Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging the stadium into darkness, the noise stopped. The sound of one set of footsteps echoed in the silent arena. A spotlight came on and illuminated a young woman in a flowing white dress, standing in the middle of the court and holding a radio microphone. A scratchy soundtrack began and the woman started to sing “Amazing Grace”. Little hairs stood up on the back of Jack’s neck and he swallowed hard. The woman’s voice was powerful and crystal clear, like a church bell. If he’d known Collins personally, Jack had no doubt he’d have joined in with the hundreds he could hear blubbering all around him. When she finished, the hush remained until the lights went back on. The crowd applauded, no whistling or cheering this time, just polite hand-clapping, for at least a minute.
A booming voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the game was about to start. More jolly music, like the bubble gum synth pop they played at the gym during aerobics classes. The party noise was a stark counterpoint to the solemn performance of the young woman. Spectators resumed their seats, the referees, coaching staff and players emerged from underneath the stadium. Players from both teams stood in straight ranks either side of the half-way line like soldiers as the national anthem played. This time it was a no-frills instrumental recording. The game announcer called for all to stand again to observe a minute’s silence.
By the time the referee tooted on his whistle to get the game underway, Jack was a quivering mass of jelly. Whoever choreographed the spectacle knew how to target people’s emotions. Pure Hollywood.
‘What did you make of that?’ asked Roderick Parata, the Scorpions’ Operations Manager. The OM sat to Jack’s right, Taylor to his left. Inspector Batista, his wife and son were on the other side of the arena, near a corner. Terrible view of the action. Jack met the chief’s son at the gate when the Batista family arrived. He turned out to be a right miserable fucker and Jack was pleased the lad was as far away from him as possible. The Inspector pretended he was OK with the two detectives getting the corporate deal, but his sullen expression didn’t fool Jack.
Jack offered the OM a thin smile. ‘Great theatre. Very touching.’
‘You bet. The fans love the spectacle of an NBL match. With their emotions high, it could carry the team over the line.’ Parata was a mountain of a man, broad in the shoulders. Despite his fearsome appearance, there was a catch in his voice and his face was damp from tears. ‘For a Kiwi like me, who grew up watching the haka before every All Blacks rugby match, you need all that crap. In fact, we’re the only team that still insists on playing the national anthem at every home game. Make the most of every opportunity. Some may call it cynical, I don’t.’
‘Isn’t the game exciting enough on its own?’
‘Hey, you look like you’ve done a bit of boxing in your time. Am I right?’ Parata stared at the centre of Jack’s misaligned nose. The detective didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased. He chose the latter.
‘Very perceptive.’ Jack nodded.
‘And don’t big boxing matches have girls in bikinis parading around, holding up the number of the round? Is that necessary to make the sport more exciting, as you put it?’
Parata had a point. ‘No.’
‘It’s the same here. Not necessary, but it’s the icing on the cake.’
A shrill whistle reverberated.
Tip off.
The game was only seconds old when a Scorpions player launched the ball from the edge of the three-point line. He got creamed by a Viking defender, sprawled across the timber decking, left a long trail of sweat. The ball dropped into the net for three points as the ref blew the whistle. Foul. A successful free throw followed for a four-point play. The crowd went nuts. For the next 25 minutes, conversation was limited to reactions to the game. Taylor was totally swept up in the moment, cheered for the Scorpions like she was a life-long fan.
At quarter time the score was tied at 28 apiece, Costa starring with eleven of those points, an assist and a couple of rebounds.
‘Are they going to win?’ Jack asked Parata when he returned from the bar with a scotch for himself, a coke for Jack and a chardonnay for Taylor. Jack’s mouth watered for a beer, but he’d been a good boy, not touched alcohol since a memory-erasing bender a month ago on a fishing trip with Constable Wilson. The next target was six months off the booze, but he held out little hope that would last. Christmas was just around the corner. Dammit, it was hard enough giving up the cigarettes without having drinkers left and right.
‘If Leroy keeps up this form, yes. But his team mates have to lift. He can’t do it all on his own.’
