by Rob Roberge
Rock grabs him. “Keep it. You’ve played your last game here.” He looks at me and Hedda. “The girl and the cripple, too. This ain’t a hustler’s court.”
“It ain’t hustling when you win, is that it?” Money says. He gets up in Rock’s chest.
Rock steps back. “Go away.” He looks at a couple of big guys to his left and holds his hand up. “I’m being very generous here.”
I grab Money and limp back to the car with him and Hedda.
“Told you,” he says from the back seat. “Easy money.”
“Didn’t look like it was going to be so easy,” I say.
“It’s his court,” Money says. “He wasn’t going to do anything. He’s pissing on trees in front of the other dogs. Just saving face.”
“How do you know that?” Hedda says.
“Not the first chump I took on his own court. I know how they act.” He drops the hundred on the seat between us. “Pretty, ain’t it?”
“That court’s spent for you,” Hedda says. “You played it out for 33 dollars.”
“No matter. Not coming back here. Me and Florida, we’re parting ways.”
64
We can’t decide on where to eat on the way home. We go to a Mexican place that uses lard, and an Italian place that’s too crowded. We get off the highway; we get back on. We pass by billboards for strip clubs with 10 cent cups of coffee and Big Daddy Don Gatlits’ drag racing museum. After a bunch of starts and stops, we end up in Sarasota. We get Chinese take-out and eat it out by the pool at The Palms. Money and Hedda split a six pack of Bass, and I get a two-liter Diet Coke. Bone’s put in Malibu lights by the pool. It’s a warm night, and both of their faces glimmer from the pool light.
“You play in Europe, coach?” Hedda says.
I shake my head and eat with chopsticks out of the box. The Diet Coke’s between my legs. I can feel the condensation on my legs. “USBL and CBA.”
“Italy,” Money says.
“I’m worried about food,” she says. “They eat a lot of meat in Europe.”
“Where you going to play?” Money says.
“Looks like Spain,” she says.
He nods. “Spain’s good. How’s the league?”
She shrugs, “Women’s ball is pretty big there. I’ll go for a year, see if I can come back and make the national team.”
“Olympics?” I say.
“Now that they let pros play,” she says.
I swat my arm trying to get a fly. It gets away. I try to catch it and miss.
“Slowing down, coach,” Money says.
“Slowed down,” I say. “I couldn’t move tonight. Didn’t have to fake I was a bad player. I am one.”
Neither of them responds. I’ve brought up aging, losing a step, and that’s not something they want or need to think about. I’m that reminder of the guy that didn’t make it. Like it or not, I’m the poster child for the run of bad luck—the career that got away.
“Where you plan on being next year?” I say to Money.
He curls his lower lip; looks like he hasn’t considered it until I asked. “Don’t matter. Want to go somewhere where there’s a slot.” He puts his box of food down and wipes his mouth. “But where don’t matter to me. Vancouver, Toronto, New Jersey, Atlanta. Anywhere I’m wanted.”
We sit in the heat around the pool for a while and Bone pulls up in his pickup. He comes to the pool.
“Place looks great, Mr. Fix-it,” Money says.
“Thanks,” he says. He looks at me. “I got a deal on glass brick. The sweat lodge is underway.”
“Good for you,” I say,
“Can I get some help unloading the truck tomorrow?”
“We got .I Might tomorrow night. Away game.”
He shakes his head. “I’m talking morning.”
“Morning’s cool,” I say. “Give me a knock around nine.”
He thanks me and leaves. The three of us stay out by the pool past one. The quiet of the night is interrupted only by the occasional sound of Bone working in his shed.
65
The coroner estimates that Darnell Latimore hanged himself sometime between nine and midnight last night. He can’t tell for Sure. but that’s what he thinks—between nine and midnight. Which means, I think over and over, I was out by the pool relaxing and eating Chinese food while he killed himself in his room less than a hundred feet away.
