"But you wanted to," I said.
"Yeah, like I wanted to kill you just now. But it's not what I would've done. We had our problems but we worked them out."
"How was that?"
Gibb kept his eyes over the field, watching grown men run after small white balls.
"You probably heard about the Arizona game," he said.
"Yeah."
"Well, we duked it out on the field a bit. We both got ejected. He got a big fine. I didn't. That made me happy. End of story."
"Where you from?" I asked.
Gibb turned to look at me and his forehead was furrowed.
"Athens," he said.
"You don't look Greek to me," I said. I was being a card. He wasn't having any of it.
"Athens, Georgia," he said, turning back to the game.
"I hear you're headed towards the Mendoza Line," I said, seeing if I could reignite the fire in him.
He turned towards me and he was hot. I really thought he was gonna come at me. But he took a deep breath. Then he grinned and nodded his head.
"You're trying to bait me," he said. "That's alright. It's not gonna work."
"But you are," I continued, trying to poke the angry bear. "Your batting average is hitting the shitter and you're blaming everyone but yourself."
I took the last pull on my cigarette and dropped it on the ground. I was waiting for the punchline. I could feel it coming. It didn't come. I guess I was off my game.
"A man is not an island. Especially in a baseball team," he said.
"Except you're not looking at the one person who swings the bat," I said.
He shook his head at me like I was some sort of kidder. Then he turned to watch the other team.
"My problem is not with me. The problem is with the rest of the team. Mostly I blamed Ensor. You'll see now, my game will improve."
He spat out more chew. Grapes wafted over towards me and reminded me of my childhood, grape sodas and my first kiss. She wore grape lip gloss.
"So, you're out there in the batter's box, all by yourself. You can hit at balls because Ensor takes it easy on you in practice. Is that what I'm hearing?"
He turned to look at me and nodded.
"Yeah, that's what you're hearing."
He looked back again and moved the chew in his mouth back over to the opposite side.
"Or maybe you're too juiced up. Your muscles are getting in the way of your technique."
He didn't say anything. His nostrils flared. I could anger him easily enough but he wouldn't bite. Perhaps he'd seen what happened to Stark or perhaps he was just not in the mood.
"Do you own a gun?" I asked.
He looked over at me and then back at the field.
"I own a couple."
"Yeah," I said. "What kind?"
"A Glock 31 and a SR 1911."
"What's an SR 1911?"
"It's a Ruger. Forty-five Auto and the Glock is a three fifty-seven."
He wasn't looking at me. I was looking at him.
"And which one did you use to shoot Ensor?" I asked.
He looked over at me and shook his head.
"I told you. I didn't shoot him. Both handguns are registered and legal. I told the real cops about it too. I've had enough."
He turned and walked away. He stopped at the end of the aisle and spat the rest of his chew into the garbage. I didn't smell grapes anymore. Maybe a hint of sour ones. But that could've been my mood. This trip out here hadn't turned out to be all that helpful. First thing I needed to do was find out what kind of bullet did Ensor in. Maybe then I'd have another chat with Gibb, though he was a cool cucumber for someone who might have done a homicide.
I looked back up the stadium. Stark and Israel were just as I'd found them. Israel was talking to a boy. I pegged him as being Junior O'Riley. Israel was pointing at me. The boy was looking at me. I nodded and grinned. Then I started back up the stairs towards them.
TEN
Spitballing With Batboys
JUNIOR was a handsome boy. Might even call him a young man if he had manners. I hadn't figured that part out yet. He was average height. He looked me in the eye. He might yet have another growth spurt. He had dusty blond hair and a tan. His hair was thick and tousled giving him a beach bum look. He had dark green eyes and a pleasant face. I walked up the steps and he watched me the whole time. Or maybe he was looking past me at the game out on the field. That was probably it. I got to the top of the stairs and Israel started talking first.
"Anthony, this is Junior O'Riley," he said, nodding at the young man.
"I figured as much," I said, offering my hand.
Junior took it and gave it a firm shake. He'd been brought up right. He looked square in the eyes but there was nothing menacing about it. I liked this kid already.
"You know why I'm here?" I asked him.
Junior nodded.
"Yes sir," he answered, "you're helping the police find out who killed Mr. Ensor."
He was polite and respectful. The kind of kid I'd probably raise myself. Israel interrupted us.
"I'll just be down on the field with the team when you're ready to join us, Junior," said Israel.
Junior nodded at him and Israel walked off. I guessed it was time for the teams to switch out.
"Do you prefer Junior, Jim or James?" I said.
"Either of them would work sir," he said.
He stood stiffly in front of me and I wanted to put him at ease.
"James," I said, gazing at his expression as I called him by his first name. He didn't seem to mind. "The Queen of England hasn't knighted me. Please call me Anthony or Mr. Carrick."
He looked down and a grin burst on his face self-consciously, then he rubbed it off with the back of his hand.
"Okay, Mr. Carrick."
"And you're right. I am here to help the police figure out who killed Mr. Ensor. And I think you've got some great insider knowledge that'll help."
"I don't know, Mr. Carrick," he said. "I'm just the bat boy. Most of them don't pay me no attention."
