Tag Archives: “Bud” Abbott

Kangaroo Court

Posted on October 3, 2011 | 1 Comment

Kangaroo Court

When Taylor Nickles summarized the murderous activities of “Bud” Abbott to his baseball team, he was so calm Hank almost forgot they were talking about a real life murderer in their midst. If it wasn’t for the nightmarish image of “Bud” Abbott pulling off the head of the Babe Mooth costume, and of the anguished squeal that came from his mouth at that time, Hank wondered if he could convince himself everything was normal for the baseball team. Things were far from normal. As soon as Hank remembered the look on “Bud’s” face, he remembered Taylor had also ordered “Bud” Abbott to be locked up in a pen in his barn, and to be guarded by a ballplayer armed with a shotgun and pepper spray.

“So we’re going to call the cops, right?” Alphonso Ruiz said. He was sitting, with the rest of the remaining HooseCows, on a hay bale. They were in a mostly empty barn on Taylor Nickles; property. The rest of the HooseCows sat with him, in a full circle: Danny Marks, Drew Harrold, Jean Gierau, Tommy O’Leary, Rick Newton, Sean Martin, Alan Stone, John Todd, Mickey Danz, and Hank James. Fred Duchess was the guard assigned to “Bud” Abbott and was not in the circle. Seth Speaker, a local baseball fanatic who published a fanzine and had his own baseball-related Internet bulletin board, was also invited. Seth looked nervous, and Hank didn’t think he belonged in this meeting. When he asked Taylor Nickles about Seth’s presence before the meeting, Taylor simply responded: “Somebody has to write down what we do this season.”

Rather than answering Alphonso, Taylor Nickles’ pointed to a garbage bag in the center of the circle of hay bales. In it were all of the made-up teddy bears “Bud” Abbott had made for his victims. Hank assumed it was one bear per girl he had murdered, because he was trying to finish one when Taylor, Hank, and John Todd had found him. Hank had been asked to collect the bears from “Bud’s” baseball host family’s home. When he got back to Taylor’s house, he found Hank and John Todd preparing this meeting.

“Some of those girls got killed when he was on our team,” Taylor said. He sounded smug, like a father who had just sat through a bad parent/teacher conference. “Is that something you’d be proud to let someone else clean up for you?”

“This is murder, Taylor,” Rick Newton said. “This isn’t about some cocky ballplayer refusing to run out an infield hit.”

“It’s all about being a part of this team,” Taylor said.

It grew silent inside the barn. Outside, Hank heard farming implements starting up, and couldn’t believe how loud they sounded. Rick half stood up, like he was considering walking out. Alphonso just leaned back and shook his head. Drew Harrold pointed to the bale underneath Rick and told him to sit down. John Todd looked like he was going to be sick.

“We handle our business in house,” Taylor said. His voice was thick with the shame he was trying to spit into his players’ hearts. “We been playing well, but that’s not all we gotta do to be a real team. If you’re not a part of this team before you’re a part of anything else, you’re not anything worthwhile. Not to me.

“And just give up on your dreams of getting into the bigs,” Taylor continued. “You don’t think they have meetings like this up there all the time, about stuff they didn’t call the cops on because they were man enough to handle it in-house? Do you sons of bitches even know about Ty Cobb or Mickey Mantle or Marty Bergen?”

The baseball players were silent. Hank James wasn’t convinced, but many of the other players were starting to come around to Taylor’s way of thinking. Drew Harrold looked angrier than anyone else, and Hank suspected that was because he didn’t really know about the baseball players Taylor had mentioned. Mickey Danz, who had quit talking to Hank, had no facial expression at all.

“What you going to do? Hang ‘em in the front lawn? Get a firing squad going?” Rick Newton asked.

“Shut. Up.” Drew Harrold told Rick.

“The cops will be looking for him,” Hank said.

“We took care of that. We drove his car down to the Cedar Rapids airport and left in the parking lot, with the Babe Mooth costume in the trunk,” Taylor explained. “It’ll keep them busy. They’ll assume he got away somehow. So we can handle this however we need to.”

