Last Shot (18 page)

“Isn’t Brickley the company that had that big scandal a few years ago?” Stevie asked.

“Yeah, exactly. The guy who had Bobby Mo’s job back then, Miles Akley, got caught trying to buy a player for Louisiana. He got fired, and they hired Bobby Mo. He’s a sleazebag, too, but not like Akley was. And he’s actually not as bad as some of the other guys.”

They walked past a row of open-air portrait painters, fortune-tellers, and NCAA-official-merchandise vendors all setting up for the day. They got a table at the café, and after they’d ordered café au lait and beignets, Chip said, “Okay, Susan Carol. You have Wojenski’s number there?”

She gave it to him and he dialed it on the cell. “Dean Wojenski?” he said. “Chip Graber. I hope you’re up.”

He listened for a moment. “No, it’s really me. Thanks. I was lucky. But I’m kind of in a jam now, like my sister told you yesterday. She said you thought you could help?” He listened for a while, then nodded and looked at Susan Carol. “Yes, she got the directions.” Susan Carol nodded in confirmation. “We have to pick up a car. I think we can be there between nine-thirty and ten, if that’s okay for you.”
He nodded again. “Great. We’ll see you in a little while.”

He snapped the phone closed. “He’ll be waiting for us,” he said.

“Did he find a copy of your transcript?” Stevie asked.

“No, not yet. He said he’d keep looking—that it might be buried in his computer somewhere. God, wouldn’t it be amazing if he had it?”

They were all quiet, thinking how much was riding on one year-old computer file.

“Won’t anyone miss you, Chip?” Susan Carol said as they ate. “Where do you have to be today?”

“Press conference is at one,” Graber said. “We practice at four. I’ve got some time.”

About twenty minutes later, a green Jeep SUV pulled up in front of the café, and a tall, middle-aged man with short black hair and an equally black goatee jumped out. He was dressed in a lime green sweat suit that said
BRICKLEY
on it. He walked over to Graber without so much as a glance at Stevie and Susan Carol.

“Grabes!” he said, hugging Chip like a long-lost brother. “What a performance last night! You made yourself some serious bucks, kid.”

It had never occurred to Stevie to think of Graber’s 38 points and last-second heroics in terms of money. Which, he quickly decided, was naive.

“Thanks, man,” Graber said, untangling himself from Bobby Mo. “I want you to meet my cousins—Stevie and Susan Carol.”

“Nice to meet you, kids,” Bobby Mo said, offering Stevie
one of those silly soul handshakes that had gone out about twenty years ago. He took Susan Carol’s hand in both of his, smiled at her, and said, “Aren’t you pretty?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Susan Carol said, clearly wanting to get as far away from him as possible.

Bobby Mo turned to Graber. “Brought your wheels, man. Can you drop me off back downtown?”

“No can do, pal,” Graber said. “We aren’t going back that way. I’m really sorry.”

“No problem at all!” Bobby Mo enthused. “I’ll just catch a cab. You go have a good time.”

He and Graber exchanged a soul shake and another hug. “Thanks, man,” Chip said. “I really appreciate you doing this.”

“Just remember who has your back, okay?” Bobby Mo said.

“Always,” Chip said.

He walked around to the driver’s side.

“Front or back?” Stevie said to Susan Carol.

“Your call,” she said.

“I’ll take the back,” he said. “You have the directions.”

They all climbed in, waved to Bobby Mo, and Graber pulled out. “Chip, you know we have to go back through downtown to follow these directions, don’t you?” Susan Carol said.

“Yeah, I know,” Graber said. “But I didn’t want to have to make conversation with him. You spend too much time around those guys, you start to feel the slime washing all over you.”

“Will you sign with them?” Susan Carol asked.

“I have no idea. I’m going to wait until the draft. If I go as high as these agents say I’m going to go, I’ll be in a position to get a lot of money.”

“Do you think you’ll go number one?” Stevie asked.

“No. No one is going to draft a five-foot-eleven guard with the number one pick. Too risky. They’ll go for a six-eleven high school kid first. But I’m told I’ll go in the top five. The Celtics look like they’re going to be drafting high, and I read a quote someplace where Red Auerbach said I was the next Tiny Archibald.”

