Dying to Play

by Mark Zubro

  “So what’s the deal? Why oppose the development?”

  “Tradition, I guess.”

  “You’re young.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t love the town and want it to stay the way it always has.”

  “Things always change. Not much choice in that.”

  “I’m making my choice. I want a real small town.”

  “You’ve lost some money. That warehouse.” I made it a statement not a question.

  “I’m the lawyer, not an investor, but it’ll come back.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Knecht doesn’t control everything.”

  “How well did you know Tyler Skeen?”

  “I didn’t. He doesn’t play golf at the Country Club, and I’ve never been to a game. It’s my little protest.”

  “Anybody else in your faction who might take their protest to a more violent level?”

  “No.”

  I wouldn’t have expected any other answer.

  “Todd Timmons?”

  “Talk to him. See if you think he’s capable of violence.”

  “I was told you were slimy and to watch out for you.”

  “And I would tell you the same thing about their side. You aren’t safe from them, even if you’re on their side. Me? I’m always careful.”

  “Have you gotten threats?”

  “People can say intemperate things.”

  He wouldn’t give me names of people, if he knew them, or details on specifics threats. Maybe there weren’t any.

  “I heard part of the opposition was a group of environmental extremists?”

  “That’s mostly Old Charlie Hopper.”

  “Who’s Old Charlie Hopper?” This was the third time his name had come up.

  “He’s in his eighties. He’s the town crank. He opposed the new condominiums that Knecht built out where Tyler Skeen lived. Only half of them are occupied. It’s built in the swampiest part of the old woods. Nobody wants to live out in that mosquito infested cesspool. Ever since the West Nile virus scare, they can’t sell a one of those things. Who wants to breathe mosquito bug spray half the time?”

  “So Knecht fails, too?”

  “Failure is too strong a word. Charlie protests Todd Timmons’ developments, too.”

  “How successful is Old Charlie?”

  “He and his protests are useless. Part of the problem is that he fights against anything.”

  “If Hopper files all these lawsuits, why don’t the people turn on him?”

  “Depends on whose ox is being gored. If he’s on your side, he’s the cavalry come to the rescue. If you’re on the wrong side, he’s the town bully who can cause your life to be hell.”

  “So he’s got factions for and against him?”

  “More like he’s got people in and out of his factions. You’re fed up until you benefit from what he’s done.”

  “How does Old Charlie finance all his lawsuits?”

  “He’s a lawyer himself plus he sells a zillion home remedy drugs and his rustic, rural cabin sits on the middle of a quite successful, very modern dairy farm, which he owns.”

  Skeen dead from drugs, a local herbal dealer? I didn’t need Miss Marple to beat me on the head with an umbrella to know this was a clue.

  “He’s a drug dealer?”

  “Many of us think it’s snake oil.” He shrugged. “Lots of people in town swear by his elixirs.”

  “Why’d Knecht build the condos out there?”

  “Because he could? Because it would irritate people? Because Old Charlie Hopper is fun to irritate? Knecht is a vicious man who will stop at nothing? Or maybe it was the only land he could get zoned for that. Talk to Old Charlie. He’s got college kids from Madison who show up to help him out. He protests at every farm that gets sold, every old store that goes under, and every new, small business that doesn’t succeed. You should have seen him when they tried to put up the Wal-Mart. It was supposed to be at our exit on the Interstate. He managed to get that put enough exits farther east that it is out of the town and out of the county. We lost taxes, businesses, and jobs to that, still do.”

  I asked, “How does Old Charlie reconcile the loss of jobs and income for his town with his desire for a continued town?”

  “Old Charlie is as good at self-delusion as most activists, whether they’re on the left or right. He’s one you might want to put high on your suspect list. Those home remedies have given him legendary powers as a healer. Makes up his own medicines. There’s all kinds or rumors about Tyler Skeen and drugs. If Charlie’s making them up to heal, he could be making them up to hurt.”

