by Paul Bishop
'Tm sorry," I told Nick. "I didn't realize you were God's gift to goalkeeping. I was under the impression that, until his death, Pasqual Maddox was the Ravens' starting goalie."
Nick glowered or tried to anyway. His youthful looks, even though they were dark with his Greek heritage, defeated the effect. "Maddox was a miserable, drunken soak who couldn't have stopped a quadriplegic from scoring. His goals against average was almost the highest in the league. If it wasn't for all the game-saving goals scored by Pat Devlin and Danny Castalano, as well as some brilliant defensive players, our season would have been history long ago. Why do you think I was always called in to handle tiebreakers?" A tiebreaker was a series of five penalty kicks taken by each team if a game ended in a tie after two overtime periods. The team which scored the most goals in the tiebreaker won the game.
"I played in a total of five games this season, and during the entire time I was on the field not a single goal was scored." Nick finished his outburst on a note of triumph.
"Then why was Maddox the team starter?" I asked.
"I don't know!" Nick waved his arms in frustration. "Maybe he had something on somebody. Maybe there is somebody who is jealous of me. All I know is, we don't need you on the team."
"Nick!" The boy stopped his ranting and turned around at the sound of his name being called. His father was standing at the entrance of the player's tunnel. "Get to the car before you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have." Stavoros Kronos gestured with his arms in a signal for his son to leave the area.
Nick hissed through clenched teeth. "You better get back to England before the same thing happens to you that happened to Maddox." He turned away to pass by his father.
"I'm sorry, Ian," Stavoros said to me. He shrugged his shoulders with a father's resignation.
"He is a good boy, and he will be a good goalkeeper one day if he can learn patience."
Sticks turned aside Stavoros' proffered olive branch by blurting out, "All he needs to do is keep his mouth open. It's big enough to block the whole goal." I nudged Sticks hard with an elbow and felt sorry for Stavoros, who looked embarrassed. The coach shook his head and turned to follow his son's passage.
I rounded on Sticks. "Anyone ever suggest you get a personality transplant?"
"Often, but I'm not one to take other people's advice seriously."
"What were you trying to accomplish? The man was obviously trying to make peace."
Sticks shook his head. "You don't want peace around here. You'll never find out what's going on unless everything is kept stirred up."
"You have to let some things settle," I corrected him. "Otherwise the water is too murky to see clearly."
Bekka chose that moment to rejoin us. She looked bright and perky in a yellow sundress, which ended three inches above her knees, and low-heeled sandals over bare feet.
"You kids go on ahead without me," Sticks said. "I'm going to get Reeves to take me back to the hotel to catch up on my kip before I fall asleep on my feet." Without further ceremony he tipped an imaginary cap to Bekka and sauntered off.
"What a wonderful man," she said, looking after Sticks’ retreating figure.
"Just wait," I told her. "After a couple of his relentless practice sessions you'll be wishing you never laid eyes on him."
Sweet tinkling laughter trickled out of her and she twirled like a young girl, her dress swirling around her, and gave me a happy smile. She suddenly seemed so feminine, I had trouble connecting her with the driven, professional athlete I'd seen during practice.
"Let's get out of here," she said, and took my arm to lead me away.
Out in the parking lot, she led me toward a late-model compact car which stood apart from any other vehicles in the almost deserted lot. Behind us I heard a motorcycle start up and turned to see a helmeted rider on a Japanese crotch rocket pulling away from the side of a column supporting the effigy of Zeus.
I turned back to my companion but felt the hair on the back of my neck begin to prickle. The noise of the motorcycle became louder, and both Bekka and I turned around again.
The machine was almost upon us.
I pushed Bekka one way and then dove the other way, scraping my hands as I landed hard on the gravel parking surface. The motorcycle zoomed between us as the rider let out a war whoop.
Twenty feet further on, the bike skidded to a halt. The rider turned around in his seat to look at us through the smoke color of the full-face visor attached to his helmet. I picked myself up, wondering if the rider was getting ready to take another run at us, when he raised the visor and stared at me with hatred.
I thought for a split second that Wagstaff was not ready to bury the past, but suddenly I recognized another player in the game.
Liam Donovan was in town.
"The eyes of Mother Erin are upon you," he yelled at me. "And her sons will have their due!" He made a gun shape with his fingers and pointed it at me before popping his thumb down like a hammer falling.
As he accelerated away, his maniacal cackle rang in the wind behind him.
Chapter 11
We sat together in the restaurant in high, cane-backed chairs on opposite sides of a small table. The motif surrounding us was that of a Mexican atrium garden decorated with terra-cotta floor tile, whitewashed stucco walls, profusions of colorful silk plants, and a small running fountain. Huge windows gave a view of an attractive row of eclectic shops along a busy boulevard.
A Mexican waiter kept running back and forth with an array of frothy drinks, chips and salsa, and the sizzling beef and chicken strips I was told were called fajitas. Wrapped in soft tortillas, along with bell peppers, tomatoes, refried beans, and onions, the fajitas made a filling meal to offset the effects of the salty margaritas.
The encounter with Liam Donovan seemed to have whetted our appetites and we ate like starving peasants.
