by Mike Murphey
“No,” the judge said as if he still held a position to issue an order. “The mechanism is tricky. If you try to do it, we could be here all night. I’ll dial the combination and step back.”
Without waiting for Leal’s permission, the judge swung a painting away on unseen hinges to reveal a heavy knob fixed to a flat, steel-faced surface with a small handle. The judge deftly spun the combination. Nothing tricky about it.
Leal took a quick step forward. The judge jerked the safe open. His hand darted inside. Not an instant of hesitation.
“No judge, that’s not what—” Leal didn’t even register his own movement as he felt the heft of his sidearm. A glint of silver in the judge’s hand! A gun? A gun! His wife stood in the doorway. No! No! The judge wouldn’t . . . Leal hurried to bring his own weapon to bear, pressure on the trigger. The judge, though, spared him by turning away.
Leal watched helplessly as the top of the judge’s head erupted in a flume of blood, bone, and tissue. The body thudded to the floor.
“Shit!” Leal said. “Shit!”
Still training his unfired sidearm Leal stepped to the body, kicking the judge’s pistol away. He turned to quickly check on the others. Millie Grady wore an expression of abject horror. Her brother threw up on the hallway carpet.
thirty-nine
Tempe, Arizona
“Hey, Guillermo, there’s a guy standing on the mound.”
“What? What the fuck, man? I thought we were all locked up.”
“Yeah, me, too. Want me to call someone? I think a police cruiser just drove through the parking lot. I could . . .”
Having overheard this exchange while hoisting a trash bag into a dumpster on the concourse running through the bowels of Tempe Diablo Stadium, Malcom Sleepsander let the home clubhouse door swing closed behind him. He skipped down the steps leading into shadows of the third base dugout.
“Hey, guys,” he said. “Something going on?”
Guillermo pointed at the infield. “There’s a guy out there. No one’s supposed to be there.”
Sleepsander followed the eyes of the two men as they faced the dark, empty expanse of stadium where the Mariners would soon begin preparation for their 1991 season.
A black silhouette towed the pitching rubber. This figure stared high into the night above the grandstand behind home plate where the hint of a crescent moon dodged gathering clouds.
“Give me a minute, guys,” Sleepsander said. “No need to call anyone.”
Sleepsander walked across the infield. He felt a smack of moisture on his bare head. As he strode across the grass, he saw plump dimples of unseen raindrops bloom across the hard-red clay of the mound.
“Hey, Conman.”
“Hey, Sleepy.”
“It’s starting to rain,” Sleepsander observed.
“Is it? I guess I didn’t notice.”
“Yeah. The grounds crew guys need to tarp the mound.”
“I suppose.”
The Conman didn’t move. He continued to stare at the shadows where home plate lay. Rain began to fall in earnest. Sleepsander placed a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
A new voice floated through the darkness. “Connie? We called Kate. She said you were getting some stuff at the clubhouse.”
Two men Sleepsander did not know joined them.
“Hi, A.J., Baze,” the Conman said. “I . . . I just didn’t know where else to go.”
Sleepsander sensed drama unfolding here. He stepped away, allowing these newcomers to embrace the Conman. Nobody spoke until, finally, Connor wiped rainwater from his eyes.
“You guys know I had a sister, right?”
“Yes,” A.J. said. Basil nodded.
“She was only eight months old. Why would God do that? Take a child that way? Why would He let something like this happen to Brad? What kind of sense does this make?”
Neither A.J. nor Basil attempted an answer.
“Ever since I was seven years old,” Conor said, his voice quivering, “this is where I ran to. This damned pile of clay. I could always hide here. Nothing else mattered. The world excuses all my sins when I stand on a pitching mound. I can stutter. I can fail chemistry. I can steal a bus. I can be a jerk and fight Wilbur Spalding . . . but out here, everything else goes away. The rest of all creation is . . . someplace else, you know?”
“Yeah,” Basil said with a choked whisper, “we know.”
“It’s not going away this time, is it?”
“No,” A.J. said. “No. It’s not.”
Conor sleepwalked through the funeral. Brad Grady had friends everywhere. He’d always been generous with his time, his support, his advice. Conor, A.J. and Basil weren’t the only ones he looked out for. They, and a handful of others, attended Brad’s service.
A.J. made arrangements. He tried pointlessly to talk with Millie, who’d been rendered helpless by the tragedy. The local Fresno newspaper coverage of Brad’s death bordered on lurid. Most everyone within Brad’s legal and political circles distanced themselves. Mercifully, A.J. supposed, his parents were both deceased. He had no siblings. The funeral home people worried who would pay.
Finally, A.J. called Conor. “We’re taking him home. That’s where he belongs.”
Fat Brad’s three closest friends shared the expenses. The graveside service proved awkward. Usually the case with suicides, Conor supposed.
They drove from the cemetery to a local bar, one from which Conor’s brothers had been banned years earlier, and chose the darkest corner.
“Are they sure?” Conor asked. “I mean, the whole thing wasn’t an accident?”
A.J. sighed. “No, Connie. I asked everyone. The cop screwed up. No question about it . . .”
