Dying to Play Page 3

  At the exit, one of the big ugly guys started scuffling with the cops. The reporter turned his attention to the brouhaha. I began walking away. The reporter looked back at me and his eyes lingered on mine for a few moments. I broke the contact and went back to the game.

  In the top of the ninth, Tyler Skeen took his position at third base. On the first pitch of the inning, the batter topped a slow roller toward him. Skeen took two steps toward the ball, staggered, keeled over, and collapsed.

  Donny Campbell ran over from short and retrieved the ball. He held it for a few seconds to make sure the base runner stayed put and then time was called. Campbell leaned over Skeen and put his hand on the prostrate man’s shoulder. Skeen’s wig lay a foot from his head. In moments the manager and a person I assumed was the trainer rushed out. Members of the team drifted over.

  I saw a cell phone appear. The trainer began CPR. The murmuring in the stands turned to a louder, more sustained buzz. The members of Skeen’s entourage rushed onto the field.

  They don’t do CPR on somebody unless his heart has stopped. In minutes paramedics drove their ambulance onto the field. They jumped out and began working on Skeen. Players milled on the field. Fans milled in the stands. A portable stretcher appeared. Skeen was placed on it. I didn’t see him make any movement that indicated he was alive. Seconds later the ambulance, siren whooping, roared away.

  The game was called. Donny stopped on the playing field opposite my seat. He called up, “Wait for me in the parking lot.”

  Outside the stadium a media truck arrived from one of the local stations. Stenciled on the side was a big yellow eye with the words ‘Your Eye on the World’ under it. They began setting up for the late night newscast from their remote location.

  MONDAY 10:55 P.M.

  I waited. Over an hour and a half later, Donny, Connor Knecht, and a man in a mustangs T-shirt and khaki pants joined me. He was Trader Smith, the manager of the Butterfield Mustangs.

  “Let’s not talk here,” Knecht said. We drove our separate vehicles four exits down the Interstate to the Pitstop TruckStop. It was just before eleven. The place had hundreds of trucks parked side by side over nearly four acres in back. Their motors thrummed and throbbed as they drowned out the other noises of the night.

  Inside the place had showers for truckers, gaudy souvenirs, automobile parts, a diner, a bar that was quiet and dark, plus several fast food outlets, and rows and rows of shelves jammed with a plethora of fast food snacks. Today’s feature: stale brownies and moldering sandwiches. Both diner and bar had unused phones on or hanging next to the tables for the convenience of truckers. These were leftovers from pre-cell phone days.

  We took a booth far away from anyone else. Donny sat on the same side of the booth as I did. I felt his thigh and knee lean against mine. Deliberate or accidental? Casual closeness or a tentative invitation? Top echelon male athletes tend to be comfortable with their bodies. They aren’t as leery of casual human touch as many people. I moved my leg away. I ordered water. I never drink when I have clients and seldom at other times, once in a while, a beer in a leather bar. Knecht had whiskey straight. Trader Smith had the house draft on tap. Donny had lite beer in a bottle.

  Knecht said, “Tyler Skeen is dead.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “They don’t know,” Knecht replied. “They said we’d get a report later. I can’t stay here long. I’ve got to get to the Medical Examiner’s office.”

  Smith shrugged. “Skeen was a decent guy. Hell of a piece of bad luck to ruin his knee late in his career. He might have had a few good years left with the designated hitter rule. He was friendly with all the guys on the Mustangs, even though they weren’t stars.”

  Knecht said, “I think this death and those threats must be connected.”

  Smith said. “As far as I know, Skeen never got any threats.”

  Knecht said, “At least this is going to put pressure on the local police. I reported all the threats. They did nothing. Now we’re the victims.”

  I thought that, so far, Skeen was the main victim. And none of these guys seemed broken up that he was dead. As for Knecht being a victim, that’s what a lot of people do these days, rush to be the victim. Truly being a victim is powerful. Claiming it and being it are very different.