Silence. Taylor Nickles’ words truly set in.

“We’re really talking about executing someone,” Alphonso said.

Taylor pointed to the bag filled with teddy bears.

“Is this really someone you don’t want to bring justice to?” Taylor asked.

“I don’t want to murder anyone,” Rick said.

“We can make it more fair than that,” Taylor said. When he smiled, Hank knew Taylor had already decided how this was going to work. He was just setting it up so all the cogs and gears worked the way he wanted them to. The manager looked to his watch, and Hank glanced at his watch as well. It was two minutes to midnight. From the corner of his eye, he could see a small, ghostly face peering in to watch the proceedings. He tried to look directly at the ghostly child, but whenever he did, it disappeared. He did notice Mickey Danz was deliberately avoiding looking in that direction.

“In one minutes, Fred is going to let let “Bud” Abbott free, to run into the cornfield. If you want to wait for the police to handle our problems for us, just let him go,” Taylor said. Everyone tensed on their hay bale. “If you’re not okay with that, you can do the right thing. I borrowed and bought a few more combine harvesters and lined them up outside. It was hard to get nine together this time of year, but I did it. With nine out there at once, combing the fields, someone will hit him and finish off his miserable life pretty quickly. The less of you go out, the larger the chances that he gets away. So I guess it depends on what sounds fair to you. Some of you have daughters, right?”

Outside, a gunshot. Hank assumed it was Fred letting everyone know he had set “Bud” free. Drew Harrold and Tommy O’Leary ran out of the barn first, but everyone else came after them. As Taylor had promised, there were nine combine tractors waiting. Their claw-like tines and whirring metal parts were alive and running. In the tall green corn, Hank could glimpse moving leaves and hear “Bud” panting in fear and exertion. He was never in the best of shape. For a moment, everything stayed like that, until it was clear “Bud” could get away.

Tommy and Drew led the charge again, each getting into a combine nearest where they had last seen “Bud” run into the corn. Then, Fred Duchess and John Todd climbed into the cabs of combines, John Todd still looking far too pale. The rest of the team members stood and kicked at the gravel beneath their feet. Fred Newton was swearing to himself.

“The girl that man just killed wasn’t even out of high school. Do what you’ll be proud of,” Taylor Nickles said.

Danny Marks and Sean Martin got into combines. Hank couldn’t believe they were all going in, or that they all knew how to operate the machinery. Then, he remembered how much Taylor had used work on his farm as part of his coaching. Rick Newton kept shaking his head and cursing out no one in particular, but Alphonso Ruiz was slowly crawling into the cab of one of the giant machines. Hank remembered Alphonso had two daughters.

Drew Harrold was cheering himself on, but other than that and the noise of the machines. Hank could  not tell what was going on in the field. He had seen combines operate before, having grown up in the Midwest. He knew the front of the machines was all twisting metal and sharp, cutting implements. He didn’t know if “Bud” was going to bleed out or be crushed and mangled, but he knew “Bud” was about to die badly.

Alan Stone moved to stand next to Hank James, as did Rick Newton.  Jean Gierau and Mickey Danz joined them, as did Seth Speaker. They were the ones who refused to murder the murderer. Taylor Nickles watched the big tractors rush across the field, occassionally saying things like, “Do what’s right, boys.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey Danz said.

“He really got them to do this,” Fred said.

“When do you honestly think you’re going to be able to tell this story?” Alan asked a shaky Seth Speaker. “Who could you ever tell?”

“He said someday people would want to know,” Seth said, shrugging. His eyes were lost in the mayhem of the night. “Someday, I guess.”

“What are you sorry for?” Hank asked Mickey.

“I was the one who drove his car down to Cedar Rapids. I didn’t know I was covering up this,” Mickey said, leaving the question of what he thought he was covering up unanswered. He looked for the ghostly children, but they had finally abandoned him completely. Mickey’s face grew cold and dead as this sunk in.

