by Mark Zubro
“How’d you meet Traverno?”
“Through working with Fulham.”
“Mr. Fulham is still alive so something might still come of writing his biography.”
“He’s a shit.”
Definitely not a mutual admiration society.
He gave me a sidelong look. “What did Fulham say to you at the gallery last night?”
What was it with these guys? They could be a step from their graves, but they wanted to make sure I didn’t have some new secret knowledge from the possible font of future fortune? Maybe they were just curious to add what he’d told me to the knowledge and background they had already. The question sounded to me more like a challenge than a man asking to collaborate.
Worse, there’d been this immense tragedy. I’d been wounded. Scott was hurt, but again, pity reared its head. Maybe this was their way of dealing with grief. Scott has taught me to be gentler in my judgments. I do try, but these people were a mystery. They kept wanting to talk to me. Maybe if I listened, it would help them deal with the horror we’d all lived through. Maybe my listening to them was a way to keep myself from thinking about what had happened. So, I’d talk to them and maybe even find out what the hell was going on with this Fulham guy and his tale of woe. Immersing myself in the past might take my mind off the present.
So I swallowed any snarkiness and gave him a mild response. “He told me some harrowing stories.”
He sighed. “He’s told us a lot. I haven’t been able to confirm any of them. What stories did he tell you?”
“Some odd stuff about the Hall of Fame.” I wasn’t ready to give specific details yet and was not prepared to reveal anything about the confessed-to murder. Nor was I going to tell that Fulham had asked me to work on his autobiography. What kind of game had Fulham been playing with these guys? They were hired and willing to help. Why would he be a shit about it?
Libnum said, “We’ve been frantically trying to check on that. Fulham only found out in the last few days, or so he says, and he only told us yesterday. We can’t get any confirmations. Nobody knows us when we call. They won’t talk to us. And now with Caleb dead.” He drew a deep breath. “I can’t believe he died, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I hope I get some answers soon.”
“I hope so too.” I gave him a hug. Flawed he might be, but he was a fellow human being, and facing possible paralysis. We’d been through the same horror. At the least he deserved some closeness and some answers.
I left, found Scott in the hall, and together we walked down to Fulham’s room.
FIFTEEN
Friday - 11:03 A.M.
I said, “What did the administrator and the publicity guy want?”
“Logistics for anonymity.”
I filled him in on the discussions I’d just had and finished with, “What kind of people did Fulham have around him? Darryl seems excellent as home health care person. The rest of them I would bet on in a competition for snottiest gay guy. Maybe Howk was a saint.”
He frowned at me and touched my arm. I knew that look and the gesture. Be less judgmental.
We proceeded to Fulham’s room. He was asleep. Darryl was not in attendance at the moment. I had grabbed a small spray can of WD-40 from under the kitchen sink and shoved it in my pants pocket as we left the condo. I paused at Fulham’s walker where it stood in the corner, took off the safety cap, and sprayed a bit on each wheel. I used my fingers to rub it into as many nooks and crannies that I thought might need more than just the spray. I finished, moved the walker back and forth, and it was blessedly quiet. I couldn’t prevent a massacre, but I could bring a bit of quiet to an older man’s life.
I washed my hands in the sink in the bathroom. When I came out, Darryl had returned and was talking to Scott. I joined them.
“Any change?” I asked.
“He’s drifting in and out. He’s been asleep for a couple hours.” We conducted our conversation in whispers. Darryl said, “Yesterday was a lot of exertion for him as well. He gets tired easily. Normal for someone his age.” He looked at us. “How are you?”
Scott said, “No permanent damage.” He hesitated. “Except maybe fear.”
I said, “Mr. Fulham must have told you all kinds of stories. With all the stuff he told me, I was wondering about him and his life. How does he survive day to day?”
“You mean how did I hook up with Mr. Fulham?”
“Well, I really don’t have the nerve to ask you such a direct question. I was wondering how his mind was, but, you’re right, about you as well. And the state of his finances. Home health care isn’t cheap.”
He shrugged. “I needed a job.”
“He told me you were straight.” I knew it was none of my business, but the topic was out there now. It was the kind of moment when any sensitive partner male or female would have glowered at me. I glanced at Scott. Yep, glowering.
I turned to Darryl. He gave a smile that while being very ‘aw shucks shy’ would also make him very popular if he were a dancer in a strip club, gay or straight, on a Saturday night. Darryl said, “I was moonlighting as a busboy in a restaurant while going to nursing school. At the time I was already married but with just one kid. He started handing me hundred dollar tips. I needed the cash. I didn’t turn them down. He started offering me money for sex. For a while I turned that down, but then it got into real money.”
I took a guess, “You’d done it before.”
He blushed, “I’d escorted to help pay the bills before I got married.” He shrugged. “It was no big deal.”
“How can he afford you?” I asked.
He said, “He pays nearly double what I’d make as a private nurse, which is a very big deal. Partly he made excellent investments when he was playing ball. He also purchased one of those long term care policies when he was fifty years old. It was a modest monthly payment that is reaping huge dividends now.”
