me. He nodded half heartedly.
"Yeah, it's fine, but I can feel it. The toll that it's already taken. Anyway, we don't send them our fastest cutters or sinkers neither do we send our deadliest curveballs and the like. We've gotta keep some stuff in the tank. We'd be ruined otherwise."
"And do most of your team mates know this?"
Stark nodded.
"Fuck yeah, it's common knowledge in baseball. I mean, you're paying a bunch of guys a lot of money to throw balls in order to beat other teams. That's the most important. It's also important to give your own guys a chance against real pitchers, but that's always secondary. Gibb wouldn't have any of it, so he starts to blame it on Ensor, and us, but Ensor the most. He's bitching that Ensor is costing him his game because he can't get really good balls off of him."
I nodded my head. I was getting schooled in baseball. It was becoming a more interesting game to me with this insider information.
"And that's it, he's blaming Ensor for his own problems."
Stark nodded.
"I suppose he's got a point. Maybe a small point but a point nonetheless."
"So you agree with him?"
Stark shook his head at me like he was trying to dissuade a mosquito from biting his earlobe.
"No, I'm not saying that at all. It's all on him. His game is shit because of his own problems. Maybe his stress, maybe his other issues. Whatever, I don't care. Even still, sometimes we'll bring in the pitchers from the Iowa Cubs, that's our farm team, our best farm team anyway, and they'll be tasked with throwing their best to our guys. But still, there's a reason these guys are in the farm. They're still maturing, still not as good as we are."
I nodded.
"But that's it," I asked.
Stark shook his head. I guess that mosquito was still trying to nibble on his ear. That invisible mosquito.
"That just started it. What really got them both on the same page of hate for each other was when earlier in this season, Gibb flubbed an easy catch."
"Tell me about that?" I asked.
“It was shortly after one of our practice sessions when Ensor was pitching to the team. Gibb came up to bat and after just three balls, he got violently upset at Ensor and ran up to the mound and pushed him telling him to throw decent balls. A couple of the guys had to come and break it up, it was definitely going to get physical.”
"So what happened?"
"Ensor threw his mitt down on the mound and strode off. That was the end of his pitching that day. The rest of us had to finish it up."
"Do you think that was the right call?"
Stark frowned at me.
"Damn straight it was. I've done the same to Gibb for lesser bullshit. But Ensor was soft that way. Always trying to help the team."
"So tell me what happened at the game that Gibb screwed up?"
Stark stood up and tossed his cloths into a laundry hamper. He then went over to the sink and washed up. He came back cleaner than he'd left.
"Gibb had been playing half assed the whole game. Letting balls roll by him and making half hearted efforts to run for them. He was giving away runs. Israel had already spoken to him about it. Then in the seventh inning, we're up by one run. The other team was the Diamondbacks..."
I raised my eyes at him. I didn't know who they were. Stark sighed.
"The Arizona Diamondbacks. They're a team we should beat nine games out of ten. We're only up by one run and it's the seventh inning like I said. Gibb and Ensor have been exchanging looks all day. Arizona has men on the second and third bases. Ensor throws a ball and the batter hits it right at Gibb. I mean right at him. He has to step to one side and reach out for it to catch it. But he watches it go by him. Bam, just like that. Arizona gets two runs and by the time Gibb decides to get it, because Donovan Tinker is going for it, the batter is at third base already. We lose that game by three runs. Because that asshole decided to have a personal grudge match with Ensor."
"And by asshole you mean Gibb."
Stark nodded.
"And that's it?"
"Yeah. Ensor is fucking furious. He runs up to Gibb after the play and punches him in the face. Then they start going at it. Not for long, the rest of us come and break it up. Both of them are evicted from the game. Gibb threatens to kill him."
Stark stops then and looks at me. He shrugs slightly.
"But you know, that's said in the heat of the moment. None of us really thought."
And he stopped again and put lowered his head. He was leaning in towards me now, mirroring my elbows on knees position. He looked up again.
"Anyway, Ensor got a quarter million fine for hitting his own teammate. Never heard of before."
I stood up, and looked down at him.
"Alright then," I said. "Don't leave town."
He looked up at me and nodded, not finding the humor in the joke. I walked out and heard him walking out after me. I made my way back to the stands. I needed to speak to a man about a grudge, and I knew exactly who that was.
