“Okay, let’s work with that. If Richmond didn’t get the shoes from Nike, where did he get them from?”
I frowned and took a drink and frowned more. My forehead must have looked like a potato patch. “He’s a hustler,” I said. “He could have gotten them anywhere. He could have bought them.”
“Does his storefront make you think he bought them?”
“It does not. So maybe he has a stock of shoes.”
“And he happened to have Markus’s size. Does he run a shoe store?”
“No, he doesn’t. Not in the traditional sense.” That got me thinking.
“What about the other stuff Markus has? The shorts, the track suit?” Ron took a sip and continued. “You played high school sports. Where did you get your equipment?”
“From the team.”
“Did the kid run for any teams?”
I started nodding, and the synapses starting firing in my brain. “He did. He told me in the airport. He had a passport because he needed it to visit other islands in the Caribbean. It’s not one big country, of course. They’re all separate nations. So he needed a passport when he represented Jamaica at age-level competitions.” I slipped off my stool and grabbed my phone. “Excuse me a moment, Ron. I’ve got a call to make.”
Ron smiled and turned to the bar taps. I walked to the back of the courtyard, near the surfboard with the bite out of it, where the reception was always best. I called a number in my recent calls.
“Corporal Tellis,” said the voice on the other end.
“Lucia, this is Miami Jones.”
“Miami, good to hear you. Did you get back alright? How’s Markus?”
I gave her the two-minute tour version of the day, and then I got to the point.
“I need to get in touch with Cornelius Winston.”
“You what? I thought he was the problem.”
“The Russians were the solution to the Second World War in Europe, even if they were the problem in every other way. Sometimes you’ve got to use what you have.”
“That little plan resulted in the Cold War,” she countered. “Are you sure about this?”
“No. But I don’t have time to wait. I’ve given Markus a glimpse of what is possible, and tomorrow the college is going to rip the rug out from under him. I can’t let that happen.”
“Give me half an hour to see what I can find.”
“Thanks, Lucia.”
I hung up and returned to the bar. In my absence Danielle had joined Ron, just off shift and freshly showered. She wore a gray athletic top and jeans that made me want to go for a run on a tiny Jamaican resort beach. She gave me a kiss and sipped her vodka tonic.
She smiled. “Calling your girlfriend?”
“Lucia,” I said.
“I knew you had a thing for her.” She gave me the half grin that made me miss a beat.
“She is a cutie, and smart as a whip. But she ain’t you.”
Danielle looked at Ron. “It’s like living with Keats.”
“Hey, I’m just a gumshoe.”
“With a master’s degree,” said Ron.
“Not in English lit.”
“Fair point.”
Ron ordered another round and Danielle recounted her day. Cop shows always look so exciting, but a lot of law enforcement isn’t about enforcing the law. It’s about data entry. Danielle’s office on Gun Club Road looked like a brokerage firm. The main difference was that brokers’ tedium was rarely punctuated by being shot at. My phone rang and I sprang off my stool and went back to the rear of the courtyard.
“Lucia?”
“Miami. Here’s what I’ve got. Don’t ask how I got it.”
I liked her style. “Ask no questions, tell no lies, Corporal.”
“Exactly. This is Winston’s message service. Apparently he checks it several times a day when abroad. I hope it will do.”
“It’s as good as we’re going to get on short notice.”
She gave me the number and wished me luck.
“Thanks, Lucia. Good work.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“You don’t want to know. I’ll let you know how Markus gets on.”
“Thanks. Regards to Danielle.”
I didn’t return to the bar. I had put the number in my phone as Lucia read it out, so I just hit the little phone icon and was connected. An English woman’s voice came on the line. It was damned sexy, and would have sold a lot of magazine subscriptions.
“You have reached the message bank for . . .” I lost the lovely Englishwoman and got an aged baritone instead: “Cornelius Winston.” Then the woman was back. “Please leave a message and return number, and your call will be returned promptly.” There was a period of electronic silence, which really isn’t silence at all, and then a beep.
