Strike

Strike

In spite of the open murder investigations, the Pride of the Working Class Heartland League was still open for business, and the majors were not. It happened late on Thursday, August 11th, right after the HooseCows finished off their last series with the Mankato Man Pigs. The Man Pigs had sported black patches in honor of the deceased Alan Carpenter. Afterward, all of the HooseCows gathered on Taylor Nickle’s farm. They watched cable — one of the few modern conveniences Taylor allowed on his farm — and cheered when it was announced the majors were going on strike. Players slapped each other on the back, and Hank even caught himself grinning a little. He felt bad for Belle, Thomas, the Montreal Expos, and other major leaguers that were getting a raw deal, but he needed something that made him happy.

Taylor Nickles was definitely not grinning. Hank had heard the manager say the Ugly Birds wanted to leave the league after the tragic death of family member and team member Chuck Swede. Taylor had also said they weren’t making nearly as much profit as the money guys in Rochester had hoped for. Things had gone better for the HooseCows, who had a town desperate to embrace baseball after losing their minor league team and a gimmick that sold tickets and merchandise. A popular item at the gift shop was a black and white, convict style ball cap with “HooseCows” written across the front like the name of a prison.

The manager moved out of his comfortable chair (which no ballplayer dared sit in once he left) and stood on out on the porch, where a few of the players were spraying each other with beer and cheering. Taylor probably knew, like Hank did, there was still a lot left to consider. Would they bring in replacement players? What would happen in the minors? How many players would go abroad, to play in countries like Japan? The odds of hitting the bigs were better today, but they might not be as good as what the younger guys thought.

John Todd stood, quietly, and went into the kitchen. He walked around Taylor’s old farmhouse like he owned the place. When the season had begun, Todd had been a smirking, cocky reliever with something to prove. Now, he was silent most of the time, and he was always lurking in the shadows and watching. Hank had already caught him taking evidence away from one murder scene, and he hadn’t ruled out his involvement in the bludgeoning deaths of two more HooseCows.

That crime would have been pinned on Chuck Swede, but he had been blown to bits in a publicity stunt gone bad. Thousands of people had watched, and Hank didn’t have to ask to know the league was getting sued. Hank had heard, from friends on the Rochester team, that the team was now being managed by Chuck’s teammate/brother George Swede because Chuck’s father/manager Dom Swede wouldn’t leave the Des Moines ballpark where his son exploded. Supposedly he got there at dawn every morning to make sure there were no small bits of his boy still around that could disturb some poor kid. At least, that’s how he explained it when they let him in. Hank’s Rochester source had also heard the man didn’t cry or talk to anyone. He just walked up and down the bleachers looking for parts of the runt child he had neglected in life.

Hank nodded to Alphonso Ruiz and Jean Gierau, who had been watching television with him, and went upstairs to use the bathroom. There was one on the lower floor, but he was pretty sure “Bud” Abbott had used it last. This meant it was not fit for human beings for at least twenty minutes. “Bud” Abbott was their only catcher now, and his personal hygiene was so poor you could see the other players wince when he walked out to the mound. Hank nodded to Mickey, who was staring at the window into the corn. Hank had a feeling Mickey was seeing the ghosts out in the cornfield, and that Mickey was scared they were angry with him again.

Having only one one catcher was just one way the HooseCows were trying to get by with less. After “Bunk” Edwards died, Taylor had every player show up early to practice pitching. Since most ballplayers started out pitching in high school, it wasn’t entirely ridiculous. Pitchers were also practicing fielding. Some of the support staff had been bitching about not getting paid.

There were three bedrooms in Taylor’s upstairs, and all of them were nearly empty. Hank knew this house had been in his family for at least a hundred years (there was a plaque outside to prove it), but there were no antiques or mementos on display in the room. Each room just had one bed, made to pass military inspection. Hank knew Taylor had no children of his own, and he realized this is what a house looks like when a family’s time has come and gone. Hank reached the bathroom and did what he came to do, admiring the old claw-footed tub and faucet fixtures that came straight from the 1950s. When he opened the door, Taylor was standing in front of him.

“I always forget what it’s like to work with the real young guys,” Taylor lamented.

Hank nodded. He hadn’t told Taylor about the dead bodies they’d found outside of Denver, IA. The cops hadn’t found them either, so maybe he could continue stalling. His ears were still ringing lightly, because he had been too close to the explosion at the All-Star game. Sometimes, the high pitched wailing in Hank’s ears reminded him too much of the bizarre music he had heard from the Rochester ballpark organist he had accidentally killed with a foul ball. He heard that music in his nightmares, too.

“I think John Todd is someone to watch. You know. About what we were talking about,” Hank said. He had wondered if the manager had been concerned about his relief pitcher, too. Since Taylor had first told him to watch certain players as potential murderers, John Todd was the player he kept coming back to.

“Nah,” Taylor said, far too quickly for Hank’s comfort. “Todd’s fine. He stays out here most of the time now, helping me out with the farm. I got him watching the team, too.”

“I saw him take something from “Bunk’s” pocket before they came to get the body,” Hank told the manager. He was very aware the manager was standing between him and leaving the bathroom, and he was staring to feel like he wanted out of the room in the worst way.

“Just hiding something illegal to protect “Bunk’s” family,” Taylor said. His smile barely moved his lips, but it set his eyes on fire. “He told me you saw that, and that you’d be worried.”

“He told you that?” Hank asked.

“Of course,” Taylor said, and then he smiled again. “Who do you think I asked to watch you?”

(NEXT)