From the field, there was a loud and wet scream. Moments later, the other combines were coming back to the barn. Hank hoped it was a quick death, and that he would not have to hear “Bud” Abbott screaming ever again. Except in the nightmares that would come for him soon.

(NEXT)

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Babe Mooth

Posted on September 26, 2011 | Leave a comment

Babe Mooth

When “Bud” Abbott finally struck again, it was crowded and boring in the HooseCows office. Hank James was glad when Taylor Nickles had a phone call to answer. The office comfortably seated two people, but ever since “Bud” Abbott had disappeared, Taylor had insisted on having John Todd in the office, too.

Taylor slammed down the phone, stopped, and glared at the wall. Again, Hank was glad. It had been a tense and bland day, because their series with the Mason City Ugly Birds was canceled. In fact, all future series with the Ugly Birds were canceled because the team had quit playing, due to the death of player (and family member) Chuck Swede in an on-field promotional event involving dynamite.

No one had told the HooseCows this, though. They had driven to the ballpark to find it mostly empty, with a few confused fans sitting in the stands and looking at their watches. In a scene that would have been funny if it had happened to anyone else, Hank James and the rest of the team sat on the bus as it pulled up to manager Dom Swede’s house and Taylor got out and knocked on his front door. They watched as the door opened only far enough for Dom to stick his finger out and point it threateningly in Taylor’s face a half dozen times. Then, the door was slammed shut, Taylor got back on the bus, and they went back home without any games to play. The only one who was relieved was Sean Martin, who had been pressed into being the catcher in “Bud” Abbott’s presence, and was not succeeding in this role.

“I think ‘Bud’ went and got that girl he was stalking at our home games,” Taylor said, his jaw barely opening to spit the words out. “That was Janesville High School’s principal. They want to know why we authorized our mascot to come visit their volleyball practice.”

From the way Hank could see rage in Taylor’s eyes, he knew the man had never called the authorities about “Bud” or the bodies Hank and Mickey had found outside of Denver, Iowa. The bodies the authorities had not found on their own, as of yet.

“The guy who does Babe Mooth is at his family’s cabin in Minnesota this week,” Hank said.

“You know who’s in that costume,” Taylor rasped. He leaned forward. “Think about it.”

They all three rode out to Janesville in Taylor’s truck, with Hank stuck uncomfortably in the middle seat. Highway 218 was mercifully free of law-enforcement, and they weren’t pulled over for speeding. The highway was made for speeding, as long as you could switch between the left and right lanes to avoid aging farmers who insisted on driving one mile under the speed limit in the fast lane. Hank looked out the window at the tall corn, the small ponds, the abandoned barns, and the isolated bunches of trees. If someone created a landscape for disposing of bodies, they’d design Iowa.

Taylor turned the car left, passed a gas station, and almost slowed to a stop in front of the small high school. Hank grabbed the  manager’s shoulder and pointed down the street. There was an old iron bridge ahead in the road. It had been barricaded off and was clearly far from safe. Despite it’s proximity to the school, the trees and dip down to the river made it a convenient and secluded place for someone to take a potential victim.

“We found the last girl by water,” Hank said. “He’s gotta be down there.”

He didn’t tell Taylor the other reason he knew the catcher had taken his prey by the water. He didn’t tell Taylor he had seen a small, ghostly shimmer that just barely formed the shape of a small boy pointing in that direction. The ghosts face was turned down, and by that, Hank knew the girl was already dead.

Taylor parked the truck and they scrambled out of the vehicle and moved toward a small footpath to the left side of the bridge. The crows were screaming, and the path was steep. They were halfway down when they first saw the black-and-white clothes of Babe Mooth, now covered in clotting red blood. Behind Hank, John Todd slid on the path and said, simply: “No.” Hank looked behind him and blocked Todd’s progress.

“You can’t help her now,” Hank said, trying to find some sort of half-smile that might help, and failing. “You should go back up the hill. Seeing this is going to hurt you.”

Hank reached out a hand, and John Todd swatted it away and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. Hank shrugged, because it was all he could do, and they continued down the path to meet Taylor, who had already reached the bottom. They stood with their sneakers getting muddy and forced their eyes to look at the scene before them.

