by Mark Zubro
“To make secrets of our own?”
“Yep.”
Murray eyed me for several moments. He made an elaborate show of closing his notebook then clipping his pen onto his shirt pocket. He said, “I will give you everything I have about the team if you give me everything you find out from here on. I will do what I can to show that I can be trusted. I don’t want to be in Butterfield forever, but I’m not going to sacrifice my principles or anything else to get a story.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s the story with the blond you were talking to when I walked up just now?”
“Czobel? He’s just some national asshole. I think he ruined some lives.” He sighed. “He looks like he stepped off the pages of a surfing magazine.”
“Not that we’d notice.”
Murray smiled. “I always notice. Forget him. All I know is I’m not going to be eclipsed by some national media glory hog. He’s a cold fish, ice hard, and mean. He’s out for himself. I think he’s got some investigative lead, but he’d never share it with me. I don’t like him. There’s something odd about him. He uses people.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Murray continued, “I admit, he is a stud. I’d pay to have his underwear in my collection.”
I kept my opinion about his fetish to myself. Who was I to judge? And I’ll never admit what I did with Joe Arnold’s white briefs when I found them in the unoccupied locker room when he and I were in the ninth grade.
Murray shook his head. “Czobel’s been running around town asking questions. Nobody will talk to him.”
“They hate outsiders?”
“They like me more. Czobel broke the story about Tyler Skeen that led to him almost being suspended. Czobel managed not to be sued, but I think he was on shaky ground. Forget him.” He leaned toward me and asked in a low voice, “Did they tell you to investigate what happened to Tyler Skeen?”
“Yes. What did happen?”
“No one’s sure yet. Everybody’s pretty sure he’s dead. He certainly wasn’t breathing when he lay on the field. That much was obvious. It’s the kind of thing everybody is pretty sure is true, but they’re waiting for official notification. Although one of the national outlets made the threat that if they didn’t confirm or deny they’d to go on the air with the fact that he was dead.”
“All the reporters think he’s dead?”
“Anybody with a brain thinks so, but they probably won’t have official information for hours, and no one’s willing to leave in case someone actually does hold a press conference. The people in this hospital aren’t used to dealing with masses of reporters. For now we’re stuck camping out here. What is it you’re trying to find out about the team?”
“An explanation for all those threats.”
“I’m not sure how serious that is. I don’t trust Connor Knecht to tell the truth.”
“He claimed the police barely took a report. On major damage? In a small town? With a rich guy complaining?”
“The politics in town can be complicated. The Chief of Police, Sebastian Rotella, does not like Knecht. That antagonism goes back many years. They grew up around here at the same time. Our paper reported the vandalism. Rotella couldn’t ignore what happened, but he certainly didn’t solve the crimes. There are some in town who think Knecht is doing that himself to get sympathy. Even hiring you fits into that. He can say to everybody, he did everything he could—hired some professional from out of town, but now something bad has happened to Tyler Skeen.”
I said, “We’ll have to wait to find out if it was criminal.” He nodded. I asked, “What kind of owner is Knecht?”
“He’s cheap and mean, cuts any corner. He treats his players as if this were a medieval fiefdom. He gets away with it, too. Most of the players are afraid of him, but all these players have a passion to be part of the game, and they’ll make almost any sacrifice to do so.”
“But how would any of that transfer into threats to the players?”
“If guys weren’t cooperating in what he wanted them to do, maybe he’d have them threatened.”
“But why make anonymous threats? He could just out-and-out fire them. He’s the rich guy with all the power.”
“I haven’t worked it all out yet. A few players have said they wished they could confide in me. Jamie McDaniels for one. Tyler Skeen is another anomaly. He’d lost more than a step and his batting eye. He was overweight and not willing to put in the effort to get back into shape. He wouldn’t take extra hitting practice, but he was still demanding to be sent back to the show. The fans love him. If he’d lived, he might have done one of those fading-star farewell tours, but no one who actually knew him wanted to honor him. Skeen was an asshole.”
