Winter Drama: The Death of Antollini pt.3
December… 2041
Asheville, North Carolina Police Department Headquarters
Precinct Interrogation Room #2
The room was small, the kind designed to make men sweat. Much smaller than the one we grilled Sanford in. A cheap fluorescent overhead light buzzed softly, casting sharp shadows over the scuffed metal table. The walls, gray and bare concrete stones, made to absorb any sound… It was a place built for punishment, but used to get to the truth… or at least whatever version of it a man was willing to give.
Kimble had just hauled in the puker, George Crocker. He sat on the far side of the table, hands folded, a bemused smirk stretching across his face. His suit was slightly wrinkled and smelled with the stale scent of being worn too long, not having changed since the Winter Meetings, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he wasn’t taking this seriously. He had the air of a man used to talking his way out of things after all, he’d been talking for a living for years in Aurora.
Ortega stood by the door with arms crossed, watching. Kimble leaned against the wall, quiet, staring at nothing in particular. After the fake puking scene in the ballroom and being brought in to fill out some preliminary paperwork, they had made sure Crocker would stay local for a bit. They didn’t actually have anything on him though besides his history with dead bodies.
Crocker was holed up in the hotel bar talking to some random fan, mid-scotch, mid-story. He hadn’t protested when Kimble came looking again, just grinned and went along for the ride, like a man who’d been in the game long enough to know when to play it cool.
Ortega pulled out the bloody matchbook, and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the metal, stopping just in front of Crocker. The smirk on his face twitched, just for a second. Time for some ol’ good cop, bad cop… giving Kimble the knowing nod…
“You know what that is?” Ortega asked, his voice flat. “Yeah, do you!” Kimble already ruining the play.
Crocker glanced at it, then back up at Ortega.
“Sure,” he said, casual as ever. “Looks like a matchbook. And a well-used one, at that.”
“The Blue Orchid,” Ortega continued. “Aurora, Colorado. You know the place.”
“Blue Orchid? I know blue – Aurora Blue – unlike Michigan Blue – that horrid, ugly blue the Red Dawns wear up there in Perfect 10 country – vile, I say!! Vile – if my name isn’t George Crocker – which it is, the greatest ball player in the history of baseball.” Crocker raises his fist and points his thumb towards his chest “Just ask my fans – they’ll all tell you!”
Ortega and Kimble give each other a look… they’ve read the FBI reports, but nothing could have prepared them for actually having George here, in front of them…
“Even Markie-Mark; Ol’ Money’ll tell you a story or two! And what’s up with that?? Red Dawns, wearing pukey Michigan Blue? Awful. Orchids? I don’t know a thing about orchids? Don’t they grow like in the jungle or something – bungle in the jungle style? Ain’t no jungle in Aurora – unless you spend some time with Hott” George Crockers eyes quickly dart to the right and left…
Ortega sighing, “I need you to stay on point George…”
Whispering, “He’s got a few things that’ll make you feel like you’re in a jungle – or outer space, if you know what I mean.” Regaining his cocky composure, “You might as well ask me about a white lotus, for all I care, and I’d tell you the same thing – go ahead – it’s all right by me! George Crocker!!”
“Hey You, Ortega – any relationship to that Ruben Ortega – crappy second basemen for Aurora a couple of years ago – talk about a blue orchid – he was more like an Amorphophallus titanium – know what that is boys? A Corpse Flower – that’s Ruben Ortega – talks a big story and carries a stick full of dimethyl trisulfides! I bet that’s why Hott is so hot on him – those trisulfides! He’s a cousin of yours, ain’t he Ortega!”
“Shut up!” Kimble shouts, slamming the desk with his big closed mitts, getting only a small ‘yip’ in response from Crocker. “We don’t care about Ruben, or flowers, or Michigan, or your old announcing buddies. What about the club…” Ortega puts a hand on Kimble’s shoulder, but clearly is beginning to lose his cool as well, getting sucked into the Crocker-vortex way of thinking…
“You mentioned Hott. Do you mean Steve Hott? Is he dealing out of the Blue Orchid? We are trying to help you George… You’ve been through this before, there is a target on your back it seems. From who, or where, I am not sure, but when trouble comes knocking, here is little ol’ George Crocker, first in line. What did you see George? Where did Mr. Antollini go during the Winter Meetings? Why were you so ready to make a run for it?? What’s at the Blue Orchid? Tell me George, we need answers damnit!”
