Grey

The Case of the Lumpy-Dumpy

“They’re trying to buy us out.” Henry spits into the spittoon next to his desk. He looks at me and Trent, and I can tell he’s close to giving in. He doesn’t chew with the same force he once had. “They’ll move us to Oakland, probably. Been a while since they had a team. Already started building the course. That’s where their headquarters are, anyway.” Why would any company have their headquarters in Oakland, is what I’d like to know. Trent and I spent five years there I know I’d rather forget. Much less Big Bobby’s Baby Boutique. You’d think any kid who got a rattle or whatever from Big Bobby’s would be doomed from the start, with all the bad vibes from that place.

It’s becoming clearer and clearer that Henry won’t be able to hold out much longer. He’s been the last private owner in the league for six years now, so that’s gotta count for something. My playing days are almost over anyway. I could ride out a couple of years in Oakland, manage more than play, then maybe get a scouting gig. Coach a college team or something. As long as I’m not stuck in godforsaken Oakland for more than a year. Two at most.

Henry spits out another black wad. “I can’t fight this, boys. Big Bobby’s offering too much. I know you want to stay in Atlanta, but I’d be stupid to pass this up.” He doesn’t seem happy to betting whatever giant sum Big Bobby’s dangling in front of him. Maybe it’s just concern for his players--hell, maybe he even considers us his friends. Or maybe not. Henry was never known for his compassion, or his loyalty, or his inoffensive odor. He’s known for being a backstabbing piece of shit with a unique personal smell that Trent once said was like “the wet spot on the bed after a rhino fucked a hippopotamus.” So why isn’t he already on a plane to his private island? Why’s he pretending to give a shit about us?

*****

We still have practice like everything is normal. Trent and I seem to be the only ones Henry’s told so far, which I guess is a good thing. The last thing we need is for everybody to be distracted when we’re playing the Detroit Foot Soldiers tomorrow. We’ve got enough problems as it is, what with the Ghost Runners Local 412 on strike. Trent’s been dealing with Frank, the union boss, but so far the Ghosts aren’t budging. Just thinking of all those runs we could lose makes me want to choke somebody.

Val’s at practice, as usual, watching with his binoculars from the stands behind 17^th base. During a break he waves me over. “I hear rumors from the front office, Owen,” he says, the binoculars still attached to his face. “I hear Henry is going to sell to this Big Baby.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Val. And it’s Big Bobby’s Baby Boutique.”

“Then I suppose we are not moving to California after all?”

“I certainly wouldn’t be looking at houses in the Bay area, Val.”

“Of course not. And why would you? Henry would never send us all to Oakland.” Val puts down his binoculars and grins crookedly at me. “He loves us all too much.” Val’s been our official team statistician for a season and a half now, but before that he was some sort of top-secret investigator in whatever Russia’s new version of the KGB is, though I’ve been assured that’s all just a myth. The point is, Val knows things.

“Let’s just say, Val, hypothetically, that Henry was selling us to an infant-goods retailer, who was then going to move us to motherfucking Oakland. Why would he do something like that?”

“Though I was raised Communist, I hear money can be very persuasive.”

“Okay, but let’s say Henry wasn’t getting paid what the team is worth. Let’s say that Big Bobby was in fact offering much less than market value. What would compel Henry then to sell?”

“Perhaps he is tired of the day-to-day drudgery of owning the fourth-worst cross-country kickball team in the league. No offense intended.”

“I don’t know, Val. I always thought that bossing us around was the one thing Henry truly loved.”

“Then perhaps this Big Bobby knows something. A secret about Henry. He is threatening to reveal it to the public unless Henry sells the Bootstrappers.”

“A secret? Haven’t you read Henry’s autobiography? What could he be hiding?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Owen.” Val raises the binoculars to his eyes again. “But I’m sure I could find out. Ooh! Kenny just walloped a dodecatuple.”

*****

Trent couldn’t come to an agreement with Frank, so we have to use some local homeless as scab ghost runners against Detroit (“scab” being appropriate for more than one reason). It’s a fiasco, to say the least. This one guy who says his name is Dust Buster decides that if he’s a ghost runner, then people can only see him if he’s wearing clothes. So he strips naked, displaying the biggest penis any of us have ever seen (and we all play professional sports, mind you) and sprints back and forth between 13^th and 25^th bases shouting the Greek alphabet until two ballboys get drunk enough to get close enough to him to tackle him in the middle of the Triple Run Zone.

