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Fighting Chance

Page 3

by B K Stevens


  I stared at the pad before putting it in a desk drawer. “Really quick back fist—wow.” So he’d thought I had a good back fist. So what? But it made me miserable all over again.

  Fifteen minutes later, someone knocked on my door. Mom, I thought, and gritted my teeth. “Come in,” I said.

  She walked in holding a plate and a glass of milk, looking nervous. I hate it that I make her nervous about bringing me food. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Matt. I wasn’t sure if you’d had a real lunch, so I made a tomato-and-mozzarella sandwich. You used to like those.”

  “I still like them, Mom.” I took a bite. No, I hadn’t had lunch, and it embarrassed me to realize how hungry I was. On a day like this, I shouldn’t care about anything but Coach. “It’s good. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She hesitated. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we understand. But if you change your mind—”

  “I know. I can come to you any time, and you’re always ready to listen. I appreciate it. And I realize you must be curious about what happened.”

  “That’s all right. I called Berk’s mother. It sounds horrible. It sounds—heart breaking.” She hesitated again. “And Mrs. Widrig said you and Berk don’t think it was really an accident.”

  “We don’t. Joseph and Graciana don’t think so, either. But when we talked to Lieutenant Hill, he didn’t even take notes. He probably thought we’re dumb kids too upset to think straight. I guess I understand. Almost all the judges said it was an accident. They said the guy kicked Coach in the arm, which would be okay, and they said the last kick was aimed at his chest. But that’s not true. He kicked Coach in the armpit, and he aimed the last kick straight at his throat. If I could see that, if Berk and Joseph and Graciana could, why couldn’t the judges?”

  Mom took my plate. “Maybe they could see it, but they didn’t want to say so. If that man broke some rules, the judges might be afraid they’ll get sued for not stopping the match. And I’m sure they feel bad about Mr. Colson and don’t want to believe it’s partly their fault. They might be rationalizing, to keep themselves from feeling guilty. Would you like more milk?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said, stunned. That’d explain it, all right.

  “Fine. Oh, Mrs. Widrig asked if you’re coming to the lasagna dinner. Should I call her with an answer?”

  “I haven’t decided. I’ll call Berk when I do. I’m not sure I’m up to seeing people.”

  Mom beamed. “Perhaps it would be better if you stay home with us. And I found a new recipe for tofu stir-fry. It sounds like fun!”

  She scurried off. Another new recipe for tofu stir-fry. What made Mom think it’d turn out better than the last eighteen recipes for tofu stir-fry? I pictured Mrs. Widrig’s lasagna—layers of noodles, spicy ground beef, chunks of sausage, thick tomato sauce, four cheeses oozing through everything. And I pictured me sitting with Mom and Dad after dinner, trying to act interested while Cassie hopped around, miming gestures to help us guess that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

  I grabbed my phone. “Berk?” I said. “I’m coming.”

  ***

  All six of us showed up. Graciana brought salad, Joseph brought this flat bread that tasted better than it looked, and Mom made me bring tiramisu. She’d never made tiramisu before, she’d said, but it sounded like fun. Mom thinks all weird food sounds like fun. It looked jiggly and smelled like coffee. Just once, I wish she’d let me bring cookies or some other normal dessert to a party.

  “You don’t have to eat that,” I said as people cut pieces. “It’s slimy.”

  Graciana took a bite. “It’s creamy. That’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s delicious. You should try some.”

  “I’m not that brave,” I said, and Derrick laughed and gave me a fist bump.

  “Speaking of brave,” Suzette said, “I can’t believe you followed Bobby Davis into the locker room.” I hadn’t told my parents about that, but I’d told Berk, and he’d told everyone else. “Weren’t you scared?”

  “A little. But it felt like something I should do.”

  “It was dumb,” Derrick said, not in an unfriendly way. “And you didn’t prove anything. So he called somebody to help him find a lawyer. He’s from Richmond—naturally he wouldn’t know lawyers in Ridgecrest. And naturally he’d want one. He must’ve been afraid he’d get charged with manslaughter or something.”