  “There a reason you’re giving me some information on him as a suspect and not anybody else?”

  “I happen to dislike Old Charlie more than I dislike Connor Knecht. If they managed to cancel each other out, I’d be happy.”

  “Why don’t you like Old Charlie?”

  “Charlie enjoys suing people. I’ve had several clients who had to waste a lot of time and money getting Old Charlie’s lawsuits thrown out of court. He’s sued Timmons and Knecht. I just happen to be Timmons’ lawyer.”

  TUESDAY 3:11 P.M

  It was nearly time to get to the park. I was a little tired from lack of sleep. I met Donny Campbell at the apartment he shared with three other guys on the team. I expected a mess. It was more Spartan than anything. Each of the guys shared a room with two twin beds. The common living room had two couches with mismatched cushions, a small screen television, several ottomans, and cases of beer stacked next to the kitchen doorway.

  Campbell thumped a bed in one room. “This is mine.” He pointed to another. “We’ve got room for you right here.”

  I said, “If I check out of my place, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He beamed. I didn’t mention Czobel. I had no responsibility to Donny. Yet.

  I said, “I heard that Skeen and McDaniels didn’t get along, that McDaniels got thrown out of one of the parties.”

  He frowned. “Skeen could be kind of a prima donna. A few guys had minor run-ins with him. Nothing was ever serious. Guys get on each other’s nerves all the time. Little dust-ups aren’t odd. Jamie never said anything to me about being thrown out.”

  He gave me the names of the ones who did have run-ins. I would talk with them later.

  I said, “You know anything about Deborah, the waitress at Millie’s? Supposedly Skeen was interested in her.”

  “All the guys are interested in her. Lot of good it does them. She’s beautiful, stacked, and off limits. Nobody touches her. She’s the daughter of the chief of police. Skeen might have been interested, but even he isn’t that stupid. If she says no, and I heard she did, then it was no.”

  “She’s the police chief’s daughter? She doesn’t have the same last name.”

  “Married and divorced. She hates her dad, been estranged for years is what I heard. Still, everybody knows who she is and keeps away.”

  We arrived at the park at three thirty for the evening game. The workout area Donny had mentioned was well-appointed with machines that gleamed with newness. He had kind of an astonished look on his face when he realized I could press more weights and lift more pounds than he.

  I wore baggy sweat pants and a loose T-shirt. His tight, red spandex shorts outlined his dick and balls. An attempt to display his interest in me? Hoping to be noticed for a stud by anyone and everyone? There seemed to be a great deal to flaunt. He didn’t seem concerned about the display. The other players may or may not have noticed, and none of them made any comment. I ignored him and made sure there were no lingering inadvertent touches.

  Among the crowd using the room were women, teenagers, and older men from the community.

  After we finished the workout, I picked up my uniform. Putting one on again felt nostalgic and studly. Being in a locker room with hot young athletes was fantastic. Nobody, including me, made up-close and intimate examinations, but I enjoyed seeing them in their jeans and khaki shorts, T-shirts, boxer
s and briefs, and then naked and changing into their knitted baseball underwear, and cups, and tight pants, and the easy conversation among naked and nearly naked studs.

  Even at this level of playing, you may not be a big star, but you were accorded status. And if you weren’t currently a star, you’d been a star, an object of affection and adulation in your home town. You might not have achieved your ultimate dream, the major leagues, but there was plenty of past glory to assuage the fact that you weren’t at the top now.

  In the locker room, away from the public in the gym, the guys razzed Donny about his spandex-enhanced display.

  One called, “Donny’s bragging again.”

  “Who’s he trying to sell it to?” another shouted.

  Donny said, “I haven’t had any complaints.”

  Donny Campbell was as hot naked as he was clothed. He had tight muscles all over. When he took off his shorts, he noticed my look and turned and gave me a full frontal show and a big grin. I turned away before I embarrassed myself.

