A Conspiracy of Fear Read online

  “They have no power over me to make me upset.”

  We held hands in silence during the descent to Chicago.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Sunday – 6:17 P.M.

  On the way in from the airport, I called our service. Among the numerous messages, we had one from Dennis Pilcher. The message said, “Found him.”

  I told Scott, and he called. He put him on speakerphone. The young reporter said, “I’ve been working with Brendan O’Rourke. We must have searched a million databases. We combined Usti with baseball in Wisconsin and found out he coached a youth baseball team in the 70s in Green Bay. We followed up from that and found a guy named Martin Usti in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He’s married to a woman. He’s got kids and grandkids.”

  Didn’t sound like a guy’s weekend shack-up who’d been to a drag show fifty years ago with a very closeted baseball player.

  Scott asked, “You sure it’s the same guy?”

  “Yeah. I drove up there yesterday. He confirmed it last night. He came back with me today. We got here a couple hours ago.”

  “Where’s here?” Scott asked.

  “I’m at Brendan O’Rourke’s. You guys should stop by.”

  My head ached, and I was exhausted. I looked at Scott. He said, “Yes, we’ll be right over.”

  Instead of going downtown and taking the Ohio Street exit, we got off the Kennedy at Montrose, took it east, and then headed north on Lake Shore Drive back to O’Rourke’s.

  As I pulled off the Drive, Scott asked, “Do we tell them what we found out in St. Louis?”

  “I don’t want to betray Fulham’s confidence. Even though he wasn’t a killer. He should make that decision. We still don’t know who the hell was shooting at you at the massacre, chasing me in Nebraska, or why those security guards in St. Louis were after us.”

  Scott shook his head. “Who would do all three? How could they possibly be connected?”

  “Maybe they aren’t.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or not.”

  We arrived at O’Rourke’s. In the apartment we found a kitchen table littered with papers and three laptop computers. O’Rourke wore a gray sweat suit. Pilcher looked like a college wrestler in the 150 pound weight class, blond, thin, big shoulders. He had a voice not quite as deep as Scott’s. He wore skinny-leg blue jeans and a black, logo-less T-shirt tight on his six-pack abs. Martin Usti was a thin guy under 5’ 6” with a brush cut, thick beard now mixed gray and white and a bald head. He had a thin, worn face, but bright blue eyes that almost made you overlook his tired expression. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a logo from what I took to be a local high school in Sheboygan. On the third finger of his left hand was a wedding ring.

  After introductions and we were all seated with cups of coffee, O’Rourke said, “We’ve been talking for a few hours now. We have some information and some problems.”

  Usti said, “I can’t be in any headlines. I can’t be in any newspaper stories. At all. I need my job. I’d get fired for sure. I’m a PE coach at a Catholic high school. My wife had her pension slashed. I can’t quit. We need the money. I came here with Pilcher mostly because I wanted to beg and plead that you will leave me out of this.”

  I said, “We have no desire to bring trouble to you. Colton Zalachis implicated a utility infielder as one of the people he threatened here in Chicago back in the early 60s.”

  Usti said, “He can’t be going to tell. He won’t. He wouldn’t.”

  I said, “He didn’t mention your name, that’s true, but he struck me as just as vicious and mean now as he was then.”

  Usti moaned, “He could print something.” He pointed at O’Rourke. “I read what you wrote about Fulham not getting into the Hall of Fame.”

  I asked, “Is it true?”

  Usti hung his head and wrung his hands. “It was so long ago. I’m married. My wife is happy. We’ve had a good life. This can’t come out.”

  I said, “I think I can speak for all of us.” I caught both of the reporter’s eyes. They nodded. “We will not mention you. Your name will not come up. You’ve done nothing criminal.”

  Pilcher and O’Rourke said some version of, “You can count on us.”

