Cold Crossover

by T. R. Kelly

  “I’ll get that, Ernie,” said Doug Willis, billiards stick in hand. He ushered me down the length of the bar as I tried to put names to old faces now weathered by years, losses, and alcohol. “Keep your money in your pocket. I’m the one who asked you to come down, remember?”

  Doug briefly leaned his cue against the table’s middle pocket as he reanalyzed the scrambled mix of stripes and one solid. Black cigarette burns rested like dried caterpillars on the pool table’s top rail, spoiling the glossy varnish. He frowned, used the cue as a pointer, and waved it toward the far corner. “Eight ball. Up there.”

  Hazel Sittner, still slinging sandwiches and pulling Rainier taps in her sixties, barged through three patrons, her brown tray stacked high with dirty plates and beer glasses.

  “Welcome back, Ernie,” Hazel said, setting the tray on the bar. “’Bout time Doug dragged some class in here. Do you miss being in the middle of the action, ’specially on Friday nights?”

  “Thanks, Hazel. Yes, and no. I miss being around the kids, but I don’t need those helicopter parents always hovering over the program. Also I don’t miss the college assistants who refuse to leave players alone. Call all hours of the day and night.”

  Hazel smirked and pulled an order pad and pencil from an apron pocket. “Well, I hope you get back into it at some point. We need guys like you not just as coaches, but as mentors. We’ve got too many young guys now who think coaching is all about screaming. Gonna eat?”

  “Yeah, soon as this pool hustler here finishes his work.”

  “Perfect,” Hazel said as the cook appeared and restacked her tray with more food. “Just holler. Say, there was a guy lookin’ for you earlier tonight. Don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before. Not a regular, though.”

  “OK. I’ll ask around. Gotta be one of these coaches.”

  Hazel checked her order and lifted the tray now jammed with four platters, anchored by mammoth hamburgers and one fried-egg sandwich. A few french fries slipped off a plate on to the floor. She turned into the crowd and hoisted the tray even higher over her red curls.

  Doug dropped his forehead to the green felt after missing his game-winning shot. I offered a polite, bad-luck cringe, sipped my Rainier, and pointed to a corner table. “Let’s sit,” I said. “You can drown your sorrows.”

  He nodded and returned his pool cue to the chalk-dusted wall rack. As we ducked between patrons, he said, “I’ve always wanted to ask you. How in the hell did you get to Eastern Michigan University from Yakima, Washington?”

  I laughed and faced him. “Only school to offer me a scholarship, Back then, if you didn’t make the state tournament, no coaches knew about you. The assistants didn’t scout like they do now. I wasn’t even on the Huskies’ radar.”

  “But Eastern Michigan ... I mean, that’s not just around the corner.”

  I half-gagged a mouthful of beer. “Crazy story. I’d just graduated from Yakima High, working in the apricot fields for my dad. A buddy drafted me to play in a summer-league tourney over here at Bellevue Community College. The Eastern Michigan frosh coach just happens to be in the area for a family reunion.”

  “So the coach ends up at the BCC games?”

  “Right. Our team played three games in one day—you know those goofy schedules—and I got a bunch of rebounds. Couldn’t shoot a lick, even back then. Next thing I know, this guy is asking me if I wouldn’t mind playing college ball in Ypsilanti, Michigan.”

  “The coach signed you that night?”

  “Yeah, right there in the locker room. I was still wringing wet from the final game. Called my folks from the gym and told them I had a free ride to play college basketball. They couldn’t believe it. Neither could I.”

  Doug shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  As we sat, a cluster of guys at the adjacent table bemoaned the cuts in school district resources that meant fewer paid teacher-monitors at games.

  “Hey, I’d do it again,” I said. “Community was great to me. Met my wife there, got a degree, played with some good guys. Brutal winters, but no complaints.”

  “Are you still playin’ at all?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got the same group still showing up on Saturday mornings at the high school. Mostly older local guys who know how to play, get up and down the floor. A lot of them can still really go. Some of their kids even show up now when they’re in town.”