“Mr. Winston. This is Miami Jones. I have an offer for you. If you want to scupper Desmond Richmond’s play on Markus Swan, and bring Markus back into the Jamaica athletics fold, I need a favor from you. Richmond claims to be Markus’s manager. I need a letter, on official letterhead, saying that Markus was provided all his race equipment as part of team kit when representing Jamaica. If you can provide such a letter Markus will be done with Richmond. Here’s my email address.” I gave my details, and said he was welcome to call if he had any questions. I knew he wouldn’t call. He would do, or not do. There was no chatting necessary.
I went back to the bar and finished my beer, and then Muriel asked if I wanted another. I looked at Danielle. “How about a Jamaican-style workout?”
She blushed, which is quite a feat with a law enforcement officer, and slapped my arm. “He’ll have one more. Me too, thanks Muriel. And some smoked fish dip.”
It was worth a shot. But Mick’s smoked fish dip was a good second. He made it from scratch, from whatever big fish came in at the docks. When snowbirds leave South Florida for their northern nests, it’s one of the things they miss most. I had no such problem. I looked at Ron, I looked at Danielle. Then I picked up my cold beer and turned and looked at the twilight falling across the clear sky like a curtain, palm trees swaying gently in silhouette. I smiled. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Thirty-One
THERE WAS PRESSURE in the air when I woke the next morning. I left Danielle sleeping and padded out to the patio. The sky was clear, morning just etching the scene blue, but I could smell it in the air. Miles offshore, somewhere near the Bahamas, clouds were gathering. I shivered despite the mild morning, and wandered back inside to put on coffee.
The track meet was at Curtis Park in Miami. The track was in pristine condition and looked like it had recently been relaid. The lane markings were freshly painted white, and the grass in the infield was a deep green. It reminded me of the first time I had come to Florida. It was a high school baseball tourney in Orlando, and I couldn’t remember any of the results, but the brightness of the sun and sharpness of the colors stayed with me. This was that kind of day. The deep blue sky set off the greens of the palms that surrounded the track like a leafy amphitheater. We sat in the bleachers like nervous parents. Danielle cheered when Markus was called onto the track, and he nodded in her direction, which was as demonstrative as he was going to get. His face was all business. He was about to do what he did best. We had seen him briefly before the race, just long enough to ask how the visit was going, and he said cool, which I took as high praise indeed.
He was wearing his old shoes and a green, yellow and black top. There were blocks at the start of the hundred meters, and I hoped they weren’t a distraction to him. I worry too much. The gun cracked and Markus took off slow as usual, but by halfway he had everyone’s measure. He hit the finish line easing up, first by a couple lengths. I didn’t know the time but it was an impressive run, if the field was any good. There was electronic timing, which made times official, but no screen to display them. We waited for a long minute until the announcer called out the results. Markus had run a ten thirty. Not faster than he did on dirt in Jamaica,
but good enough. I hoped. I saw Coach Lombardi sitting by himself at the top corner of the stand, and I weaved up the bleachers to him.
“What did you think, Coach?”
Lombardi looked at the track like he was replaying the race, and then back at me. “He can’t start, his reaction time is like my grandmamma and I don’t like showboating at the finish.” None of that sounded good to me. Then the coach smiled. “He’s wearing the most beat-up pair of street shoes I ever seen. With proper training and a pair of spikes? Hell, he could break ten.”
“So you want him?”
His smiled dissolved. “You need to take care of business. Yeah, I want him. But Aaron’s freaking out.”
“Let me take care of Aaron.”
It was no surprise that Desmond Richmond had appeared at the event to claim his property. He was watching me as I found Aaron Katz standing on the grass beside the bleachers.
“Good run,” I said.
“Boy’s quick,” said Katz. “You gonna help me out?”
“I believe I am.”