  I had a few things I wanted cleared up. I said, “Any possibility Skeen or any of the guys were getting or giving preferential treatment?”

  Knecht said, “That is not possible, totally not true. People have been pissed off about the possibility of preferential treatment, but it’s stupid rumors.”

  Smith added, “And they’d have to get preferential treatment from the opposing team. That implies collusion with the other owners.”

  I said, “That, or it could just be a player willing to spend money on his own career.”

  Smith shook his head. “Players in the minors don’t have that kind of money.”

  I said, “Tyler Skeen did.”

  Smith pounded his fist on the table. “Nobody shirks on my team. Nobody’s asked me to have the players miss pitches, not hustle, or throw a game in any way. If they did, they’d be off the team and out of baseball.”

  I asked, “Could it happen without management knowing?”

  “No!” Knecht said.

  Smith said, “My guys give a hundred percent all the time.”

  Knecht thumped the table with his fist. “Cheating doesn’t happen here.”

  I asked, “Would other teams have the nerve to talk to your guys? It could be like a gambling scandal, work against your own team.”

  Knecht said, “I don’t know most of the owners very well. I don’t know which of them would have the nerve to try such a scheme.”

  Smith said, “The managers at this level don’t have the kind of money it would take to make it worth someone’s while.”

  I said, “You could look for one of the players who is living beyond his means. If he’s stupid enough to spend the money now and not wait.”

  Smith shook his head. “I haven’t seen any of that.” But I remembered that Donny had mentioned a couple of players spending too much. We glanced at each other, and he nodded.

  Knecht said, “We need to focus on people who were working against the team.”

  Smith pointed a finger at me. “One of the reporters in the Butterfield Gazette has been making all kinds of unfounded charges. He’s got a rage on against me.”

  “And me,” Knecht added.

  Smith continued, “I don’t know why he’s so pissed.”

  Knecht said, “He’s a sports reporter with a minor league team to cover. With us in town it at least gives him some semblance of working in a bigger market. That should keep him happy, but, no! He should go back to interviewing Little League managers. If I have anything to say about it, he won’t even be doing that. I should buy that damn paper or start my own.”

  Smith waved a hand in the air. “He’s not grateful. He’s been a pain in the ass.”

  “What did he say about you?” I asked.

  Smith pounded the flat of his hand on the table top. “He called me an incompetent boob.”

  “Are you?” I asked.

  Angry glare. “No.”

  “Then why worry about what he says?”

  “He can’t write crap,” Knecht blew his cheeks in and out like a bellows gone mad.

  Smith added, “He said I didn’t know a thing about baseball. He’s so wrong. I love this game.”

  Everybody paused. Finally, Knecht said, “And I want you to investigate Tyler Skeen’s death.”

  I said, “Why? Nothing suspicious happened that I saw. No one was near him. Do you think it might have been murder?”

  “They couldn’t find anything wrong with him on the field. The guy was only thirty-eight. I guess it could have been a heart attack.”

  I said, “What about performance-enhancing drugs?”

  “Nothing like that,” Knecht said. “It is not possible. You remember that trial and
the verdict. Okay, he was found not guilty on a technicality.”

  “How could it not be a possibility?” I asked. “It’s been a scandal for years. How could the minor league players not be interested in drugs? Weren’t there around sixty minor leaguers suspended for drugs last year?”

  “My team is clean,” Knecht insisted. “There is nothing like that in this town.”

  Knecht couldn’t believe these guys were that innocent. Or if he did, was he willfully ignorant? Or was he lying to protect himself or members of his team? If so, why?

  I asked, “What can you tell me about people in Skeen’s entourage?”

  “They are totally loyal,” Smith said. “Sometimes even I can’t get past them to talk to the guy.”

  Smith would be lucky if he made a tenth of what Skeen earned, a dichotomy guaranteed to raise resentment, if not actual conflict, between a manager and a player. The entourage would wallow in the disdain Skeen exuded.

