by Rob Roberge
They look confused, “Piercings,” I say. “They’re body piercings. Jewelry.”
They still look confused.
“Holes. Voluntary holes in her body,” Parcell says. “She’s a nut. Be careful, Ben. A woman that puts holes in herself—what’s she going to do to you?” He takes a puff of his cigar.
“Not normal,” Parker says.
“There’s no such thing as normal. Nothing’s normal,” I say.
“There sure as hell is normal,” Parcell says. “I’m normal. Rest of the world’s fucked up,”
“Normal people don’t own half a state,” I say.
He points at Parker and Craig. “Three fifths of this table owns half a state. Sixty percent. A majority. That makes it normal.”
“Around this table,” Terry says. “Don’t make it normal everywhere. Normal changes.”
Parcell waves. “Fair enough,” he says. “But, she seems dangerous to me, Ben Thompson.” He deals the cards. “Just looking out for you. What would you do if she wanted to poke holes in you?”
I look at my cards—a pair of threes—and bet ten dollars. “Probably do it.”
“You’re kidding?” Craig says.
“If she wanted it, why not?”
“Shit would hurt,” Terry says. “You’re talking crazy.”
I shrug. “Broke my nose four times. Broke every finger on my shooting hand. Ripped up my knee—had it drained maybe thirty times,” I say. “That all hurt. Did all that for basketball. I could put a hole or two in me for her. I like her.”
“You like her,” Parcell says. “Fine. Take her out to dinner. Buy her some damn flowers. You do too many things for other people. You should stand up for yourself.”
“I didn’t let you cut Darnell,” I say.
He nods, “I would have.”
I look back at my cards and fold. “I know.”
43
On the drive home, it starts to rain.
“That knock you took on the head,” Terry says. “You were foolish. Trying to dunk.”
“True.”
“You won’t do that again? Head shots take their toll, Ben.”
“Understood,” I say. I slow down to 55. The car slides over puddles of water, loses contact with the road a little too much for comfort. “Why all the concern?”
He says, “Your boss is a dangerous man.”
“I know,” I say. “That much I know. That’s one of the reasons I wanted your help.”
He whistles. “No way I could help you with that man.” He’s quiet for a moment and I hear the rain on the windshield and the hiss of the tires. “You want help? Cut yourself free from him as soon as you can.”
“You think he’s that bad?” I say. “He’s just rich.”
“He’s bad news. Willing to cut Latimore’s legs out from under him.”
“You wanted me to trade Darnell,” I say.
“Trade him, Bomber. Let him play somewhere else. That’s one thing—that’s a basketball decision. Making the team better. You trade him, he’s still playing—you cut him and everybody wonders why. Thinks he’s back on drugs. Cutting a guy because he got hurt? That’s cold.”
“It is,” I say.
“Fucking medieval,” he says. “He’ll do the same to you, you know.”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but it’s true. “Probably,” I say. “He seems to like me, though, for some reason.”
“Probably, shit. Be very careful. Don’t trust him.” He lights a cigarette and cracks the window. “He likes you? Everybody loved Darnell Latimore once. Everybody in the world.”
44
I drop Terry off and get to The Palms at three in the morning. There are three messages beeping on the machine. I hit the button and drop down on my bed. The first is from Chucky Hoops—saying he’ll be at tomorrow’s game to scout Money again. He wants to see me after the game. The machine beeps and the second message comes on.
“This is Cassandra,” Sean says. “I have a call-back for a Ben.”
I’d forgotten about the poker game when I asked her to call back.
“Are you there?” she says. “Not screening me out, are you? It’s not polite to tell people you’ll be there, when you won’t.” She pauses a few seconds. “You can try me at 11 P.M. tomorrow,” she says. “Last chance.”
The next message clicks on and it’s from Parcell.
“Ben Thompson, I’m sitting here watching the Baton Rouge game and a thought occurred to me. You don’t wear good clothing. If I gave you a raise, would you dress like an adult? Go to a tailor and have yourself measured, for Christsakes. Wear a tie. Call me tomorrow.”
45
The rain hasn’t let up and there’s flooding all over the West Coast. The team bus gets stuck behind accidents twice on the way to the gym. To my surprise, the Galveston Rangers made it. About ten minutes before the game, I pull Money aside.
“You’ve got eyes on you tonight,” I say.
“I appreciate your telling me,” he says. “What team?”
“No team. Chucky Chandler,” I say. “Freelance.”
“He carry any weight?”
“Enough,” I say. “I know him—and you’ve got a good word from me.” He looks surprised. “Don’t get too excited. Just play your game.”
He smiles. “What’s the scoring record in this little league of ours?”
I look down and massage my temples. “Don’t shoot for any records. Stay in control. Play within yourself.”
He hold his hands out. “We’re without D tonight, coach. You might need a scoring record out of me.”
“Let’s play it by ear, OK?”
He heads out on the court and I walk over to the bench. Darnell sits, his leg in a soft cast, extended to the baseline.
“You don’t fit on the bench,” I say.
“lt’s a new place for me,” he says. “I haven’t watched a game in years.”
“You’ve never been hurt?”
