SAMMY made the assignments, and he gave the Polk College job to Vince. Vince frowned when he heard it, and shook his head.
"You got a problem with this?" asked Sammy.
"Definitely."
"I don't see it." Sammy was genuinely surprised. "You go up to New Hampshire, you get close to the team, and you tap their heads. You find out which of the players are in on the fix, and you take it from there. What's the problem?"
"We don't even know if there is a fix. This Domino could have some other angle."
"You've got to be kidding. Domino's instructions are simple, the Polk Bulldogs have to lose, and there's only one way to guarantee that. There has to be a fix."
"Maybe, but I still don't want it. Let me switch with somebody else."
"No switching, not unless you have a damn good reason."
"How about this one. It's racist. Just because it's basketball, you figure that you have to put a black man on the case. That sucks, Sammy."
Sammy said calmly, "I'll let that one go by. You call it racist, and I call it common sense. They've got a twelve-man squad at Polk, and seven of those kids are black. The coach is white, but the assistant coach is black, and so is the team manager. You think I'll get the same results if I give the job to a white man?"
"How about a white woman? Martha would love it, all those young studs running around in their underwear."
"Martha has her job, and you have yours. You'll have to give me a better reason than that."
"Basketball is the stupidest game in the world. Did you know that eighty-seven percent of all college games are decided in the last two minutes?"
"So what?"
"So why don't they play just the last two minutes? The hell with the rest of the game."
"Get serious, will you? That's no reason."
"Then how about this one? I can't take the cold. Look at the others. All right, Martha gets the rape job, and that's no day at the beach, but Snake goes to Florida on the arson job, Ben gets to go on a Caribbean cruise while he bodyguards that comic, and good old Vince gets to visit that iceberg in New Hampshire."
Sammy shrugged. "Dress warm."
"I'm not going to any New Hampshire."
"You are."
"Old Hampshire is more like it. Clotted cream, fishing in the Avon, strolls along the chalk downs. Send me there, Sammy, that's my style."
Sammy stared at him for a moment. "There's something else, isn't there? Something you aren't saying."
Vince hesitated, then shook his head.
"Come on, open up. What's bugging you?"
"Forget it."
"Meet you head-to-head?"
Vince nodded. He and Sammy opened up, dropping the mental blocks that were part of their everyday equipment, and doing it that way, head-to-head, Vince was able to show what he had not been able to voice.
You're asking me to put the finger on a brother.
Doesn't have to be a brother doing the fix.
The odds say yes. How the hell can I tag some ghetto kid who's looking to make a dollar the only way he can?
Not the only way. It's crooked, Vince.
Crooked? Just about everything in this country is twisted out of shape, there's no reality any more, and you're worried about a lousy basketball game.
Don't preach to me. I'm worried about the job. The game is just a part of it.
Not my part, not if it means handing some black kid over to the law.
Who said anything about the law?
How else?
That's up to you. All I care is that the game gets played on the level. You work it out whichever way you want.
No law?
Not if that's the way you want it. Just get the job done.
This straight?
When did I ever?
Never, Vince admitted.
You know, you remind me of my grandmother.
You got a black grandmother?
I've got a Jewish grandmother, and she goes into instant mourning whenever she reads in the paper about some Jew who's screwed up. Makes no difference what he did-a holdup, a swindle, an axe murder-if the guy has a Jewish name it's like the disgrace is on her own family. She shrivels up and walks around all day shaking her head and muttering to herself. She takes it personally, not just the shame, but the burden of responsibility. Which is stupid, because nobody can carry that much weight, not even my grandmother, and she's one tough old lady. You can't carry it, either.
Easy to say. You know what you've got, Sammy?
Besides a Jewish grandmother?
You've got leadership qualities, that's what you've got.
Listen, any time you want this fucking job…
Less than twenty-four hours later, Vince struggled along a plowed path on the Polk College campus that led from the Administration Building to the athletic fieldhouse. His head was lowered against a cutting wind. He was dressed in boots and parka, ski pants and long Johns, watch cap and fur-lined gloves, but he was cold to the bones. His fingers, toes, and nose were numb, and the rest of him wasn't far behind. The campus was covered by three feet of snow. Bare trees were sheathed in black and ugly ice, the same ice hung from eaves and windows, and the sky was the color of lead. It was a dismal scene, relieved only by the splashes of color on the bedsheet banners that were posted on every wall. Painted in Day-Glo orange, and red, and green, they all shouted the same message, BEAT VAN BUREN.
