by Mark Zubro
The traffic wasn’t bad for the four-hour trip to Butterfield, north and west of Madison.
MONDAY 4:45 P.M.
The Butterfield Memorial Pledge of Allegiance park was located between downtown Butterfield and the last Interstate exit before Minnesota. Driving the Escort was different from driving my Ferrari. I chugged to my motel in a car that ran more on faith than gasoline. The air-conditioning didn’t work so I had the car windows down. It was a typical July day in Wisconsin—hot, humid, and still. Sometimes acting the part can be a pain in the ass. Duncan had picked a flawlessly running dud. The man was a gem.
The exit to Butterfield had all the accoutrements of the modern cloverleaf: motels, gas stations, fast food, uniformity, and plastic.
Downtown Butterfield seemed to be mostly two or three beauty shops, a stray law office, rows of boarded up storefronts, and vacant lots. Two blocks from the motel, there was a half-finished structure that filled almost an entire block. It was surrounded by a chain link fence with a twenty foot by twenty foot sign that had two-foot-high black letters on a red background which told people to keep out. Bullet holes riddled the sign. It didn’t look like anybody had worked on the building in months.
Duncan had booked me into Edna’s Motel, just down the street from Millie’s Tap. The motel was on the eastern edge of downtown between a used car lot and a closed gas station, and across from the boarded-up train depot. This side of the tracks was definitely the used-life side of town. The motel was one story, u-shaped, with walls covered in wood shingles that needed paint. Picture the Victory motel in the movie L.A. Confidential where it’s the kind of place everybody goes to be sleazy or die. The parking lot had more potholes than intact pavement. Rivulets of rust spread from under each window air-conditioner. The man working the front desk was in his seventies. He had a big gut, emphasized by his belt cinched tight underneath it. No sign of Edna.
The interior of my motel room matched its surroundings. In the room the rug was threadbare indoor-outdoor carpeting. Random yellow and orange patches interrupted the flow of the beige, plastic curtains. The windows hadn’t been washed since the Depression. I turned down what purported to be a blanket to see that the stains on the sheets were unpleasantly brown and yellow. I turned the air-conditioning settings to ‘high’. This caused the machine to puff and wheeze and clank. It did not cause it to cool anything.
I unpacked my duffel bag. Duncan had added the usual touches. I pack simply. He’d added a flashlight, extra ammunition, a first aid kit, and a few odd accoutrements your usual guest didn’t need.
MONDAY 5:05 P.M.
I met Donny Campbell as prearranged in a little park across from the stadium. He wore a black T-shirt tucked into tight, faded denim shorts, which clung to his hips without a belt.
Campbell said, “I’m glad we’ve got this chance to talk.” I hoped to hell he wasn’t going to comment on my inspection of him or his of me. I especially didn’t want my interest reciprocated, at least not while he was part of a case. I don’t mess around with a client although technically this guy was the client’s hired help. However, if there were going to be exceptions made, Campbell certainly would qualify.
Campbell said, “All that stuff Knecht told you is true, but I think there’s more. I don’t think the threats and stuff are necessarily about him. We get the threats. He doesn’t.”
“Bad things happened to the stadium,” I said.
“Yeah, but that’s just stuff, not people. No, something’s wrong with the team too.”
“On a losing streak?”
“No, we’re pretty average. Win some. Lose some. There’s a tension, a hesitancy, something.” He shrugged. “There are rumors that some of the guys are getting preferential treatment.”
“But isn’t it true in the minor leagues that the vast majority of the guys are simply there so the players who are going to make it to the majors have someone to play against?”
“I’m not some rf.”
“Rf?”
“Roster filler. No one likes to admit that. I work hard and with a little luck, I might make it. I never thought I’d get to this level.” He shook his head. “Part of the problem is the idea that there’s unfair treatment. Even the rumor of that kind of thing is enough to poison a team.”
“What kind of unfair treatment?”