It was easy to guess what had happened. Dressed in the mascot’s costume, “Bud” had been able to walk right into the school and get attention from a group of high school girls, who assumed this had all been approved by the adults in their lives. Somehow, he must have got the girl outside. Maybe he offered her something. Then he overpowered her, took her down to the river, and then it all ended in this sad image Hank would never be able to forget.

“Bud” Abbott was still in the Babe Mooth costume, and he was soaked in blood and clumps of hair. Hank could hear his muffled cries through the mascot’s cow-shaped head. The dead girl in front of him was dressed in her volleyball uniform, and Hank couldn’t bear to notice more about her than that. In one of the costumed killers paws was the teddy bear “Bud” Abbott had been keeping in his locker. In his other paw was a tube of lipstick. “Bud” had not been able to apply the lipstick correctly with his costume on, and it was smeared all over the face of the teddy bear. “Bud” kept rocking back and forth.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Taylor told Hank, without even looking at him. John Todd had wandered off into the bushes. From the sounds Hank heard, it was clear the pitcher was trying not to vomit. “But we still don’t call the cops. This needs to be handled in-house, by the team. This kind of thing especially.”

From the tone in Taylor’s voice, Hank almost started to feel sorry for “Bud.”

(NEXT)

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Teddy Bears

Posted on September 19, 2011 | 1 Comment

Teddy Bears

Before they left the clubhouse and got into John Todd’s truck, Todd made Hank stop to look at “Bud” Abbott’s locker. It looked as it always had, except that the lucky teddy bear Abbott touched before every game was not on the top shelf. “Bud” would touch it before every game, but he would never answer any questions about it.

“That’s not good,” Todd said. He motioned for Hank to follow him out to the parking lot, and from there they got into the truck and began driving to the house where “Bud” Abbott was staying with a host family. It hadn’t really sunk in, until they were alone in the truck, that Hank was riding with a man he was sure had murdered “Bunk” Edwards.

“Forget about the ‘Bunk’ thing,” Todd said. It couldn’t really be considered mind reading, Hank thought, when the contents of his mind were so obvious. “We’ll talk about that later, when it’s time. You might even understand it. This is about ‘Bud,’ and the girls he’s killed. And the girl he’s going to kill if we don’t stop him today.”

“You’re sure?” Hank asked.

“Cops came around to ask him questions, and they talked to Taylor Nickles as well. They were asking about Audrey Sheldon, the elementary school teacher who got kidnapped last year. Apparently, someone at the All-Star game recognized him as the guy who took Audrey. They didn’t get to it right away because of everything that went on with Chuck Swede getting blown up after the game. And if you put a picture of Audrey next to a picture of Leigh Palmer, it’s pretty close. I know they’re thinking he got her, too. Maybe more.”

“He was one of the few of us who didn’t have a criminal record,” Hank thought out loud.

“He also wasn’t that good,” Todd said. “He never made it far in the minors or the other independent leagues. We talked to this guy, Seth, who runs a BBS where people can log on and talk baseball, and he said some guys in Arizona were telling him the other players on ‘Bud’s’ team were instructed to never let him walk out of the clubhouse alone when there were still girls in the stadium.” Hank nodded, recognizing Seth as one of the local baseball experts Ron Leeman had mentioned to him.

They were parking in front of an old, white home in East Waterloo. There was a giant, chicken-wired garden out back and Christmas decorations still on display in front. Small children ran into and out of the house.

“You here to see ‘Bud?’” a boy of about seven asked them.

“Is he home?” Hank asked. The kid had come up to him. John Todd was peering around like he had just gotten out of basic training. Looking at him, Hank couldn’t believe he had been a music loving, smiling, laid back ballplayer when he first joined the team. Taylor Nickles had really molded the man.

“No, he’s out with a lady,” the boy said. Then, more seriously. “Don’t go touching his teddy bears. He says that every time he goes.” The boy paused and dropped his eyes to the grass at Hank’s feet. “He knows if you’ve been in there, too.”

