A Conspiracy of Fear Read online

  “You got traded?”

  “I was good, but I got traded. You do the math. I couldn’t keep my mouth closed. Swallowing all that straight cum was great. Straight guys who had kids were the best. I knew they’d made babies and their hot cocks had been all masculine and inside a woman and that was so hot knowing they’d been stud straight guys, baby makers. I hope that’s what’s going on now in the armed services with the gay guys serving. I hope all the gay guys are filling up on straight cum in all the remote corners of the world.”

  I wasn’t quite sure he had the same definition of gay equality in the armed services as anyone else. I was also pretty sure he didn’t care. He was lost in his memory of intimacy, warmth, and closeness from fifty, sixty, and seventy years ago. Maybe that’s all the love he could find. Maybe that’s all the love he wanted. Whether found or wanted, that’s what he got, and he was reveling in the memory. I wondered if he’d reveled at the time, or if it was fear and hiding back then. Again, made no difference now.

  He continued, “I’d rather have their sweaty bodies and hot cum than a steady job. I was stupid, discreet but stupid. There’d be rumors or innuendoes, and there was a manager or two in there. I didn’t mind old guys so much. I got traded both of those times. Took me a while, but I finally figured out there were smarter things to do than the boss.”

  “You said you murdered someone.”

  “A lover. My boyfriend. I was nineteen. There, I said it.” He leaned back in his chair. Tears fell. I still held his hand.

  Darryl came forward and bent over the old man. “Mr. Fulham?” He asked.

  From the satchel on the side of the walker, Darryl took out a small box of tissues. Without looking, the old man stretched out a hand, and Darryl put several tissues in it. Fulham wiped his eyes, blew his nose, looked up at Darryl, and said, “Keep those assholes out of sight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I looked between the foliage at the entourage. They were about thirty feet away, all three with disapproving stares on their faces. Fulham wiped his eyes and waved Darryl away. In one hand he clutched the tissues, with the other, he held onto mine. “I have to get this told and told right.”

  Okay, I was willing to buy this for now. It was awkward. I felt odd, as if I’d walked in on a private moment, in this case, a life story that I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of, but my pity still ruled. I would listen at least for a while more. Listening could do no harm.

  I asked, “Why weren’t you caught? Sent to jail?”

  “We’d been barnstorming north from spring training. We were in some dumpy bar down by the river in some tiny town south of St. Louis. There was booze and women. We were drunk, and we’d won some game or another. I’d pitched, and we were all just nuts. Like guys everywhere, anywhere after a win.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’d fallen in love. That was stupid.”

  “Why was it stupid?”

  “Love another baseball player in 1940? We fought, and we argued. We were kids. We didn’t know better. We thought we were discreet, but somehow one of our teammates found out about us and threatened to tell. My friend, my lover, panicked. We took our anger and fear out on each other. That night I left the bar with the others, but he stayed. I snuck back after. He was still there. We argued in the alley, and I hit him.” His voice hit a raspy whisper. “I hit the man I love. I will never forgive myself for that.”

  He was weeping in a public place. I caught Scott’s eye and motioned for him to come over. Darryl joined us. I said, “Let’s move him to somewhere more private.” Scott summoned Traverno. The four of us were ushered into a private office. The entourage milled in the hall around the closed door. Scott stood outside it to keep them out. Darryl and I settled Fulham onto a couch. As he lay down, Darryl put a pillow behind his head.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Fulham?” I asked.

  But he was asleep.

  I looked at Darryl. “Does he need a doctor?”

  “No. He nods off at times.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Mostly he’s just old; although, he does have cancer. It’s slow growing as it is with most people his age. Other than that, he’s in reasonably good shape for ninety-three. He needs the walker more for balance than anything. He’s afraid of falling.”

  I guessed Darryl was in his mid-twenties. He wore a beige suit with a brown and yellow striped tie. His spoke in a low, mellow voice.

  I said, “He’s here at the preview for patrons.”