The urge to grill the Kiwi was strong, but the quarter-time break was short. Questions would have to wait. More frenetic action flowed in the second quarter, ending with the visiting Vikings ahead by five points. The crowd was a lot quieter than at the end of the first quarter. Jack sensed impending doom for the home team. The Scorpion’s superstar had accumulated three personal fouls in quick succession in the last two minutes of the quarter. Two more and it would be the end of the game for him. An aura of group anxiety filled the enormous space inside the stadium.
‘Do you still think they’re going to win?’ Jack asked Parata as a group of clown acrobats streamed onto the court. They set up in seconds and began their routine, which consisted of launching themselves off mini trampolines to perform outrageous dunk shots.
The Ops Manager shook his head and growled ‘They fucken better.’
‘Would you mind if we took a seat at the bar? My partner and I would like to ask you a couple of quick questions before the game resumes. I know it’s not the best time, but we’re investigating what we believe to be a homicide. The murder of the man we just paid homage to tonight.’
Parata nodded. ‘Of course. Fernando clued me in on what you guys are up to, what your suspicions are. If there’s any way I can help…’
‘Claudia…’ She sat with her body half-twisted, engaged in a chat with a stranger. Jack tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Yes?’
‘Coming?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Roderick here’s kindly agreed to answer some questions.’
‘Sure. The charming gentleman beside me here was explaining some of the intricacies of the game to me.’
Jack scowled at the handsome stranger as Taylor stood. The man gulped and snapped his head around to the front.
The bar was packed, shoulder to shoulder, with men in suits and expensive haircuts and women in cocktail dresses and even more expensive cosmetic enhancements. Another bar across the stadium supplied booze to the humble working classes at prices higher than the pampered, subsidised business people at the corporate bar paid. If they paid at all. Such are the vicissitudes of capitalism, Jack thought to himself as he grabbed a handful of freebie hors d’oeuvres that hovered by on a silver platter perched on a waitress’s shoulder. A battered tiger prawn on a stick and couple of spring rolls. Delicious. The OM whispered in the woman’s ear, she made a beeline for the bar and quickly returned with a round of drinks.
At a table in the corner with unfeasibly low chairs that elevated knees above hips, the cops and the Ops Manager clinked glasses. It was awkward, but Jack couldn’t think of a better way to start proceedings. ‘To the success of the Yorkville Scorpions. And to Dale Collins.’
‘To Dale.’ Parata touched the rim of his glass against Taylor’s. He gave the female detective a smile and a slimy half-wink Jack wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Not the place to argue about it though.
‘How long till the third quarter starts?’ said Jack.
Parata glanced at a chunky Rolex. ‘Fifteen minutes. Time enough, I hope.’
‘I’ll dispense with chit chat,’ said Jack. ‘Who among the players or staff would want Dale Collins dead?’
‘None of them.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Taylor, sipping a cocktail. ‘We know Collins and Gomez put up a huge road block in front of Leroy Costa to stop him transferring to the L
akers.’
‘So what? Have you seen him ripping the Vikings a new one tonight?’
‘Sorry, but the Scorpions are trailing.’
‘Yeah, and that’s nothing to do with Leroy. He’s leading the points tally, playing the best game he has all season. His team mates aren’t pulling their weight.’
‘That’s not what the man beside me said.’ Taylor put her glass on the table.
‘Excuse me?’ said Parata. ‘All due respect, but what the hell would he know about it?’
‘A lot, actually.’ Taylor gave a summary of the man, who called himself Scud, an ex-player from the Newcastle Tornadoes who played 10 seasons in the NBL. ‘So, yeah, I reckon he knows a thing or two.’
‘What exactly?’ said Jack. ‘I have to agree with Roderick. Leroy looks to be the standout player tonight.’
‘On offence, yes. But watch him when he’s manning up on his player. Letting passes go, not putting any effort in to stop the other team from scoring. He’s a show pony looking to get the limelight. Scud reckons if he keeps this up, the Scorpions are going to lose and there’ll be a lot of unhappy punters at the end of the match.’
Jack took a slug of his coke. ‘I hadn’t noticed any of that.’
‘Of course not,’ added Taylor. ‘Neither had I. But you can bet a lot of expert observers aren’t missing it.’
