Murder at the Foul Line Page 5

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Leave me out of it. I hate basketball.”

  NOTHING BUT NET

  Jeffery Deaver

  He’s stupid. And he makes three million a year.”

  “And you won’t feel guilty getting a stupid man mixed up in a deal like this?” T. D. Randall asked.

  Andy Cabot shook his head, sipped more beer and glanced out the greasy window as an ambulance eased through Mid-town traffic. “I don’t feel guilt. Never have. It’s inefficient.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The point I was making is, since he’s stupid he’s going to be more likely to go for it.”

  Cabot and Randall were in Ernie’s, a small bar near Madison Square Garden. The place, a total dive, was a relic; there used to be dozens of these old sports bars in the neighborhood but they’d been squeezed out by the same fast-food franchises populating strip malls all over the country. Andy Cabot didn’t really like it here but he couldn’t see planning a deal like they were working on now while sitting next to the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday.

  Randall called for another Stroh’s. “I hear you talking, Andy. But the thing is, I don’t know sports that good. Is this guy really the one we want? Danny Wa—”

  “Shhh.” Cabot waved his hand to shut the man up. Ernie’s was a bastion for serious sports people and the name Danny Washington would turn a few heads, the sober ones at least. If the deal went south and people heard that Washington had been caught up in a scandal, someone might just remember that these two skinny white guys, unshaven, dressed in scuzzy jeans and T-shirts, had been whispering about the player.

  “I mean, how good is he?” Randall asked.

  “Don’t get any better than him when it comes to free throws and treys.”

  “What’s a trey?”

  “Three-point shot. You know, from outside the arc.”

  “Whatever.”

  Cabot was amazed that Randall didn’t know about Washington or about treys. He probably didn’t know what the arc line was either.

  “But how do you know he’s stupid enough to go for it?”

  “I joined the gym where he works out. And I got—”

  “You’re in a gym?” Randall laughed, glancing at the man’s scrawny frame.

  Cabot ignored the put-down. “I got to talking with him. Washington can hardly hang a sentence together. He lifts iron, he jumps rope. He stands on the free-throw line on the half-court and lobs basketballs for, like, two hours straight. Never gets bored. You ask him a question and he looks at you for a minute like you’re from Neptune or something. And it takes him another minute to figure out an answer.”

  “But didn’t he go to college?”

  “Nope. He got drafted right out of high school. And he’s a free agent. There’s nobody looking over his shoulder.”

  “You think this deal’ll work?” Randall asked.

  “I know it will.”

  Andy Cabot, lifelong resident of Hell’s Kitchen, on the west side of New York, had had three or four dozen jobs in his life. He’d tried his hand at a hundred different hustles. Some worked out, some didn’t. He’d made some good money, lost more. He’d owned two houses, lost one to an ex and one to the bank. And, having just stepped blindly into middle age, he’d recently spent copious time reassessing his life situation and had come to the conclusion that he wanted more out of life than a disability payment of two thousand bucks a month for a faked back injury and twelve thousand in the bank. This introspection, goosed by massive quantities of Old Milwaukee one night, led ultimately to his asking the question: How do people make real money?

  And the answer, he realized, was that it didn’t matter exactly what they did as long as it involved something they loved. That was the key to success.

  So Andy Cabot came to a decision. He abandoned the slip-and-falls, the shoplifting, the rigged poker games, the real estate hustles, the knockoff polo shirts… Fom now on, his only “deals”—his word for scams—would be in a subject he loved and knew a lot about: basketball.

  One day when he’d been channel surfing, he’d watched an ESPN interview with Danny Washington, who’d just thrown more than two thousand free throws in a row as part of a benefit for St. Vincent Hospital’s Children’s Unit. When asked why he didn’t try to shoot another four or five hundred and beat the world record, the big man had said, blinking, that he’d thought it’d be more fun to go hang out with the kids.

  Stupid, thought Andy Cabot, irritated that while the man probably had the skill to break the world record he simply didn’t have the brains.

  But then Cabot got to thinking that the fact that this rich basketball player was stupid was a good thing, something he could use. And he’d come up with the plan he was now pitching to T. D. Randall, a wannabe mafioso from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, he’d met last month here at Ernie’s.

  Cabot now ordered another beer and continued. “He doesn’t know squat about anything. All he cares about is his mother, grandmother, brother and sister. They live in Maryland, where he grew up. He doesn’t hang out with the rest of the players, doesn’t have a girlfriend. There’re three things he feels passionate about: his family, playing basketball and…”

  Randall looked at Cabot, who’d let the sentence dangle tantalizingly. “What?” Randall asked with faint exasperation.

  “… and complaining about taxes.”

  “He complains about taxes?”

  “We’re shooting the breeze the other day and the next thing I know he’s going on and on about taxes. Sounds to me like when he started making real money he never knew the government’d take so much. I mean, maybe he never had a job before this and didn’t even know about taxes. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Is that, like, a significant fact? About him and taxes?”

  “Oh,” Andy Cabot said slowly, “it’s very significant.”

  Andy Cabot opened the door of his apartment on West Forty-fourth Street, near the Hudson River. The skinny five-foot-six man looked up into Danny Washington’s eyes, way above his, and said, “Hey, Danny, come on in. You want a beer?”