  Darryl said, “He’s been a supporter of many of these artists for years.”

  “He’s been telling me some fantastic stories.”

  “You’re wondering if they’re true.”

  “Yeah, and, well, is his mind okay?”

  “The entourage wants to know the same thing. His doctor says his mind is fine for someone his age. No matter what Mr. Fulham says, the entourage is writing down every word.”

  “Aren’t they trying to verify what he says?”

  “The things that are public record, like his baseball career so far as I know, all check out. The more personal stuff, I have no idea.”

  “What’s the point of the entourage?”

  “This small gay press wants to publish his memoir. They think it will sell a lot and put them on the map as a big time publisher. Those are the gentlemen who came with us.”

  Fulham opened his eyes, raised his head, glanced around the room, and caught Darryl’s gaze. Darryl said, “You’re in an office in the gallery.”

  Fulham nodded. His eyes met mine. “I was talking to you. I must finish. I must finish this tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Fulham shook himself, managed to sit up. “This must be told. I want the whole world to know the truth. Darryl, please.” Fulham waved a feeble hand toward the door.

  Darryl said, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He left.

  Fulham smiled at the retreating figure. “He’s a dear boy. At least from him I get warmth and affection unlike that goddamn entourage. Lets me love him whenever I want. He doesn’t show any disgust at being touched by an old man.” He chuckled. “He’s straight, the way I like ‘em. Married with two little kids.”

  “Why does he work for you?”

  “Money. I pay very, very well. He’s got family in Guatemala that he needs to help as well. I’m lucky to find someone so competent and so needy.” He harrumphed, pulled his hair, let out a gigantic fart, and said, “Where was I?”

  “You’d hit the man you loved.”

  “God, yes, I was a shit. Unrealistic. I wanted us to move in together.”

  “Guys roomed together back then.”

  “Not year round. Not without comments being made. I wanted more than he could give. I hit him and ran. We’d been traveling north on this big old steamboat. One of the last of its kind back then. The boat left the dock in the middle of the night. They had to keep their schedule. He never got to the boat. They found a dead body the next day in the river, a young man mangled beyond recognition.”

  He held out his arms to me and said, “With these hands, I killed the man I loved.” Tears flowed unchecked.

  I felt a mixture of pity and revulsion. I felt bad for his loss. I thought he was a shit for killing someone.

  Sure every couple has problems. But murder? Saintly as I like to think of myself, I’m sure Scott on occasion finds me less than perfect, as I do him, but we talk, and work things out, and love each other, and forgive and forget the peccadilloes because if love doesn’t conquer all, what’s the point?

  Fulham took my hand in a strong grip. If he killed someone, it was over seventy years ago. He must have had a lifetime of conscience stricken regret and tremendous fear.

  “If it was mangled beyond recognition, how do you know it was him?”

  “He wore one of the belt buckles. I still made them once in a long while in winters on a farm I rented in the off season, but I haven’t made one in many years.” He held u
p his hands. “These are no longer steady enough.”

  “How did he get in the river?”

  Fulham looked confused.

  I said, “I’m a little uncertain on the geography here. You say you hit him. Were you next to the river?”

  “A block or two away.”

  “Did you put him in the river?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you knocked him out, and he came to and stumbled and fell into the river.”

  “In which case I’d still be guilty. My actions started the chain of events that lead to his death, but I tell you.” His raspy voice rose to near a shout. “But I tell you, he was dead. I wept as I ran because he was dead. I’ve felt guilt for so long.” He paused and gazed and cleared his throat, and then said, “If I hadn’t hit him, he wouldn’t be dead. Even if someone came after me, I was the one who started the chain of death.”

  “Did you mean to kill him?”

  “No. No. No. I was just angry.” He sighed. “He went down as if he’d been hit in the head with a fastball. There was blood coming from his right ear. He didn’t move. I turned and ran.”

  “What was the guy’s name?”