“Maybe some guys get fatter pitches. I guess I can’t prove it. I’m pretty sure some guys are getting paid more than what their contracts call for. It’s just a couple of the guys have let things slip about what they can afford.”
“Maybe they have savings.”
“Maybe. I guess I’m not sure enough about all that. I don’t know about this investigation stuff. A lot of minor league baseball is rumors and speculation fueled by hope.” He sighed. “Look at this.” He held out a note. “I found this in my duffel bag last night after the game.”
The note was an inch from my hand when a loud commotion broke out across the street. A small herd of fifteen or twenty people, squealing and shrieking, rushed toward a black stretch limousine that was pulling up to the ballpark. As the doors to the limo opened, the noise increased in volume and became sprinkled with scattered applause.
Donny nodded toward the racket. “That’s Tyler Skeen arriving in state.”
A man in a business suit exited the limo followed by a man in bright pink and yellow sweatpants and a flower print shirt and then a tall slender man in tight skinny jeans. They were all in their middle thirties. The eyes of the guy in the sweatpants searched the crowd in that way security guards do.
I said, “None of them is Tyler Skeen.”
Donny pointed. “His entourage. The guy in the tie is his lawyer and publicity guy. The one in sweatpants is his bodyguard/trainer. The young skinny guy is his agent and publicist. They’re always nearby, being paid to hang around a famous guy. How hard can that be?”
Tyler Skeen emerged. He wore faded jeans and a madras shirt that draped over his torso down nearly to his knees. He had a short goatee. Even from this distance I thought he needed a new barber or a new hairpiece as whatever he had on the top of his head didn’t look well. I thought it might topple over. I’d seen pictures of him with shorter hair so I knew it wasn’t because his head was lopsided. I saw a camera crew rush forward. His claque of fans cheered and clapped. Skeen smiled and began signing autographs.
I asked, “People always show up?”
“Usually it’s more. Must be nice, even at the far end of fame, you get a crowd.”
A man emerged from the shade near a stadium overhang and brushed past the crowd. He held a phone in his hand out toward Tyler Skeen. Sunlight blasting onto his figure from behind revealed that under his white, sheer cargo shorts, he wore white boxer briefs. His red T-shirt fit tight on bulging muscles. His blond hair was streaked even fairer by the sun, as if with surfboard in hand, he’d just walked off a California beach.
“Who’s he?”
“Tim Czobel, the TRUTHINSPORTS.COM guy who made all that news.”
TRUTHINSPORTS.COM had made headlines with all kind of investigations into drugs, concussions, cheating scandals, domestic abuse, anything illegal, illicit, or possibly questionable in sports. Czobel got pushed back by the crowd and then the sweatpants guy planted himself between the reporter and Tyler Skeen. The reporter shrugged his shoulders and gave him a crooked smile.
Ignoring the display, Donny and I returned to our business. He handed over the note. He let his fingers graze mine. I didn’t pull away too fast. I didn’t pull away too slow.
The note consisted of words in twenty-four point type on an ordinary eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of copy paper. The message was clear.
YOU WILL BE HURT
“For doing what?” he asked. “I’m just a guy trying to play. Why does somebody have to threaten me? What did I do to somebody? Why scare athletes in the minor leagues? Who benefits?”
“If you go to the majors, somebody’s gotta lose a position.”
“That�
�s happened a million times ever since they started playing baseball. Somebody’s in and somebody’s out. Nobody’s died for it yet. Not that I’ve ever heard.” He nodded toward where Tyler Skeen continued his magisterial progress through the adoring mini-horde. “You know since he’s been with us, I’ve been switched to short. I’ve been doing great this year. I’ve gotten more hits than him. Made fewer errors, stolen more bases, hit more home runs, of course, in this league, not the majors.”
“Knecht mentioned the big club’s investment in him.”
“Sometimes I think Knecht is more interested in protecting his cash than our lives.”
“What do you mean?”