  “Well, keep it going for as long as you can. Our weekly game went downhill in a hurry. We had some younger guys show up that didn’t work out. Grab shirts. Never give up the ball. Lots of elbows and assholes. The veterans didn’t need that and finally just stopped coming back.”

  Doug cupped his beer glass with both hands and laid his forearms on the table. “Look, I know you are close to Linn Oliver. I saw him the other day. Dark circles under his eyes, lethargic. I’d never seen him like that. I was concerned about him and wanted you to know. Then, I heard about this situation on the ferry.”

  I lunged forward. “You saw him? When?”

  “God, I don’t know. Early last week. Maybe Monday or Tuesday.”

  I winced and gazed out the window. “I was going to ask you if you knew of a tourney out of town. Maybe something one of your former players headed to? Fact is, I’ve seen very little of him in the past three weeks.”

  “Not off the top,” he said. “Tell you what, though. I was really surprised by his appearance. Maybe he’s trying to do too much at night after working all day. I know it can be difficult playing less than second fiddle when you’ve always been the go-to guy.”

  Two men nearby hollered as one of the teams in a televised pro game completed a stunning comeback with a Tom Chambers dunk. Doug broke the conversation, glanced up at the screen, then continued. “Anyway, I’ve got some elementary-school clinics coming up, including one at spring break. I’d like to offer Linn a paid position to help run them. He would be a terrific teacher, and he would certainly bring in more kids. In fact, having Cheese on the staff would be the best advertisement we could possibly have.”

  “Sounds like a winner. He’ll probably welcome the deal.”

  “But more importantly, I wanted a chance to talk with Linn about my experience. I went through the whole injury thing, then dealing with the prospect of never playing again. I was hoping my story might help him in some way.”

  I slid my glass toward the middle of the table, leaned back in my chair, and wondered just how far hurt might have pushed Linn Oliver.

  Doug waited until my eyes returned to his. “Candidly? I can’t hire Linn with him looking like he does now. It wouldn’t shed a positive light on our clinics, and it wouldn’t be fair to the campers.”

  He was right. You can’t trot out a down-and-out legend in front of a bunch of impressionable little dribblers. I’d seen it before, and it ruined the camp’s future and a coach’s income. What families would be willing to plunk down their hard-earned cash to have their kids learn the game’s fundamentals from a player who had lost his way? What was worse was that I couldn’t believe Linn would ever fit into that category.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said. “I assume you have Linn’s phone number at the service station in North Fork, but I will tell him to get a hold of you if I see him first. Those hoops clinics could be a real help to a lot of people, including Linn.”

  “That’s one of my problems.” He leaned closer, then checked over his shoulder to see if someone else could hear. “He won’t return my calls. His boss at the gas station said he is tired of making excuses for him. Is it just me, or does the kid really need help?”

  Doug raised his glass and signaled Hazel, who made her way to our table and took our orders.

  “By the way,” Hazel said. “The guy I said was lookin’ for you? Well, he’s now over talkin’ on the phone.”

  I started to rise and was immediately eased back down by the handshake of a coach-turned-motivational-speaker I hadn’t seen in years. In his life, everything was “super.” We share
d updates about a retired principal while I tried to be as subtle as possible in glancing toward the green wood-box phone booth pushed against the wall near the men’s restroom. Two rangy loggers wearing plaid Pendletons blocked my line of sight. I managed to see that the collapsible window door of the booth was closed, and the light was on. I casually swayed, shifting my weight, trying to peer into the booth.

  “What’s up for the rest of the weekend, Ernie?” the pro mouthpiece shouted over the music, television, and elevated conversations. “Got some cute lady lined up for tomorrow night?”

  Interesting timing. It was Patsy Cline’s turn on the jukebox, signing about being crazy for feeling lonely. Probably should get back up on the horse and at least look at the landscape.

  “Nothing too exciting,” I said. “Thought I’d make a few calls to old friends, see how they’re doing.”

  “Well, you take good care,” the man said. “And stay in touch.” He handed me his glossy business card that featured a caped crusader who resembled the Wizard of Oz. “Our company can use older guys like you to get our word out.”