  “It’s the threats,” Knecht said. “That’s what we have to find out about. We’ve gotten so many threats and now one of the players has died. Everything that happens seems suspicious these days. I don’t trust the local police. I want the situation monitored. I don’t care how much extra it costs.” He stood up. “I have to get ready for the press. They’re probably at the hospital waiting for news.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure it matters any more about my cover of being on the team.”

  “Yes,” Knecht said. “Absolutely, yes. I want this as much of a secret as possible. I want to control this if I can. You’re part of my control.” Knecht turned to Smith. “Fix things so that everything works smoothly for him tomorrow with the team.”

  We watched him walk out.

  Campbell was all eagerness. “This will work. You met the guys. They’re cool. We all get along.”

  Smith said, “You look like you’re in great shape. It won’t be hard to convince people you belong on the team. Donny said you played college ball. That’ll help. I don’t know how long you’re going to be able to keep your real purpose secret, but until it blows up, you’ll have to fit in, work out with the guys, have the same living arrangements.”

  After a few last instructions and directions, he left.

  Campbell said, “This is great.” I felt the knee and the leg again. This time I took a few moments before I moved my leg. He said, “I told you, you could stay at my place. It’s perfect. When we’re on the road in a few days, we could room together.”

  A straight guy looking for a buddy, or a gay guy looking for a live-in fuck buddy, or just a regular guy, gay or straight, being friendly, or a gay guy looking for a relationship?

  The brown eyes didn’t waver as they looked into mine. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. He suggested setting up a workout program together. “The equipment at the stadium is brand new. Not like they’ve got in the Show, but it works okay. They’ve even got a program where people from the community can come in and use it. Like it was a deal. Get season tickets and get to use this up-to-date gym.”

  I thought about putting a stop to this now. Campbell was certainly a gorgeous, hot, hunk, but there were ethics involved, and there was the blond surfer-type reporter.

  I said, “I’m not good at mixed signals. I’m gay. I don’t know if you are or not. I don’t know what the deal is with you pressing your leg against mine. I’ve got a job to do. You seem like a nice guy. I don’t want to be too forward by presuming you’re interested in sex or a relationship. I don’t want to be a jerk by rejecting out of hand any interest you might be showing. I don’t want there to be any ambiguity in what we say to each other.”

  Campbell blushed. He moved his leg away. “Sorry. Yeah. I was.” He stammered, hemmed, and hawed, and didn’t complete that sentence then began. “Well. I think you’re hot. I don’t want to embarrass either one of us.”

  “No embarrassment, no shame, no commitments. When I finish this job, if you’d like to go out to dinner and a movie that would be great.”

  Campbell said, “Can’t blame a guy for trying. When you’re the only guy on the team into guys, it can get lonely.”

  That out of the way for now, I had a few more questions. “Those were old guys, the owner and manager. What’s the real deal about drugs?”

  “As far as I know, the guys only do legal stuff. I’m not saying it might not be around, but I don’t look for it. Nobody’s going to brag about doing something illegal.”

  It was a few minutes to midnight. I said, “I’d like to talk to the reporter from the Butterfield Gazette tonight. Every media person in town must be at the hospital waiting for a statement.”

  “Marty Murray. I know him,” Campbell said. He blushed.

  I waited.

  “He interviewed me a bunch of times. He was friendly. He’s a news reporter and a columnist. Everybody reads his Sunday columns. He wrote good stuff about me. Part of the reason I’m getting noticed is because of things he’s done to help me.”

  “Why is he being nice to you?”

  “He recognizes talent?”

  “He thinks you spread your legs so people can see your jock or dick and balls better than anybody else?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  I gave it another wait.

  “I get him guys’ underwear or jockstraps or cups. Used. Unwashed.”

  “I thought you said you were the only gay guy.”

  “On the team. There are a few guys in small towns who will suck your cock if you let them, but nobody you’d want to marry. Murray’s more perverse than a friend. We’re of use to each other but not sexually.”