‘Jesus,’ said Parata. ‘You could be right. Scud Hogan was a legend in the 90s. Top defensive guard. Can’t believe I didn’t recognise him. I’ve never seen Leroy dominate like he has tonight and us trailing on the scoreboard. If that fucker is purposely trying to lose us the game out of spite…’ Jack felt the heat in the bar room increase by degrees. A think blue vein throbbed in Parata’s temple.
‘Perhaps he’s having an off night on defence,’ Jack allowed. ‘Then again, maybe it’s deliberate. I guess we’ll know at the end of the match.’
‘I ain’t waiting that long.’ The OM pushed the table away and jumped to his feet. The floor shook as the big man strode to a set of stairs and disappeared into the bowels of the stadium.
Chapter 10
Despite his bulk, the big Kiwi could hustle. Jack thought of the late New Zealand rugby star Jonah Lomu – six foot four, weighing in at 120 kg and fast as a locomotive. DS Lisbon flew down the stairs, three at a time, sensing Taylor not far behind him. He reached the bottom, glanced left and right to see a large backside in navy blue slacks motoring along, feet pounding. Parata led the chase by 20 metres. Jack summoned his inner sprinter, pushed his legs furiously, but made no ground. His quarry ducked inside a doorway. The cursing and yelling started almost immediately.
Inside the dressing room, Parata had the star forward pinned up against a wall. The two men eyeballed each other with palpable malevolence, like prize fighters at a weigh-in. ‘Why aren’t you defending like the rest of your team mates, huh, you lazy prick?’ he screamed at a Costa. ‘Think you can get all the glory by scoring lots of points?’
‘What do you mean, you fat asshole?’ Costa squared his shoulders, head wobbled from side to side defiantly. ‘I’m busting my butt out there. I’ve played every minute with no rests.’ The star forward’s physique puzzled Jack. Slimmer than many of his team mates, with less visible muscle definition. Around six seven, he looked like a sweaty insect.
Jack coughed as loud as he could, but the two men were oblivious to what was going on around them. Parata gripped the front of the player’s dripping singlet, twisted and pulled the man to within an inch of his snarling mouth. Austin Gould rushed to the scene, tried to squeeze his bulbous stomach between them. Jack turned to look at Taylor, who was staring at the unfolding stand-off and shaking her head. When the Kiwi easily swatted Gould out of the way, the emergency coach wobbling to retain his balance, Jack decided it was time to intervene. In a flash he was beside Parata. He gripped the OM by the shoulder. Maybe a touch too firmly. Before Jack could say a word, a crunching fist from nowhere connected with his solar plexus. Agony ripped through his stomach. He felt his diaphragm spasming as he fought for breath.
‘Hey! That’s enough.’ Taylor stood legs shoulder-width apart, her Glock 20 drawn and pointed at Parata. ‘Let go of Leroy and take two steps back.’ The man complied immediately, even raised his hands in mock surrender.
‘Sorry.’ Confusion caused his cheeks to pulsate. ‘He touched me first. Without my consent. What he did could be construed as assault.’
‘Shut the hell up,’ Taylor barked. ‘You’ll be lucky if DS Lisbon doesn’t charge you with assault.’
Jack listened to his partner take control. Pride won out over pain as another spasm ripped through his body. He doubled over and sank to the cold concrete floor.
The blow had come as a complete surprise. An angry administrator in a suit berating a player doing the wrong thing by his team, in principle, all well and good. Striking a police officer, another matter altogether. Jack felt his face redden with embarrassment. He hated being caught out like that; even worse was being felled in a room full of alpha males.
‘OK, everybody please calm the fuck down.’ Gould’s voice carried authority despite its shaky quality. Jack knew Gould, too, had just suffered embarrassment at the hands of Parata. There would be internal repercussions over the OM’s behaviour. He might even be sacked.
The pain gradually dissipated, breathing returned to almost normal. Jack grabbed the leg of a flimsy plastic chair, hauled himself to his feet. He glared at Parata. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m still deciding whether or not to charge you,’ he wheezed. ‘Go back upstairs and wait for us.’
