Payback Time (16 page)

The last thing I did was to come up with a phony name for myself. What I did was to take the names of the two Watergate reporters, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, and mix and match. Should I be Carl Woodward or Bob Bernstein? I settled on Bob Bernstein because I figured that under pressure I could remember the double
Bs.

I was just about to call it a night when there was a tap on my door. I went over and opened it up. I expected to see my mom, but my dad was standing there. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his gray hair was uncombed. "Something wrong?" I said.

He shrugged. "That's what I was wondering."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't seem yourself lately, Dan. You seem ... I don't know ... tense. It's been a long time since you've come in and watched a game with me, and at dinner you're awfully quiet. No jokes, no funny stories about school." He paused. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"Everything's fine, Dad. I've just been really busy."

He nodded. "Okay, but if you ever need to talk, I'm here. Remember that."

I watched him head downstairs, and it struck me that just as I'd been getting older, he'd been getting older too, and so had my mom.

I
FIGURED SCHOOL STARTED
around eight in Philadelphia, which would be five a.m. in Seattle. The first hour or so the office at every high school is swamped, so I decided not to call Aramingo High until nine thirty their time.

I watched the minutes tick off, one by one. Finally I keyed in the number. A guy answered on the first ring, but not an adult. "Aramingo High School," he muttered, the words slurring together.

I put on my most adult voice. "This is Bob Bernstein. I work on the sports desk of the
Seattle Times
in Seattle, Washington. We've got a football player out here who transferred from Aramingo to one of our schools. He's having a good year, and we're considering doing a feature story about him. Could you put me in touch with your football coach or assistant coach? I'd like to get some background information."

"The football coaches don't work here," he said. "They just coach."

"How about a phone number?"

"You kidding? We don't give out phone numbers. What's the guy's name? If he played on the football team, I can tell you about him."

"I'd prefer to talk to the coach," I said.

His voice grew sharp. "You want help or not?"

"Okay," I said, my mouth dry. "He would have played for Aramingo last year or maybe even a few years ago."

"What's the guy's name?"

I swallowed. "Angel Marichal."

"No Angel Marichal ever played here."

My heart sank. "You sure? How about just Angel? Maybe his parents divorced and he changed his name."

For a long time there was nothing but silence. I could feel the guy thinking. "What's he look like?"

His voice had changed from hostile to interested. It was as if we'd switched roles, and now he was pumping me for information.

"Mexican guy. Dark hair, dark eyes. Six three, over two hundred pounds. Strong and fast. Great arm. Quick feet. Hard tackler. "

"Position?"

"He's playing middle linebacker," I said, choosing my words carefully, "but that's because his team's got a helluva quarterback. My guess is he might have played quarterback at Aramingo."

"You sure he's not Puerto Rican? We had a Puerto Rican guy play quarterback a few years ago."

"I don't know. I guess he could be Puerto Rican."

"What's your number? I know somebody who's going to want to talk to you."

"Is this a coach who's going to call me?"

"Just give me your number."

"It's 206-879-3078. It's a cell phone."

"And your name again?"

I flushed. "Bob Bernstein," I said, thankful I'd settled on the double
Bs.
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the phone went dead.

T
HE GUY AT THE OTHER END
wasn't interested in Angel's football career at Aramingo, and he didn't care about Angel's football career in Seattle. Something else was going on. But what?

The best thing was to take my time. I'd been on Angel's trail since August; I could give myself a few hours more. I turned my cell off. When the guy from Philly called—and I knew he'd call—his number would show up on my cell. I'd call him back when I was ready to talk to him, and not before.

I saw Kimi at lunch.

"So?" she said, her voice an excited whisper. "Tell me."

I described the phone conversation with the person at Aramingo.

"What do you mean it wasn't about football?" she asked.

"You can tell when someone is talking sports. This guy wasn't."

She looked at me, skeptical.

"You can," I insisted.

"Okay, then what was he talking?" she asked.

I didn't have an answer.