Scott and I had the same kind of insurance policies.
Darryl was continuing, “The other part of being with him is that I don’t see my prick as an exclusive appendage to be preserved like a sacred icon. He likes to suck. I like blow jobs. Giving him warmth and affection isn’t that bad. He’s a nice old guy, most of the time to me.” He smiled. “The part about this that is none of your business is how my relationship with him affects my marriage.”
I wasn’t sure I was going to ask that, but, yeah, the thought had crossed my mind. I supposed there were any number of possibilities.
I said, “Mr. Fulham asked for my help with his autobiography.”
“He does that a lot.”
“He asks lots of people?”
“It’s kind of a habit with him. He’s old and forgets.”
I wasn’t feeling quite so special. I said, “He told me some pretty harrowing stories about his early life. Is his memory good enough to remember things accurately?”
“He’s told me some awful things, a lot of sexual things. I think there is at least a kernel of truth in all of them. As for specific details?” He shook his head. “That’s one of the things the guys from the publishing company were working on, details and background. Sometimes he changes the stories. That’s when they get pretty upset at him. He ignores them. Are you going to help Mr. Fulham?”
“If I can.”
“Good. It’s one of the things that keeps him alive. Keeps him motivated, talking about himself. He’s been going on and on about the gallery and meeting you.”
“When he wakes up, will you tell him I’m going to help with what he asked last night?”
He nodded.
I asked, “How’d he get involved in the gallery?”
“He’s been a donor for a long time. He’s had a string of young gay artists, writers, chefs to his home over the years. Generally kids going to college who he’s willing to trade money for affection.”
“You’re not enough for him?”
“I guess he likes variety.”
“At ninety-three?”
“H
e doesn’t do other guys every night. More like once every couple months.”
“He’s from Chicago?”
“He lives in a big old house on the northwest side of the city.”
“Just before the shots rang out, I got dirty looks from the entourage. What’s their problem?”
“They don’t like you at all. A lot.”
“What am I to them?”
“A threat.”
I looked in his eyes.
He continued, “A threat to their meal ticket. The guy in the fancy suit, Franklin McMullen, his gay small press is failing as so many of them do. He thinks if he publishes Fulham’s autobiography or biography, it will make his company.”
“Takes a long time to write a book. He’s got that much time?”
“Mr. Fulham has been regaling them with tales for ages. They aren’t sure which are true and which aren’t. I’m not sure they care. They’ve assembled a lot. Just not enough.”
“Fulham talked about criminal activities.” I didn’t want to directly ask about murder.
“He’s told me about blow jobs on the pitchers’ mounds in the middle of the night. Stuff like that. Sex stuff which was criminal only if you got caught.”
Which from a certain perspective you could say about most crimes, I suppose. “Other than that?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Pranks, youthful indiscretions?”
“You mean him not getting into the Hall of Fame?”
“I guess that’s not really criminal.”
Fulham stirred. We turned to him. He opened his eyes and lifted his hand toward us. He voice rasped. “Am I okay?”
I sat next to Fulham on one side of the bed. Scott stood next to me. I noted the machines Fulham was hooked up to blinked and beeped.
Darryl sat on the other side of the bed. He took Fulham’s hand and said, “You’re in a hospital. It’s the day after the gallery opening. There was a shooting. The doctors have examined you, and you’re going to be fine.”
“My shoulder hurts.” He patted his left shoulder with his right hand.
Darryl caressed Fulham’s left hand and arm. “A bullet passed through the soft tissue of your shoulder. We’re just waiting for the results from a few more tests before we can go.”
Fulham shifted in his bed. His voice was querulous and demanding. “Is everyone okay?”
Darryl said, “Several people are dead. Caleb Howk, our researcher, and Jim Traverno from the gallery didn’t make it. Eliot Libnum hasn’t been able to move. I’m afraid he’s going to be in the hospital for quite some time.”
Fulham shut his eyes. “More death and destruction.” He sighed, opened his eyes, reached out toward me. “Have they found out who did it?”
I said, “I haven’t heard. They’re questioning everybody especially all the protesters who were outside.”
Fulham harrumphed. “It wasn’t those stupid protesters. Somebody wanted me to die.”
I asked, “Why would you think that?” I thought this was a bit much. A massacre couldn’t really be all about him. I certainly doubted it.
He took my hand and avoided my question with a question. “Are you going to help me with what I asked you last night?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure there was much I could do, but I wasn’t going to tell him that now while he was lying wounded in a hospital bed. At the least I could go into his life as a young ball player.
He sighed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. In seconds he was asleep.
SIXTEEN
Friday – 12:02 P.M.
In the hall I called a florist and ordered flowers for everyone still in the hospital based on the list the hospital administrator had given him and that Scott had shown to me. I sent them in both of our names. I figured it was the least we could do.
We found our way to the victims’ briefing being held in the hospital chapel. After we turned the last corner, far down the hall we could see a man sitting on a bench. He was guarded by two Chicago police officers. From that distance we could see a man in a dark blue suit waving a finger in the man’s face. Halfway down the hall we could hear what the suited man was saying. “You are not going to disrupt this briefing with your idiotic questions.”
