Fade Away (1996) (15 page)

Dimonte looked at Myron as if he were something left unflushed in a toilet. I'm sorry,' he said feigning politeness. 'You must be mistaking me for someone who gives a rat's ass what you think.'

'You're suggesting putting out an APB on a major, beloved sports hero.'

'And you're suggesting I play favorites because he's a major, beloved sports hero.'

'Not at all,' Myron said, his mind racing. 'But imagine what happens when you call out this APB. The press gets it. You start getting that O. J. coverage. But there's a difference here. You got squat on Downing. No motive. No physical evidence. Nothing.'

'Not yet I don't,' Dimonte said. 'But it's early--

'Exactly, it's early. Wait a little while, that's all I'm saying. And handle this one right because the whole world is going to look at everything you do.

Tell those bozos upstairs to videotape every step. Leave nothing to chance.

Don't let anyone come back later and say you tampered or contaminated something. Get a warrant before you go to Downing's house. Do everything by the book.'

'I can do all that and still put out an APB.'

'Rolly, suppose Greg Downing did kill her. You put out an APB, you know what happens? One, you look single-minded. You look like you got it in your head that Downing was the killer and that was it. Two, you got the press in your face - watching your every move, trying to beat you to the evidence, compromising and commenting on everything you do. Three, you drag Greg in here now and you know what bottom-feeders are stuck to him?'

Dimonte nodded and made a lemon-sucking face. 'Fucking lawyers.'

'A dream team's worth. Before you have anything, they're filing motions and suppressing whatever and, well, you know the routine.'

'Shit,' Dimonte said.

Myron nodded. 'You see what I mean?'

Yeah, I do,' Dimonte said. 'But there's some stuff you forgot, Bolitar.' He gave Myron big-time toothpick gnawing. 'For example, if I issue an APB your little team investigation goes down the toilet. You lose out.'

'Could be,' Myron said.

Dimonte studied him with a small, uneven smile. 'That doesn't mean what you're saying is wrong. I just don't want you to think I don't see what you're up to.'

You read me,' Myron said, 'like Vasco da Gama reads a map.'

Dimonte gave him hard eyes for a moment; Myron fought off the desire to roll his in return. 'So here's how we're going to play it. You're going to stay on the team and you're going to continue your little investigation. I'm going to try to keep what you told me to myself as long' - he held up a finger for emphasis -- 'as long as it benefits my case. If I find enough to haul Downing's ass in here, I put out the APB. And you are going to report everything to me. You are not going to hold back. Any questions?'

'Just one,' Myron said. 'Where do you buy your boots?'

On the ride to practice, Myron placed a call from the car phone.

'Higgins,' a voice answered.

'Fred? It's Myron Bolitar.'

'Hey, long time, no speak. How you doing, Myron?'

'Can't complain. You?'

'A thrill a minute here at the Treasury Department.'

'Yeah, I bet.'

'How's Win?' Higgins asked.

'The same,' Myron said.

'The guy scares the piss out of me, you know what I mean?'

'Yes,' Myron said, 'I do.'

'You two miss working for the feds?'

I don't,' Myron said. 'I don't think Win does either. It got too restrictive for him.'

'I hear you. Hey, I read in the papers you're playing ball again.'

'Yep.'

'At your age and with that knee? How come?'

'Long story, Fred.'

'Say no more. Hey, you guys are coming down to play the Bullets next week. Can you get me tickets?'

'I'll do my best.'

'Great, thanks. So what do you need, Myron?'

'The wheres and why of about ten grand in hundred dollar bills.

Sequentially wrapped. Serial number B028856011A.'

'How fast you need it?'

'Soon as you can get it.'

'I'll do my best. You take care, Myron.'

'You too, Fred.'

Myron held nothing back at practice. He let it all hang out. The feeling was awesome and overpowering. He entered his own zone. When he shot, it was like an invisible hand carried the ball to the cylinder. When he dribbled, the ball became part of his hand. His senses were heightened like a wolfs in the wilderness. He felt like he'd fallen into some black hole and emerged ten years earlier at the NCAA finals. Even his knee felt great.

Most of practice consisted of a scrimmage between the starting five players and the five who saw the most bench time. Myron played his best ball. His jumper was popping. He came off screens strong and ready to shoot. He even drove straight down the lane twice - into the teeth of the big men's domain - and came away the victor both times.

There were moments he completely forgot about Greg Downing and Carla/Sally/Roberta's mangled corpse and the blood in the basement and the goons who jumped him and yes, even Jessica. An exhilarating rush like no other flooded his veins - the rush of an athlete at his peak. People talked about a runner's high, a euphoria from a gland secretion when your body was pressed to its limit. Myron couldn't relate to that, but he understood the incredible highs and plunging depths of being an athlete. If you played well, your whole body tingled and tears of pure joy came to your eyes. The tingles lasted well into the night when you lay in bed with no chance of sleep and replayed your finest moments, often in slow motion, like an overzealous sportscaster with his finger on the replay button. When you played poorly, you were surly and depressed and stayed that way for hours and even days. Both extremes were way out of proportion with the relevant importance of jamming a ball through a metallic circle or swatting a ball with a stick or throwing a sphere with great velocity. When you played poorly, you tried to remind yourself how stupid it was to get so caught up in something so meaningless. When you hit that rare high, you kept your internal big mouth shut.

As Myron dashed back and forth in the wave of basketball action, a thought sneaked in through the back door of his brain. The thought stayed on the fringes, hiding behind a couch, popping into view every once in a while before ducking back down again. You can do this, the thought taunted. You can play with them.