  When he eased away, I stood, eyed an empty phone booth, and sat back down. “Christ,” I whispered.

  Doug must have overheard the “cute lady” line. “How long’s it been, Ernie?” His eyebrows drew closer together. “Since Cathy passed away?” He wasn’t a close friend, but he apparently felt close enough to ask. I admired him for broaching the topic.

  “Too long. Just too damn long,” I said, unable to maintain eye contact. “But thanks for asking.”

  I spanned the room, hoping to stretch the long day out of my neck and shoulders. Where was our food? I patted the pockets of my jacket, searching for car keys. I planned to wolf down my chow and hit the road.

  The television on the wall scrolled college scores. I was particularly interested in the Ivy League. A smooth player from Bainbridge Island was getting some major minutes at Princeton. Just as SportsCenter returned to the Northeast region, Harvey Johnston blocked my view and shuffled toward our table. He looked like he’d spent thirty minutes in a sauna.

  “Close quarters in that old phone booth,” Harvey said. “Ever spent any time in there?”

  “What are you doing here?” I said, realizing Harvey was the person Hazel mentioned. “Are you still working or coming from a game?” I introduced the detective to Doug.

  “I called Greg Smithson at the newspaper looking for a phone number,” Harvey said. “Said he was on deadline, but he’d be down here later. Also mentioned you’d stopped by to see him earlier. So, thought you might find your way down here.”

  Doug excused himself to speak with a retired referee. I stared at Harvey, palms up. “What’s going on? Don’t tell me you drove all this way just for a phone number.”

  He looked like Columbo after losing his car. He twisted in his chair, bloodshot eyes working the room. When he placed his elbows on the table, I could smell he could use a shower. “We got a call late this afternoon. The body of a Realtor was found last night in a home for sale at Lake Wilhelmina. Somebody bashed in his skull.”

  I felt like a fighter surprised by an explosive, left-right combo. I tried to focus on Harvey and cranked my head back, uncertain I’d heard what was just said. I could feel my eyebrows inching higher. “You gotta be kidding me. Was ...”

  “We’ll know more when we get the ME’s report. Not a pretty scene, though. The perp took a big-league swing. Victim was from some hotshot brokerage here in Seattle. I came down from North Fork mainly to talk to his boss.”

  I leaned forward, my forehead not far from his. “Nothing like this has ever happened up there. It’s a sleepy, little ...” I gathered myself and attempted a whisper that came out far too loud. “You’re not telling me it was the Dolan place?” A guy walking by eyed me warily. Apparently, I was too close to be whispering to another man.

  “Nope, five doors down,” Harvey said. “The Sherrard house. Actually it’s quite the fashionable retreat. Fancy-smancy.”

  “Talk about a retreat,” I said. “Wait until the word gets out at the lake. People will be running for the hills.”

  “Tell me about it,” Harvey murmured. “Calls are coming in like crazy. Lot of lake residents already packed up their cars and headed out. Scared to death. Some headed to Arizona for the rest of the winter; others staying with family members anywhere but the lake.”

  “What do you figure happened?”

  “Who knows,” Harvey said. “Looks like the agent—this Mark Rice—met the murderer at the house. Probably thought he was working with a potential buyer and ...”

  The news hit me like an elbow to the head. For a moment, I didn’t know if I could speak. “Pee Wee Rice? Oh my God, Harvey! He was just in the office the other day!” Suddenly, the heaviness returned to my feet, and my hands barely felt my forehead resting in them. “Tell me this isn’t happening.”

  Harvey lowered his voice and moved closer. “God, I’m sorry. I had no idea he was a friend of yours.”

  “More of a professional acquaintance, really. Good man. Honest, reliable. Believe me, not all agents are that way. Guy had a network bigger than CBS.”

  He shook his head and picked at a napkin. “Could happen to anybody,” he said. “Hey, think about it. Some hot prospect calls and wants to see the place right away. Agent meets him at the house. You guys do it all the time, even the old ladies.”