  He smiled wistfully. “I was in love with Peter Fulham. That was stupid. He was my mentor on the team. Didn’t do much good. I never had much of a career. Maybe he took advantage of a wide-eyed innocent.” He shrugged. “Maybe I wanted what he wanted just as much. He was older. He wasn’t on a Chicago team, but he rented me that little apartment. At the time it wasn’t an expensive part of town, and he was a successful ballplayer, so we could afford it. We didn’t go there often. We never thought anybody from baseball would be at a drag show. Not at that time. Zalachis just happened to find us.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was the next day. He said if we didn’t both give him blow jobs, he’d ruin us.”

  I sat back. Zalachis had left out a significant portion of the story. Some would call that lying to our faces. Why should that surprise me?

  Scott asked, “What did you guys do?”

  Usti shook his head. “Fulham and I had a fight. We did that a lot. A thought that’s what all adults did who were like him and me. He wouldn’t introduce me to any of his friends. I think maybe he didn’t have any. I was young and dumb.”

  Scott said, “Maybe you were doing the best you could at the time.”

  Usti frowned. “My best wasn’t good enough. Fulham was willing to dare Zalachis to do his worst. I was a coward. I’ve always regretted I wasn’t brave enough.” He held out his hands. “You’ve got to understand, I wasn’t at the end of my career, like Fulham was. I had no standing. He and I broke up and lost contact. In the end, I guess Peter refused because he got screwed. He didn’t get into the Hall.” He sighed. “I complied. Fat lot of good it did me. My oral skills couldn’t make up for my lack of on field talent.” He winced. “Zalachis was such a shit. I hated touching him. The only lucky part was that he would always cum real quick, and he had a tiny prick.”

  Pilcher asked, “He was gay?”

  Usti shrugged, “I think he was just a shit. I read he’s been married four times. Had a few kids.”

  “What did you do?” Scott asked.

  “A few weeks after the last time I blew him, I got sent down to the minors, and a few months later, that was it for my career. I wound up in Sheboygan. I got married to a good woman. I indulged myself once in a while.” He cleared his throat. “She doesn’t know. My kids don’t know.”

  I said, “They won’t know from us.”

  Scott asked, “Why was Fulham so disliked?”

  “The guy had a temper. There were always rumors in the clubhouse about him. How he attacked a coach with a baseball bat years ago.”

  O’Rourke said, “I would have heard of stories about that kind of thing.”

  “It got hushed up. As far as I know, there were never criminal charges or anything. No, the guy just had a temper. I learned early on not to make him mad.”

  Scott asked, “Would you like to see him?”

  Usti got misty eyed. “I don’t know.” He shut his eyes and thought for a minute. He opened them and looked at Scott. “I don’t think so. It’s been so many years. It hurt back then, but the hurt is in the past. No, I think letting it go is for the best. I need to get back to my wife.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sunday – 7:35 P.M.

  We left with Pilcher and walked to the nearest Starbucks. We rehashed what Usti had told us and discussed the massacre. Pilcher said, “I’ve been to every press conference. The police still say they have nothing. You know they’re sitting there looking at tons of video. They’re going over every forensic bit, but so much of it was lost when that damn water tower crashed down. That’s made it way more complicated. You know how it is. The police would be stupid to tell the press what they’ve got.”

  “Not unless they’ve got some pretty clear stuff like in Boston when they showed the video of
the two guys.”

  “They haven’t done anything remotely like that here.”

  We wound up discussing Fulham and his entourage. “Yeah,” Pilcher said. “Him not getting into the Hall and claiming the attack was about him is a big deal. If he’d stuck with the Hall story, I think it would have more traction. People are dismissing his claims about the attack.”

  “Not as crazy as some,” I said, “but nuttier than others.”

  Pilcher said, “I think it’s mostly bullshit. He’s not going to become some gay icon. He was just such a shit in his time.”

  I thought, and he pretty much still was. I asked, “Scott mentioned you knew the guys in the entourage.”

  “Yeah, I had a couple run-ins with McMullen over the past few months.” He blushed. “I’ve written a couple of gay sports novels. They turned them down. They thought a gay sports romance was beneath them. The gay literary world isn’t that big. They consider themselves the gay literary elite of Chicago.”