  “I don’t think he did get charged,” Graciana said. “My parents saw him in the parking lot with some cops and a tall, thin bald man—my parents think it was Michael Burns, this big-shot lawyer. He shook hands with Davis and got into a car, Davis got into a police car with the cops, and everyone drove away. Probably, they just took him to the station for more questioning.”

  “He should be charged with murder.” Berk put down his plate. “When he kicked Coach in the armpit—”

  “Can we please not get into that again?” Suzette said. “It was probably his arm. Even in the video you took, you can’t tell for sure.”

  “And injuries are part of sports,” Derrick said. “You guys might not understand, because you play basketball, but in real sports—”

  “Basketball is real sports,” Joseph said. “It has injuries. What happened today—most strange. For so long, Davis was only front kick, front kick, front kick, once by once. Then, too sudden, he has many kicks, and that block. Such abruptness seems unaccountable.”

  Derrick sighed. “So, what’re you saying? He pretended to be lousy for three minutes, so Coach would let his guard down so he could kill him? Why? He didn’t even know Coach.”

  “He might be a psycho,” Berk said. “Somebody who likes to toy with people before killing them.”

  But Davis didn’t act like a psycho, I thought. He acted like someone who’d come to do a job, like someone who had his emotions completely under control—sizing Coach up, testing his reactions, trying to throw him off. I’d been brooding about all that for hours, going over all the possible explanations I could imagine. I knew there wasn’t much basis for any of them—I should probably just keep quiet—but I couldn’t hold back. “Or someone might’ve hired Davis to kill Coach,” I said.

  Derrick half-laughed, half-snorted. “So now you think this guy’s a Mafia hit man. Get serious. Why would the Mafia want to kill Coach Colson?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be the Mafia,” I said. “Regular people hire killers sometimes. Davis wouldn’t have to be a professional hit man, either. He might just be a tough guy who’s willing to kill for money.”

  “Something like that happened in Roanoke last year,” Graciana said. She’s the editor of our school paper, and she’s going to major in journalism at University of Virginia—she got this monster scholarship—so she keeps up on news more than most of us. “A man didn’t like his mother-in-law, so he hired a guy he met in a bar to shoot her. He paid him a few thousand, I think. The guy got caught, and now they’re both in prison. Those things do happen.”

  “That doesn’t explain why someone would want Coach Colson killed,” Derrick said. “He wasn’t married.”

  You’d need to understand how Derrick’s mind works to see why that almost made sense. “I can’t hand you an explanation,” I said, “but Coach came to Ridgecrest just two years ago. How much do we actually know about him?”

  “He enjoyed to bicycle,” Joseph said, treating it like a real question. “Once, he mentioned how, on weekends, for many hours he’d bicycle, exploring outside town.”

  “And he hated turnips,” Derrick said solemnly. “Totally hated them.”

  “My point is, we don’t know much,” I said, getting impatient. “Someone might’ve had a grudge against him.”

  “That’s true,” Graciana said, “but it doesn’t mean we should leap to conclusions about hired killers. The likeliest explanation is that Davis had a grudge against him. Even if they’d never met before
, even if Coach Colson had never heard of Davis, Davis might’ve heard of Coach. He might’ve had a reason to hate him.”

  “I don’t get it,” Derrick said, squinting. “Why would he hate someone he’d never met?”

  Graciana shrugged. “Lots of possibilities. Let’s say there was a car accident. Coach Colson was driving, and someone Davis loved was killed. Maybe it wasn’t Coach’s fault, so he never got charged with anything. Davis was out of town when it happened, but when he came home, he heard about it and decided Coach was responsible and had to die.”

  “Yeah, something like that could happen,” I agreed. “And it’s probably more likely than the hired killer idea.”

  Joseph frowned. “All this is much speculation with few facts. Besides, killing with many watching produces danger. If Davis wished Mr. Colson to die, why not shoot him in a dark place, where there is nobody?”

  “Because then it would obviously be murder,” Graciana said. “This way, it looked like an accident.”

  “It probably was an accident,” Derrick said. “If not, the cops will find out.”