 

All day I fought the temptation to turn on my cell. When school ended, I did my normal run through a light rain. I now weighed 170 for the first time since I'd been a sophomore. I returned home, took a shower, and only then turned on the cell.

Two New Voice Messages,
the screen read. I scrolled to the call log. Two messages, but there'd been four calls—every two hours, like clockwork, and all from the same number. This guy really wanted to talk.

I sat for a moment, preparing myself. The person at the other end didn't have to know what I suspected. I'd ask him about guys on the team two or three years ago. I'd pretend to be only mildly interested. Later, if I had to, I'd tell him more.

I took a deep breath and hit the call button.

One ring. Two rings. A third. Then a voice: "Yeah."

"This is Bob Bernstein in Seattle. I called Aramingo High—"

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted. "I know. I know." He paused. "This guy. This Angel guy. You fax me his photo and I'll tell you if he's from here. You got a fax machine, right?"

This wasn't what I'd planned on, but it made sense. What was the point of talking if it was the wrong guy? "Yeah, I've got a fax machine."

"All right. Here's the number." He rattled off ten digits, and I had him repeat them.

"And what's your name?" I asked.

"You don't care what my name is. This is about Angel."

"I do care what your name is."

He snorted. "Okay. My name is Juan Doe." A second later the phone went dead. Everything about the guy felt wrong, but he was my only contact.

My parents were still at work, but I knew they wouldn't mind if I used the fax. I went down to the little study off the TV room, laid Kimi's photo of Angel on the tray, and punched in the numbers the guy had given me. The machine sucked in Angel's face, whirred awhile, went silent, then spit him back out.

I'd barely made it back to my bedroom when my cell rang. "Where's he live?" the voice demanded.

"What?"

"Angel. Where's he live?"

"Hold on," I said, trying to put some steel into my own voice. "I'm the one asking the questions."

Silence.

"All right. How about we trade information? You tell me something I want to know; I tell you something you want to know. Fair?"

I didn't like it, but I didn't have a choice. "Okay."

"So," the voice said, "where's he live?"

"Seattle."

"Don't play with me. That's no good. I want a street and a number. We've got some homeboys out there who are going to pay him a visit, once you give me the address."

I thought of Angel's little house at 2120 Elmore, but I didn't say the address out loud—not to this guy. "There are probably a thousand kids playing football in Seattle," I said. "I don't know the home address of a single one. I'm a reporter, not the mailman. Now, how about you tell me about his time at Aramingo?"

"Hey, Mr. Reporter. You give me an address and I'll give you some information, including his real name."

"I told you: I don't know his address."

"Call me back when you've got it, and we'll do business."

I
CLOSED UP THE CELL
and tried to picture the guy at the other end. I didn't like the image that came up. There was something wrong about his voice. One thing was for sure—I didn't want to talk to him again. And maybe I wouldn't have to.

I had the name of Angel's school. I had a good idea of the years he played and his position, and I knew he had changed his name. Aramingo High had a terrible website, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be a record of his games on other websites. The place to look was the archives of the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
which meant I'd need a credit card.

I could call my mom at work, get the number, and start, but it didn't seem right to do it alone. Kimi had started us down this path; she should be with me as we neared the end.

I called her cell, but after one ring was transferred to voice mail. She'd mentioned her battery wasn't holding its charge, so I tried her home phone. Her father picked up. "You a boyfriend?"

"No. I'm Mitch. I work with her on the newspaper. You've met me. Can I talk to her?"

"You the fat boy?"

I winced. "Yeah."

"She not home. I tell her you call, Mitch."

"Do you know when she'll get home?"

"Goodbye, Mitch." The phone clicked.

I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes, and started to think about just how big a bombshell I was about to explode. If everything broke right, Lincoln would win the semifinal game, and during that time, Kimi and I would nail down the story, making everything airtight. And then, right before the title game, we'd publish.