On the way to the restaurant and while we were waiting for the meal to be served, we discussed the motorcycle attack as if it had been an act of random urban terrorism by a local tearaway. Bekka either hadn't completely heard or didn't understand Donovan's cryptic statements and seemed willing to go along with my own protests of ignorance.
As we ate, she had asked question after question about my playing background and my current magazine work. She drew anecdotes and memories out of me that I had thought were long forgotten. She was an animated listener, laughing in all the right places and keeping her face alive with interest, all of which helped ease my usual tongue-tied state. Finally, I changed tracks and brought the conversation around to her and her position with the Ravens.
"The university I was attending had both a women's and a men's soccer team, but the faculty followed the philosophy that never, the twain should meet." She took another bite of fajita and chewed quickly. "I protested, believing the only way I could improve my skills was to play against the stronger male players. Chauvinism is rampant in sports, and society gets away with it because everyone points at the physical differences in strength and speed between men and women."
"You don't believe the speed and strength difference exist?"
"Of course they do. The problem comes up in some sports areas, though, where occasionally a woman comes along who can compete with male counterparts. If that is the case, she shouldn't be kept back simply because of her sex. Women have made inroads into some male-dominated sports such as drag racing and even basketball, if you consider the Harlem Globe Trotters athletes as opposed to entertainers, but it isn't enough."
"Are you suggesting all youth sports should be on a... What’s the American term?"
"Co-ed?
"Yes. A co-ed basis?"
Bekka thought about that for a few moments as she chewed more food and took a sip from her margarita. "In a perfect world, yes. Perhaps if girls and boys had competed together from day one, they both would have evolved equally and would now be able to compete on equal footing."
I shook my head. "I agree with your point that if a woman is a
ble to compete at a professional level in any sport, she shouldn't be kept off a team because of her sex. However, I don't see too many of the top professional women golfers or tennis players—who might be able to compete in the men's divisions—rushing to change the rules. And as far as your views on youth competition in a perfect world, I think you're full of bull feathers."
She almost choked on her drink, laughing. "Bull feathers? You sure know how to sweet talk a woman, don't you?"
I smiled. "Don't get me wrong. I'm full of admiration for your playing ability and for your guts to follow through on what you believe. You are perhaps the exception which proves a rule. I'm all for equality, but your vision of a perfect world would negate many of the differences between men and women—differences which I admire."
"If your sentiment about my abilities is true, and not patronizing, I thank you. As for the perfect world, well. . . the point is moot. As for the rest? I know I can make it in the American soccer game, and I want to be the first woman to break the barrier and play the game professionally."
"Aren't you already playing it professionally?"
"Huh! I'm being paid a very small honorarium for showing up at practices and looking pretty on the bench during games. I've got a playing bonus, but it has never been exercised because I've never put one minute of field time in during a real game. I won't consider my goal achieved until I actually put in game time."
"Does the part about 'looking pretty on the bench during games' bother your feminist side?"
"You got the wrong end of the stick. I'm not some raving, radical feminist. I agree with you.... Vive la difference between men and women. But the Ravens were the only team willing to take a chance on me. If they want to get some mileage out of the fact that I'm a woman, then more power to them—because sooner or later they're going to have to play me to validate their hype.”
"What about Nick Kronos?"
"Now isn't he just the thorn on the rose? I wouldn't give the arrogant little twerp the sweat off my panties."
"Colorful," I commented, and Bekka blushed amusingly.
"Ladylike too, I guess, but he really gets up my nose. I know for a fact that his father's coaching contract contains a clause that gives him total control over Nick's playing time. And Stavoros is doing his best to bring the kid along slowly, but the kid just doesn't have it."
"Nick seems to think he does."
"He also thinks the sun shines out of his posterior."
I chuckled. "Does Nick know about the contract clause?" I'd never heard of such a thing before.
"Are you kidding? Because of his ego, he'd have a fit if he ever found out. Stavoros was the league's Coach of the Year last season, but the franchise he worked for gave up the ghost—it can happen to even the best of franchises if the corporate and fan support isn't present.
"The Ravens badly wanted Stavoros as a coach, and the only way he would come was if the Ravens also took on his son as the backup goalie. Stavoros has a blind spot where Nick is concerned. He truly believes Nick will make the American national team one day. Old Stavoros played for Greece years ago on their national team and is filled with the dream of seeing his son repeat the feat in his adopted country."
"How did you find all this out?"
"I used to date the Ravens' old coach," she told me as she pushed her empty plate aside. "When Ms. Brisbane fired him, he spouted all this stuff off to me one evening in a fit of pique before tucking his tail between his legs and running off to take a coaching job at an Ivy League college."
I felt a stab of irrational jealousy toward the "old coach" and hoped his new team lost every game. "And with him went your chances of getting into a game."
Bekka at least had the grace to look abashed. "These things happen, but this regime too shall pass. Maybe Nick will trip over his own mouth, fall in, and disappear down his own bum hole." She instantly put a hand over her mouth, as if surprised by her own bawdiness, then laughed when I did.
"Stranger things have happened," I said.