  More than the sexual eye-candy, being among them felt great. On the field the warm ups, wind sprints, and batting practice were easy. These last were the usual fat lobs that I plastered around the park. One even got to the left field wall on one bounce. Just being on the grass that was as green as childhood was as familiar and exotic as that first time when I was a kid. The grass so green you’d think it was perpetually spring in this one spot. The stands, the show, the smell of hot dogs, and yes, the guys in tight uniforms brought back the memories from not that long ago.

  I took a long look around the stadium checking spectators and hangers-on. No sign of Czobel. I wondered where he’d been all day. I hadn’t seen him around town. He didn’t need to check in with me, but his leaving so abruptly was odd. Wouldn’t have been the first time that happened to me, but it was odd.

  While waiting near the batting cage, I turned and nearly got brained with a baseball bat. Earlier I’d seen the guy practically bouncing around the field. I had assumed he was on something. He was smiling, energetic, about six feet tall and might have weighed one hundred forty pounds if he was carrying a full equipment bag. He stuck out his hand and smiled, “Brandon Saldovi. Welcome to the team. Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  A few minutes later at the batting cage, when no one was around for a moment, I asked Campbell, “What’s with Saldovi?”

  “He’s the youngest guy here. I think he dropped out of high school to play. I don’t know what lie he told to convince Knecht to let him be here. He is always “up,” always goofy, silly. He’s kind of the pet around here.”

  “Is he on something?”

  Campbell looked to where Saldovi was running sprints in the outfield. “I think that’s just the way he is. He’s hit a lot of home runs in the past few weeks.”

  “Since Skeen was here?”

  Campbell thought. “I guess.”

  “Maybe he gets his energy from something he got from him.”

  “He was that energetic before. Some claim he’s just on a hot streak and been lucky. It happens. A few are suspicious that it could be performance enhancing drugs. I got no proof on any of that.”

  I finally caught Jamie McDaniels alone in the cinder block runway to the locker room. I said, “I was told you had a run-in with Skeen.”

  “Me and half the team. Skeen could be a shit. Then he’d switch from asshole to best friend in like the blink of an eye. It was weeks ago. I didn’t mention it earlier because it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “How’d it start?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know.” He thought a couple seconds. “I guess he made some crack about minor league pitchers. If anybody ever made a comment back to his witticisms, he’d get all huffy. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Did it have something to do with him getting fat pitches from other teams?”

  McDaniels frowned and thought a moment. “I didn’t think so at the time. Maybe he thought I knew something.” He shook his head. “I didn’t make the connection then. I didn’t make an accusation. I don’t know that he was getting fat pitches.”

  “Who’d he have problems with recently?”

  “There weren’t any fist fights or shouting matches, but I guess he bugged a couple guys.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t want to give names. I don’t want them under suspicion. I’m loyal.”

  “Conner Knecht said everybody liked Tyler Skeen.”

  “That’s because Connor Knecht is an asshole. He believes in being cheap, squeezing every bit of cash out of us, and ignoring any real problems.”

  They assembled all of us in the locker room before the game. Knecht gave a speech about Skeen, and life and death, and forging bravely on. None of their games were going to be canceled. The wake and funeral were going to be held in Helena, Montana, Skeen’s hometown.

  “We heard he was murdered,” said one of the guys whose name I didn’t remember.

  “That’s an ugly rumor,” Knecht said. I couldn’t figure out what the percentage would be in hiding the news of it being murder. That news would be made official eventually.

  “If it’s true, are we safe?” the same guy asked.

  “If we need extra security, we’ll have it,” Knecht said.

  I leaned over to Donny Campbell and asked who the questioner was. He whispered back, “Malcolm Dowley, a player to be named later, and resident pain in the ass. He lives in the same motel you do.”

  I sat on the bench for the game. Campbell sat next to me when the team wasn’t on the field. His leg and knee kept contact with mine. A few guys asked where I’d played before. I told them the story I’d worked out with Trader Smith—that he’d seen me in a men’s league and wanted to give me a tryout, that I’d played in college.

