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Getz waved his hand at Cabot to silence him.
“Where’s my money?” Now it was Da
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Grimsby said.
“We’ll track it down,” Getz said to Washington to calm him. “But for now let’s book these losers.”
The gang of extortionists was led outside into paddy wagons for the ride down to central booking.
The police searched Grimsby ’s car, his office at BQE Auto Parts, his and his girlfriend’s apartments and the home of his bewildered friend, Lorn Smales, a ski
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Washington,” the detective said. “We’ll do what we can but if we can’t recover the money… well, you better prepare yourself for that. You have insurance?”
The player said miserably, “Only fifty thousand or something like that-you know, enough to replace my stereo and TV and watch and stuff if my apartment got broke into. I never thought I’d get robbed this much-five million.”
“We’ll do everything possible, Da
“Thanks, Detective.”
The cop started to leave, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Da
Washington ’s face broke into a wan smile. “You want an autograph?”
“For my kid, you understand.”
“Sure. What’s his name?”
A week later Da
He took the receiver.
“Da
“Yeah.”
“It’s Detective Getz. I just wanted you to know. That last lead about the cash didn’t pay off.”
“Oh, man,” Washington muttered.
“It’s still an open case but the way it usually works is that if we don’t find stolen cash by now, it’s probably gone for good. I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s nobody’s fault but my own,” the player said, sighing. “I shouldn’t ever’ve listened to somebody like Andy Cabot. That was stupid. And I’m paying for it now.”
“Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching the game.”
“I shoot a couple of treys for you, Detective.”
After they’d hung up, Washington leaned his head against the locker room wall for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again and placed a call. This one was to his accountant at the man’s home in Manhasset, Long Island.
“Jerry? It’s Da
“Da
“Gotta go play some hoops in a minute but I got a question for you. Had this thing happen to me last week.” He explained about the scam and the money.
“Oh, Da
“Yeah, it hurt,” the player said. “Anyway, you know I’ve been working on my degree in business during the off-season.”
“I remember.”
“Now if I read the tax code right it looks to me like, on my Schedule A, I can take a theft-loss deduction in the amount of the money stolen. Well, less that exclusion-ten percent of adjusted gross income, of course.”
“That’s absolutely right.”
“Okay, my question is-since the loss is five million and I’ll only have three million income this year, can I carry the other two million loss forward and offset most of next year’s income too?”
“I’ll have to check. But I’m pretty sure you can.”
“So basically,” Washington summarized, “I’ll hardly be paying the IRS any tax for two years.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, now, that’s good to hear.”
The accountant said, “It’s still a bummer you had to lose all that money to get out of paying taxes, though.”
“A damn shame, Jerry,” said the ballplayer, and hung up, thinking: Well, it would be a shame except that the five million, which he’d hidden in a second locker at the gym before he gave the duffel bag to Grimsby, was currently earning sweet interest in an offshore banking account he’d opened years ago in his and his mother’s names.
Of course he’d known from the minute that little weasel Andy Cabot approached him in the gym more or less what the scam artist had in mind. The two-guard had foreseen the plan unfold as clearly as he could anticipate a 1-3-1 offensive alignment against a 2-3 zone defense.
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.
He looked at his battered Casio. Five minutes until game time. He made one more phone call-to the men’s detention center in downtown New York, where Andy Cabot and T. D. Randall and those coconspirators who couldn’t post bond-which was most of them-were awaiting trial.
The chief night guard snapped to attention immediately when Washington identified himself. The player and the guard chatted about a recent game, then Washington said, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure thing, Da
“Make sure the prisoners watch the game tonight.”
“We don’t usually let ’ em watch TV after six but I’ll make sure it’s on. Just for you.”
“Thanks.”
That night, toward the end of the game, Da
BANK SHOTS by Sue DeNymme
Ma
He stumbled to the toilet and heaved, then heaved again, his insides swirling like water down the drain as he sank to his knees in front of the bowl and prayed for the room to stop spi
Then it came to him, the only way out.
He pushed himself off the tiles and shuffled to his wife’s dressing bureau. Undergarments slipped through his fingers until he worked his hands to the far corner of her lingerie drawer where she’d hidden the last valuable thing in the apartment: a costly diamond bracelet recently inherited from her grandma’s estate.
As he inspected the glistening band that his wife had cherished, his forehead felt damp and hot. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his palms felt clammy, but he took a deep breath and swiped the bracelet anyway.
Even if Becky could forgive him for losing their nest egg on last night’s basketball game, she’d definitely kill him for this.
He crammed the heirloom into the pocket of his jeans, slinked across the hall and slipped down the stairs of the walkup where they lived.
Sca