A busboy came by and swept up the debris from our meal. Close on his heels, the waiter returned with a dessert tray and steaming cups of coffee. When we were alone again, Bekka began toying with her strawberry cheesecake. I could tell she was building up to say something and I left her alone to get around to it.
"You're not just here to play soccer, are you?" she asked finally. "And that man on the motorcycle has something to do with your other agenda, right?"
"What makes you say that?" She'd caught me at sixes and sevens with her questions. I didn't figure anyone on the team outside of Sir Adam and Nina Brisbane would know I'd been asked to do anything more than play in goal. And I thought I had her snowed where Donovan and his motorcycle were concerned.
"The rumor vine is buzzing with the fact that you were one of Sir Adam's tiptoe boys in Ireland. And Sir Adam hasn't exactly hidden the fact that he's not satisfied with the police explanation of Maddox's death."
"Where did you pick up the term 'tiptoe boys'?" I was stalling for time, and Bekka knew it.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I think it was Alan Hard-acre who brought it up. He said you'd been some type of super undercover agent, or something, in the British army before you went on to become the hottest goalkeeping property going. He's followed your career closely."
"I'm flattered, but he's quite a bit off the mark."
"You didn't work under Sir Adam in the army?"
"I didn't say that, but Alan Hardacre seems to have been reading too many Boy's Own comics."
Bekka held me with a steady gaze and I realized that her eyes were not the ice chips I had first imagined. Now I could see the blaze of heat deep in the center of them, like the fire at the heart of twin diamonds.
"You can trust me," she said.
"So said the spider to the fly." I was wary, even though I instinctively did trust her. However, if I was going to get anywhere fast with investigating Maddox's murder, I needed an ally who knew all or most of the players.
Bekka had dropped her eyes and had gone back to fiddling with her dessert.
"All right," I said. I reached out and stilled the hand holding her dessert fork. The contact suddenly seemed as intimate as if our lips had touched. "I'll trust you. Sir Adam seems to think I have an advantage over the police, where the investigation of Maddox's death is concerned, simply because of my knowledge of soccer and the fact that I can attack the problem from the inside."
"So, he thinks that whatever you find out will be tied to the team in some way?"
"That about sums it up."
Now that we'd started getting the true confessions out of the way, Bekka dug into her cheesecake with gusto. You wouldn't have known she'd just finished a big meal.
"I think Sir Adam is on the right track," she said with her mouth full.
"You do? Why?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. It's just a feeling. Something more than just the animosity between Nina and Caitlin Brisbane. And everyone talks about Terranee Brisbane's ties to the Irish Republican Army, but I don't think that's all of it either. There's something else I can't put my finger on. Or maybe it's a combination of all three—the sisters, Brisbane and the IRA, and something from the unknown."
"Do you have any idea what the unknown factor is?"
"Like I said, I can't quite put my finger on it. Maddox was well past his prime, yet he stayed in as the team's starting goalie."
I drank deeply from my coffee cup, seeking a caffeine fix. "Nick Kronos told me Maddox's goals against average was one of the highest in the league."
"Well, he wasn't exaggerating that point. Maddox also had known problems with gambling and the bottle. On more than one occasion he turned up inebriated for a practice session. Somehow, he always managed to pull himself together by game time—much to the disgust of the more-than-eager Nick Kronos. In fact, Stavoros once caught Nick putting a bottle into Maddox's locker as a temptation."
"So, Nick Kronos certainly wasn't put out by Maddox's dem
ise."
She looked up at me sharply. "No, he wasn't, but I didn't mean to make him a prime suspect. Nick is a spiteful little bastard, but I think murder is beyond him."
"Based on what?"
"I didn't just play soccer at university. I graduated with honors and a master's in psychology. Another year of internship and I'll have my doctorate. I might want to play professional soccer, but in this country, you have to do something else as well in order to earn a living wage. Soccer isn't a sport most Americans think of when you hear about free-agent contract negotiations in seven figures. Or even five or six figures."
I leaned forward and put my arms on the table. "What about Maddox's gambling?"
"It's probably not what you think. The gambling on soccer in America is practically nonexistent. Certainly, it isn't enough to make it worth bribing somebody to fix goals. In Maddox's case, a couple of the bent-nose brigade showed up twice that I know of to demand money. They were low key at first, but the second time they tried to get a little physical, which was a bad mistake. He might have been burned out when it came to keeping goal, but Maddox was a big strong man, and he dumped both mob boys on their heads. They never sent reinforcements, so I figure he must have squared the money side of things away."
We finished dessert and pushed the debris to the side.
"Why are you so interested in helping me?" I asked her.
The waiter came by at that moment to refill our coffee cups and clear the remaining dishes. He placed the check on my side of the table and made it very clear that he thought it was time for us to vacate the establishment in favor of new diners. I'm very good at ignoring that type of body language, though, and I always adjust the tip downward in accordance with the amount of subtle pressure applied.
Bekka leaned back in her chair. "I want to help for two reasons. First, I was one of the few people who actually liked Pasqual Maddox. He was that rare male jock who didn't seem to feel the necessity of making a pass at every woman he came into contact with."