Got nothing against that, thought Vince, but why can't they beat them in tennis, or baseball, or something else that you play in the sun?
He picked up his pace, and the PR guy beside him had to jog to keep up. The PR guy was young and enthusiastic, and his head came no higher than Vince's shoulder. His name was Willard, and the weather didn't bother him. He pointed to one of the signs, and said, "As you can see, the whole school is up for the game."
"Lots of rah-rah," Vince agreed.
"School spirit."
"Can't run a school without spirit."
"It's our big game of the year. It may not be Army-Navy or Yale-Harvard, but it's traditional."
"Can't beat tradition. The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton."
"Hey, I didn't know that."
"Believe it."
"I didn't even know they played basketball at Eton. I guess you guys know all those things."
"Believe that, too. If we don't know it, it didn't happen."
In Vince's pocket were papers that named him as a reporter for Hoops magazine, the national review of college basketball. Willard lit a candle in front of a copy of Hoops every night before he went to bed. A call to the offices of Hoops in Kansas City would have confirmed that Mister Bonepart was, indeed, on assignment for the magazine, but no confirmation had been necessary. The athletic director's office had accepted his credentials without question, and had assigned Willard as his gofer, apologizing for the fact that Head Coach Haggerty was out of town on a scouting trip.
"Don't worry about Haggerty," said Willard as they worked their way toward the field house. "The Chief will take good care of you."
"What chief?"
"Chief Thunder. The assistant coach, Boyd Preston."
"An Indian?"
"No, that's just what they call him."
"How come?"
Willard grinned. "You'll see."
Coming out of the cold and into the fieldhouse was like coming home for Christmas. The place was warm, brightly lit, and noisy. The stands were empty, but the team was on the court, working out under the eye of a short and wiry man with a clipboard and a whistle. Vince paused to let the heat sink in, and along with it the smells of sweat and liniment, the squeak of shoes on the hardwood floor, the grunts of the panting players, the slap of the ball, the pounding sound of a solitary runner circling the metal track high above the court, and over it all the booming voice of the man with the whistle.
"I wanna see some quick," he was shouting, "I wanna hear some thunder. Hey, Willy, move it, make him commit. That's it, hands up. Willy, move. You tired, son? You weary, Willy? You have a big time last night, you so weary? Let's see some feet, Willy, let's hear some thunder…"
The team was working a half-court drill, red shirts defending against the white shirts, and Vince tried to match numbers with the names on the sheet of paper that Willard had given him. Devereaux, Clancy, Holmes, Chambers, Jefferson. A white-shirted player cut to the basket, faked once, went up with a defender all over him, and passed off blind to another white shirt, who scored. Vince nodded in admiration. He thought little of basketball as a sporting event-there had to be something wrong with a game that depended on deliberate fouling as an essential tactic-but he was able to admire the balletic grace that the best of the players so casually displayed. As an exhibition of style, it was magnificent, but he couldn't take it seriously as a sport.
The man with the whistle tipped back his head, and roared up at the ceiling, "Melton!"
The lonely runner who had been circling the overhead track had stopped, and was leaning over the rail, staring down at the court. "Yeah, chief."
"I don't hear any thunder."
"Just taking a break."
"Thunder, Melton, thunder. Or maybe you're weary, like Willy over here. You weary, Melton?"
"No, chief, I'm okay."
"Then let me hear it."
Melton pushed himself away from the rail, and started up again, his feet pounding the track.
The chief smiled, and said, "Not bad, but I gotta have more thunder." He pointed a finger at a white-shirted player. Vince made him as Willy Holmes, a guard. "Willy, get up there and give me some thunder."
Holmes pulled a face. "Hey, chief…"
"Yeah, I know, you're weary. Twenty laps'11 fix you fine. Let's hear some thunder, son."
Holmes shook his head, but he trotted over to the stairs that led up to the track, and soon the sound of the pounding overhead doubled. The chief smiled again. "That's the way I like it, lots of thunder. Now, let me see some feet."
He started the two squads through the drills again. Vince said to Willard, "Chief Thunder, huh?"
Willard grinned. "Now you know. "
"When can I see him?"
"After the drills. Won't be long."
It took about ten minutes. Vince stood with Willard and watched the two squads work against each other, unhappily aware of what was coming. First this Chief, then the players; tap them all and find out how many of the kids were in on the fix. Because he knew now that Sammy had to be right. There had to be a fix. It was the only practical way for Domino to carry out his instructions, and besides, fixing basketball games was as American as-he searched for a simile, and let it go. It wasn't important. What was important was how many-and which ones. And, please, if there was any grace left in the world, not all of them would be black.