  “Huey Kemmler.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Some little town next to a little town in the Central Valley of California. I don’t remember the name. All I know is that night, I ran and ran. I barely made it before the boat sailed.”

  “What happened the next day?”

  “I shut my mouth. No one had seen me go back. No one had noticed us in the alley, or at least no one came forward and said so. I was safe. As safe as my guilty conscience made me. I got traded a week later. A new city. I became a starting pitcher, and my career took off.”

  “Were you in the war?”

  “I was one of the few who stayed home and still played in those years. That was another rumor I heard. That the good stuff in my career had come about because I played against inferior competition. But after the war, I won a lot of games and struck out a lot of guys. I wasn’t a bad hitting pitcher back in the day. And I could field my position almost as good as Greg Maddox. And then years later, I retired. They got that loop of my success in that last game. I had three wins that year and nine losses, but that last game was a masterpiece.” He gasped, gulped, and sighed.

  “And five years passed after that season, and it was time for voting for the Hall of Fame. It was my first year of eligibility for the Hall. There was talk that I might make it. Then all of a sudden, there was no talk. Some reporter found out I was gay. I now know that this reporter made it his business to call voting members and trash me.”

  “But that was about you being gay, not about the murder?”

  “It was the gay stuff, or so I was told years later.”

  “How’d he find out you were gay?”

  “I never knew. I assume it was like when I was a kid. Somebody I’d had a little warmth and affection with felt a need to blab. Someone who was angry with me. Someone who was just an asshole.” He pulled on his hair, squirmed in his chair, took a sip of his coffee.

  “He kept me from going to the Hall of Fame. My statistics were good enough. Not two hundred wins but close. Not a record number of strikeouts, but a lot. I won a few World Series games, and lost a few. That son of a bitch who denied me the Hall has to pay. He built his career on my life. I want him to die.”

  “Wouldn’t he be kind of old now?”

  “He was a kid back then. Just starting out. He used my life to build his success. Nobody would print the real reason, but he called enough guys that the word would spread.”

  “How’d you find out it was him?”

  “I always thought the scattering of votes I got was odd. I never put it together. Until a week ago Wednesday.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Brendan O’Rourke came to me. He told me the shit who fucked me over was this same Colton Zalachis who is still alive.”

  “Who’s Brendan O’Rourke?”

  “For years he was a sports columnist for the local papers in St. Louis then Chicago. He lives here now. He was always a friend, or I thought he was. He told me the truth about what happened so long ago. Zalachis came to him weeks before the voting. Said he knew the truth about me. Asked if we really wanted a gay guy in the Hall of Fame. Of course, he didn’t say ‘gay’. Not back then. O’Rourke apologized to me yesterday, but he went along back then. He feels bad about it. Now.”

  “Why did he come to you?”

  “He’s dying. But then aren’t we all? He wanted to make amends. He didn’t know there were other more cogent reasons for me not being in the Hall. Murder will kind of do that to your reputation.”

  “But no one knows you did that.”

  “Except you.”

  “Was O’Rourke telling you the truth? Maybe he was the shit who screwed you over, and he’s trying to blame Zalachis.”

  “Oh.” He pulled at his few locks of hair. “I hadn’t thought of that. Huh. Maybe so. I was never a good judge of character.”

  I said, “Earlier you talked about wanting the whole world to know. You have an entourage that wants to publish your story.”

  He snarled, then sneered. “Hah! Them! They just want money. I want the truth. I need to pay for my sins.”

  “Why not go to the police or a lawyer?”

  “I need a sympathetic ear. I need someone who will listen. Who will not be shocked, and who will understand.”

  I was a little startled at such odd news, but I wasn’t to the point of shouting, “Get away! Get away.” I was intrigued a little and sort of disgusted, and I did still feel sorry for the guy. I wondered about his memory.

  I asked, “Who else knows about the Hall of Fame?”

  “Brendan, who told me, and all those reporters from long ago if they’re alive and willing to tell the truth.”