"Exactly," I said. "And because of that, I bet you're like a fly on the wall. I reckon you've heard things that could probably help me."
Junior looked down again and kicked at a small pebble with his foot. He was wearing khaki cargo pants and skater sneakers with a blue tee that had a design on it I couldn't make out. He wasn't wearing a windbreaker or jacket. I thought that was brave of him. Kids nowadays, they figure they're immune to the weather. But I saw no goosebumps on his arms. He had his hands thrust deep in his front pockets. He didn't say anything to me.
"James," I said, looking at him as he looked down. He tilted his head up some to look at me. "Who's your favorite pitcher?"
He shrugged and shook his head.
"Listen, son," I said, "what we share here is just between me and you. Unless you actually saw the murder, nobody else has to know about our conversation, okay?"
He looked up quickly.
"I didn't see the murder, Mr. Carrick. I swear it."
"I believe you, James. So who's your favorite pitcher."
He grinned at me.
"Clayton Kershaw," he said.
I grinned back at him. I might not know a lot about baseball, but I knew who Clayton Kershaw was. He played for my team.
"Ha," I said, "I figured you were going to go with James Ensor."
"He's alright, but Kershaw's my favorite."
"He also plays for my team."
"You don't look rich enough to own a team," said James, grinning.
I looked at him hard for a moment. My best serious cop face. His grin fell of his mouth like a bird hitting a window.
"I, I didn't mean nothing by it, Mr. Carrick..."
I grinned at him.
"I know," I said, "I'm just having fun. Clayton plays for the LA Dodgers. That's my team. I live in LA."
James looked up at me shyly.
"I know," he said, "Mr. Kreyling told me you were from LA. So, you're like some kind of pri
vate eye, like Mike Hammer."
I nodded.
"Something like that," I said. "Though I don't take justice into my own hands. At least not when I can help it. You like hardboiled novels?"
Junior nodded.
"So how come you wanted to be a bat boy for the Cubs?"
"My father thought it would be a good idea for me. He said it would be a great honor."
"I see. You're not that much into baseball?"
Junior shook his head guiltily.
"That's alright, son," I said. "I'm not much into baseball either. I prefer being a hardboiled detective."
I smiled at him and he looked up at me and smiled back.
"I'd like to write about them one day. I just..."
He trailed off and looked back at the ground where he went to kicking invisible pebbles again. I checked. The one and only pebble he'd kicked the first time. Now he was kicking at air.
"You just what?"
He looked up at me briefly and then back down.
"I just, I just don't have time."
"Because your father wants you to be a baseball player, right?"
Junior looked up at me and nodded with eyes as sad as the copper coins on dead men's lids.
"So are you playing baseball?" I asked him.
He nodded.
"Yeah," he said, "but I'm not very good and my father keeps pushing me."
He sighed and looked off down the aisle at something. Maybe bad memories.
"I know what that's like," I said.
He glanced over at me and then back down the aisle, hands still thrust deep into empty pockets.
"My old man had me do things I didn't like for a while."
He looked back at me and smiled briefly.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I got to like it."
He turned glum again and looked down at the gray space between us. The concrete floor as smooth as broken dreams.
"But that's not always gonna happen," I said. "You've only got another year, maybe two..."
I looked over at him for confirmation. He looked up at me.
"One year left," he said.
"Right, so you've only one more year and then you're free to do what you want."
He looked up again and smiled weakly.
"He wants me to get a baseball scholarship to a college, but it'll never happen. He says he's not going to help me with it otherwise, and college is just so expensive nowadays."
He looked down again and his dusty blond hair flopped in front of his forehead like a dog's tongue.
"Sometimes, James," I said, "you've gotta get out of the shadow in order to see the sun."
He looked and smiled more confidently this time.
"I guess. I try and write at recess when I can."
"Good for you. You've just gotta keep at it, son. It can take some time to make a name for yourself. I'm a painter. I know all about that."
He was grinning still.
"I never heard of a painter who was also a private eye."
"I never heard of a baller that's also a writer," I said.
He nodded softly.
"So maybe you can help me, James," I said. "You like to write about PIs. Let's look at this murder as if it was one of your stories."
He nodded and smiled at me.
"Who do you think would be good for it?"
"The wife," he said, though it sounded like more of a question.
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, she has the most to lose. I overheard them arguing one time about her being with another guy and he said she'd get nothing from him. That it was all in the prenup."
"I like that," I said. "Who was she sleeping around with?"
Junior looked around anxiously.
"Go on James, tell me."
"Mr. Gibb," he said, soft as a whisper from star crossed lovers.
"Vance Gibb, the left fielder for the Cubs?" I asked.
He nodded.
"So Ensor knew about them then, right?"
"Yes sir, he sure did. He was really mad. I hadn't seen him so mad in a long time. Said he was going to divorce her and she'd get nothing. It's sort of funny..."
"Go on."
"Well, I don't think Mr. Gibb was all that interested in her. I think he was just more interested in upsetting Mr. Ensor."
"I see, and what gave you that impression?"