The Chief dismissed the squads with a blast of his whistle, and sent them to the showers. He strode over to Vince, and put out his hand.
"I'm Boyd Preston," he said.
Willard said quickly, "This is Mister Bonepart…"
"I know who he is," Preston interrupted. "The AD's office called. Hoops magazine, we're honored. I didn't think you people bothered with the teams down here in Division Two."
Vince said, "It's all basketball, coach."
"Call me Chief, everybody does. There's only one coach around here, and that's Haggerty. How come you're here?"
"You've got a big game coming up."
"We play Van Buren every year, but you never came around before."
"Then it's about time. How does the game look to you?"
"I'm not the one to ask, I just keep the troops marching. Coach Haggerty gives all the interviews, and he's out of town."
"So I heard. Well, what would he say if he were here?"
Preston smiled. "That's easy. If the coach was here, he'd say that Van Buren is a tough team that can't be underrated. He'd say that this is a traditional game coming up, and in traditional games the stats don't mean much. He'd say that on any given day any team can beat any other team, and that we can't afford to be overconfident. That's what the Coach would say."
Vince grinned his appreciation of the conventional wisdom that every coach in every sport spouts before a big game.
Preston went on. "But if you're asking me, which you're not, I'd say that we're going to wipe up the floor with Van Buren. They can't touch us. We're bigger, we're faster, we're smarter, and we play the Big D."
"Offense is skill," Vince quoted piously, "but defense is soul."
"Exactly, and our kids have the soul. We'll cream Van Buren, but you can't quote me on that. For the record, all I can say is that we can't afford to be overconfident."
Vince grinned again, warming to the man, and decided that it was time to tap him. He went into Preston 's head. He was in and out in a twinkle, but while he was there he found a neat and orderly mind. He found a fierce pride. He found a deep well of dedication. He found many other things, but he found no larceny. If the fix was on, Preston had nothing to do with it.
Satisfied, Vince said, "I'd like to speak to the players, if that's all right with you."
Preston frowned. "Let's go someplace where we can talk."
Preston 's office was a cubbyhole next to the head coach's office. Both rooms opened onto the locker area, the training center, and the showers. The locker room was hot and damp, and those players who had finished with their showers looked up curiously as Vince and Preston passed through. Preston closed his office door, and motioned Vince to a chair. He was still frowning.
"There's something you have to understand," he said. "You're probably used to schools like Indiana, and UCLA, and DePaul-you know, the basketball factories where the teams are half pro already. Maybe you don't know what it's like down here in Division Two. These kids of mine, that's all they are, just kids. They're good athletes, and they know how to play the game, but, let's face it, they're never going to play pro ball. Not in the NBA, not in the Continental, not even for some European team. They're just not good enough. When they leave here they go straight into the real world, nothing glitzy like the pros, and… my point is, I don't want them getting any kind of a swelled head because the man from Hoops is here. You understand?"
Vince nodded. "I'll go easy on them."
"Another thing. We both know how it works at some of those factories-athletes who never graduate, play four years and they're out on their ass with nothing to show for it. That doesn't happen here. Overall, Polk graduates ninety-two percent of its athletes. On this team, the average is even higher."
"Impressive."
"Let me give you a couple of examples. Take our starting five. As guards we have Willy Holmes and Jack Clancy. Holmes is the point guard, and he'll be in med school next year. Clancy's the shooting guard, and he's a Marketing major with a three-point-seven average. Center is Dion Devereaux, an English major, and the editor of the yearbook. He writes poetry and nobody makes jokes about it. The power forward is Jerry Jefferson who's doing Engineering, and the small forward is Ted Melton, and all I can say about Melton is that he's doing a double major in French and Economics with honors. Those are the starters, and the other seven men aren't all that different. No Phys Ed majors, no courses in Leisure Alternatives, you know? I'm not saying that we've got a bunch of geniuses here, 'cause we don't, but they're not just a bunch of jocks, either. I'd like you to remember that when you write about them."
Vince, who had no intention of writing anything at all, said solemnly, "I promise you that."
"Fair enough."
They went out to the locker area. Preston banged on a table for attention, and twelve heads turned their way, curious eyes appraising the stranger.
"Listen up," said Preston. "This gentleman is Mister Vincent Bonepart from Hoops magazine…"
Low murmurs. Someone whistled softly.