“Knecht is cheap. He cuts every corner. If he screws up Tyler Skeen’s rehab, he’s in trouble, maybe loses his franchise. Maybe his rich owner buddies don’t let him buy a major league club. I heard he’s got some powerful enemies who don’t like him. Couple years ago they maneuvered behind the scenes to keep Knecht from buying in.”
“Why don’t they like him?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could Skeen screw up the rehab?”
“Party all night. Neglect his exercise regimen, cheat on his diet, lots of stuff.”
“Aren’t those things Tyler Skeen’s choice? He’s an adult.”
“I guess guys get blamed for things depending on the convenience of the guy doing the blaming.”
I thought, can you say weapons of mass destruction, but I said, “Bull. Tyler Skeen’s rehab is Tyler Skeen’s responsibility.”
“Nah. You gotta understand. You gotta blame somebody. That’s the way this works. The big league owners are never at fault. Minor league owners are expendable. Sure, maybe some columnist for a big time paper like the Chicago Tribune can criticize an owner. They’re rich. They’re immune. They don’t care.”
I asked, “What if all these threats are from a fan who is pissed that you might take the place of their hero?”
“But other guys get them. No, Tyler Skeen is over the hill. Anybody can see that except him. More to the point, his guaranteed salary for this year and the next can’t see it.”
“Why wouldn’t the team be glad to have two excellent players and bring you both up?”
He leaned back. I couldn’t see up his leg like earlier today, but his shorts were tight enough in the crotch that the folds and creases told a story of their own. He said, “The big team’s got a shortstop. Skeen and I both play third base. I’m the new kid and I’m better than Skeen. He’s old, thirty-eight. That’s ancient for a baseball player, but he’s a fan favorite.”
“But even if they have two champion third basemen, why isn’t that a good thing? They could simply trade one or the other of you for a position player they need somewhere else.”
“Tyler Skeen refuses to be traded. I’m twenty-eight, a lot older than the average rookie. They probably figure they wouldn’t get much for me. Other teams don’t want to take a risk on what’s possibly a short-term investment.”
“Do you think Skeen would threaten you?”
“I think he’s a shit.”
“Knecht said everybody liked him.”
“Knecht is an oblivious dope.”
“Because you think Skeen’s a shit, doesn’t mean he’s threatening anybody.”
“I guess not.”
“So it could be an angry fan.”
“Yeah.”
I tapped the note. “Why didn’t you show me this when you and Knecht met with me earlier?”
“I didn’t tell Knecht about this threat because I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chances of making it to the bigs. I don’t want my name associated with any kind of problem. I want them to only have positive thoughts when my name comes up. I want to be the cooperative one. I want to be the one who never causes any trouble.”
“Are you really frightened you might be hurt?”
“I’m more worried that I might be cheated out of my chance for the bigs.” He spread his legs wide, leaned over, put his elbows on his knees, and looked up at me. Bedroom eyes with eyelashes you could use to keep Cleopatra happily fanned and still have enough power left over to run wind generators that could keep a small town supplied with electricity for a year.
Besides the business aspects that made intimacy with him a problem, I’m normally not a casual sexual relationship kind of guy. Unfortunately, since Joe Arnold in the ninth grade, falling in love has always turned out badly for me. No doubt though, Campbell was hot, and he seemed like a decent, sensible guy.
I asked, “How do the rest of the members of the team feel about Connor Knecht?”
Campbell shrugged. “Most bosses are some kind of jerk to somebody. As far as we can tell, our pay is less than most other teams.” He pointed across the street. “The new, state-of-the-art facility kind of makes up for it. People in the town aren’t really hostile to us because of him. Most are pretty nice.”
“Did anybody talk to the other guys about my coming to play?”
“I took care of it. I didn’t tell them you were an investigator. I told them the story about you working out and that stuff. I told them I knew you, that you were a good guy and you could be trusted. You’ll officially get started tomorrow.”