He shakes his head. “Never.”
I look out at the court. “You didn’t watch when you were out of the game?”
“You mean when I was banned?” he says. “You can say it.” He rubs the injured leg. “Nope. Never watched.”
I sit next to him. “We’ll miss you tonight.”
“Nice to know.”
Ten minutes into the game, we miss Darnell more than I’d thought. Part of the problem is Money. He’s taking every shot they offer him—hasn’t looked to drive or dish once—just bombing away from behind the three line. He stands there watching the shots, and they kill us in transition. At a time-out, I look up and see Chucky Hoops in the stands. He looks back at me and shakes his head. I yell at the team for a moment, then pull Money aside.
“You’re the best in this league,” I say. “Don’t force it. Play your normal game. It’s good enough.”
He nods, but I can’t tell if he’s hearing me or not.
“Drive,” I say. “Attack the rim. Get to the line. Don’t settle for the J”
He looks over my shoulder and past me.
“Don’t pull me out,” he says. “I‘ll get in a groove.”
“I won’t pull you.”
He heads back to the court and the game starts again.
“He’s forcing,” I say to Darnell.
“You blame him?”
“No.”
Money starts to play a little better. His jumper’s still off, but he starts to take it to the hole. About five minutes before half-time, Keller comes up with a steal and hits Hedda on the wing. She takes it up and Pete Jones, their point guard, cuts her legs out from under her. She hits the floor flat on her back and doesn’t move. I run out on the floor. She moves her legs and rolls over.
“You OK?”
She winces. “Lost my wind,” she says. “I’ll be all right.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I run up to Jones.
“What the fuck was that?” I’m going after him and Keller is holding me back.
“A
foul,” Jones says and walks away.
“Fuck you, a foul. You cut her.” I break free of Lewie’s grasp, I push Jones in the chest. The ref steps between us. The benches empty and there’s a mass of bodies under our hoop, pushing back and forth like two rugby teams. The ref gives me a technical.
“You’re T-ing me?” I say. “What about Jones?”
“It’s a flagrant. I made the call,” he says and pushes me back. Lewie’s got one arm and Money’s got the other.
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “He could have paralyzed her and he gets a flagrant? That’s fucking nuts. He should be kicked out. Have the guts to make the call. You’re chickenshit.”
“You’re gone,” the ref says and hits me with a second technical.
I start to calm down a little and pull free from Money and Keller. “I’m OK,” I say. I turn to the ref. “It was a shitty call and you know it was a shitty call.”
He waves at me the way grandparents wave good-bye to kids—with one hand opening and closing and this stupid grin on his face. Hedda’s at the line, waiting to take her free throws. “You’re OK?” I say.
“I’m fine,” she says.
Before I head into the locker room, I walk over to Darnell. “They’re all yours.”
“I can’t coach,” he says.
“Just let them play,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”
I head to the locker room and the fans—our fans—pelt me with cups of beer and chunks of hot dogs and garbage. I smell like a frat patty by the time I get inside, my temper flares again, and I’m ready to punch somebody. I’ve never understood this mentaliry—some idiot pays five, ten, fifty bucks and figures it’s his right to be a complete asshole for the evening. They ride me about my drinking, they ride Darnell about his drugs, they ride Hedda for being a woman. You name it, they scream it.
A ticket and a seat gives them the right to shit on everyone on the court and none of them—none—knows what it takes to play the game.
The locker room is quiet. I sit on the bench. The floor is a thick epoxy gray—I must have painted a hundred floors like it. It’s a sloppy job, the cut-in work around the baseboards is uneven. They didn’t do the walls behind the heater. I hear the crowd cheer every once in a while and wonder how we’re doing. A minute before half-time, a security guard comes in.
“You have to leave the locker room,” he says.
“I’m kicked out of the whole gym?”
He shakes his head. “Just for half-time. I’ll come get you after the team hits the floor.”
I go out to the parking lot feeling like a kid who’s been sent to the coat room to think about his behavior. Bad boy. Go to the corner, Ben Thompson. Stay away until you learn to play with the others.
The guard comes out the fire door.
“You can come in,” he says.
“What’s the score?” I say. We go inside.
“No idea,” he says.
I sit on the bench and look up at him. He lights a cigarette and leans against the lockers.
“Could you check?” I say. “It’s important to me.”
He shifts his weight, leans against the lockers with the other shoulder. He holds his cigarette toward me. “Can it wait a minute?”
“sure.”
Late in the fourth, we’re down five. The guard, whose name, I find out, is Randy, goes back and forth and gives me updates.
“You’re down three,” he says. “The girl’s on the line.” He goes away. We had a small crowd because of the rain and I can hear the ball bouncing, the squeak of the sneakers. “Tied up,” he says. “Cash hit a three.”
It eats me up—not being out there, but it’s an interesting way to get the game. Randy comes inside. “Thirty seconds left. Looks like you might win.”
Before I can ask him what, specifically, he means, he’s gone out to the court again. A minute or two later, the team comes into the locker room. Keller and Hedda are first.
“Darnell’s a natural, coach,” Hedda says. “I’d be worried if I were you.”