66
This is what I know:
Bone knocked on my door at nine and asked me to give him some help unloading his truck. We had coffee down by the pool and decided that if we got some help, the job would take less than half an hour.
I knocked on Darnell’s door a few times and got no answer. I started to get worried—I hadn’t seen him since I leaned on him at practice and my first thought was he’d taken off or screwed-up and fallen off the wagon. The door was unlocked and I opened it and he’s hanging from a ceiling beam, head to one side, his face all swollen and pale, his tongue hanging out to the side like deli meat. A table is knocked over underneath him toward the TV.
“Fuck,” I said.
Bone came in behind me. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed my arm.
“Call somebody,” I said.
Darnell’s still in his gym clothes—blue shorts and a gray T-shirt that reads “Property of the Lost Angeles Lakers.” He’s ace bandaged his legs, ankle to thigh so that he looks, hanging above me, like he’s in a catcher’s stance. His arms dangle at his side. I touch his arm—it’s a cold and lifeless as a kitchen counter—and pull away.
After that, it’s a blur. I closed the door and threw up over the railing. Stood there for a few minutes. Bone comes back up and tells me he’s called 911.
“What’d they say?”
He looks queasy.
“What?” I say.
“They said to make sure he’s dead.”
I close my eyes and rub my temples. “He is. What else?”
“Don’t touch anything and stay put,” he says. He leans over the balcony next to me. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
67
Everyone’s out by the pool and the world is a mess. The cops come, and then the coroner. They put that yellow police tape all along the balcony and around Darnell’s door. A cop named Carson comes down.
“Who found the body?”‘
I raise my hand. He asks me to come back up to the room with them.
We get there, and Darnell’s Still hanging from the ceiling.
“This is the way the room looked when you got here?”
I nod and he scribbles something on a clipboard.
There’s another uniform cop in the room along with the coroner.
“What’s with the legs?” The cop says.
The coroner, who looks like Ernest Borgnine, looks up and down.
“Height,” he says, “Too tall to hang himself in this room.”
The cop shakes his head and chuckles. “That’s a new one.”
“This isn’t some fucking joke,” I say. “Can you get him down?”
Carson grabs my shoulder and leads me to the door. “I’m sorry, sir. I know this is difficult, but I need some information. OK?”
“OK.”
He gets the stats he needs. I’m like a zombie, telling him Darnell Latimore, 28 years-old, I don’t know the next of kin, call Parcell Industries for more information.
“When was the last time you saw the deceased?” Carson says.
“Yesterday afternoon,” I say. “At practice.” I think, but don’t say, at practice, when I screamed at him. I feel sick and empty.
Two more people squeeze by us and enter the room with a stretcher.
“Can I go?” I say.
“Sure.” Carson says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson.” I hear this beep and look inside. The coroner jumps, startled, away from Darnell’s body.
“Watch alarm,” he says and shakes his head.
They stand there with Darnell still hanging, his alarm beeping until the cop g
oes over and shuts it off.
“Let’s get him down,” the coroner says.
I get to the pool. The team’s gathered around, some sitting, some standing. Bone’s down there.
“What now?” Hedda says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Not a clue.”
A couple of minutes later, they come out of the room with the body. Darnell’s wrapped in white clingy plastic from head to toe. His legs, I guess they couldn’t straighten them. He’s lying on the stretcher with his legs tucked up and it looks like he died reading in bed.
I go up to my room and throw up some more until it’s just dry heaves. I curl up on the bed and close my eyes. I call Sean, but she’s not there and I get her machine. I leave a jumbled message about Darnell and ask her to call me when she gets in.
68
I go downstairs. Everyone’s still around the pool. No one seems to know what to do.
“Someone’s got to get Lewie here. And we need to take a vote,” I say.
Money looks up. “What’s to vote?”
“Whether or not to forfeit tonight’s game,” I say.
“I can’t even think about that,” Hedda says.
