I woke to an empty bed and loud voices from the room next door. Eight in the morning. Not nearly enough sleep. I turned. Muscles complained. I was used to exercise and physical exertion, but a number of my muscles sent painful reminders that they’d been exerted beyond the usual in last night’s escapade.
I couldn’t make out what the loud voices next door were saying. I took a shower. When I got done, I could still hear them.
I threw on gray athletic socks, black boxer briefs, jeans, running shoes, and a black T-shirt. I walked outside.
The noises were coming from the room to the north. I knocked. Immediate silence. A few second later, the door burst open. Two of the guys from the team hurried out. They glanced to the left and right, saw me, nodded hello, and got into a rust-encrusted 1975 Camaro. A fender was missing, and the front windshield was cracked.
They hadn’t shut the motel room door. I wandered to the entrance.
Malcolm Dowley, the resident complainer on the team, sat on the bed. He wore slider shorts and white socks. A guy I remembered as Ralph Olsen leaned against the desk, which was peeling a little more paint than the one in my room. Olsen wore faded green checked boxers, had red hair, and was thinner than Craig Counsell when he scored the winning run in the bottom of the eleventh inning of Game seven of the 1997 World Series.
I said, “I have the room next door.”
Dowley said, “Sorry if we woke you up.”
“Hard to miss.”
Olsen asked, “Did you hear what we were saying?”
“Was it something I wasn’t supposed to hear?”
“You’re too new,” Olsen said. “Can we trust you? If you’re getting a chance after being out of the game maybe you owe Knecht or Smith.”
Dowley said, “He’s not stupid. We were too loud. It’s not going to work anyway. None of the guys on this team have the balls to do what it takes.”
“Takes to do what?” I asked.
Dowley said, “Stand up to Knecht. Tell him we’re not going to be treated like cattle. He and Smith make dumb decision after dumb decision. And we’re supposed to respect them. Ha! I’ve been trying to contact the major league players’ union. I think we have to have contracts all the way up and down in all the organizations.”
Olsen shook his head. “Nobody listens.”
Dowley said, “We even approached Tyler Skeen. Ha! That was a joke. He had his, and he doesn’t care about the rest of us. That asshole wasn’t getting back to the majors anytime soon. He had performance clauses in his contract and all he needed to do to fill them was to get fifty-two more at bats and five more runs batted in up there this season. Maybe a couple other minor things. If he got that little bit then he’d get a guaranteed contract extension and an automatic five million dollar raise. He didn’t give a shit about us.”
My brain dinged with motive for murder.
Olsen said, “You’re going to get yourself and anybody who talks with you thrown out of the game.”
Dowley snapped, “They can’t just discard talent.”
“Sure they can,” I said. “They can declare you a troublemaker.”
Olsen said, “We’re friends, Mal, but you’re asking a lot.”
I asked, “The guys who left disagreed?”
“A lot,” Olsen said.
“They won’t betray you?”
Olsen said, “They’re good guys.”
Dowley turned to me, “Are you in?”
I said, “As much as I can be, which may not be enough. I’m probably too new to do much good.”
“Every bit helps.”
I said, “Just one favor. Could you do your organizing at a few decibels under what you were doing just now and maybe later in the day?”
They nodded.
I went back to my room and used my cell phone to call Duncan. He had updates. He began with, “Your presence in Butterfield has not been noted on any social media.” If Duncan couldn’t find it, then it wasn’t there to be found.
His next news concerned Georgia De’Jungle who was on her way back from France and was dating the fourth place finisher in this year’s competition.
“He’s from where?” I asked.
“Lithuania.”
“And she thinks this is going to work long distance?”
“He’s on the plane with her.”
“Oh.”
“I set up the satellite office.”
“You were here?”
“I was near there.” He gave me directions.
“How’s Caesar?”
“You want to talk to him?”
After my silence, Duncan told me Caesar was fine and that Andy was with him and all was well.
At least the dog was always faithful and didn’t make sarcastic cracks.
I gave Duncan details on last night’s activity. I could hear him typing away taking notes. When I got to the missing dead body he said, “That’s kind of fast even for you isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“For the relationship to end.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is. Although you usually don’t turn them into corpses. That’s extreme even for you.” I could picture the hint of a frown on his face. I’d permitted his first intrusive commentary on my life several years ago. Pointed and sometimes amusing but, in this case, unwelcome, frustrating, and accurate.
Duncan’s been with me for years and he’s a treasure, but I wasn’t in the mood for this. Without comment, I resumed. “I’ve got to figure out who would have the wherewithal to steal a body and have a place to put it. It’s not easy dragging a body around and hiding it.”
“Your room would have been most logical.”
“Donny Campbell was here. The killer might have seen a light on or maybe recognized his car.”
“Lots of woods around the place,” Duncan suggested. “Or dump it in the Mississippi. It’s only a few miles away.”
“Okay,” I said, “it might be easy to dispose of. Might. But why?”
“You’re the detective. I’m only the secretary. You want us up there?”
“Please.”
“Give us a few hours. Should we bring the dog?”
“Yes.”
I walked down to Millie’s for coffee. The place was jammed. I recognized a few of the guys from ESPN sports talk idiot fests, where they trade wild, inane predictions and sniff jockstraps. It must have said something about me that I knew enough to make that observation.