Money comes in and he’s pissed. He kicks a locker, punches a wall, and heads to the men’s room. I follow him. He’s slamming the stall door over and over. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he screams with every slam. He looks at me. “Not now. Leave me alone.”
Back in the locker room, Darnell walks up and gives me my clipboard. “All yours.”
“Nice work,” I say. “Thanks.”
He raises his eyebrows and closes his eyes. “Didn’t do a thing. Galveston sucks. They turned it over ten times in the fourth.”
“What’s with Kenny?” I say.
“He played like shit.”
“How bad?”
“I would’ve pulled him if he wasn’t being scouted,” Darnell says. He looks down. “Maybe I should have.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it,” I say. “You got me a win. I owe you.”
46
Chucky Chandler is staying at the Holiday Inn and we meet at the bar. I check the stat line before I get out of my car. Money got 22, but he did it on 7-26 from the floor. One assist, only three rebounds. His worst game at the worst possible time. I head into the bar, ready to beg Chucky to look at him again. We shake hands.
“He had one bad game,” I say.
Chucky holds up his hand. “I’ve seen him four times. I know that’s not his game.” He lights a cigarette. Chucky smokes in a hurry—the way guys who’ve been in prison or the army do it. Guys that had five minute breaks. They suck hard and deep, they never let the cigarette sit in the ashtray.
“So, he’s OK?”
“He’s fine. I can get him looks at three or four camps this fall. Could guarantee a European contract.”
I shake my head. “He’s been to Europe. He needs his shot.”
“He can get it,” Chucky says. “And he’s got a shot, because he’s got a shot. Tonight doesn’t butt that much. Not a good sign—the way he reacted to pressure—but it shouldn‘t hurt too much.” He points at me with his cigarette hand. “You, however, fucked up tonight.”
“I lost my cool,” I say. “It was a shit call.”
“Twice,” he says and holds up his pinkie and ring fingers. “Twice you’ve gone ballistic over nothing. It looks bad.”
“To who?”
“You don’t get it. do you? You’re being scouted, too, Thompson.”
I lean back. It never occurred to me. “Really?” I say.
“There’s CBA jobs. College, mostly division two. But some division one. Probably too late for this year,” he says. “But people are looking. And you got to show more poise.”
I nod, look down at the round deep walnut table. “So, Money’s in good shape. I have to behave better.” I take a sip of my drink. “What about Darnell?”
He looks surprised. “What about him?”
“What do you mean what about him? Is anyone interested?”
He smiles one of those you’re-so-dumb-its-funny-smiles. “Thompson, one of the things working against you is that you picked him in the first place. Makes you look like a sucker. He’s fool’s gold. The book’s closed on Latimore.”
“This is your opinion?”
“It’s everyone’s opinion,” he says. “Which makes it fact.”
“He’s still got game,” I say.
“So what? I see a hundred guys a summer who’ve got game.” He puts out his cigarette and lights another one. “Look, you want to hear this?”
“Probably not,” I say.
“He’s done. From the start he was a floater—head wasn’t always in the game. He’s a three-time loser who filled his body full of junk. He’s finally, finally gotten straight—which people waited ten years for—and now his body’s rebelling. You can’t feed a body the crap he fed it and expect to stay healthy. Look at him now—breaking down midway through a twenty-eight game season. Shit.” He shakes his head. “He’s spent. I wouldn’t risk my rep to get him a look, and neither would anyone else.”
“You don’t
know him,” I say. “He’s a good kid.”
“Great. He’s a good kid. I deal in players, and he’s a bad risk. Ten, hell, five years ago he was worth the risk. He’s not anymore. There’s no up-side to his game.” He leans back. “So, he’s a good person. He’s clean. I’m happy for him. Wish him all the luck in the world, but that’s as far as it goes.”
A group of men and women dressed like bad parodies of cowboys and cowgirls come into the bar. The men all have these big cowboy hats that make their heads look like baseballs with ears. The women wear ruffled skirts that jettison from their hips at a stiff 45 degree angle. They look like those silhouettes they use on women’s restroom doors with their hard triangular skirts.
“Fucking yahoos,” Chucky says.
“What are they?”
“Line-dancing conventions. Whitest people on Earth—them and Mormons. They’re fucking everywhere. I go to a new town, and it’s full of cowboys.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Every single fucking town. I can’t shake them.” He frowns. “I hate cowboys.”
“I don’t get them,” I say. “Cowboys.”
“What’s to get?” Chucky says and points at the group putting together a bunch of tables. “They’re morons.”
47
I knock on Money’s door.
“Go the fuck away.”
I knock again. “It’s good news, Kenny.”
He opens the door. “You going to kill that cow?”
“Better news.”
I tell him what Chucky told me.
“What teams?”
“Not Sure.” I say. “Chucky seemed to think you could pick and choose a little.”
He stands, resting against the open door. “Thought I blew it tonight.”
“You didn’t. But be more careful.”
He nods. “You want to come in?”
I look at my watch and it’s almost eleven. “Can’t,” I say. “Have some calls to make. Just wanted to let you know everything was cool.”
He looks down for a moment, and looks back at me. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ve been going nuts.”