Todd went into the house, and Hank followed him. They nodded at the mother of the children, and host parent to ‘Bud,” as she talked on her cordless phone. Following the boy’s directions, they went downstairs and walked past a rec room filled with a giant big-screen television and torn leather coach. ‘Bud’s’ room was small, and located next to a small half bathroom. There were no pictures or mementos in the room; all the two ballplayers could see was a small bed with a line of 5 teddy bears on it.

The bears were all facing the wall, as if they had done something bad and needed to be punished. John Todd and Hank James both looked over their shoulders and, seeing as they were alone, moved closer to the teddy bears. The basement room was hot, and Hank felt a bead of sweat slide down the side of his nose and slowly drip down. Outside, they could hear a neighbor working a lawnmower up and down their lawn.

The stillness was interrupted by the sound of something clattering against the pile of toys heaped beside the sofa. The ballplayers turned, each one tensely forming their hands into fists. Behind them, the little boy from outside held a small plastic action figure — something bright yellow with a helmet and tall white boots — that he had fished from the pile.

“Don’t touch his teddy bears,” the boy said. “He said don’t touch them.”

“Okay,” Hank lied. Todd had not yet unclenched his fists.

The boy did not leave, so Todd shut the door. The men turned back to the bed, and the teddy bears. John Todd walked forward and nodded to Hank. Hank nodded back, and Todd touched the first teddy bear. Hank looked around nervously. Outside, the lawnmower had stopped.

Todd turned the teddy bear around and both men were facing what was almost a completely normal teddy bear. “Bud” had altered it only slightly. He had put make-up on the bear’s face. He had caked the lipstick and eye shadow on thickly, as if he wanted to make sure the whole world could notice. In the bear’s ears were earrings, and around its neck was a necklace.

With more urgency, Todd turned around the other four bears. Each had been made up by someone who clearly did not know the first thing about applying makeup. Hank had never applied makeup himself, but he had been married for enough years to have a better idea of how it was done. There was a new noise outside, but it didn’t sound like the lawnmower. To Hank, it sounded like the disjointed, terrifying music of the Rochester pipe organist.

“Which one do you think was Audrey Sheldon’s color?” Todd asked. “Or Leigh Palmer’s. And where’ s he taking the other bear to right now?”

Hank felt his face grown numb as he remembered the girls who had seen someone eyeing them from the bushes outside a HooseCows game. He had an idea of where “Bud” Abbott might be going, but he didn’t know if they’d be able to find the girl in time.

(NEXT)

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Strike

Posted on September 12, 2011 | 1 Comment

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)

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Riding Pine

Posted on September 5, 2011 | 3 Comments

Riding Pine

For Ray Bradbury

“This wasn’t really put together well,” Alphonso Ruiz told Hank James. The All-Star games was over, if you could even call it an All-Star game. The league had just combined the HooseCows with the Radiation (the one team the league felt would not try to brawl with the ‘Cows) and then combined the Man-Pigs and the Ugly Birds. The managers for the teams picked the best line-up they could and they played another game.

The only difference was this game was being played in Des Moines, and it was being played in a carnival environment. To Hank, it seemed like the league had decided  no one would care about this brand of baseball anyway, and they had to pack the day with activities to distract from the game. There had been local bands singing before the game, and a marching band for the Star-Spangled banner. Beer was cheaper than water. He had even heard someone say there was a promotion where each section had been assigned a player, and if your player got a home run, hot dogs were free for fifteen minutes. He had a feeling some of those hot dogs had found themselves thrown at the outfielders before the day was done. Hank shook his head. This was the part of the minors he was most glad to leave behind.

The Mason City Ugly Birds were almost all on the field, now that the game was officially over. The Ugly Birds were a big part of the reason this even had not felt professionally run. The Swede family members on the team had insisted on playing the whole game, because in the mind of the Ugly Birds this event was about getting drunk and seeing who could slap his teammates in the crotch the most. Even Chuck Swede had gotten in on the action. The smallest member of the Swede family was laughing loudly with his family. No one would ever know Hank and Mickey Danz had recently calmed Chuck down after he called them from a greasy spoon diner. Just days earlier Chuck walked away from waking up in a room with two dead ballplayers and his own ball bat, which was covered in blood, and now he just as giddy as the next Ugly Bird.