"Just the way I saw him and Mrs. Ensor together. He seemed really disinterested in her. Nothing particular. But you know how you can tell when a girl really likes a guy but he's not that into her?"
I nodded, I'd seen that plenty of times. It was a recipe to ruin, or murder, sometimes.
"Well, that's just kind of what I saw I guess."
"So you think maybe the wife killed him so that she could get his money and set up house with Gibb?"
Junior shrugged and tossed his head to the side.
"Yeah, that's what I'd guess, Mr. Carrick. I mean if I was writing this story. Seems like she'd have the most to gain. The papers said Mr. Ensor was worth over a hundred million. But I wouldn't know about that."
"That's quite a bit more than nothing," I said. "You're being real helpful, James. Isn't this fun?"
Junior grinned at me and nodded his head.
"What other tidbits do you have? Who else did Ensor have problems with?"
"Well, Mr. Stark didn't like him much. Mr. Ensor didn't care for him either. They didn't have big arguments but I could just tell that they didn't like each other. Mr. Stark kept complaining to Mr. Kreyling that he couldn't get enough innings in to improve his score. He really wanted to play more, but Mr. Ensor was in the way, he was chasing his strikeouts and looking for that perfect game, but most people didn't think he was going to get it."
"Why is that?"
"Well, Mr. Ensor had a bad elbow. He'd had one operation already and he was always seeing the team doctor. And I know he was being referred to specialists. And I could tell he was in pain. To me, it just didn't seem like he had the same power that he used to have."
"You saw him in pain?"
Junior nodded. He looked out over the field. I turned to take a look. He was watching the Cubs get in some practice. Then Junior looked back at me.
"Yeah, sometimes I'd see him out there warming up on the mound and he'd wince. You could tell it was hard on him. I don't think he had many years left. Maybe this would have been his last. Maybe next season. I don't see how he could have continued on."
I nodded.
"And having him out of the way would help Stark, right? He'd become the Ace?"
"That's how I understand it. But I don't see how he could have killed him. I mean he must have known that Ensor couldn't have much longer."
"That's right, but the heart wants what it wants. And Stark isn't getting any younger. He needs to be getting his time in right now if he wants to get some numbers in. I could see him needing to get Ensor out sooner than later."
Junior shrugged and looked down. I looked down there, but there wasn't anything worth looking at. I didn't get it.
"You're probably right," he said.
"What else can you tell me?" I asked.
"The doctor is doping up the whole team."
"Who knows about that?"
Junior looked up at me and smiled.
"Everybody."
"All the players?"
He nodded.
"How about Kreyling?"
He nodded again.
"The owner?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know about that. He's a successful businessman, he's not very hands-on. I've only seen a few times and that's mostly in the owner's box. I think he keeps the running of this team to Mr. Kreyling and the coaches."
I nodded. We were taking turns.
"Did anyone have a problem with taking the juice?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Ensor spoke to the doctor about it. He thought that the steroids were making his problem worse. I don't know anything about that. He threatened the docto
r that he was going to tell the MLB about the steroid abuse if he didn't get Mr. Ensor off of it."
"And how did that go?"
"I dunno, Mr. Carrick. I think it went all right. I mean the doctor was real upset. You could tell. He told Mr. Kreyling about it. Mr. Kreyling told him to get Mr. Ensor off the drugs then. But I could tell that Mr. Kreyling wasn't happy about the threat either."
"And what's the doctor's name?"
"Dr. Harry Collin."
I nodded, making a mental note of the name.
"Anything else you can think of?"
Junior shrugged and then looked around guiltily. I'd seen it before.
"Anything at all. Even if it seems small."
He shrugged again, more slowly this time and less sure of himself.
"I mean it's not a big deal, Mr. Carrick. Everybody's doing it. And I don't think it means anything," he said.
I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. Thinking I might be the cool uncle he never had. Really, I was just trying to squeeze him for anything I could. He looked at me and smiled.
"Well, like I said, I don't think it's a big deal, but I know that Mr. Kreyling has a lot of money on the outcome of this series."
"How do you know that?"
"I'm pretty quiet, and they hardly ever see me it seems like. I've heard him on the phone sometimes speaking to someone."
"What does he say?"
"Well, he said that he needed them to put up the money in addition to what he'd put up. He said the outcome was gonna make them all very rich. They'd be millionaires. He said it was a fact that they'd win."
"I see, so he was putting a large sum of money on the Cubs?"
Junior nodded eagerly.
"Of course. There are only the two teams in this World Series. It's not like he'd put it on the opposition."
He grinned at that.
"Right, so this hurts him then, doesn't it? The death of Ensor doesn't help the Cubs win, does it?"
He shook his head.
"No, I guess it doesn't. My father's really upset about it. He's put some money on the Cubs too and now he says that they're as good as dead. The odds are outrageous he said. When they were coming in he said he'd make an easy ten times on his money."
"I see," I said. "Mostly because of Ensor, I guess?"
"I think so," said Junior.
"So why were you so reticent to tell me about Israel's gambling?"
"Well, I don't think he's allowed to gamble or bet on MLB games. And he was. Lots of them are, but I don't think it's legal."
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 60