“Don’t seem that important,” Childs says.
“Let me call Lewie,” I say. “Think about it. We’ll vote when he gets here.”
I go up to my room and tell Lewie what happened. He’s silent for a minute, then says he’ll come over. He’s about ten minutes away, and I stay in my room. It’s hard to think clearly—once I got beaten so bad in a bar fight that I pissed red for a week. My head was sluggish and hurt whenever I tried to think and my eyes wouldn’t focus. I’m feeling that, or close to it, now.
When I hear Lewie’s car, I head downstairs.
The vote’s 6-3 in favor of a forfeit. Hedda, Money and Lewie want to play—which makes sense since they’re the only ones that this league or team matter to anymore.
“OK,” I say. “I make the call and tell them we won’t be there.”
“That’s bullshit,” Money says. “I’m sorry about D—probably sorrier than the rest of you—but fuck him if he’s going to cost me.”
“This isn’t about you,” Grant says.
“It sure as hell is,” Money says. “We got a game on the schedule, and there’s people coming to watch that game. If there’s no game, there’s no scouts. That makes it about me.” He points up at Darnell’s room. “I liked D, but he cost himself a shot. He ain’t costing me.”
“You are one selfish motherfucker,” Grant says.
“Fuck you,” Money says and pushes Grant in the chest.
“Stop,” I yell. “Calm down.” I look at Money. “Kenny’s right. We’ve got a game and we’ll play it.”
“What about the vote?” Childs says.
I take a breath. “This isn’t a democracy. I changed my mind. It doesn’t do us any good to stay here.” I look around. “What are we going to do? Maybe a game would help, I don’t know.”
Bone comes out of his room. “Called Rube,” he says. “He wants you to call him ASAP.”
I look at my watch. It’s only 10:30 and I feel like I’ve been up for days.
69
The game doesn’t help, but it does get us out of town for the night. Only Money has any focus—he lights up for 37 on 14-20 from the floor. He was in a zone like nothing had happened and I don’t know whether to be envious or disgusted.
Lewie turned the ball over seven times. Childs and Grant said they were playing under protest, and they played like it. We lost 110-91 and, for the first time in my life, I didn’t care. The plane ride home was as close to silent as it gets. People made eating noises, read, watched a Seinfeld episode on video, but no one talked much. We got back early in the morning. Hedda asks me if she can catch a ride home with me, instead of taking the van.
We’re about halfway home and commuter traffic’s heavy on 441 south.
“You OK?” she says.
“Not really.”
“I’m not too good with death,” she says.
“Who is?”
I stop at a traffic light.
“I’m thinking of leaving,” she says. “I’ve got a contract lined up. I proved I could play here.”
“Don’t,” I say.
“I don’t see the point. I feel sick. It’s just ugly now. I could use a couple of weeks to get my head straight.”
I grip the wheel hard. The car behind me beeps and I see the light’s changed. I slide the car into gear. “I could use a couple weeks off, too. I don’t blame you. But stay. Please.”
She looks straight ahead. “I’ll think about it.”
“It’s only five more games,” I say. “Don’t walk now.”
70
Hedda and I go to Terry’s instead of The Palms. Terry’s at the bar with Sean. We come down the stairs and there’s a lot of hugs and I’m sorry’s.
“How you holding up?” Terry says.
“Not too well,” I say. “Falling apart, I think.”
He goes behind the bar and gets us some coffee. “You figure out what made him do that?” Terry says.
“No,” I say.
“Sorry I didn’t pick up,” Sean says. “Your call threw me.”
“You were home?” I say, wondering why she couldn’t have answered.
“I couldn’t talk,” she says.
“Couldn’t talk?” I say, raising my voice.
“No note?” Terry says.
“No note,” I say. “Told me last week he didn’t like basketball—never liked it. I didn’t believe him.” I shake my head. “I should have handled him differently.”
“My dad killed himself,” Sean says. “I couldn’t take your call.”