"… and he's here to do a story on the team. Why Hoops would want to bother with us is a mystery to me, but the man is here and I want you to give him your respectful attention. Answer his questions, and try not to sound too stupid." He turned to Vince. "They're all yours."
Vince spent the next hour chatting with twelve young men in varying stages of dress, making notes that he would never use. He spoke to some of them individually, and some in small groups. He kept the conversation light and easy, and after a while he found that he was enjoying himself. He spoke French with Ted Melton, and talked about T.S. Eliot with Dion Devereaux. Willy Holmes was interested in orthopedic medicine, but agreed that it was too early to think about specialties. Jerry Jefferson wanted to build bridges, and Jack Clancy already had his first million figured out. Those were the starting five, and it went on that way with the other members of the team. As a group, they were bright, sober, interesting people, and definitely not a bunch of jocks. At the end of the hour he was glowing with good will.
Then he tapped them, and the glow disappeared. It didn't take long, he was in and out. He was looking for larceny, for a driving greed, for a hidden shame, and he found all of that. He found it twice. Willy Holmes, who was headed for med school, and Dion Devereaux, the poet. Twenty-five thousand dollars each to throw the game with Van Buren; half paid in advance, and half on delivery.
Preston, beside him, said, "Something wrong?"
It must have shown on his face, the anger boiling within him. He throttled it down, and composed his features, "just my stomach. I can never get used to that airline food. Look, you've got a great bunch of kids here."
Preston beamed. "Thank you for saying so. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No, you've done fine," said Vince, a sour taste in his mouth. The boiling anger had been replaced by a feeling of disgust and betrayal. "Thanks for your help. I have to get going now."
"Well, you come back anytime. You'll be welcome."
Vince got out of Polk as quickly as he could, and the sour taste remained in his mouth during the flight to New York. He called the Center from LaGuardia airport, and told Sammy what he had found.
"What are you going to do?" Sammy asked.
"I know what I'd like to do, I'd like to strangle the bastards. Two kids with every advantage, and they're screwing it up."
"You sound involved."
"I feel like your grandmother."
"Don't let it mess up your head. What are you doing in New York?"
"Got some people I want to see."
Sammy knew better than to ask. "It's your deal, you play it whichever way you want."
"We're still agreed? No law?"
"That's understood." Sammy hung up.
Vince went through two bourbon Manhattans and half a bowl of peanuts while he worked on his approach, and then he made another call. Ida Whitney answered, and he said his name.
"Good Lord," she said. "Out of the blue."
"Yeah. I'm sorry to have to do it this way, but I have to see Lewis."
"What kind of a hello is that? We don't hear from you for years, and that's all you have to say?"
"I said I was sorry. Is he home?"
"You mean you want to see him now? Right now?"
"Why not?"
"Because he's dressing, and we're about to go out, that's why not."
"I'm at LaGuardia. I can be at your place in less than an hour."
"Impossible, we're due at the borough president's reception."
"Screw the borough president. This is important, Ida."
"To whom?"
"To me. Maybe to Lewis, maybe to you."
"More important than the BP?"
"More important than one more political cocktail party. Don't go out. Wait for me."
"Just a minute, let me ask Lewis."
"Don't bother, I'm on my way."
Going against the traffic flow, it took twenty minutes from the airport to Sutton Place South. Lewis and Ida Whitney lived in an apartment building that looked, felt, and smelled like old money. Not that the Whitney money was old; it was so new it squeaked, and Vince could remember when there had been no Whitney money at all. That had been back in the days of the South Harlem Rescue Committee when Ida and Lewis had lived on crackers and cheese for weeks on end. The SHRC, a storefront legal advocacy group, aimed at aiding young black kids caught up in the criminal justice system of an uncaring city, with Lewis fresh out of law school and Ida the unpaid legal aide. It had been a time of hope, of promise, of unstained idealism, and it also had been a time of hectic eighteen-hour days, with crackers and cheese to keep them going.
Not any more, thought Vince as he rode up in the elevator. Maybe stone-ground wafers and Brie, but no more rat cheese and saltines with a jug of Kool-Aid to wash it down. No more penniless, idealistic lawyer, either. Hotshot attorney with corporation clients plugged into the political power structure. Plugged into more than that, they say. We'll see how much more.
"It's an interesting story," said Lewis Whitney, "but I don't see what it has to do with me."
"I'm coming to that," said Vince. "Just give me a few minutes more."
Lewis looked at his watch, and complained, "We're late as it is."
"Let him finish," said Ida. "You won't lose any points with the BP, and those receptions are a bore, anyway."