  “Don’t drink.”

  The player, in workout clothes, followed his host down the corridor of the old, dusty apartment, looking around with cautious eyes as if he were staring at Donald Trump luxury. A ceramic eagle Cabot had bought at a street fair on Columbus Circle and a three-foot-high cigar store Indian—plastic and made in Taiwan—got approving looks. One print, in a Wool-worth’s frame, stopped Washington cold.

  “I like that,” the player said in his infuriatingly slow voice. “The guy who did it, he live ’round here?”

  “Van Gogh? No, he’s dead.”

  Washington leaned forward, studied the stained picture. “Man, too bad. What happened?”

  “He lived a long time ago.”

  “Oh. You know, I don’t like pictures of flowers as a rule. But that one’s okay. You ever wanna sell that, you let me know.”

  “I will, Danny. Come on in the living room. This is my friend Tommy Randall.”

  The big man folded his massive hand around Randall’s.

  “T. D. lives over in Brooklyn.” Cabot said this with special emphasis on the borough. Suggesting that Randall had some connections with one of the crime organizations there—to impress Washington. But the player didn’t get the connection. He said slowly, looking at the floor, “Brooklyn. I been there a few times. To see the Mets.”

  “That’s Queens,” Randall said, glancing uncertainly at Cabot.

  Washington paused a moment. Then he frowned. “I thought Shea Stadium was on Long Island.”

  “It is on Long Island. Queens and Brooklyn’re both on Long Island.”

  “Oh.”

  Another man, older, with thinning curly hair, sat in the corner of the living room. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt and tie. Two briefcases sat in front of him. The man didn’t say anything and Cabot didn’t introduce him.

  Cabot sat and gestured Washington into a chair. It c
reaked under his weight. According to the stats he was six-eight and weighed 245 pounds but in this small apartment he seemed a lot bigger than that.

  “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

  “Nope.”

  Cabot said to Washington, “You know much about me, Danny?”

  “Not too much. I seen you ’round the gym in the last month or so. And I seen you hanging ’round the Garden.”

  “You know what I do?”

  “Most people hang out ’round the Garden, either they’re scalping tickets or taking bets on the games, you know. I’m guessing you do some betting.”

  Cabot said, “That—and a few other things. Mostly I make money for people.”

  Washington’s face broke into a slow smile. “That’s a good job.”

  “You’ve got a good job too. And you’re good at it. I saw you last week. Against the Bulls. Twenty-four points.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is that good?” Randall asked.

  Cabot laughed and rolled his eyes, said to Washington, “My friend from Brooklyn here knows all about lending money and all about getting paid back. But he doesn’t know sports.”

  “I know baseball,” Randall said defensively.

  “The Mets,” Washington said, squinting to see if this was an appropriate comment.

  “That’s my team.” The man from Brooklyn offered a smile to his huge new buddy.

  Cabot nodded toward Washington and said to Randall, “Danny’s a two-guard. Same as Michael Jordan. His speciality’s free throws and treys. He’s one of the best in the NBA.”

  “I’m not too good under the boards,” the player said slowly.

  “Who cares?” Cabot asked. “You can shoot the long ones like nobody’s business.”

  “I guess.” A cautious glance toward the man in the corner, who still said nothing and just stared at the tall man. At every pause in the conversation the rustling sound of traffic racing through Hell’s Kitchen filled the room, punctuated by horns and shouts.

  “How come you’re such a good shooter?” Cabot asked.

  “I dunno. Just got some kind of sense,” the big man said.

  “Like Psychic Friends Hotline?” Randall suggested.

  The big player didn’t get the joke. He said seriously, “Naw, naw, not that stuff my grandma goes for. I can’t explain it good. See, I’m not too smart—I got drafted by the Hawks right outta high school. I was probably gonna flunk out anyway. So I was thinking that maybe when you’re like that you get this sixth sense or something. Somehow I just know things on the court before they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when I throw the ball, whether it’ll be a miss or it’ll be nothing but net.”

  “What’s that mean?” Randall asked. “Nothing but net.”

  Cabot explained, “A perfect swish—the ball doesn’t even hit the rim, just drops right through. All it touches is the net. And that’s what Danny’s treys and free throws do most of the time.”

  Washington shrugged. “It’s not that hard. All’s I’m doing is putting a nine-inch ball through a eighteen-inch hoop.” He frowned in concentration as he thought. Then, after a long pause, he said, “The thing is, it’s not just shooting—it’s seeing.”

  “Seeing?” Randall asked.

  “Yeah. Lotta players got good hands. But they don’t have the eye.” He pointed a huge finger at his right eye. “That’s one thing God gave me. Maybe I didn’t get a lotta brains but He gave me an eye.” He lowered his hand and glanced at Cabot. “So what you ask me up here for?”

  “You and me were talking in the gym the other day, Danny.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “And you were saying you didn’t like it that the government took half your money.”

  “All them taxes… Don’t seem fair.”

  “And you were saying that makes you mad.”

  “Hells yeah, it makes me mad. But not much I can do about it.”