  “Of Chicago?” Scott asked. “Is there a lot of competition?”

  Pilcher smiled, “It’s better if there isn’t. As far as I can tell, the entourage lives in a bubble of self-importance.” He sipped coffee. “I’m sure I meant that kindly. The rest of the world is important only as it relates to them.”

  “Isn’t that kind of true of anybody?” Scott asked.

  Pilcher shook his head. “Much more so of them.”

  I said, “Franklin McMullen offered to publish Scott’s biography or autobiography. I definitely got the impression he assumed Scott was a dumb jock, and he’d need a ghost writer.”

  “Don’t feel bad about that. He assumes everybody is more stupid than he is. McMullen and Howk both wrote fictional accounts of the Stonewall riots. I think they sold about ten copies. I heard they thought it would make them rich.”

  Scott said, “Wouldn’t be the first publisher to take a bath on a book. Probably not the last, or the first author to have his dreams of bestsellerdom dashed on the reality of poor sales.”

  As I sat there, my biggest emotion was the fear that we were in danger and the world was closing in. If I could be hunted down in Nebraska, and we could be chased in St. Louis, then why couldn’t someone be outside this coffee shop waiting to kill us? Either they were omnipotent stalkers who could somehow track us around the country, or they were the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet, or some kind of conspiracy was going on that we had yet to fathom, or it was all serendipitous chance.

  Mostly I wanted to be home in Scott’s arms, but I also wanted to have a long talk with Fulham about the story he had told me, and what he had not told me, not been accurate about, or lied about. I reminded myself that he was an old man and that I had to be patient. Someday I might be that old and need someone’s patience.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sunday - 8:12 P.M.

  Scott and I stopped at the hospital. Special arrangements had been made for victims and their families for late hospital visitation.

  Before we entered Fulham’s room, we talked with Darryl in the hall.

  I asked, “If I talk to Peter about some tough things in his past, things that might upset him emotionally, will he be able to handle it?”

  “You mean if you tell him some shocking news will it cause him to have a heart attack or a stroke?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He smiled, “Medically, that’s a Hollywood myth. I told you earlier his heart is fine for a ninety-three year old. There are no clogged arteries. His blood pressure is actually on the low side. So, no, it’s not like, ‘any excitement could cause him to stroke out.’ It’s more he’s old, so be gentle with him. Any random thing could set off any number of things in his system. He could be startled by a car alarm and collapse. He could keel over with his next step. Random chance as much as bad news at his age could cause anything. He’s a cranky old guy, but he’s my meal ticket.”

  I turned to enter the room. Darryl reached out and put a restraining hand on my arm. “To be completely honest, if you said something that would cause his heart to stop, he’d probably thank you. He’s wanted to die for a long time.”

  Scott and I walked into Fulham’s room. His upper torso was elevated. He had an e-reader device in one hand. On the table were the flowers we’d sent. They were the only ones. I realized they had to be from the mass delivery order from us.

  We were the only ones who cared enough to send anything? He had no friends? Or all his friends had died before him? That little bit of missing flora was an oddity that confirmed his aloneness. Even the entourage hadn’t sent a plant. Yes, I know there isn’t some great ledger keeper keeping track of and judging us when we’re sick. It was just a little odd and a little sad.

  I stood on one side of the bed, Scott on the other. I asked, “How are you?”

  “The doctors say I’m fine.” He put down the e-reader and touched the IV drip attached to his wrist. “This gives me wonderful pain meds. They say I can go home tomorrow. My blood pressure dropped again last night, but it’s okay now.”

  “Good to know.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. Scott sat on the other side. I said, “We’ve found some things out. We wanted to fill you in.”

  “Good. I knew I could count on you.” He nodded, patted my hand, settled himself a bit into his bed, and tugged for a second or two on the wisps of hair on his head. He was hooked up to a number of machines that gave silent readouts.