Desmond Richmond sauntered over to us. “My boy runs fast, don’t he,” he said.
“He’s not your boy,” I returned.
“We going to have this conversation again?” Richmond offered a smile, the kind most often seen on the mouths of sharks.
“We are. You don’t represent Markus, you just want to ride his coattails. Well, I’m cutting them off.”
“You think you his manager now?”
I shook my head. “I’m just a family friend. But you? You’re nothing.”
“I represented the boy to Nike. How do think he got all that gear? So according to NCAA rules, he’s mine.”
Katz looked at me, and frowned. I pulled some papers from my pocket and unfolded them. I handed the top one to Katz.
“This is a letter from the Jamaican All-Schools Athletic Association, signed by the president of said organization, confirming that all Markus’s equipment was supplied as team kit for competition purposes, when he represented Jamaica at age level.”
Aaron read the letter and a small grin appeared on his lips. Richmond held out his hand and Katz passed him the letter. Richmond’s frown deepened as he read it. A snarl appeared when he saw the signature of Cornelius Winston at the bottom. Winston had come through big-time. I had received the letter attached to an email that morning. Along with another attachment, which I had printed and now passed to Katz.
“This is a copy of the race program for an interisland race meet. You can see Markus Swan listed as an athlete, representing Jamaica. And on the next page, you’ll see the name of Desmond Richmond, listed as a trainer. Not a manager. Not an agent. A trainer.”
That Winston had provided the second document proved, if it was required, that he saw Richmond as competition and wanted him gone. He mentioned in his email that interisland All-Schools also had rules against agents, and the only way Richmond could attend was to claim to be a trainer or coach. Doing so had backfired on him. He snatched the papers from Katz and read them over, and then snarled again.
“This don’t prove nuttin’,” he said, his Jamaican accent getting thicker with his anger.
“Actually, the NCAA loves a paper trail above all else,” said Katz. “Do you have any paper to contradict this information? A contract with Markus, perhaps?”
“I don need no contract,” spat Richmond. “I got him Nikes!”
“Yes, on that,” said Katz. “I called the executive vice president of global sports marketing at Nike. She and I went to college together. I asked her about you. She had never heard of you, and she checked with her team. Seems no one knew your name.”
“Dot ain’t so,” said Richmond.
“Well, either way, she told me that Nike doesn’t give individual sponsorships to high school prep athletes. They know that runs afoul of NCAA rules. They sponsor the teams, the schools where the athletes go, but not the individuals. She claims that a deal like you specify would not happen.”
Richmond looked at me and for a moment I thought he might take a swing, as the veins in his neck pulsed. But he took a breath and gathered himself. He handed the papers back to Katz, and made to walk away.
“Little battles don’t win wars,” he said, and then he walked away toward the parking lot. Aaron and I watched him walk, and as we did, I spoke.
“Who said that? Little battles don’t win wars?”
Katz turned to me. “No one. No one who won anything anyway. Little battles are exactly what win wars.”
I nodded. “So about Markus.”
“When is he going home?”
“Monday morning.”
“He can stay on campus again tonight, but you’ll have to get him tomorrow. There’s a two-day limit to visits. Rules are rules. But I’ll have an offer letter for him to take home to his mother before he leaves.”
I shook hands with Aaron and walked back to Danielle, who was waiting at the bottom of the bleachers.
“How’d it go?” She looked like a nervous mother.
“He’s in.” I smiled and she gave me a hug.
“What about Richmond?”
“He’s done. He’ll probably start getting written contracts with kids in the future, and we can’t stop that, other than to spread the word about him. But Markus doesn’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“That’s so great,” she said. “Let’s go tell Markus.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MARKUS CALLED HIS mother with the news. He tried to act all casual, but the way he held my phone to his ear with a white-knuckled grip told me that he was pumped. Evidently the campus had made an impression, and the students who had shown him around had painted the best possible picture. It wouldn’t be all smooth sailing. He’d miss home, he’d find the studies harder than anything he’d done before and from the look of Coach Lombardi, he’d learn what it meant to lose your breakfast on the practice fields. But he’d love it too, and he’d train better than he ever had and he’d run and run and run. I told Mrs. Swan that we would put Markus on the flight on Monday morning and she said Garfield would be there to collect him.