“Knecht told me everybody liked him.”
“Skeen liked himself enough for everybody around him. As long as he got sucked up to, he was fine. He spread his money around. That’s why people in town sort of liked him. People overlook a lot when they see cash. He hated reporters, me. That’s okay. It’s part of the business.”
Marty hitched up his jeans so they rode tighter in the crotch. “I’ve got something else. I’ve talked to reporters when teams come to town to play. They’ve told me to watch certain players, to see if they’re pulling punches. The reporters think they are. That pitchers on the Mustangs are offering up easy pitches for some of the players on the teams they cover. Or Mustang hitters and fielders might be pulling punches to try and make players on the other teams look good.”
“Have you got any proof of that yet?”
“No. I’m keeping careful watch on the statistics. The few players I trust enough to ask, deny anything like that is going on.”
“Have you asked the players who are supposed to be getting help?”
“I had to be really careful, and even then they got totally pissed off. Nobody admits anything is going on. That’s why I haven’t written stories about it or put it in my column.”
“Are there drug problems on the team?”
“Nothing that would make national headlines. All the guys are trying to get an edge. If Skeen was doing them, I don’t know about it, and believe me, I tried to find out. That door slammed shut pretty fast.”
“But you’ve got suspicions.”
“I’ve got total lack of knowledge. I’ve never reported on real stars. Skeen is my first. He’s kind of an amiable dope, but driven, but I guess most stars are. But that lawsuit of his? I heard it was his entourage that pushed him to file it.”
“They won.”
“You know how stupid it made him look. He’d have been a laughingstock the rest of his life. Despite his stats, he’ll never be in the Hall of Fame.”
“I saw that little scene at the stadium before the game.”
“You saw that farce?”
“Yeah.”
Murray said, “Those people are paid to be there and make a fuss. You remember the scene in the movie Soap Dish when Sally Fields goes to a New Jersey mall so Whoopie Goldberg can have fans stroke the star’s ego?”
I nodded. Soap Dish is one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen, and the last twenty minutes? I had to hit pause three times I was laughing so hard.
Murray said, “One of my friends is in that crowd. He told me they’re paid to perform and to keep their mouths shut about what they’re doing.”
“Who pays them?”
“Derrick Krunst, who always wears the most fashionable suits. He’s a numbers kind of guy. The one in the flowered shirt, Meyers, must have the largest collection of them this side of Hawaii. I’ve never seen him wear the same one twice. The skinny guy, Albert Bordine, is based in New York and always refers to us as being in the provinces. It’s insulting. He’s a shit.”
“If Skeen was doing drugs, he’s got to have a supplier.”
“The first place I looked was in the entourage. They are a close–mouthed group. Very loyal. Once the members of the entourage knew I was a reporter, they stopped even acknowledging my existence. I firmly believe Tyler Sk
een was using performance enhancing drugs back then, and probably while he was here as well. Yes, I know the trial exonerated him. He was lucky there were sports fans on the jury. That verdict humiliated him, but it didn’t ruin his career. You know the deal. The rich and famous get away with murder.”
“In this case the rich and famous guy is dead.”
“You know that for sure?” Murray asked.
That was a slip. I said, “I could see what everybody saw.”
“What happened to him could have been from a combination of drugs, legal or illegal, probably both. They’re going to try to cover this up.”
“And you’re going to try and expose it?”
“I’ll report the truth.”
“Good luck with that. I was told you’ve written some pretty scathing columns about Knecht and Smith.”
“I write the truth. Knecht is Ebenezer Scrooge made flesh. Smith is a moron. His judgment is for shit. Thinks he knows baseball but doesn’t. My little league coach knew more and better strategy than he does. I mentioned that in my column. He got pissed. You know how he got his nickname ‘Trader’?”
I shook my head.