Hank spit some sunflower seeds and grimaced. He knew there would be more to come from the murders of two former HooseCows. Mickey thought it was a ghoulish revenge on the part of the Ugly Birds, for what Hank had done to their pitcher in a game. Hank still thought it was the same person who had murdered the girl outside of the ballpark. They didn’t spend long arguing the point, and instead quickly buried the bat out in the cornfield behind the house and left the building, careful to dust off any fingerprints. They both agreed that Chuck probably had not done it, and when it came down to it, hiding from the what scared them seemed what they were comfortable doing.

“Did you see the Man Pigs pitcher freak out and point to his wedding ring when that woman ran out on the mound and kissed him?” Alphonso Ruiz chuckled.

“I don’t think he knew about the whole “Kissing Bandit” thing,” Hank said. “I guess they couldn’t afford to bring in the official Kissing Bandit.” The girl who had run out to kiss the opposing team’s pitcher, to the tune of “Love Shack,” had smiled sweetly as she sauntered onto the field, but her body filled out the outfit they had dressed her in like there was nothing at all sweet on her mind. No wonder the pitcher made sure to mention he had a wife; she was probably in the audience.

“Did you see the kid in the stands staring at ‘Bud’ Abbott?” Hank said to Alphonso. “Looked like he was going to pass out or have a fit when he saw ‘Bud’.”

Volunteer players from both sides were helping the final piece of entertainment set up on the field. Mickey Danz was sitting lifelessly on the bench behind Hank. He had probably had the worst day of all. He started the game but, after only two batters, he refused to pitch to the third batter. When Manager Taylor Nickles finally brought him out of the game, Hank could hear Mickey chanting “I can’t stop the game. I can’t stop the game.”

Hank knew Mickey had been seeing more of the dead children since that night at the abandoned farmhouse. Hank wanted to help him, but he was spending most of his free time with the cordless phone in his lap, wondering if he should call the cops anonymously or just turn himself in for his involvement. He had never been this far past the light gray side of legal living. Mickey would stop in periodically to inform Hank the ghosts had told him they were doing it all wrong. It didn’t help anything.

Chuck was supposed to have gone up to Hank’s house in Minnesota to relax for a while, which is why Hank and Mickey were extremely surprised to see him playing today. They met up with him during his batting practice (being careful to stay in the stands, away from the Ugly Birds thugs who were eying them). Chuck smiled like he hadn’t just been framed for a double-murder and said his family had something special planned for him during this game. After that, he smiled and mouthed, “I’m leaving for your house right after the game.”

“Just hang in there,” Hank told Alphonso, patting him on the shoulder. The final attraction of the night was almost completely assembled. “The Majors are going to go on strike, and that means there’ll be some openings. It can only help us, right?”

Alphonso nodded, and Hank heard the remaining crowd start to cheer. Hank realized he was mostly talking to himself about getting up to the majors. He knew he was hitting the ball well enough to make it somewhere, and he was ready for another shot. He had been calling his ex-wife to talk with her about it, but so far, he hadn’t been able to get in touch with her.

Hank’s thoughts were interrupted by what he thought he heard on the field.

“Did someone say ‘dynamite?’” Hank asked Alphonso.

“Dynamite chair. Saw one of these things when I was playing down in Florida once. Weirdest thing. Guy sits in that chair, all that dynamite goes off, and somehow it works just right that he doesn’t get hurt at all.”

Hank looked out to see a man wearing a shiny silver outfit, complete with motorcycle helmet, visually inspecting an old wooden chair and large amounts of dynamite strapped to it. A couple of Swedes were out watching him and jostling each other, including Chuck Swede.

“That guy makes his living doing that,” Alphonso said. “Makes what we do seem grown-up.”