  Five doors down from Dolan’s?

  “The owner, guy named Emory Sherrard, came up to the lake on a lark and found the victim in an upstairs bathroom,” Harvey said. “If he hadn’t, the body probably would have been there for days, maybe weeks.”

  “Maybe Pee Wee happened on a burglary and things got out of hand,” I said.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Harvey said. “Appears Rice was in the house when the killer arrived. But I need to do a lot more digging and legwork, talk to people. More so now, given how well you say he was connected. But as I say, this just came down.”

  “Did it look like there had been traffic on the lot? Maybe car tracks from agents showing the place?”

  “Tough to tell it because it was getting dark, and I wasn’t there that long, like the other night at Dolan’s. I just stopped by there briefly to meet the yellow-tape guys on the way here. Most of them parked on the road and steered clear of the scene.”

  “Bet those lake folks loved that circus. Especially with what’s going on with Linn.”

  Hazel brought our food, and I waved to Doug, who was holding court at the bar, instructing anyone who would listen on the finer points of boxing out under the bucket. I snitched a couple of Doug’s potatoes. Other people’s fries always seemed to taste better.

  When Hazel left, Harvey sighed, stretched his arms high over his head and returned his attention to the table. “There’s only a handful of homes for sale at the lake.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding my familiarity of the inventory. “Couple of expensive mansions, two tear-down shacks, and one in-between. Been in all of them.”

  “I’m sure you have. My point is that there was a dead guy in one of them and another guy, one Linn Oliver, missing from another home about a nine-iron away.”

  I flipped my fork on the table. A different sort of emptiness had replaced hunger and fatigue. My head began to ache, and I knew I was approaching overload. “Are you telling me that you think the two situations are related?”

  “No, Coach. I am just stating what we know. Sometimes it’s best for me to get the obvious out on the table and do a little thinking out loud. I haven’t even begun to paint. Just wondering what could go on the canvas.”

  I pushed my platter toward the middle of the table. “Harvey, what do you think the chances are that ...”

  “Look, we have no reason to jump to any conclusions or assumptions. Tell you what. I am heading back up to the lake tomorrow afternoon to look through the house, talk to some more folks. You should join me. I could use your advice as a property professional.”


  Other than morning hoops, my Saturday was wide open. As usual. “Meet you there,” I said. “I’ll figure two p.m., unless I hear otherwise.”

  Harvey nodded and rose from the table in sections, unfolding his disheveled upper body until he leaned back into a truncated stretch, hands on hips. It was painful to watch.

  “Tell me, have you spoken recently with Dr. Oliver? One of my detectives called down to Arizona today and just got his machine.”

  “Haven’t connected, but he should be in North Fork by now. Got a message he was heading north today. If he’s not staying with his brother, he’ll probably be at the Cranberry Tree. I’ll find out. Offer my spare bedroom.”

  “Might be better if I talk to him first. In light of what happened to ...”

  I shook my head and stared across the table. “Harvey, you barely know the guy. Let me do this. He’s going to be anxious and scared, and the last thing he needs is the crime chief grilling him about his kid. Let me visit with him, feel him out.”

  Harvey scoffed, stood, and started for the back door. “No way. Another example of you being official when you’re not official.” He stopped and stared at me. “I can’t allow you to pose as some sort of professional investigator.”

  Embarrassed that two bar-sitters overheard him, Harvey sunk lower. I reached for his elbow and pulled him around. “Look. This man is different. Robert Oliver’s been a lot more to me than a star player’s father. I’ve been in life-or-death situations with him twice and a hell of a lot of stuff that’s more than you’ll ever want to know.”

  “What? Well, maybe I do want to know. After all the time we’ve spent together ...”

  “Don’t start on me. Not with this. Just trust me that I’d get more useful information from him before you can or anybody else from your office.”

  He shook his head and looked down at the floor.

  “Harvey. Just let me do this. This one time.”

  He shrugged, yanked his rumpled collar higher on his neck, and took one step toward the parking lot. “I better not hear that same pitch again. Like on the next guy you want to corner and question.”