“They won’t let me into the regular press conference.”
The suited man raised his voice, “You got that right you dumb fucking son of a bitch. We are not going to have your idiotic conspiracies and insane drivel disrupt these people’s genuine grief.”
The man on the bench was bald and weighed at least four hundred pounds. Up close I could see blood pouring down his bruised and battered face. He spotted us and began shouting, “This is a false flag attack staged by the federal government designed to take away our civil liberties.”
I’d seen and heard the same kind of loony nonsense at a couple of press conferences after tragic events. I always wondered why whoever was in charge let the guy in. I mean after the first time, the press people didn’t have the brains to keep him out? At least in Chicago he wasn’t going to be attending.
Scott asked, “Who beat you up?”
“Move along,” one of the beat cops said.
The man in the suit noticed us. His eyes lit with recognition, “Mr. Carpenter. This is just a troublemaker. He’s not going to make a fool of this city.”
The idiot said, “I’m Albert Colley. I was beaten up by the Chicago police. I need your help. Save me. The government is after me.”
Scott leaned over, lowered his voice to its softest rumble, and said, “I’m sorry for you.” Scott stood straight looked at the cops and the man in the suit. “No matter what his crime, I expect this man to be treated well by all involved.”
He got reluctant nods from the officials. We strode on.
Upon entering the chapel, we took seats in the back. The mayor was there, the governor, the chief of police, numerous clergy, and other officials I didn’t know.
They began with a summary of what was known about the investigation. People wanted to know what had happened. How were they to help their loved ones deal with the attack and the post traumatic stress? Several psychologists addressed the group as well as physicians.
We stayed for half an hour, but then had to go so Scott could get to his rehab appointment.
SEVENTEEN
Friday - 1:06 P.M.
In the car on the way to rehab Scott said, “I think we need to be pretty gentle about all these people. Most of them, like us, are still in shock. It’s going to take us all a while. By the way I’ve been texting with Dennis Pilcher.”
He was a young gay sports reporter Scott knew and I’d met.
Scott continued. “He wanted an exclusive interview about what happened. He’s a good guy, but he wants to make a name for himself. He thinks if he gets an interview with me on this, he might even get his own column. I’d like to help out a gay kid starting out, but I also thought he might know Brendan O’Rourke, the guy Fulham mentioned. Dennis works on the same paper that O’Rourke used to.”
Scott had helped Pilcher when there was a stink when the young man came out as a gay wrestler in his Catholic college. Nowadays, he did a lot of reporting on gay issues at all levels of sports, and wrote numerous blogs and posts, and wrote for a number of web sites as well as working for the paper.
“Doesn’t O’Rourke still write a few things?”
“Mostly think pieces. He’s been very supportive of those gay and lesbian athletes who’ve come out. Dennis thought he might be able to get us in to talk to O’Rourke about Fulham’s allegations. I promised after all this was done to give him an exclusive interview about what I went through in the attack. He seemed satisfied.”
“You know O’Rourke, though?”
“Vaguely, but an ‘in’ is always a good thing.”
“An excellent start. One thing that sticks out with me is the two guys in the entourage who are left. One of their own died. They were both injured, Libnum most seriously, and yet they both seemed obsessed with what Fu
lham had told me.”
Ever the gentle one, Scott said, “Maybe that’s their way of dealing with a tragedy.”
“By being assholes?”
“Instead of thinking about death and destruction and what they saw and heard, or what could have easily happened to them, they’d prefer to think about anything else. They were concerned with Fulham’s story. Now they have a story of their own that might include him. The poor guy’s business, if it really is going broke, might have found a gold mine.”
“I just found those guys odious.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
His kindness can extend to forgiving a whole lot of things that I get pretty angry with. I was not going to argue or fight today. I wished his gentleness and being willing to give the other person the benefit of the doubt would spread. Perhaps if someone had spread such human kindness to the shooter before last night, it would have prevented such a horror.
For some reason it was right today to accompany him to rehab. Yes, I know I wasn’t needed, and I seldom go. It’s kind of boring sitting in the waiting room. The rare times I go, I usually bring a book to read. Today, his doctors and trainers would evaluate him. I would sit in the well-appointed family room. When the team was in town, this could be quite crowded. I’d met a number of the wives of other players here, a chatty, friendly group, in general.
I was the only one there that day. I turned off the television. It was set to some obscure sporting event in the Outback of Australia. I sat in an alcove with a watercolor of a pastoral scene on the wall. There was a low shelf that served as a desk plus a mesh metal swivel chair.
I’d taken my laptop and smart phone. I’d resisted an upgrade from my ‘stupid’ phone, but Scott bought me this one for my birthday. At the store I’d loaded the thing with apps to make sure I could do everything with it that a computer does. As far as I could tell, the only thing the phone couldn’t do was launch a rocket ship to Mars, and I think maybe that was only because I didn’t have that app yet.