  “The entourage doesn’t know or suspect?”

  “I told them about the Hall of Fame just yesterday. They’ve been running around like mad trying to confirm things. Ha!” He paused. “But, no, not about the murder. They’re fools. I helped some of them when they were starting out.” He gave a loud harrumph. “Their small press is centered here in Chicago. They all want to be the ghostwriter for my autobiography. I’ve paid the rent on their offices a few times. They all think I should become some great gay champion. In the meanwhile they’d become great literary icons and be able to move to New York and live on the royalties from my book for the rest of their lives. Ha! Assholes!”

  There was a soft tap on the door. I got up and opened it. Darryl said, “It’s time for Mr. Fulham’s medication.”

  From the satchel on the side of the walker, Darryl pulled out a green daily pill pocket and a bottle of water and a small cup. He flipped open one lid then placed a multi-colored array of meds in Fulham’s hand. The man popped the pills and gulped the proffered water. Darryl handed him a small green cloth with which Fulham dabbed at his lips.

  Finished with the procedure, Darryl repacked the items and turned to leave. Fulham said, “I’m done here. We need to go.”

  I held up my hand. “If you could wait just a minute.” I was bewildered. What the hell was going on? The two of them stopped. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I tried, “I’m bewildered. Why did you tell me these things? Mr. Fulham, what do you expect me to do with all this information? What do you expect me to say?”

  Fulham touched Darryl’s arm. “Give us a minute.”

  Darryl left.

  Fulham said, “I’d like your help with writing my autobiography.”

  I said, “I’ve never undertaken a project like that. I’m not sure I’d be the best one to help you with it.”

  “You’re the only one.”

  “Why?”

  “You have what I’ve never had. You understand.”

  “You’ve just met me.” I asked, “Plus, you do realize there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Please just help me. Find the truth. It destr
oyed my life.”

  “The murder or not getting into the Hall of Fame?”

  “Both. If they know I killed someone so be it. I want it all known. I want all these idiotic secrets to end.” He gripped my hand. “Find out. Prove my guilt.”

  I found this a strange request. Was there really any mystery about the killing all those years ago? He’d confessed. What more was there?

  He coughed and farted. “Will you at least think about it?” His voice was pathetic and soft, his eyes misty. An old guy who knew how to manipulate, or a very human, guilt-ridden old man who wanted some closure in his life?

  I said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thank you, dear boy, thank you.”

  I voiced my suspicions in the form of a question. “Why did you come here tonight?”

  Fulham said, “I knew you’d be here.”

  “How?”

  “The gallery guy in the gray suit? Jim Traverno? I used to pay his rent. He’s still a friend.”

  He inched his butt to the edge of the chair and held out his left arm to me. I helped him stand and settle with his hands gripping both sides of the walker. I opened the door for him.

  Once out of the small office, Darryl took him in tow. Fulham let the entourage approach.

  All three gave me ugly glares. If looks could kill, I’d have had an instant cardiac arrest.

  I looked for Scott. He was at the far side of the vestibule taking with two young men who were holding hands. I realized the couple were former students of mine, Edmund Planter and Sean Hansen. They’d attended their senior prom together a few weeks before. They’d been blushing studs in their rented tuxes. Scott and I had gone to the dance as chaperones. They’d graduated just a few days before tonight’s opening. Edmund saw me. His face lit up in a smile. He held out his hand and took several steps toward me. I began to walk toward them. Scott half turned to say something to Sean. His movement caused him to bump into Edmund. The two stumbled into Sean.

  I saw flashes of lights behind the protesters. I heard a distinct pop. Glass shattered. Blood spurted from the front of Traverno’s white shirt. He’d been about three steps to the left of Scott and the two teens. The man looked down at himself. Touched the blood with his fingertips and gazed at the red on his hands. I leaped toward him and caught him as he fell. I stumbled into the Suffer the Children Sculpture, bits and pieces of which flew around me.