  “Maybe there is one thing you can do about it,” Cabot said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Make more money.”

  Washington nodded. “Might happen. My contract’s up next year. Maybe my agent can get me more.”

  “Well, Danny, since you brought it up, there’s something I have to show you.”

  Cabot took a piece of paper from a stained envelope and handed it to the player. “I’ve got a friend who works in the office of your team. He got his hands on a copy of this.”

  Washington took it uncertainly and Cabot had a moment’s panic thinking that the man might be illiterate. But the player squinted and read over the sheet. As he struggled over the words his face grew troubled.

  From: Head Coach Arnold Hopper

  To: Management

  Re: Daniel Washington

  This confirms our decision not to offer Washington a new contract for next year. He’s shown some promise but his talent at shooting is offset by his lack of skill in making jump shots, not to mention his turnover record inside the wings. I’m also very troubled by his refusal to socialize with his teammates.

  “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie wrote this? This’s bullshit. What’s he mean, socialize?”

  “Get along with the other players.”

  “It’s not that… I like ’em all right. It’s just I like to go home after playing. Watch TV, talk to my brother on the phone. And when I get a couple days off I go visit my mother and grandmother and my sister and her kids.”

  “I’m sorry, Danny. They don’t seem to care.”

  Washington tossed the memo angrily on the floor. “This means I’m getting dropped?”

  “I’m afraid so, Danny.”

  “Hell… what’m I gonna do?”

  Finally the man in the corner spoke up. “Danny, what do you think of the Lakers?”

  “That’s a good team.”

  “How’d you like to play for them?”

  “I always wanted to play for L.A.” A grin broke out on his face. “Weather’s nice out there.”

  “Nicer than here,” the man said.

  “If I played for them I could move my grandmother out there. She’s eighty-two this month. Lives outside Baltimore. She don’t like the cold.” Then he frowned. “But the Lakers got Bob Klinger—that big kid from Carolina. He shoots treys real good. They don’t need me.”

  Cabot glanced at the man in the corner and said, “Danny, this is Mr. Pettiway.”

  “Hello, sir.”

  Pettiway nodded.

  “He’s sort of an agent.”

  “Sort of?”

  Pettiway nodded again. “Danny, the Lakers’re prepared to offer you a three-year contract. They’ll up your salary to four million the first year, five the second, six the third. I think we can even convince them to move your grandmother out there if you want.”

  “They’d do that?”

  “They would, yes. They’d like you on the team real bad.”

  “This’s sounding pretty good,” Washington drawled.

  Pettiway fell silent. Then Cabot nodded at him and the man continued. “Well, Danny, there is a little something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re playing them tonight, right?”

  “The Lakers? Yessir.”

  Pettiway said, “I could arrange for this contract for you—but the Lakers have to win.”

  “Man.” Danny Washington shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s gonna happen. Doug Hamilton, their center, he’s benched—his knee’s out. And Sammy Johnston, he’s back from that wrist surgery—first time he’s played for months. Everybody’s saying we’ll win by twenty…” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait… wait… You’re saying you want me to do something to…”

  The big player couldn’t bring himself to say “throw the game,” but he wasn’t so stupid he didn’t understand Pettiway’s meaning. “The Lakers want me to do that?”

  “No, no,” Cabot said. “The team doesn’t know anything about it. This is somethi
ng Mr. Pettiway and I’ve been working on. I told you my job is making money for people. We’ve got a lot of money tied up in bets on this game tonight. With Hamilton out and this being Johnston’s first game in two months, you’re right—the odds are real good for your team. So if the Lakers win we’re going to make a lot of money. If that happens then Mr. Pettiway’ll pull some strings at the Lakers and get you that contract. We can guarantee it.”

  A blank look filled the player’s face as he looked around the room. His eyes settled on the van Gogh. What was he thinking? Cabot wondered. Anything at all?

  Finally the player turned back to Pettiway. Washington squinted and said, “You guarantee it in writing?”

  Cabot looked at Pettiway and grinned. “I told you Danny knows what he’s about. Just ’cause a man talks slow doesn’t mean he is slow.”

  Pettiway pulled a document out of one of his briefcases and slid it toward the player, who read it slowly, his lips moving. He read it again. Then once more. “Some of this I can’t scope out. Maybe I should have my lawyer look it over. I get into trouble sometimes if I don’t do that.”

  “Um, Danny,” Pettiway said delicately, “we probably don’t want to do that, now, do we? Not with the talk of making sure your team loses that game tonight.”

  “Oh, right. That’d be bad.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Washington took the pen and looked over the paper again. “I don’t know. I never done anything like this before.”

  At a glance from Cabot, Pettiway opened his second briefcase, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s a signing bonus, Danny. Half a million. You were saying you didn’t like paying taxes? Well, since this’s cash, you don’t have to pay a penny in tax. It’s yours if you sign now.”

  Washington’s eyes slid to the memo from the head coach. “I gave the team everything I got and they treat me like that? Man, that’s low.” He gripped the pen in tight fingers.

  “Go ahead, Danny,” Cabot said.

  The big man signed the letter. Then. Pettiway did too and gave Washington a copy.