Hank smiled and went to get more sunflower seeds. As he did, he saw the look on Mickey’s face. When Mickey had come off of the mound, Taylor had taken him to the training room. When Mickey had come back out, he was much calmer. Taylor had probably sedated him. Now, however, he could see a look of panic trying to force itself through the medicinal stupor. Mickey’s eyes were red and bulging, and his jaw was wide opening and trying to work out some words of warning.

Hank turned back to the field to see Chuck Swede’s family members gently guiding him to the chair. They were smiling and messing with his hair, and Chuck was beaming like it was the proudest day of his life. The crowd was cheering. Even the baseball players, in both dugouts, were cheering. Chuck sat in the chair and put on a helmet someone had handed him. The crowd started counting backwards from “10.”

Hank heard Mickey collapse on the bench behind him. The pitcher was drooling and kicking his legs on the floor. The trainer was running over to see him, but Hank knew it was because the ghosts were close now, and they were angry enough to scare Mickey into trying to work through his sedation. How big of a dose had Mickey gotten?

All of this served to delay Hank, who didn’t get out of the dugout until the crowd chanted “4.” Hank stood at the top of the dugout and waved his arms back and forth, screaming “no.” No one heard him. Those who saw Hank thought it was just part of the act. In the stands, Hank could just glimpse the ghosts of the dead, young ballplayers. They had turned away from the field, their heads tilted as if they were disgusted. On his big chair surrounded by dynamite, Chuck saw Hank and gave him a “thumb’s up” sign.

Then, the crowd reached zero.

(NEXT)

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Corn Dive

Posted on August 8, 2011 | 2 Comments

Corn Dive

Surrounded by corn well over his head, Hank James was instantly terrified when something dove out of the corn and slammed into his lower torso like a car wreck. Hank just had enough time to gasp once and watch the sun and plants over his head spin as he tumbled to the ground. His right arm hurt from landing on it, and the dry dirt scraped into his bare skin.

Drew Harrold stood up and smiled, offering a hand to Hank James. Hank took it, begrudgingly, and stood up. Drew patted Hank on the shoulder.

“You just got corn-dived, man,” Drew said.

The whole HooseCows team was out on a patch of farmland Taylor Nickles owned for what Taylor was calling a “team building exercise.” He said it had been planned before the incident in Mankato and now, the day before a two-game home stand against the Rochester Radiation, Taylor had decided it was more crucial than ever. He had assigned the team to go out and “rogue” his field. This meant the team had to “dig up” any plants that were taller, leafier, and greener than the rest. No one actually dug them up, preferring instead to chop them down using their shovel in an exaggerated golf swing. This kind of work was normally done by high school kids who didn’t have a car to drive to a better job, immigrant workers, or machines. Many HooseCows players had loudly wished this work had stayed in those people’s capable hands.

“You should cut it out, Drew,” Danny Marks shouted from five rows down. “Someone could get injured really easily out here.”

“Oh, shut up, Danny,” Drew said. Then, he looked to catcher “Bud” Abbott. At that moment, it was easy to see who was getting tackled next. The only person who didn’t seem to get it was Danny Marks, who continued dutifully inspecting each stalk of corn. He was too slow at this job.

“You’re okay, right?” Mickey Danz asked Hank. Hank nodded, and the two kept walking and talking together down a pair of adjacent corn rows. The heavy leaves of the corn plants were slapping into Hank’s chest and occasionally cutting into the skin on his exposed arms. He tried to keep his head up and out of the way of the sturdy plants, but had to look down occasionally to brush off any bugs that were trying to crawl around on his body. His feet were heavy from the caked mud that had accumulated on his feet when they had begun this pointless task and the ground was still wet.

The team came over a gentle hill and saw Taylor Nickle’s truck parked alongside a gravel road. Most of Iowa is a flat patchwork of one mile by one mile squares where farmers tried their luck at working the land. When farming got expensive and pricey in the eighties, Taylor Nickles had taken some of his baseball money and built up a sizable amount of acres for himself. He hired out the actual farming work for the most part, but apparently liked to retain usage of the land for torturing his baseball team.