“Anybody I should concentrate on in terms of these threats?”
“You might want to start with Jamie McDaniels. He’s supposed to be the biggest prospect among all of us. He’s a good guy. He’s been threatened.”
“I’ve got to talk to people in town as well, and it’s a small town. It’s not going to be long before people figure something’s going on.”
“Where you gonna be staying?”
“At Edna’s Motel on the edge of downtown.”
“A couple of the other guys stay there. It’s a hole.”
“It’s good for my cover.”
“A lot of guys just room together. You could stay with four of my buddies and me. It would look normal. It’s a three bedroom place, two to a room. There’s an extra bed in my room.” He gave a slight smile. The little dimple on his chin got bigger.
“I’ll see how things go tonight. I’ll be able to tell better by tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He stood up. “I gotta get dressed for the game.”
Campbell took me to the locker room to meet some of the guys. They were friendly enough. Nobody leapt up and confessed to sabotage and evil designs. The team started drifting out to practice. I went to the box office where Knecht had told me he would have a ticket waiting for me.
MONDAY 7:00 P.M.
The night felt even closer and stickier than the day. Waves of heat radiated off every square inch of pavement. I wore black satin running shorts, a black T-shirt, black ankle socks, and black running shoes.
The park was half filled.
Tyler Skeen came up to bat third in the bottom half of the first inning. His gut protruded far over his bulging uniform cup. He struck out.
Jamie McDaniels pitched for the Mustangs. He had wicked quick muscles. His uniform fit him tighter than Chipper Jones in his prime, and Jamie had more to show off, including the extremely prominent bulge of his cup and a tight round ass. He allowed two hits in seven innings, struck out three, and walked none. Nobody shouted threats. Most of the crowd was kind of quiet, even during the mid-inning clown acts, mascot races, and other folderol that seem to be the lifeblood of minor league games.
Two drunks behind me provided more noise and entertainment than I was willing to put up with. They shouted loud insults at the slightest slip they perceived in members of both teams. I was tempted to tell them to shut up, but it wasn’t that important. They’d bought tickets, and mine was free, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I ignored them.
I started for the concession stand before the top of the fifth inning. As I neared the ramp leading away from the field, I saw the blond reporter in the sheer pants and red T-shirt. He sat in the box seats behind home plate. He turned and smiled at me. I nodded and proceeded to walk on.
The kid hit the ground hard and started to whimper. Attempting to grab for her kid while righting herself, the mother lost her balance, toppled over, and banged into a concrete strut. Dazed, she shook her head, tried to rise. She alternated attempting to get to her feet and clearing her head with comforting her child and fulminating at the two drunken klutzes.
Both guys swore at the mother and child and became belligerent. I reached out a hand to help her and the kid get stabilized. The guys loomed over us. Probably nothing would have come of it if the hulking idiots had apologized and offered mother and kid a hand. I didn’t see any stadium security nearby. When the bigger one shoved the woman, I stood between the two guys and their victims and said, “Hey, give it a rest.”
They turned their fury on me. Fair enough. The kid and the woman didn’t seem to have much of a chance against them. The big guy had a hundred pounds on me at least. He leaned out a hand and shoved hard. I barely moved. His buddy snarled, “Get the motherfucker.” The big guy leaned out a hand again. A flick later and he was bellowing and holding his broken wrist. The smaller one aimed a kick at my balls. Another flick and this one was unconscious on the floor. Stadium security finally showed up, and a Butterfield cop a minute or two later. The woman poured out her tale of being attacked. I don’t need hero recognition, and I didn’t want a hassle. The drunk and his buddy were tossed out. I didn’t hang around to hear anybody’s thanks.
I was turning to go back to my seat when the reporter from TRUTHINSPORTS.COM tapped me on the shoulder. “Nice work,” he said. He gave me a dazzling smile. Like I said, I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy. Exceptions, as I’ve noted, can be made, and he’s the kind I would make exceptions for.