  “Nobody notices the underwear missing?”

  “Not so far. I only do it once in a while. I got a pair of Tyler Skeen’s sliding shorts for Murray last week.”

  “You’re not ashamed?”

  “Of getting guys underwear?”

  “Of trying to buy yourself a career.”

  “I work very hard. The difference between a two-fifty and a three hundred hitter is a hit a week, one lousy hit a week. It takes a lot to get a break. I’d do a lot for that break. I’m not cheating or throwing games or trying to hurt somebody else. I’m giving a guy some pleasure. Murray and I never had sex.”

  “I need a nonsexual introduction, and I get to keep all my underwear.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can trust this guy?”

  “I do. Nobody knows about the underwear but you, me, and him, and I’ve been doing it for over a year.”

  TUESDAY 12:30 A.M.

  Campbell called the reporter. If I could talk to him tonight, I figured I’d be a step ahead. If the guy trusted me, and if he had real facts, I might get way ahead. After he hung up, Campbell gave me directions to Butterfield Memorial Hospital, which was just two more exits east of Butterfield on the Interstate in the same direction from town as the Pitstop TruckStop.

  The exterior of the hospital was glass, chrome, and stone. A small herd of television trucks nestled up against the non-emergency entrance. Reporters lounged along the halls. I asked the first one for Marty Murray. I got nodded toward a five-foot-six guy who was wearing tight jeans. He had his back to me. As I approached, I saw the label on the jeans, a size twenty-eight-inch waist. I said his name and he turned toward me. He wore a short sleeve white shirt and a blue and white striped tie. He was in his late twenties with a wisp of a goatee, long side burns, and brush cut hair. He was talking to Tim Czobel the blond reporter from TRUTHINSPORTS.COM. The national reporter gave me a dazzling smile.

  I excused myself, told them my name, and asked Murray if we could talk. After another winsome smile from the blond, Murray and I walked back outside and stood away from the crowd twenty feet from the entrance under a vast oak tree.

  The sounds of a country night oozed through the tepid air: leaves rustling, mosquitoes whining, crickets loud enough to be irritating, owls occasionally complaining, trucks rumbling by on the distant interstate, the annoying drone of a not-far-enough-off motorcycle.


  Murray said, “Donny Campbell called and told me your name and said I should trust you. Who are you and why should I trust you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Connor Knecht has hired me to find out who’s been threatening the team. I’m working undercover. He doesn’t want anyone to know what I’m up to. I’m to start as a player with the team tomorrow. I’m telling you this at the risk of losing the job. It’s my way of opening up, hoping you’ll do some reciprocal trusting. At the same time I’ve got to rely on Campbell’s word to trust you, and I’ve known him less than twenty-four hours. I need to start accumulating inside information. A local reporter strikes me as good person to start with.”

  “You did that gay kidnapping case a year and a half ago. There was an article in the New York Times and in several of the gay papers.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “I think I saw something in the Chicago Tribune as well.”

  “I’m not going to keep my secret long.”

  “There weren’t any pictures of you in any of the Internet articles. I’d remember you if there were. You probably won’t be found out from the papers. The nearest place to get the Times is back in Madison. The Trib gets delivered to a paper box out at the Pitstop TruckStop. It doesn’t always get here. Nobody in Butterfield would admit to reading the gay papers or the New York Times.”

  “Maybe there are closeted gay guys besides you.”

  “I’m not closeted.” He cleared his throat. “Not really. My family knows. My boss does. My friends.”

  “Campbell told me why he trusted you.”

  Even in the relative darkness I could see his deep blush. He wiped sweat from his brow. He took a small vial the size of a large battery out of his pocket. He pushed a tab on the side. He said, “This will help keep the bugs away.” He clipped it to his belt then said, “Okay, so I’ve got a little fetish.”

  “I don’t care what turns you on. I just wanted everything clear before we start. Secrets are not going to work, but I’d like all of what we say to be off the record.”