Finished with their second trip through the field, the HooseCows players walked out of the corn and joked with each other. A group of players tried to decide whose armpits had released the most sweat. Rick Newton and Alphonso Ruiz were busy discussing some new movie that had seen about some guy who gets to do all sorts of magical things even though he’s dumb as a box of rocks. Alphonso had been telling everyone to go see it all week long. Danny Marks was trying to stand close to Hank, as he had finally noticed Drew Harrold and “Bud” Abbot were preparing to pounce on him.

Taylor didn’t even get out of his truck.

“Saw about twenty rogues just driving up here!” Taylor said, as if it were possible to be disappointed and delighted at the same time. He pointed in the direction of the “rogues,” and Hank thought he could only see one or two of the taller corn plants they were supposed to exterminate. Maybe one or two, but Hank did not see twenty from where he was standing. “Pretty bad job you guys did.”

“Why are we doing this?” Drew Harrold shouted.

Hank looked to John Todd. The pitcher, who he had caught hiding a dead man’s tin of chewing tobacco from the police, looked peaceful and serene. Seemed like he must be going to sleep at night without any problems, regardless of what he had done.

“Get back in there,” Taylor said. It was a statement, and he didn’t wait for a response before he drove off, leaving a cloud of gravel dust behind him. The HooseCows players went back into the corn, swearing loudly to no one in particular. On this third time through, each player watched his row and everyone else’s. If someone missed a rogue, everyone shrieked at that man until he chopped it down. They went up and down the rows of corn, watching the land rise and fall in green lines of machine-perfected planting. Drew and “Bud” tackled Danny halfway through this third pass through the corn, and he complained loudly about how ridiculously immature they were for the rest of that pass.

It was 2 in the afternoon and miserably hot when they reached the end of the field for the third time. Taylor Nickles smiled when he saw his players, and he handed them all bottles of water. Then, he shook his head and told him he could see five rogues from just where he was standing. There was swearing and moaning from all of the players, and several asked why they were even doing this. Then, Taylor sent them all back into the corn for the fourth time.

This time, there were no games and no jokes. Drew Harrold had resorted to swearing loudly for no particular reason, and “Bud” Abbot walked in a row beside him and chuckled in shared frustration. The rest of the players were silent, except for left fielder and professional oddball/Canadian Jean Gierau. An avid Doors fan, the man had been singing “L.A. Woman” and “Roadhouse Blues” for most of the day. This meaningless, endless task had not silenced his singing voice, but he HAD switched to singing “When The Music’s Over.”

As Hank James had suspected, Taylor wasn’t done seeing phantom rogue cornstalks after this path through the corn, either. Shoulders slumped across the team. Catcher “Smitty” Caroll and second baseman Roger Bartt walked out of the field together. This was clearly a decision they had made together, whispering conspiratorially between the stalks of corn as their heavy, mud-caked feet made another pass through the rows.

“Don’t bother coming back to the team,” Taylor said, without giving them eye contact. “Smitty” and Roger just kept walking Taylor looked to the other players and waited. When no one else went to leave, Taylor silently went back to his truck. The summer evening was still light, but the day was nearly over. Taylor drove away and the HooseCows went back into the corn.

When they finally came out the other side, no one had spoken. They had not spoken to any other player, and they had not spoken to themselves. They had been trapped in the corn maze, going only one way, thinking about just how far their commitment to this meaningless little independent league baseball team. There were other ways they could be spending their time, and there were many opportunities where a man could step out of the corn, find a gravel road, and walk off of the team and away from Taylor Nickles’ meaningless activities.

Even though this was true, all of the remaining HooseCows stepped out of the rows of corn to face Taylor Nickles. It was growing dark now, but they could see a calm smile on his face. No one smiled. No one moved to leave. The sound of the insects greeting the uncoming darkness ruled the air. No one asked what they were doing, or why. Nothing happened for a very long time.

“Now the field looks good,” Taylor said. He nodded once. “You done it right, boys. Come on in.”

(NEXT)

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