NINE
Feeling Gibb
OUTSIDE it was as sunny as when I'd left. No clouds had moved. They hung around like irascible old men at public chess tables. Or maybe that was me. Though I didn't feel particularly angry. Gibb hadn't moved either. He was hanging on the top railing just behind the catcher as if his knees were weak after taking a knock on the chin. I hadn't given him one yet. But maybe I was foreshadowing. Or perhaps I was ignorantly wishing.
A pitcher on the mound threw a lazy ball that arced towards the batter. He hit it towards a teammate further afield. They were dialing it in. Of course they were. What with the vultures circling around they were taking it ridiculously easy. I walked up to Gibb and stood looking at him with my hands in my pocket. It seemed a little cooler this close to the ground. Not with the wind. The wind was still as quiet as a deadman breathing. No, it just seemed cooler, and we weren't in the shade.
"Learning anything?" I asked.
Gibb looked out over the field and slowly shook his head. He had a fat lip that I wished I'd given him. He looked down at the ground and spat out a wad of chew. I thought that was a great idea so I lit up a cigarette and took a drag. He smelt of grapes. That was the tobacco.
"You," he said, still not looking at me.
"Me what?" I asked.
"Learn anything."
His accent made him a Southerner. I couldn't properly place it, but the gambler in me offered South Carolina. I liked it. He was still looking out over the field though he didn't seem interested in any of it. His ball cap was tight over his head. His nose was squashed up against his face and his lips were thick. The kind of lips that women would envy. His eyes were small and squinty and his complexion was dark burnt almonds. In his back pocket of his jeans I could see the outline of a can of chew.
"I'm learning tons," I said, taking a drag on my cigarette. "Like I'm learning that the Lovable Losers are gonna stay losers."
I exhaled towards him and watched him closely. He didn't move. He looked vacantly out over the field of lost dreams. He moved the chew to the other side of his lip. Then he nodded slowly.
"You're probably right."
Then he glanced over at me.
"Who are you?" he asked. "You don't look like a reporter."
"I'm a gumshoe," I said.
He looked down at my shoes.
"It's an expression," I offered.
He nodded his head and looked off again. He was built like a bull. His clothing was tight over his muscles. He was my height but had probably thirty or so pounds on me. He must have been tilting towards two hundred pounds. He was thick with it, like a good marbled steak. Not especially lean but not fat either.
"You here about Jim?"
I nodded.
"Yup. Tryi
ng to help the incompetent CPD figure out a murder. I hear you didn't like him."
"You heard right," he said.
"Tell me about that."
"Nothing to tell. I didn't like him. He was an overpaid pitcher. Simple as that. Dialed it in when we practiced together."
He didn't look at me. He looked down again and spat out more chew. At his rate he was going to need a refill soon enough. I smoked my cigarette. I looked around the stadium a while and then out at the field. Maybe I'd come and see the game if Israel came through with the tickets. It'd been years since I'd been to the ball park.
"Folks tell me you threatened to kill him."
"Yeah, I did."
One thing I could say about Gibb was that he was forthright.
"Did you?"
"Did what?"
"Kill him. You threatened to. Did you carry through with it?"
Gibb turned towards me now and crossed his arms over his chest. He tilted his head at me and looked me up and down. I'd seen that looked before. He was measuring my worth. And like most hotheads before him, he was undervaluing me.
"Yeah," I said, nodding my head. "They told me you had an anger problem."
His small eyes fired up and his nostrils flared. We were getting close to dancing. But something caught his attention up in the stadium and he looked over for a moment and then looked back at me. I glanced to where his eyes had been. I saw Stark walking towards us. I looked back at Gibb, his stance had softened but not his stare. I inhaled on my cigarette. He moved the chew back to the other side.
"You don't want to dance?" I asked.
He stared at me, not saying anything.
"Too bad," I said, "Stark wasn't feeling the music either."
Stark joined us now and subconsciously touched his nose. The bridge of his nose and his lower eyelids were starting do bruise.
"Israel says to cooperate," Stark said to Gibb.
Stark nodded at me and left again. I watched him go. He walked back up to where I'd first met him. Israel was waiting for him there, watching us.
"No, I didn't," said Gibb at last.
I looked back at him.
"Didn't what?"
"I didn't kill Ensor," he said.
He turned and rested his forearms over the railing again, looking out over the baseball field.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 59