If all those pieces fell into place, Angel Marichal—or whatever his name was—would be declared ineligible. Lincoln High would forfeit all its victories. Coach McNulty would be fired. For the first time in the history of Washington, the state championship game would be canceled. A story like that would make ESPN's
Sportscenter.
I was imagining myself being interviewed when my cell rang.

"What is it, Mitch?"

I explained.

"I can't go out tonight. My aunt's here. You go ahead and print whatever you find on the
Inquirer's
website. You can tell me what you find."

I felt my body sag. The aunt again. I wanted us to make the discovery together. "How about tomorrow night? Could you come then?"

T
HE NEXT NIGHT AT DINNER
I told my parents that Kimi was coming over to work on a newspaper article. As soon as I finished my explanation, my mom gave me a
you've-finally-got-a-girlfriend
smile.

"It's an article for the newspaper," I repeated. "That's all. I'm going to need to use your credit card to access some archives."

"How much?" my father muttered.

"Around twenty dollars. I'll pay you back."

"If it has to do with school, we pay," my father said.

 

Kimi was waiting on her porch at seven. When we pulled up in my driveway, Mrs. Marilley our next-door neighbor, was getting into her car. Mrs. Marilley isn't exactly my father's favorite neighbor. She works the night shift at Safeway, and when she gets home, she lets her hound out. "Big Red loves to run in the moonlight" is what she says. "Big Red loves to poop on our lawn" is what my dad says. Normally Mrs. Marilley pays no attention to me, but now she was waving, the whole time sneaking peeks at Kimi. I could see her mind working: "
I wonder what that pretty Asian girl sees in him.
"

When I opened the door to my house, I expected to see my mom sitting on the sofa, eager to meet Kimi, but the living room was empty. Instantly I knew that had been my dad's doing. I was going to have to find time to watch a game with him again, soon.

I had cleaned my room and pushed two chairs up to the desk. We sat side by side as I logged onto the
Philadelphia Inquirer's
archive page. The fee was $21.95 for the right to print twenty articles. I entered the credit card information and looked at her. This was it.

We tried different search combinations.
Angel + high school football + quarterback.
The results were weird on that one—2,754 articles, the fourth of which was about some Penn State quarterback who met Hillary Clinton in Indiana, and the sixth one about the Los Angeles Angels.

"Add the years you think he played and put in the word
Philadelphia,
" Kimi suggested.

I did it—1012 articles, but at least most of the hits concerned sports.

"Leave out
Angel,
" Kimi suggested next, "and put
Aramingo High School
in its place."

I typed, hovered my finger over the
Return
button, and then tapped.

Eighty-four hits, and the entire first screen was about Aramingo High football. "If there's anything, it's here," I said.

"Can you search inside these articles?" Kimi asked.

I opened a drop-down menu. "Yeah."

"Okay, now add
Angel.
"

I did it, then hit
Return.

Sixteen hits over four years.

"Click on the oldest one," Kimi said.

A picture came up first. The name below it was Angel Delarosa, but it was Angel Marichal. A younger Angel Marichal, an Angel Marichal with brighter eyes, but Angel Marichal. The headline read A
RAMINGO
H
IGH
R
ESTS
H
OPES ON
T
ALENTED
F
RESHMAN
QB.

Kimi looked at me, and then wrapped her hands around the back of my head, pulled me forward, and kissed me on the forehead. "We did it, Mitch. We did it."

 

I printed all sixteen articles, and for the next ninety minutes we flipped through them, helter-skelter, taking turns reading aloud every paragraph that mentioned Angel, both of us too excited to do anything systematically. Then, suddenly, Kimi stopped. "Oh my God," she said, looking at her watch. "I have to go home. I haven't done my calculus homework."

In the car, neither of us spoke. As we drove along, the strange phone call I'd gotten after the volleyball game came back to me.
Angel is one of the good guys.
Why would the guy say that? What could he have meant? I wanted to tell Kimi about the phone call and ask her what she thought, but she'd ask why I'd kept the call secret, and how would I answer her?