Things are turning into bad cop, bad cop as Ortega loses his cool and throws a coffee mug from the side table against the wall, exploding in a mixture of porcelain and dark ooze. Giving off a primal yell of exhaustion, wasting the precious sweet nectar. Kimble can only look on knowing they are losing control of the situation. Things need to turn around quickly or they would have wasted this meeting and any chance of a real motive to Mr. Antollini’s death.
“Dude…” Crocker exhaled in frustration “It ain’t my fault – it’s a jinx or something cosmic, man. I’ve been set-up – clear as crystal balls in a wizarding shop, man. I swear. I didn’t smuggle no drugs – I’m a ball player. I didn’t murder no owner who’s paying my bills – and mighty handsomely I might say. Mark-O didn’t know this, so don’t tell him, but Junior paid me more! He knew who buttered Aurora’s croissants.”
George took a deep breath, held it… then let it all out in one continuous phrase, “I’m the greatest of ball players – ask them down in Bogata, they know – ask them.” George Crocker closed his eyes and raised his head towards the ceiling and sighed, “Hott was there. He was doing Hott stuff – you know, bravado, cars, girls – don’t tell that Mazey Maddie chick, though, she don’t like cars and she don’t like chicks – but his Hottness was there. Ripping into every trade. He was tellin’ me how weak that Mora deal was – I think the dude is still bitter about the Dubs, but, Hey, WHAT… ever…”
“Continue…” Ortega manages in between nodding to Kimble who is furiously taking notes, despite there being a recorder on the table.
George reaches for the water glass on the table, lifts it and spies there’s no water in it and places it back on the table, “I see you Cu,” George says staring at Ortega “No, not like the Herd, I mean I C… U… Can I get some agua – frio, Ortega – not caliente, porvy forvy?” Crocker and Officer Ortega stare at each other, neither man blinking for a few seconds then Crocker continues “Anyway, Hottie Tottie and I were there, in the hall – big hall, wide hall – outside the ballroom and we see that high-brow Antollini guy from New Jersey – I bet he’s really from Staten Island, ya know? Ever hear him speak? S-I all the way. I had an uncle from there and man – his lingo dripped in S-I; that’s what we called it as kids – ‘Hey Ma, we’re going to S-I to see uncle Guido?’ Let me tell ya Ortega – we all loved that guy, he was like an uncle to us. ANYWHO… Antollini comes walking by and sees us and stops and says ‘Yo, look at us – world champs soon, chumps’ – so rude, you know, in that Staten Island way. Hott Lips just shook his head and neighed back at him – or whatever you call that thing when horses shoot hot air out of the side of their mouth?” George tried to illustrate but only succeeded to drool on himself.
Ortega and Kimble can’t believe their eyes or ears…
He used the back of his hand to wipe his face and reached for the water glass – stopped, and just stared back at Ortega, “Really, Dude?” Crocker cleared his throat and continued, “That was when Antollini asked Hott if he ‘had seen Blue’ – and with that Hottie laughed as Antollini walked into the john. Hott Hott Hott said adios and followed Antollini into the johnnie. I stood there for a sec and that’s when I saw ‘Train Arollin’’ and I ran after him – I wanted his opinion on the Mora deal – I am, after all, a high-class, professional broadcaster with a critical job to do for all my fans on The Front Range – you know those Bora-heads! They expect breaking news on days like this – not about some chump passing out in the head.”
“Kimble, put Mr. Crocker here in holding for the night. We can’t ignore the public intoxication, so let him sleep it off for the night.” George’s mouth drops, “But, wait, what?” A grin growing on Kimble’s face, “My pleasure. Let’s go hoss.” Kimble blurts out a nicker at George in between laughs while picking him up with one hand from his chair, which startles the man as he struggles to find his footing on his way out the door.
Ortega is quick to call the desk, “Put an APB out on one Steve Hott. Let me know as soon as we know his whereabouts. We need to have ourselves a little chat…” Grabbing his coat, Ortega follows shortly after Kimble. Next stop, Borealis country and the Blue Orchid.
