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“It happened first in ’94, when a team got a little too good, went a little too far. Go
“I’m not sure which scared you more. Someone trying to replace you, or the thought of losing this.
“Grant Jackson, same thing, only worse. He’s not just a great player, he’s a marquee player. He’s the type of player gets your team in the papers and on TV. And this gym isn’t set up for TV, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. You’re very comfortable in your little gym, with a.500 team. It’s not just a job, it’s your whole life. Which Grant Jackson threatened to destroy.” I referred to the sheets. “Which is why, once again, we have a blood test a little early. It’s not on these sheets, but according to the guys on the team, it was the same day Grant Jackson died. Three weeks since the last one. A week early, just like before.”
I shook my head. “A blood test that never got to the lab, where the blood disappeared.” I lowered my voice. “It must have been a tough thing to do. But I’m sure you thought you had no choice.
“So there you are, with a needle in Grant’s arm, taking blood. Filling test tubes. Easy to switch; instead of an empty tube, a full hypodermic you squeeze back in. For a boy with a heart condition, a lethal dose of coke. Because Grant Jackson didn’t do drugs. Under any circumstances. Even before he knew about the heart condition. There was no way he would fall for a setup, like the coke you planted on your boys in ’94. That they found in their locker and couldn’t resist. And why would they? The drug screen wasn’t due for another week. Surely it would be out of their system by then.”
He frowned, looked up at me. There were tears ru
I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t say “It’s my job,” because it wasn’t. And I couldn’t bear to say something clunky and holier-than-thou like “Because it’s right.”
I turned and motioned to the door, where Sergeant MacAullif was waiting. He came in, introduced himself to Coach Tom, and delivered what had to be the calmest Miranda warning in the history of the NYPD.
Richard was dumbfounded. “Grant Jackson’s a homicide?”
“That’s right.”
“His coach killed him because he would have made the team too famous and cost him his job?”
“That’s a bit of an oversimplification.”
“But he’s under arrest?”
“That he is.”
“Which makes it a brand-new ball game.” Richard rubbed his hands together. “Suddenly everyone’s liable again. The coach, the college, the doctors. Maybe even the police.”
“Let’s not go overboard,” I said. I could envision MacAullif’s blood pressure if he got named as a defendant.
“You signed this woman up. Even though I told you not to.”
“I admit I exceeded my authority.”
“Yes, you did, and it couldn’t have worked out better. You’re even entitled to the hundred-and-fifty-dollar initiative bonus for bringing me a new case.”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“What?”
“It went up to two hundred and fifty last year.”
“Are you sure?”
“That kid, Patrick, who worked here for a month, brought you a case and wouldn’t give it to you for less.”
“That was a special case.”
“Oh, come on. You’re trying to justify paying a kid out of college more than the investigator who’s worked for you for years?”
Richard paused, considered, probably realized the number of cases I brought him could be counted on the fingers of one hand. “Of course not, Stanley,” he said magnanimously. “Two hundred and fifty bucks it is. And a damn fine job.” He riffled through the fact sheet I’d given him. “The woman has nine dependents, no husband, lives on welfare, has no other visible means of support. Cruelly deprived of her only source of income. The insurance companies are going to fall all over themselves trying to settle this.”
I figured that was probably true. Richard’s reputation as a fearsome litigator was well known. Opposing counsel were used to throwing large sums of money at him to keep him out of court.
“So,” Richard said, “you get your bonus, I get a nice case, and a woman with nine dependents gets some much-needed relief. All in all, it couldn’t be better.”
I sighed.
I was thinking of Coach Tom, down on his hands and knees, meticulously, lovingly replacing the boards of his parquet floor.
“Yeah,” I said flatly. “Couldn’t be better.”
CAT’S PAW by Laurie R. King
You girls got the balls,” Lauren shouted at the girls on the court. Marisol bumped against Pilar with a stifled giggle while their coach pretended not to notice. This was a long-established, straight-faced game she played with her teams, or maybe with herself, an important part of which was keeping them in doubt as to whether their repressed spinster of a coach actually intended these outrageous double entendres, or if she was just a complete tongue-klutz.
This particular Monday afternoon, the game was proving something of an effort. Lauren’s heart wasn’t in rude jokes. It wasn’t even in the practice, which at the moment involved an intricate figure eight pattern of dribbling and passing, an exercise two of the players had worked out themselves following the Globetrotters field trip the spring before. The girls had come up with the idea, but it needed close supervision to keep it from disintegrating into a pileup, and frankly, their coach wasn’t up to it today.
The third time the tight configuration of weaving figures (one, two, three, and pass; one, two, three-) had collided and dissolved into chaos and irritation, Lauren gave up and set them to a simpler shooting practice. That was better. The rhythm and noises of their shoes and voices soothed her, allowing her eyes and mind to follow their skills and personalities, looking at both with an eye to the begi
After a while, she called them over for a brief talk about strategy (which boiled down to Teamwork!), then allowed them a short practice game before dismissing them for the day. She watched them snag their bags and chatter their way out the doors to their waiting rides, feeling pride and affection despite her grinding fatigue. Good team, she thought. Good bunch of girls. God, I’m tired.
At the di
She also drew comfort and pride in knowing that she was, if not exactly liked, then at least respected and (although they might not realize it, or admit it if they did) needed. Junior high school girls were so vulnerable, so adrift on a sea of hormones and insecurities, confusion and energy, that giving them a team to cling to was far more important than just something healthy to do after school. Lauren gave them self-respect and a sense of their own strength, as individuals, as a group, and as a sex. She was aware, always, of the irony involved in their learning this from her, of all people. Hence, for her own amusement, the were-they-or-weren’t-they jokes, those faint overtures from the Lauren who might have been. Marisol coming on nicely, she noted on her pad: cocaptain? Tina, on the other hand, was getting just a bit too self-important for the team’s good: sit the bench for a while?