“He’s got a reputation for making trades on the spur of the moment, stupid, pointless, and useless ones. Why bother trading a two fifty hitter for another two fifty hitter? He also made a couple of those Ernie Broglio for Lou Brock type of trades.”
He’d mentioned the most infamous trade in Chicago Cubs history. It still made headlines in the papers on the fiftieth anniversary.
I asked, “What about Knecht?”
“There’s suspicions about Knecht himself going way back about all kinds of things.”
“How so?”
“How his early investments all seemed to work out just perfectly for him. Like he had insider information and got away with it. Then there was the whole stink about Knecht getting the franchise and having the team located here. This is kind of a small town even for a minor league franchise. Knecht owns a lot of real estate around here. It didn’t hurt him when property values went up.”
“Wouldn’t that help a lot of other people in town as well as himself?”
“No one would benefit as much as him. People on fixed incomes would see their taxes raised as the value of their property rose. They’d do well if they sold, not if they lived here a long time and intended to stay here. People in this town either love Knecht or hate him. His family goes back to the founding of the town in eighteen thirty-one. Knecht has called my boss several times to make me stop writing negative columns about him. So far my editor hasn’t given in because my editor hates him. He’s against Knecht in the town disputes. Knecht could be angry at me simply because he’s a rich and powerful guy who doesn’t like anyone writing nasty things about him and because he doesn’t like my boss. It could be a “maker” who is trying to cover up some kind of crime. I don’t have anything specific to connect him to any crime, but something is not right.”
“If you’ve been writing nasty columns, why not threaten you?”
“I haven’t been, yet.”
“I was told there was a rival developer.”
“Yeah, Todd Timmons. You’ll see some of his failures around town.”
“That big warehouse-looking place near downtown?”
“Yep.”
“He blame Knecht for the failures?”
“Todd blamed everybody, including Knecht. Todd’s got a reputation for having a temper, and yes, he has an alibi for all the attacks.”
“Convenient alibis ready-to-hand or believable alibis from a guy who just never had enough luck in business?”
“I got no proof. I’d like to bust that wide open. Watch out for Timmons’ lawyer, L.P. Ornstein. He’s a snake.”
He knew no other specific details. We agreed to keep in touch.
TUESDAY 2:30 A.M.
As I drove to my motel, light flickered in a second floor window on the north side of Main Street. I saw the twisted shadows formed by the glow from a television screen. In the window of Millie’s Grill and Tap a buxom neon female winked at me. Raucous music blasted from inside. Three cars nuzzled around the front door.
At the corner I slowed for the blinking yellow light. I was the only car moving.
The door of the bar banged open. Two men partially hidden by shadows bellowed at each other. One brandished a beer bottle in each hand. I eased forward. The guy with the bottles pitched one. He missed and the bottle flew another few feet and smashed on the ground. The other guy took off running. Their curses and screams echoed down the nearly empty streets. An older woman appeared in the bar doorway. She hefted a double-barreled shotgun up against her shoulder. She aimed it over their heads and let go a blast. It was an incongruous note among the thrumming of air conditioners, the buzzing of insects, and the death of bugs hitting an insect zapper.
“And stay out!” Her shriek split the night.
The one who was ahead passed under a streetlight. I recognized Czobel, his blond hair flying as he ran. I sped up, got ahead of them, and yanked the car toward the curb. Czobel spotted me, swerved in my direction, tripped, and fell. He tried to get up. He yelped and fell back. He grabbed his ankle and moaned.
As the car came to a stop, I threw open the door and rushed to stand between him and his attacker, who, it turned out, was Krunst, the lawyer from the entourage. He stopped a few feet from me. He brandished the remaining bottle over his head. He dropped his other hand against the door of an abandoned store. This helped him not to sway as much. He yelled, “Get out of my way, motherfucker!”
I said, “No.”