‘Just let me apologise. It was instinctive, I thought you were going to–’
‘Go!’ screamed Taylor. ‘Or I’ll arrest you for disobeying a lawful instruction.’
Parata tugged the cuffs of his shirt and marched out the door. Jack staggered after him to make sure he didn’t hide a few steps up the corridor and eaves drop. All good, the OM marched to the end of the corridor and disappeared up the stairs. He’d be dealt with later.
Side by side with Taylor, Jack prepared to address the team and support staff. The players spread out from each other like they were scared of catching a virus, sat slumped on chairs, against the wall on benches, no one knew where to look. Only Austin Gould and a couple of other trainers remained standing, willing themselves to look calm and in control. ‘In a strange way, I can actually understand big Roderick’s reaction just now,’ said Jack. Players’ heads snapped up. That got their attention. ‘He’s emotional. You’re beloved coach has died. So I’m prepared to forgive him his outburst. Even punching me in the guts.’ He stared at Costa, forearms resting on knees. If there was a pictorial definition of “blank look”, a snap shot of the star basketballer at this moment would be the perfect example. ‘You, Leroy. What do you say to the proposition you’re trying hard to look like a winner, but you’re secretly sabotaging the match?’
‘It’s bullshit.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Two more fouls and I’m outta the game. What good am I to anybody then, huh? No disrespect, but the rest of the guys ain’t got the scoring firepower to get the job done.’
Jack shrugged. He also made a mental note of the hostile glares some of the men directed at the smug star. Professional jealousy existed in all fields of endeavour.
‘He’s right,’ said Gould. ‘In fact he’s playing to my instructions. Exactly what Dale would’ve done in this situation.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I told Leroy to hang back while the scores are still close. I’ve implored Rosen and van Buren to step up, double their efforts on defence. If the lead blows out, then Leroy will have to hustle, do his best to avoid fouling out. At this point, we simply can’t afford for him to be ejected from the game.’
A side-eye was all it took for Jack to comprehend Taylor’s contrition. Head down, shoulders slack. She’d caused this ruckus by setting alarm bells off in Parata’s mind. Passing on the long-retired player’s comments had b
een a huge mistake. For a second Jack contemplated laughing, but it was damage control time.
‘Right.’ He sucked in a big breath. ‘I know this game’s vitally important to you all, to this town. However.’ He paused for effect. ‘Yorkville Police are hunting a murderer and his accomplice, people who we believe killed your beloved coach. I think someone among you knows who did it or has information that will lead us to those perpetrators.’
‘Yes, yes, you’ve told us that already.’ Gould glanced at his watch. ‘Can’t we deal with that later? We need to be back on the court in less than four minutes. Our time’s being wasted, we’re supposed to be focussing on the game, not having punch ups in the dressing rooms, with guns drawn if you please.’
‘You’ll have to talk to Roderick about that. He might’ve done some damage to Leroy if we didn’t show up, so be effing grateful, sunshine.’ Jack thought he’d done a masterful job of covering their arses, Taylor’s to be precise. Gould’s nodding mug told him it worked. ‘You need to keep an eye on that Operations Manager, he’s a ticking time-bomb.’
A buzzer sounded courtside. ‘Right, we need to get out there.’ Gould clapped his hands. ‘Let’s go, boys. I need you all to play the best half of basketball in your lives. Come on!’
‘Let’s do it for Dale!’ One of the players yelled. His team mates hooted, repeated the entreaty. Gould beamed, but Jack could have sworn it looked like a forced smile.
Upstairs, Parata had taken a seat at the bar, remorse plastered across his face. A tall scotch sat half empty by his side on an armrest. His splayed fingers did push-ups against each other. ‘You gonna slap the cuffs on me?’ he said half-jokingly, extended his wrists as Jack and Taylor approached.
‘If it wasn’t a do-or-die match I’d be inclined to. Unlike some hotheads, I don’t want to cause a scene.’ Jack pulled out a seat for Taylor, pushed it in for her. Let the Armani-clad thug see how a gentleman behaves. ‘I’m prepared to forgive you on one condition.’
Shot Clock Page 7