Stevie had no idea who Tiny Archibald was. He assumed by the name that he was a little guard. He
did
know who Red Auerbach was, because his dad ranted constantly about all the championships Auerbach and the Celtics had stolen from the 76ers.

Chip sighed. “It’s all such a crapshoot. Sometimes I think I should just sign my contract when the time comes and not bother with all this other stuff. But there’s
so
much money on the table potentially.”

“All of which would go down the drain if you don’t throw the national championship game,” Stevie said, then was sorry he had.

“Or if I get caught throwing it,” Graber said darkly.

“Which is why we have to stop these guys from blackmailing you,” Susan Carol said.

A road sign loomed on the right, directing them to I-10 East. “This is it,” Chip said, pulling into the exit lane. “Next stop, Bay St. Louis.”

THE TRIP TOOK JUST UNDER AN HOUR
. Because the MapQuest directions were so precise, they had no trouble winding their way to the little road where Dean Wojenski lived. The house was directly across the street from the beach, and even at nine-thirty in the morning, a pretty stiff breeze was coming in off the water.

“What body of water is that?” Susan Carol said as they got out of the car.

“The Gulf of Mexico?” Chip guessed.

If he was wrong, Stevie certainly wasn’t in a position to argue. Benjamin Wojenski was standing on his front porch to greet them. He looked exactly the way Stevie would expect a retired college professor and dean to look: distinguished, white hair, medium height and build.
Stevie guessed he was in his seventies, although he was clearly in good shape. Even on a cool, windy morning he was wearing shorts, moccasin shoes with no socks, and a golf shirt.

“Not often we get a true celebrity visiting here in Bay St. Louis,” the old dean said, smiling broadly.

“Being a celebrity is overrated,” Chip said, shaking his extended hand. “I’ve found that out in a hurry.”

The dean laughed. “And who have we here?” he said.

They had talked about this in the car to get their stories straight.

“Well, you’ve talked to my sister,” Chip said, pointing at Susan Carol. “This is my cousin, Stevie Thomas.”

The dean shook both their hands. Then he looked at Chip. “You say you’re in trouble, Chip, and I’m happy to help. But let’s drop the charade. You don’t have a sister and I’m guessing this isn’t your cousin.”

Stevie glanced at Chip to see his reaction to being caught in a solid lie. The dean had folded his arms, waiting for an answer. Stevie wondered if Susan Carol might jump in with one of her quick-thinking explanations, but she was also looking at Chip. This one was up to him.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

The dean laughed. “What do you think, Chip, that everyone in academics spends his life living under a rock? I’ve been following your career for years. Plus, your dad and I know each other from way back. So let’s start over. Why don’t you introduce me to your friends.”

Chip didn’t argue. He reintroduced Stevie and Susan
Carol and told the dean who they were and then added, “They’re trying to help me.”

“Come sit down,” the dean said. “And tell me what’s going on.”

He led them to a screened porch that faced the water. “Great view,” Chip said.

“Yes. My wife and I thought about retiring in Rhode Island, where we’re both from, but after all those Minnesota winters we thought we deserved a little time in the sun.”

Once they were all seated on the porch, they got down to business. Chip began with his story about Professor Whiting, and Susan Carol took over to explain how they had accidentally gotten involved. When they were finished, the dean was gaping at them.

“You said there was a problem, but this is much worse than I imagined. This is really serious. What are you going to do?” he asked. “Are you prepared to have Whiting and whoever else is involved release those transcripts if you don’t throw the game tomorrow night?”

“Well, that’s where you come in. Did you find my transcript on your computer? That would prove they changed the grade.”

“No, I’m so sorry. I don’t have it here. I thought I might, but it’s gone.”

“But do you remember? If you back me on the fact that I only failed the one class last spring, their whole scheme comes tumbling down.”

The dean sat back on the couch. “Maybe,” he said. “I mean, yes, of course I remember. I checked all athletes’
transcripts carefully to be sure they were eligible. If you weren’t, I would have known. But there’s still the F that Whiting gave you in the fall. Even without two F’s in the spring, that one would make you ineligible right now.”

“But if we can prove they’re lying about one transcript, people would have to think they’re lying about the other one,” Stevie said.