  Nobody made threats. Nobody got suspiciously friendly. Nobody keeled over and died, which was a step in the right direction. I cheered at appropriate moments, said encouraging words when guys made good plays, but didn’t make a show of myself. We won. Saldovi hit two home runs. Guy named Clem Vickers pitched a shutout for our side.

  When I got back to my locker, I found a note in my jeans pocket. It said, “Get the hell out before you die.”

  TUESDAY 9:30 P.M.

  I gazed at the guys around me. Everybody I saw was clowning around and happy, teasing, making ribald comments. The atmosphere wasn’t much different than an adolescent locker room, which most of these guys weren’t that far away from anyway. They laughed, kidded. Nobody seemed to notice me.

  Was the note a dire warning or a friendly bit of advice? I took a shower, changed, got my wallet and watch from the equipment lock-up, and strode into Smith’s office. I showed him the note. It was twelve point type in a Courier New font and printed on plain white paper.

  After he glanced at it, I said, “I’m not sure getting threats like everybody else is quite what anyone meant about being a part of the team.”

  Smith said, “Don’t tell anybody you got this. Knecht wants to keep your presence secret.”

  “Telling them I got the same kind of note doesn’t reveal what I’m up to. In fact, it gives me reason to ask questions. How possible is it really that what I’m doing is going to be kept secret? I’m going to be talking to a lot of guys. Eventually they’re going to catch on, if someone doesn’t out and out blab in the first place.” I didn’t tell him about Ornstein’s comment that seemed to indicate my presence had been broadcast along some kind of small town inner-circle network.

  Smith thought for a moment. “You’re right. It does give you an excuse to ask questions, but for as long as we can, we’ve got to keep it quiet about who you are. If the press found out you were here, there would be hell to pay. This is a small town. It would make headlines.”

  Swell, I thought, headlines in Butterfield. In the history of the universe it didn’t seem like a big deal to me. I already had two reporters deep in my confidence. I wasn’t about to tell Smith that. Keeping the truth about my connection to the reporters
was a little dicey, but I’m the one who decides what the client gets to know.

  There was a knock at the door. Malcolm Dowley came in. He wore a sport coat, tie, and jeans. He had a note in his hand. He hesitated when he saw me.

  “It’s okay,” Smith said.

  “I got one of those threat deals,” Dowley said. He held out the note. Smith glanced at it then passed it to me. It said, “Get out or die.”

  “Get out of what?” Dowley asked. “Get out of town, get out of baseball, get out of Dodge?”

  I said, “I got one, too.” I showed him then asked, “When did you get this?”

  “I found it just now when I went to put on my street shoes. Is somebody gonna call the cops?”

  Smith nodded. “I’ll call them.”

  After he hung up from the police, I said, “We should call Connor Knecht.”

  But the owner was nowhere to be found.

  Sebastian Rotella, the Butterfield chief of police, showed up in fifteen minutes. He was in his mid-sixties with heavy jowls, large half-moon sweat stains under his armpits, and a paunch that he needed pants several sizes larger to contain. He asked us details and took notes then said he’d add it to the ones he already had.

  I asked, “Have you found out anything about those others?”

  “Nope.”

  Dowley asked, “Did you do anything about them?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did you do?” Dowley asked.

  “My job.”

  Undaunted by the cryptic answers, Dowley asked, “Is Tyler Skeen’s death an official murder investigation?”

  Rotella glared at him for an uncomfortable length of time. Finally, the cop said, “I’m holding a press conference tomorrow. I’ll make an official announcement then.”

  “What killed him?” Dowley asked.

  “Can’t give you that.”

  “Any suspects?” Dowley asked.

  “Yeah,” Rotella said, “people who ask too many questions.”

  I said, “I heard a rumor about his meds being mixed.”

  Rotella said, “Some rumors are truer than others.” He left.

  I said to Smith, “You should get in all the hired help now and ask them who was in here during the game.”