Remaining bottle thrust forward, he came at me in a bleary lunge. I sighed. A twist, a trip, and a shove. The bottle flew ten feet, hit Czobel a glancing blow on the head, fell to the ground, and shattered against the pavement. Krunst stumbled a few more feet before he and the ground kissed.
I stood over him. When he became aware of me, he shuffled backwards using his hands and feet for purchase. I followed. After few seconds he leapt up and took off in a drunken shamble.
I turned to Czobel, but kept half an eye on the direction Krunst went. I wasn’t in the mood for a surprise attack. Czobel’s posture on the ground, one knee bent up, caused his crotch to jut out enticingly. He wore the same white, sheer cargo shorts from before, running shoes, anklet socks, and the red T-shirt that emphasized how broad his shoulders were. Blood flecked his face and his blond hair.
I knelt next to him and said, “We should get you to a doctor.”
The hand not on his ankle clutched my upper arm. “No. I’m okay.” His eyes sought mine. “I’m fine.”
I said, “You’re bleeding. Your ankle should be x-rayed.”
His clutching hand did a bit of a caress on my arm. Could intimacy with this man be a way to get information?
Some guys require a lot of maintenance. I tend to require too little. The guys I’ve met tend to want more than I’m willing to give. I don’t have a lot of luck with dating. Duncan teases me about it, and Georgia, my disguise expert, and Jerry, my enforcer, are unmerciful in their dark view of my long string of ex-boyfriends.
Here I wasn’t worried about a relationship. I was worried about solving a case, and he wasn’t the client. He was coming on to me. While I’d stopped Krunst, my counterattack had propelled the bottle in the wrong direction. Inadvertent as that might have been, I felt rotten about it. And why should I pass up this chance? I handed him my hanky so he could dab at the blood. In minutes he stopped bleeding.
“Why was he chasing you?”
“Krunst was pissed. I was getting friendlier with a local than he thought I should have. It was some guy who knew I was a reporter. Fans. They can be useful.” He shrugged. “Krunst overheard me and thought I was asking too many questions about Skeen. I should have noticed him, but the locals were basking in my proximity to fame.” He gave me a disarming smile.
“I thought people weren’t talking to you.”
“It’s been tough. They’re pr
etty loyal to Murray, the guy you were talking to, but tonight I thought I was getting somewhere. Skeen’s death seemed to have loosened some of their tongues. Krunst came along and put a stop to my fun.”
“What are you in town investigating?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re in town investigating?”
“I’m with the team.”
“Now that’s not nice. That’s why they created the Internet so we could Google each other endlessly. I found out your name and Googled you.”
“I’m just here to help figure out who’s trying to sabotage the team. Why are you here?”
“Just working every angle I can on the drug crap. Skeen was a user and I wanted to catch his ass. He beat the rap on that court case.”
“Barely.”
“He didn’t land in jail.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I don’t like cheats.”
I said, “We probably shouldn’t hang around here with you bleeding in the street.” I put an arm around his shoulder. “Can you stand?”
He touched his ankle. “I think so.”
I helped him to his feet. He held on a little more tightly than absolutely necessary and leaned a little closer than I thought he needed to. I didn’t move away. I got lingering whiffs of a pleasant aftershave, and faint sweat, not altogether unpleasing.
I said, “Can I take you to where you’re staying?”
“Are you close by?” he asked.
I nodded toward my motel. “Half a block.”
“Maybe I could get cleaned up there. I wouldn’t want to risk some idiot with a cell phone taking a picture of me like this and plastering it all over social media.”
“Sure.” Was I willing to trade sex for information? Or just hot sex for hot sex, without the information? I remembered Donny Campbell’s veiled interest. He and I certainly weren’t in a relationship and had no commitment to each other. I thought I’d let events of this moment transpire as they would. If this guy thought he was using me, maybe that would make it easier for me to use him to get information.
We hobbled together to my car. Besides us, the most activity I saw in downtown was the traffic light blinking yellow.