“Good point, Steve,” the dean said. “But you haven’t
got
proof. You’ve got the word of the player in question and the memory of a retired old man. And they have a physical transcript. Whom would you believe?”

Chip buried his head in his hands and groaned.

Susan Carol jumped in. “How do they
have
this transcript? Who could have changed the grade?”

“Well, Whiting could change the one from last semester easily. Professors change grades all the time—usually from an Incomplete to a letter grade, or they grade someone up because they complete a paper or retake a test for some reason. But still, a professor changing a B to an F should have raised a red flag.”

“Like with Dean Mattie?” Chip asked.

“Who’s he?” Stevie said.

“My replacement,” Dean Wojenski said. “Theoretically, yes. Although I have to admit I might have missed a mid-semester change. And there’s no reason to be looking for a grade change in March that
hurts
a student.
That
just doesn’t happen.”

“But what about my Econ grade?” Chip said. “We
know
Professor Scott didn’t change my grade.”

Dean Wojenski shook his head. “No, he didn’t, poor fellow,” he said. “And, unless he’s some kind of computer genius, Tom Whiting didn’t either. He must have had help.”

“But from who?” Stevie asked.

“Whom,”
the old professor corrected. “That’s the question. Department heads can change grades. That’d be Ron Ratto in Econ. Or someone higher up in the school hierarchy. Deans, the provost, the president …”

“That leaves a lot of candidates, doesn’t it?” Chip said.

“I’m afraid it does, Chip,” Dean Wojenski said. “And some formidable ones. I’m starting to really worry for you here, Chip. There must be a lot at stake for these people. Trying to fix a game is a federal crime.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Legal betting takes place across state lines, so gaming and gambling are policed by the FBI. Chip, I’m worried you might be in serious danger. And maybe your friends here, too. You don’t want to mess with these people.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Chip. “I’m so confused.”

“I’m sorry—you came to me for help and I’ve been anything but helpful.”

They all sat back in silence, feeling defeated.

“I’ve been wondering,” Wojenski said, “how did you track me down? I got a message from someone at Davidson that you were looking for me, but before I could call back, I heard from you, Susan Carol.”

“It wasn’t easy. No one at MSU would help me,” Chip said. “Everyone claimed to not know where you were or that
they couldn’t help me find you because you were entitled to your privacy in retirement. It was really weird because, to be honest, most of the time I get whatever I want around that place.”

“That
is
strange. But if there are higher-ups at MSU involved, I guess it makes sense.”

“Yeah, but luckily I remembered you used to be at Davidson, so I tried the alumni office.”

“Well, aren’t you resourceful. And someone there helped you out?”

“Yes, Christine Braman,” Susan Carol said. “I thought you had talked to her. Didn’t you give her the okay for us to call you?”

“No,” the dean said. “I mean, I was about to, but then I heard from you directly. What was her name again?”

“Christine Braman,” Susan Carol said.

The old dean sat back in his chair, clearly puzzled and disturbed. “I think we may have just found a key clue,” he said. “But it would make the story even murkier. Let me get some coffee and think for a minute—can I get you some?”

They all said no, and he probably wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes, but Stevie was squirming with anticipation by the time he returned. So were Chip and Susan Carol.

“Well, I’m not sure what to make of it, but that name does have something to do with you, so maybe there’s a connection,” Dean Wojenski said as he sat back down. “Chip, you’re too young to remember this, but when Coach Pritchett left Davidson to take the job at Northern
Wisconsin, your dad was the number two assistant.”

“Number two?” Chip said. “I didn’t know that. I always thought he was number one.…”

“Because he was made the head coach, right? What happened was that Terry Hanson, who was the athletic director back then, leapfrogged your dad to make him the head coach because he thought your dad was, well, a better person than the number one guy. There were some questions about the number one guy, and a school like Davidson probably didn’t want to take a chance on him getting into trouble. Squeaky-clean image and all that.”

“So who was the number one guy?” Chip asked.

“Steve Jurgensen.”

“I’ve heard that name,” Chip said. “From my dad, I guess.”

“Really? Do you know anything about him?”

Chip shook his head. “No.”

“Well, his wife’s name is Christine. She works in the alumni office at Davidson, and her maiden name was—”