“A gun in the safe?” Conor asked. “Doesn’t that seem a little . . . I don’t know . . . coincidental?”
“It’s Fresno. Everybody has a gun in their safe. No, Brad did it. At that moment, he just couldn’t imagine any way to face us, to face up to—”
“Did he even do what they said? That kid’s mom could claim anything. Maybe she saw a chance to shake Brad down . . .”
Basil waved a dismissive hand. “Can you imagine Brad not being willing to fight to save himself if he hadn’t done it?”
The disaster had its roots in Brad’s generosity. He helped a seventeen-year-old boy’s mother avoid charges on a drug-related accusation. He found funds for her to enter a drug rehab facility. Her son had nowhere to go other than the streets. Brad allowed him into his home.
Released from rehab, the mother called police. Brad molested her son, she said. Police interviewed the kid and were convinced the charge was genuine. The woman called Brad’s wife during their Phoenix trip. Asked for money to drop charges. Millie’s anger at the woman wilted beneath her suspicion the allegation was true. She flew home, gave a statement, sought a restraining order.
“A couple of cops I talked to said it could have been a set-up,” A.J. said. “There’s no evidence or suggestion that Brad was a pedophile. Just this one time, I think the kid—who’d been previously arrested for soliciting, by the way—offered, and Brad succumbed to the temptation.”
“But Brad wasn’t gay.”
“Oh, come on Connie,” A.J. said.
“He was married,” Conor protested.
“He hardly ever had a date in high school,” A.J. said. “I don’t know about college. because we weren’t there . . . remember the hooker?”
The second year A.J. and Conor played baseball at Cañada, Basil came home from Alaska and they purchased an hour with a call girl at a fancy San Francisco hotel.
“Remember, we were worried he might still be a virgin?” Basil said.
San Carlos, California
1975
Conor, Basil and A.J. waited at the hotel coffee shop as the hour passed.
“Well, how was it?” A.J. grinned when Brad joined them.
“I had a nice time,” Brad said.
“Details,” Conor demanded.
“Oh, come on,” Basil said. “It’s us, and she’s a hooker. You’re not protecting anyone’s reputation, here.”
“Well, Audry is a very interesting girl. She’s taking classes at—”
“Audry? Who’s Audry? The escort place said her name was Tawny.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Tawny is her hooker name. You think anyone really names their daughter Tawny, unless they want her to grow up and be . . . well, a hooker?”
“Oh, no. No. Don’t tell me,” A.J. demanded. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
Brad offered no response.
“See there, he didn’t do it. We got him the hottest date in half of San Francisco and—”
“Hey,” Brad said, “she’s got a lot happening right now. Her heart wouldn’t have been in it.”
“She’s a hooker. Her heart’s never in it.”
“She’s a little confused. I told her I’d help her if I could.”
The possibility burdened Conor’s conscience like an indictment.
“If . . . if he was gay, can you imagine what it was like for him? San Carlos? Being around . . . us?”
Nobody answered as they each retreated to memories.
During the Sixties and Seventies, San Francisco became the first American city to out itself, allowing its homosexual culture to be part of a gaudy display that was a piece of the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll generation. The patriarchs of many conservative and traditional families—like Hugh Nash—fled the city so their children wouldn’t fall prey to the drug culture, a burgeoning minority population, and homosexuality.
Demeaning homosexuals was almost second nature to Conor’s childhood—not with any real malice, he supposed, just in a belittling and ridiculing sort of way. Particularly so amid the locker room culture in which Conor, A.J., Basil and, yes, Brad, immersed themselves. How many times had words like queer or homo or fag rolled glibly off their tongues? Had this curious condition ever been personified before them, how cruel might they have really been?
And what would the effect be on a boy so anxious to share their friendship? How much of himself did he have to deny? And how much denial could a person tolerate? How did he and A.J. and Basil feel about the possibility even now? As adults, the rhetoric had certainly been toned down. That was mostly a growing societal pressure towards political correctness, though. At their core, did they really view homosexuality any differently than their parents had?
“If Brad was sitting here right now,” Conor asked his friends, “and confessed to being gay—not just in a curious way—but a full-blown homosexual, would it make a difference?”
A.J. turned the question back on Conor, who fell silent for a long moment.
“No,” Conor finally said. “I mean, it’s easy for me to say I’m not comfortable around some swishy guy who I know nothing about. But this is Brad, one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I hope I could accept it.”
“I don’t care what his secrets were,” Basil said. “I loved the guy. All he ever wanted was to help people around him. He sure helped me.”
“Yeah,” A.J. said. “Me, too.”
Alone on his mountain Conor tried for about the millionth time to sort through his feelings toward Brad Grady. Conor had a low tolerance for grief. If he allowed, grief would paralyze him, consume him. He buried his father’s death under single-minded purpose. With Brad, he substituted anger, understanding, though, he wasn’t angry at Brad for who he might have been or for his crime.
I’m angry because you quit. Quitting is fatal. Suicide is the ultimate quit. And the rest of the world has to find a way to get out of bed in the morning.
forty
Phoenix
Off-Season
1990-91
Conor savored every moment of the 1990 season, but he felt relief when it ended. He’d begun to suffer back pain early in August. With each injection, the cortisone seemed to be less effective.