I feel bad for raising my voice, and take a deep breath. “When?”
“Long time ago,” she says. “You’ll go nuts thinking you had anything to do with it, Ben.”
She’s right, at least I think she is, but none of it makes any sense. It’s like, every two or three minutes, I realize all over again that Darnell’s dead. It hits me like news every time.
“At first I was pissed at Money for saying what he said yesterday,” Hedda says. “But he was right. D fucked things up for us. He should have done it somewhere else.” She takes a drink. “I know that sounds selfish, but it’s true.”
“I don’t think he was thinking about us,” I say.
“He wasted everything. If I had his body, I’d be in the Hall of Fame. He blew it and we’re all sitting around feeling sorry for him.” She raises her glass in a toast. “Fuck you, Darnell Latimore.”
“I’ve got to go,” Sean says to me.
“You OK?” I say.
“I’m OK,” she says, but she looks frazzled. “Call me this afternoon?
“I’m in Tampa till five,” I say. “Meeting with Parcell.”
“Call after,” she says and heads up the stairs.
I look at my watch. “I’m going to try for some sleep.”
“Good luck,” Terry says.
“Coach?” Hedda says. “Does it matter if I stay?”
“It does. To me.”
71
“Ben Thompson, you look terrible.” Parcell motions for me to take a seat.
He’s behind his desk and he doesn’t seem too upset. He’s not happy, but he’s the first person I’ve seen in the past two days that’s acting normal. He lights a cigar and leans back in his chair.
“I’ve got a tip on a player,” he says.
“What?”
“Tucker Weatherspoon. Small forward. Right here in Florida. Supposed to go to some big-time school, but he hasn’t got the grades. Doesn’t want to go Prop 40 or 48 or whatever the hell it is. He’s enrolled in some Junior College, but he doesn’t have the grades to play, so he’s going pro.” He smiles. “I’ve heard good things—great talent, never been coached—and his agent wants us to get first crack at him. He can start now, or you can wait until we’re in the CBA. If he’s as good as they say, I want him.”
“You’d better. Now is when he’s available, and now is when you’ve got a roster slot. You’d better think about it now.”
“I’m dealing with some shit, OK? Latimore offed himself, remember?”
He puffs on his cigar and looks a little sad. “I remember. Don’t suggest for a moment I don’t recognize that fact, or that I don’t care.”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
“You were.” He leans forward, “I like you, Ben Thompson. I care and I know this hurts you.”
“I feel responsible,” I say. I look at the room, the plush carpet with the vacuum tracks all lined up and I feel this heavy sickness.
“You are responsible.”
“What?”
“You say you feel responsible, and then you act surprised when I agree? All your friends will tell you that you had no control over this, that it didn’t matter what you did or did not do.” He points at me. “You should have cut him. You knew it and I knew it. You shirked your responsibility to that young man. I shirked mine when I didn’t force you. Don’t come in this door, waiting for me to tell you your decisions have no bearing on things. They do. That’s what makes them decisions, Ben Thompson—they matter.”
“You’re saying if I’d cut him, he’d be alive?”
Parcell’s face looks drawn and weary. “I’m saying we’ll never know, but you did give him false hope.” He goes over to the bar to mix a drink. “You want me to tell you it’s not your fault? I can’t do that. It is, partially. It’s partially mine, too.”
“You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
“Do not—ever—tell me how I feel.” He takes a deep breath—it’s the closest I’ve seen him come to losing his cool.
“Sorry,” I say.
He hands me a bottle of water, and sits behind his desk. “Don’t worry about it. This is a hard time.” He turns his smoke-sucking ashtray on. “But life, like it or not, does go on. And young Mr. Weatherspoon can’t wait until your mourning period is over to select a career path.”
“Whose word do you have about him?”
“A few scouts, but I want your opinion. He’s got some summer league all-star game next week in Miami. You’ll go?”
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen. Just out of high school.”