Dust Buster’s pal Razorblade Joe does well for the first six innings, as long as he gets a Special Dark Hershey’s Miniature every time he advances to a new base. He even scores us a few runs. But by the halftime show, we’re out of Special Dark, and Razorblade Joe doesn’t like Krackel. That’s when Kenny finds out why he’s called Razorblade Joe: five years ago, Dust Buster cut off Joe’s nipples with a razorblade. It’s disgusting. Kenny throws up and has to go lie down for three innings.

As the visiting player-manager, it’s my responsibility to lead the ghost runners in the traditional halftime performance the National Cross-Country Kickball League Anthem and Interpretive Dance, which is usually no problem, thanks to the union’s stringent rehearsal guidelines, but Dust Buster and his cronies only know the first three verses of the anthem, and only Razorblade Joe has had any modern-dance training at all. We get a 3.7 from the judges, which I think is going to be a serious detriment to our final score, but at the end of the second half we’re losing so bad it doesn’t even matter.

Dust Buster’s nude run is the lead story on SportsCenter, and Steve and Chris take a few minutes to editorialize about how the Bootstrappers could benefit from a change in ownership or location, maybe, just hypothesizing here. Obviously Big Bobby’s gotten to them too.

*****

I don’t like to think about what Val does in his free time. I don’t like to think about what he did before he came to America. I don’t like to think about the stockpile of weapons I’m sure he has stashed behind a false wall at the back of his closet. I don’t like to think about how he gets his information. But I can’t help it.

“Big Bobby definitely has some inside information on Henry,” Val says. He meets me in the parking deck at the Enron Jr. Stadium in Detroit. We all know that our hotel rooms are bugged. “I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I should be able to find out in a few days.”

I try not to think about Val strolling through the lobby of the Detroit Best Western, a small black case in his left hand, on his way to a ballroom with a sign announcing INFANT-GOODS RETAILERS CONFERENCE. I try not to think about Val pinning a nametag to his chest, introducing himself as Jerry Rondeau of Little Treasures, Inc. Or about him making small talk with Big Bobby’s VP of Acquisitions Teddy Miller over rubbery chicken almondine. Or about “Jerry” and Teddy having a few drinks at Flamingo’s, the hotel bar. Or about “Jerry” obliquely suggesting that if Teddy wanted some company and possibly a chemical pick-me-up tonight, “Jerry” might just know where to find such things. I try not to think about Teddy waiting alone in his hotel room, in his black socks and wifebeater. I try not to think about the look on Teddy’s face when the door opens and it’s not a blonde who enters, but “Jerry,” now employing a Russian accent. I don’t want to know how Val ties Teddy’s arms and feet to the posts of the bed, or what he takes out of his black case and what he does with it.

“I spoke with a man,” Val says. “One of Big Bobby’s lieutenants. He alluded to certain documents in Big Bobby’s possession. I am certain that we could have these documents within the week.” I try not to think about the maid coming in for the morning cleaning and finding Teddy sprawled on the bed, a bandage around his diminished right hand.

*****

Our next game’s at Halliburton Stadium in San Francisco, and it’s another disaster. We get our ghost runners back after a last-minute arbitration session over the weekend, but they’re flush with victory and refuse to do anything unless a union lawyer is present to insure they’re being treated fairly. Plus part the new contract prevents them from running more than three bases at a time, severely hampering our offensive machine.

Our top eight get on base, but Kenny still hasn’t recovered from his encounter with Razorblade Joe, and he strikes out in the cleanup position. The runners on 16^th and 9^th have to come in as a penalty. Our next three kickers ground or pop out, and then I’m up. I boot a double, and Joey, the lead runner, advances to 11^th. Six more kickers, and we’ve got six outs and eleven on base. But now we’re back around to the top of the lineup, so a ghost runner replaces Joey on 18^th. I just know this is going to be trouble.