Myron's lucky streak continued when it came to his defensive assignment:

Leon White, Greg's roomie-on-the-road and best friend. Myron and Leon bonded a bit while playing, the way teammates and even opponents often do. Whispering quick jokes in one another's ear while lined up chest to-chest for an inbounds pass. Patting the other guy on the back when he made a nice play. Leon was a classy guy on the floor. No trash talk. Even when Myron burned his butt on a fade-away eighteen-footer, Leon offered only words of encouragement.

Coach Donny Walsh blew the whistle. 'That's it, fellas. Take twenty foul shots and go home.'

Leon and Myron exchanged a half-handshake, half-high-five the way only children and professional athletes can. Myron had always loved this part of the game, the almost soldierlike camaraderie; he hadn't had that in years. It felt good. The players partnered themselves up in groups of two - one guy to shoot, one to rebound - and went off to different baskets. Myron lucked out again and hooked up with Leon White. They each snatched a towel and a water bottle and strolled past the bleachers. Several reporters were perched up there for the practice. Audrey was there, of course. She looked at him with an amused smile. He resisted the temptation to stick his tongue out at her. Or his ass. Calvin Johnson had been watching practice too. He wore a suit and leaned against the wall like he was posing for a candid picture. Myron tried to gauge his reaction during the scrimmage, but of course Calvin's expression remained unreadable.

Myron shot first. He stood at the foul line, feet spread shoulder length, his eyes on the front rim. The ball backspun through the hoop.

'I guess we're going to be roommates,' Myron said.

'That's what I heard,' Leon said.

'Probably won't be for very long.' Myron took another shot. Swish.

'When do you think Greg will be back?'

In one motion Leon grabbed the bouncing ball and swooped it back to Myron. I don't know.'

'How's Greg feeling? The ankle doing okay?'

I don't know,' he said again.

Myron took another foul shot. Another swish. His shirt, heavy with sweat, felt right. He grabbed the towel and wiped his face again. 'Have you talked to him at all?'

'No.'

'That's funny.'

Leon passed the ball to Myron. 'What's funny?'

Myron shrugged, took four dribbles. I heard you two were tight,' he said.

Leon gave a half-smile. 'Where did you hear that?'

Myron released the ball. Another swish. 'Around, I guess. In the newspapers and stuff.'

'Don't believe everything you read,' Leon said.

'Why's that?'

He bounce-passed the ball to Myron. 'The press loves to build up a friendship between a white player and a black player. They're always looking for that Gale Sayers-Brian Piccolo slant.'

'You two aren't close?'

'Well, we've known each other a long time. I'll say that.'

'But you're not tight?'

Leon looked at him funny. 'Why you so interested?'

I'm just making conversation. Greg is my only real connection to this team.'

'Connection?'

Myron started dribbling again. 'He and I used to be rivals.'

'Yeah, so?'

So now we're going to be teammates. It'll be weird.'

Leon looked at Myron. Myron stopped dribbling. 'You think Greg still cares about some old college rivalry?' There was disbelief in his voice.

Myron realized how lame he was sounding. 'It was a pretty intense thing,' he said. 'At the time, I mean.' Extra lame. Myron didn't look at Leon. He just lined up the shot.

'I hope this don't hurt your feelings or nothing,' Leon said, 'but I've been rooming with Greg for eight years now. I've never heard him mention your name. Even when we talk about college and stuff.'

Myron stopped right before releasing the ball. He looked over at Leon, fighting to keep his face neutral. Funny thing was - much as Myron didn't want to admit it -- that did hurt his feelings.

'Shoot already,' Leon said. 'I want to get out of here.'

TC lumbered toward them. He palmed a basketball in each hand with the ease most adults palm grapefruits. He dropped one of the balls and did a handshaking/slapping ritual with Leon. Then he looked over at Myron. His face broke into a big smile.

'I know, I know,' Myron said. 'Thumped, right?'

TC nodded.

'What exactly is thumped?'

'Tonight,' TC said. 'Party at my house. All will be revealed then.'

Dimonte was waiting for him in the Meadowlands parking lot. He leaned out of his red Corvette. 'Get in.'

'A red Corvette,' Myron said. 'Why aren't I surprised?'

'Just get in.'

Myron opened the door and slid into the black leather seat. Though they were parked with the engine off, Dimonte gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared in front of him. His face was sheet-white. The toothpick hung low. He kept shaking his head over and over. Yet again, the subtlety. 'Something wrong, Rolly?'

'What's Greg Downing like?'

'What?'

'You fucking deaf?' Dimonte snapped. 'What's he like?'

I don't know. I haven't spoken to him in years.'

'But you knew him, right? In school. What was he like back then? Did he hang out with perversive types?'

Myron looked at him. 'Perversive types?'

'Just answer the question.'

'What the hell is this? Perversive types?'

Dimonte turned the ignition key. The sound was loud. He hit the gas a bit, let the engine do the rev thing for a while. The car had been jacked up like a race car. The sound was, like, totally rad, man. No women were in the nearby vicinity to hear this human mating call or they would surely be disrobing by how. Dimonte finally shifted into gear.

'Where we going?' Myron asked.

Dimonte didn't answer. He followed the ramp that leads from the arena to Giants Stadium and the horse track.

Is this one of those mystery dates?' Myron asked. 'I love those.'

Stop fucking around and answer my question.'

'What question?'

'What's Downing like? I need to know everything about him.'

'You're asking the wrong guy, Rolly. I don't know him that well.'

'Tell me what you do know.' Dimonte's voice left little room for disagreement. His tone was less fake-macho than usual, and there was a funny quake in it. Myron didn't like it.

'Greg grew up in New Jersey,' Myron began. 'He's a great basketball player. He's divorced with two kids.'

'You dated his wife, right?'

'A long time ago.'

'Would you say she was left-wing?'