We had driven Ron’s Camry down to the meet so we could fit Markus in the car, and we offered a ride to two other student-athletes from Jamaica who had befriended Markus. Danielle frowned as the boys got in the back of the car.
“Makes you wonder about the practicality of the Porsche, doesn’t it?”
I shrugged. “If you buy a Boxster with any kind of practicality in mind, you’re out of your mind.”
“Still. Can’t even fit a third person in it.”
“What third person?”
She shrugged back at me. “No one. Just generally.”
I didn’t know where that train of the thought was headed, so I left her alone with it. We got on South Dixie Highway and crawled through the Saturday morning traffic down to the campus. We parked and walked together back to the on-campus digs. It brought back some memories: snoring roommates, socks on doorknobs and lots of good times that we thought would never end. Danielle and I sat in the sunshine while the three students took showers.
“You miss it?” She was looking at me.
I glanced around at the thick grass and the palm trees. If Florida was my heart, this place was the valve. “No,” I said. “Miss it is the wrong phrase. I did it, it helped make me who I am, what my life has been, and I’m happy for all that. So I’m glad I came here. It’s part of who I am, and maybe in a way, I’m part of who it is.” Danielle nodded but didn’t take her eyes off me, like she was studying a perp to see if he was telling the truth. “Besides, life’s pretty darn good now.” I put my hand over hers and gave a little squeeze, which she returned.
We bought the three students burritos for lunch at a place called Lime. Markus asked if it was okay for him to stay on campus again, and I said that was the plan.
“Just don’t be stupid, is all,” I said. “No alcohol or anything dumb like that. They’ve made you an offer, but they’re still
evaluating you. They want you on campus to see if you act like an ass. Don’t kid yourself that they won’t pull the offer quicker than you can run a hundred yards, if you mess up. You got me?”
Markus smiled. “Yah, mon. I got yah.”
“We’ll drop by tomorrow to collect you, okay?”
“Yah. Oh, dare’s a few guys goin’ to da cricket tomorrow. You okay to pick me up dare?”
“At the cricket? In Miami?”
“Yah, mon. West Indies are playing New Zealand.”
“You sure that’s not rugby?”
“Nah, mon.” He turned to one of the other students. “Where da cricket at?”
The kid looked at me. “Broward Stadium. Lauderhill. You know it?”
I did. I had driven past it the previous day. It was in the heart of Lauderhill, otherwise known as Little Jamaica, and was a decent three-iron from Desmond Richmond’s grotty storefront. I didn’t feel good about Markus being in the same country as Richmond, let alone the same zip code, even if Richmond was moving on to other cattle.
“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps we’ll come and check out the game. I’ve never seen a cricket game live.”
“Cricket match,” said the kid.
“Yeah, whatever.”
We walked the three young men back to the residence, and Danielle gave Markus a hug, which embarrassed the hell out of him. As she did, the kid who had told me about the cricket pulled me aside.
“I saw you talkin’ wit Mista Richmond,” he said.
“Yeah, he was giving Markus some trouble. Not anymore.”
“He bod news, mon. Bod news.”
I glanced at Markus, blushing through his ebony skin, and back at the kid. “You think Markus might be in danger?”
He shook his head. “Not here. Mista Richmond into all sorts of bod stuff here, stuff he don’ want to bring attention to. But back home, in MoBay?” The kid nodded. “Trouble.”
I thanked him and gave Markus a handshake and sent them on their way. Danielle and I wandered back to the car, and I sat without starting it for a moment.
“You okay?” she asked.
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