“My recommendation,” the doctor told him, “is back surgery.”
“No,” Conor said. “I’m thirty-six. Rehab from surgery would rob me of time I can’t afford to give.”
In lieu of an operation the doctor recommended a workout regimen, warning Conor not to throw until back muscles were stronger. As a result, Conor came to Spring Training of 1991 in great overall condition, but behind in his throwing schedule. He pushed his arm. His arm ached. Cortisone made the ache go away.
He wasn’t as sharp as he’d been the spring before. He pitched okay, though. He’d put up two solid seasons. He enjoyed credibility among his coaches. He asked for patience. I’ll be ready. Let me get my work in. You know what I can do.
A.J. negotiated a contract high on guaranteed salary—$450,000—and low on incentive payments.
Despite his slow start, Conor believed hard work, credibility established by his previous performance, and the guaranteed money would be enough.
They weren’t.
“Here’s the thing,” Mariners manager Jerry Latham told him as the team prepared to break camp, “you’ve got options. Cassidy doesn’t. He’d have to clear waivers—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s Cassidy ever done for this team?” Conor demanded, in no mood to be conciliatory. His defensive instincts had been sharpened by the constant presence of Brad’s betrayal. “I told you I’d be ready, and I am.”
“We’re not keeping two lefties.” Latham insisted.
The discussion deteriorated from there.
Conor had paid his dues. He’d posted great numbers during both 1989 and 1990. He’d done everything the Mariners asked. He’d compromised his body to assure his availability each time the bullpen phone rang. Cassidy had proven nothing. Conor had earned the right not to be the guy whose career was manipulated as a matter of bureaucratic convenience.
Soon, both men were shouting.
“I’m tired of hearing this shit,” Latham finally said. “You’ve got no complaint. We’re paying you $450,000 to pitch Triple-A ball. So, quit your whining.”
Conor felt heat flush into his face. He found himself in sixth grade again under his father’s orders, standing at Gary Shaw’s front door, waiting to challenge the bully who’d beaten him time after time. Conor Nash would not be intimidated. Conor Nash would always—always—stand up for himself.
“I wouldn’t suck your dick for $450,000,” he said. “What makes you think I’d let you fuck me in the ass for $450,000?”
“Suck your dick?” A.J. said with a chuckle when Conor recounted the argument. “Probably not the smartest response, given the circumstances.”
“Yeah.”
“Connie, it’s $450,000.”
“Yeah.”
“So, report to Calgary.
Conor sighed. “Yeah.”
Calgary Cannons
1991
Kate found his passport, packed his bags, and Conor Nash again became a Calgary Cannon. Manager Keith Bodie installed Conor as his closer. Like most of his minor league managers, Bodie loved the Conman.
Conor took the ball every time he could get it. He injected cortisone, both back and shoulder, every time he needed it. One afternoon, a doctor injected him four times. He got the save that night. The next morning his left arm and shoulder swelled like he’d been assaulted by a bicycle pump.
“You can’t keep doing this,” trainers told him.
But he had to. And not only for the sake of his career. The Conman knew that to earn his money—and honor the work ethic ingrained by his father—he had two job requirements at Calgary. One, to pitch. The other, teach young teammates about approach to the game, obligation, and the grind. Calgary’s roster included kids who would become famous: Tino Martinez, Mike Blowers, Rich Amaral, Dennis Powell, Dave Burba, Jeff Nelson, Scott Bankhead. All of whom would soon play critical roles in reversing the fortunes of a moribund Mariners franchise.
They needed an example. Conor pitched three nights after his allergic reaction and many ni
ghts thereafter. During his time at Calgary, he managed a 3.25 ERA over thirty-six innings, striking out thirty-eight.
As innings, outs, saves and injections continued to mount, Conor suspected the whole suck your dick thing still resonated in Seattle. His baseball angel, though, had a couple of surprises left.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“You should wear the Starman! costume and take lineup to the home plate meeting.”
“No way,” Conor said. “I can’t . . .”
A host of minor league teammates, though, most of them at least a decade his junior—too young yet to be cynical and poised on the brink of the major leagues—started that chant.
Starman! Starman! Starman!
August. Las Vegas. The Cannons initiated a three-game series against the Stars.
The kids were playing great, but August can be a killer of both momentum and enthusiasm. The Conman knew the importance of little things that infused energy and passion during the dog days.
Somehow, somewhere, the kids had heard the story.
Conor’s dismissive no way, evolved into, “I don’t even know if they’ve still got the suit.” The locker room erupted in cheers.
“Just don’t tell Bodie. I don’t think he’d let me do it.”
“Yesssss! Yesss, yessss,” said Don Logan, still Stars GM. “I’ll get the suit.”
Conor changed in Logan’s office. The bullpen crew acted as scouts while he snuck through the concourse beneath the stadium and hid behind a door, one stiff star point and gloved hand exposed.
As he waited, he heard footsteps almost at a run. The steps slowed, then stopped.
“Um . . . who’s there?” asked a voice barely louder than a whisper.
Conor peeked from behind the door. There stood the same grounds crew kid from the Starman!’s last performance.