She smiled at Vince, and he nodded his appreciation. The Whitneys had not changed much over the years. Ida still was slim and lovely, Lewis still a commanding figure, although a thicker one; and sitting in their carefully understated living room, they looked not too different from the cheese and cracker days of the SHRC. Just richer.
Lewis sighed, and said, "All right, let me see if I've got this straight. You say that a couple of kids on the Polk College basketball team are fixing to throw a game, and you want to stop it."
"Right."
"You want to keep those kids out of trouble."
"Right."
"So you can't blow the whistle on them, can't go to their coach, or the cops, or the State's Attorney, or whatever they call it in New Hampshire."
"Right."
"But the one thing you haven't told me is how you know about this."
That was the tricky one. To Lewis and Ida, Vince was nothing more than his cover job, a translator at the United Nations. They knew nothing about sensitives, nothing about the Center, and that was the way it had to stay.
"I want you to take that part of it on faith," Vince said carefully. "It's going to happen, believe me. Will you take my word on that?"
"But you can't ask me…"
Ida put her hand on her husband's arm. "He's entitled to that much, Lewis. He's an old friend."
Whitney nodded reluctantly. He looked at his watch again. "Go ahead."
"Let me state a hypothetical situation. Let's say that I'm a gambler, a real high roller, and I want to put the fix on a game. How do I go about it?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Do I stroll up to the nearest basketball player, and say, hey sonny, you want to make some easy money? Obviously not. All that gets me is a boot in the ass, and maybe the cops. If I want to cut a deal like that, I go to a professional. Somebody who's been there before. Somebody who knows the angles. Somebody who is highly organized, if you know what I mean. I want to know who that somebody might be."
"You're asking me?"
"I'm asking you. I need a place to start, someone to steer me in the right direction. I need a name, Lewis."
"I don't like the way this conversation is going." Whitney's face was set in hard lines. "How the hell would I know something like that? I'm a reputable attorney."
"Time to cut the horseshit, Lewis. Sure, you're reputable. You sit down to dinner with the mayor, but you break some bread at some other tables, don't you? You're plugged into power, you're plugged into money, and you're plugged into the mob."
"You just ran out of time."
Vince stood up. "Two black kids, the kind you used to fight to save. I'm trying to save these two."
Lewis started up out of his chair. "Get out of here."
"Remember Floyd Washington?"
Puzzled, Lewis slumped back. He frowned, and shook his head. Ida said, "Vince, let's not get into that."
Lewis turned to her. "You know what he's talking about?"
"A long time ago." There was a touch of weariness in her voice. "The Washington boy. Hooked on horse, and he held up a liquor store. You handled the case."
"You did more than handle the case," said Vince. "You saved that kid. You kept him out of jail, you got him off drugs, you gave him some hope and a life to lead."
The lines softened in Whitney's face. " Washington. Yes, of course I remember."
"And now you represent the people who sell the drugs to kids like Floyd Washington."
This time Lewis came all the way out of his chair, and his arm was back. "You son of a bitch, nobody says that to me."
Ida jumped up, and grabbed her husband's arm. To Vince, she said, "That isn't so."
"It isn't? Okay, maybe it isn't, literally. Maybe he doesn't represent pushers and dealers, but he's connected with the people who do. He's part of the structure, and he could get me a name if he wanted to."
Ida turned to her husband. "Could you?"
Lewis did not answer. He was staring coldly at Vince.
"Lewis?"
He did not look at her.
"Lewis, if you can do that, then you have to."
Whitney looked at her for the first time. He nodded slowly. He disengaged his arm from her hand. He marched from the room, closing a door behind him. Ida sank into a chair. Vince stayed on his feet. After a while they heard the muted sound of Whitney's voice through the door, but they could not make out the words.
"He used to have a lot of heart," said Vince.
Ida sat looking at her hands. "He still does, he's a good man. It's just that… it's a different world now."
Vince let that one go by. They waited. Ida said into the silence, "I used to be in love with you."
"I know."
"But you didn't… you weren't…"
"I was, but not enough. You're right, you got a good man."
She shrugged helplessly. "It's just… different."
Lewis came back into the room. His face was still cold. He said, "I'm not going to write any of this down, and neither are you. The name is Carmine Giardelli, and you can find him at the Royal Buccaneer in Atlantic City. He keeps a suite there. You can tell him I sent you. Do you have that?"
"I've got it, and thanks."
"You stayed away for years. If you really want to thank me, stay away a few more."
"If that's the way you want it." Vince glanced at Ida, but she would not look at him. He left.