  I said, “We met with Brendan O’Rourke, and we went to see Colton Zalachis.”

  “Brendan called. That first article was only a beginning. The paper has agreed to run a series of articles about discrimination against me.”

  “I saw the first one.”

  “It was good. A little late, but he’s trying to do right. Did that fuck Zalachis apologize?”

  “No, he was as homophobic as ever.”

  “Asshole.”

  “He told me stories about you. That he actually followed you and knew about you shacking up with a guy named Martin Usti and that was how he found out you were gay.”

  “Oh.”

  Scott added, “We found Martin Usti, and we’ve talked to him.”

  “You found Marty?” To me he looked more wary than glad at this news, but he asked, “How is he?”

  “He’s been married for years. Has a wife and kids, grandkids.”

  He raised both hands, twisted his torso several inches back and forth. He met my eyes for only a second. Now his wary look seemed tinged with fear, or did the old guy just have a cataract?

  “Did he come with you?”

  “No.”

  He squeezed my hand. “That’s probably for the best. I was always attracted to the more straight ones. They were so much more masculine. I wanted a man not some effeminate queen.”

  “Martin Usti said that back then Zalachis wanted blow jobs from both of you, and the reason he made those calls is because you wouldn’t give in.”

  “I guess. Maybe. That sort of sounds right. It was a long time ago.”

  I said, “That would have been a brave thing to have done. I think it would have made a difference as you told me your story. It makes him look worse.” I didn’t want to accuse him of lying. I asked, “Why did you leave it out?”

  Fulham cleared his throat. Scott handed him a glass with a straw. Fulham thanked him and sipped. He returned the glass then said, “Ah, it was actually a little more complicated than that.” The tip of his tongue snaked out. He licked his lips. “I never told Marty. I never told anyone. I did blow him. More than once. In a number of cities.”

  “You didn’t tell me this when we talked the first time.”

  “It’s hard for me to remember yesterday, much less fifty years ago.”

  I thought bullshit or dementia or both? I know, harsh again. I said, “You could have told the entourage the truth. They would have followed up.”

  “I trusted you, not them.”

  “So why did he turn on you?”


  “You’d have to ask the asshole yourself, but I know we hated each other even before he began his extortion.”

  Scott asked, “Why did you hate each other?”

  “I came into the locker room one day. It was my first day on a new team. I didn’t know the local reporters, not the younger ones. I was hanging around, keeping my head down, and there was this obnoxious guy haranguing everybody. I made some flip, snotty remark. It was Zalachis. At the time he was a stringer for the biggest newspaper in town. He hated me from that moment onward. The last time I saw him all those years ago he said, he’d ruin me because he could. He said he had heterosexual credentials that would trump anything I could produce. I tried to go to friends in the press to tell my story. I found out I had no friends in the press. No one would print my accusations.”

  Scott said, “Nobody ever printed any accusations about you either.”

  “They didn’t have to.”

  “How could he prove to them that you were gay?” Scott asked. “We were told Zalachis wasn’t liked. Why didn’t they think he was making it up?”

  “It was an accusation about being gay. They were still firing gay employees in the federal government at the time and trying to root us out. The government’s anti-gay directive didn’t change until years later. They wanted to get homos in all walks of life. If you were gay, you were suspect not just as a government employee but as a human being. It was an awful time.”

  Scott said, “But he was doing stuff with you.”

  “He was getting blown. Period. I think people were suspicious of me. I was never married. I never went out hunting for females with the guys. I was considered weird.” He shrugged. “The voting for the Hall was years after I gave him what he wanted. I didn’t make the connection right away. I may have had suspicions, but I didn’t get confirmation until recently, but you know that.”

  I added, “You had a reputation for having a temper.”

  “That was bullshit exaggeration by teammates who didn’t like me.” He sighed. “But you’re right, it didn’t help that even as a kid I was a cranky son of a bitch. My whole life has been bouncing from one bit of danger and accusation to another.”