Joey kicks a high one out to the Gertrude Area, narrowly missing the Triple Run Zone. It’s an octuple, at least. But the damn ghost runner gets to 21^st and just stands there. Brian apparently doesn’t remember about the new contract, so he’s pretty shocked when he gets to 21^st as well. He screams at the ghost runner to get a move on, so the ghost runner signals for the union lawyer to give Brian what for. I try to step in and keep things civil, but Brian’s already called for the bellboy to bring him his weighted practice kicking boot, and the union lawyer’s called his lawyer, and the umpire’s publicist has decided the only way to spin this positively is to say Brian and the ghost runner were fighting over the affections of the pre-game parade’s celebrity marshal, Frances Bean Love-Cobain. A few doctored photos later, and the game’s back on, but our pitching staff has to perform scenes from Kevin Costner movies at halftime as a penalty. They do get surprisingly high scores from the judges, though. But not enough to win the game.

*****

Another parking deck, another meeting with Val. He has a manila folder tucked under his right arm. He hands it to me after patting me down for bugs.

I open the folder and peruse the contents: a photograph of a young man, around eighteen years old, in an ovoid red-and-brown foam rubber costume. “Do you recognize this boy?” Val asks.

“I don’t know who he is, but this is the Lumpy-Dumpy,” I say. “He was our mascot about ten years ago.”

“The boy is Big Bobby’s son,” says Val. “Reginald.”

“We only used the Lumpy-Dumpy for a few months. The fans didn’t like him. He scared the children. There was these psycho fans who came to every game and hung out in the dance tent in centerfield and threw Red Bull cans at him. Eventually Henry just pulled him.”

“Henry didn’t pull the Lumpy-Dumpy, Owen. Reginald was killed.”

“By Henry?”

“So it would seem, though no evidence exists that I know of. Come. I have something else to show you.” Val lights a cigarette and leads me across the deck to a black Crown Vic. He opens the door. In the back seat is an obese man in Green Lantern underoos, duct tape on his mouth and a fresh, nasty-looking cut on his thigh: Big Bobby.

Val rips the tape off Big Bobby’s mouth. “Well, Robert. It seems the gig, as you say, is up. You have evidence that Henry killed your son; in exchange for keeping this evidence to yourself, you buy the Bootstrappers at a severely reduced price. Does this about sum it up?”

Big Bobby tries to wipe his forehead with his hairy shoulder. He eyes the black case in Val’s hand, fearful of his opening it again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Henry killed Reggie?

This is the first time I’ve seen Val surprised by anything. “That is not how you are buying the team for so little?” He drops his cigarette to the concrete.

“Do you know what happened to Reggie? I haven’t seen him in so long--“

Val lays the black case on the roof of the car and pops its latches. “Then tell me, Robert, what information you have on Henry.”

“Don’t do this--“

“Tell me.” Val opens the case and takes out a long steel needle.

“I--we had a deal. Years ago. He got all the Big Bobby’s Baby Boutique Husky Boy Diapers he wanted, and my son got to be the mascot--“ Val waves the needle in front of Big Bobby’s face.

“Val, I don’t think this is right--“

“Quiet, Owen. That was your deal, Robert? Why did Henry need the diapers?”

“He had--he had a problem...that’s where the mascot got its name. The Lumpy-Dumpy. It was a...a joke we had.” I feel like I want to throw up. This is all wrong. “I threatened to tell the media about our arrangement...about his medical issues. That’s why he agreed to sell.” Big Bobby eyes the needle with wet eyes. “Henry was my best friend.” Blood trickles from the cut on his thigh. “What happened to my son?”

“Let’s get out of here, Val. We’re flying back to Atlanta tomorrow.” I want this to be over. I can live in Oakland. For a year or two.

Val puts the needle back in his case. Big Bobby nearly cries from relief. “We aren’t done here, Owen,” Val says. Now Big Bobby just cries. “Your son is dead, Robert. I know this much.” Val closes the latches on his case. He lights another cigarette. “You stay here, Owen. Keep Robert company.”

Big Bobby moans, grieving for his son, for himself. “Where are you going?” I say.

Val blows out a cloud of smoke. “I’m going to get Henry. I’ll be back, as you say, in a jiffy.”

Val walked back across the dark parking deck to his car, leaving me alone with the bleeding, sobbing man who would soon be my new boss.