  “Not if they’re not trying,” Berk said. “Lieutenant Hill acted like he’s already written it off. We can’t count on him to find the truth.” He stared down at his plate for a few seconds, pushing the last crumbs around with his fork, then looked up. “Look, I’ve been going nuts thinking about this thing, and I don’t want to accuse anyone, but one thing seems really suspicious to me. Someone who was at the tournament didn’t belong there and acted strange. And she’s weird in general and has probably done illegal things. I can’t help thinking she’s connected to this somehow.”

  “Who do you mean?” Derrick asked.

  Berk hesitated again, then let loose. “That girl who always wears black. Marie Somebody. Remember, Matt? She was in our social studies class with Coach Colson last year.”

  “Marie Ramsey,” I said. “I noticed her at the tournament, too.”

  “Yeah, what the hell was she doing there?” Berk said. “After Coach got killed, she was crying really loud—practically howling. Why would she care about martial arts? She’s not exactly the athletic type. And everybody says she’s into drugs and Satanism and other twisted stuff, like her sister was.”

  “Hold on,” Graciana cut in. “I don’t know Marie, but I knew her sister a little, and I never saw any signs she was involved with drugs or Satanism. Sometimes, the things people say about people aren’t based on anything. And lots of people who aren’t athletes like to watch martial arts. I have an uncle who’s the least athletic person you could imagine, and he owns dozens of martial arts movies.”

  “Maybe Marie just wanted to get away from her house and be around people today,” I said, remembering the thoughts I’d had earlier. “Maybe she felt sad about her sister and wanted any distraction she could find.”

  “Good point.” Graciana shot me a smile so big it knocked me back six inches.

  “So where does that leave us?” Berk asked. “Coach Colson was killed, most of us think Davis did it on purpose, and it looks like the police won’t even bother to investigate.” He breathed in deep, like he knew the next thing he said would sound crazy. “We should investigate, and then tell Hill what we’ve learned.”

  That did sound crazy. “I don’t want Davis to get away with this, either,” I said. “But we don’t know how to investigate anything. We could tell Hill about our ideas.”

  “He won’t listen,” Graciana said, “Berk’s right. If we want Hill to change his mind, we need to bring him evidence.”

  Suzette rolled her eyes, the same way she had this afternoon. “Ooh, ‘evidence.’ Sounds fancy. How are we supposed to find ‘evidence’?”

  “We start by finding out more about Bobby Davis,” Graciana said, not missing a beat.

  “I tried,” Berk said. “I Googled him—‘Bobby Davis,’ ‘Richmond.’ Wanna guess how many thousands of hits I got?”

  “So this time we don’t rely on Google.” Graciana sat forward. “I say we drive to Richmond tomorrow. We know he goes to Kelly’s Dojo. Let’s start there. I checked the website and found the address. We can use my brother’s car.”

  The words shot through me. Ever since I’d watched Coach die, I’d been burning up with the feeling I should do something. But I couldn’t think of anything. Already, I’d almost gotten used to the idea his death would be one more thing to feel frustrated and angry about. Now here was Graciana with a specific plan. I didn’t know if it’d do any good, and I wasn’t crazy about possibly facing Davis again. Still, it was something.

  Derrick laughed. “Hold on, Gracie. You can’t—”

  “Graciana,” she said. “Please. I don’t like Gracie.”

  “Excuse me, Your Highness. I didn’t realize you were so special.”

  “It’s my name,” she said. “I’ve got a right to be called by my name.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” He seemed to think that was hilarious. “Listen, you don’t wanna mess with Davis. He almost clobbered Matt, just for getting his phone. What’ll he do if he finds out you’re ‘investigating’ him? Anyhow, what can you learn by going to some gym? It’s stupid. I’m not going.”

  “Me neither,” Suzette said. “I think it’s stupid, too. Plus my father would go ballistic.”

  “So don’t tell him,” Berk said. “Say we’re going for a drive. That’s what I’ll tell my mom.”

  “He’d find out anyhow. You’re not going, are you, Matt?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll go. I’ll tell my parents we’re going for a drive.”

  “I would like to go,” Joseph said. “However, I have church. My mother is adamant.”

  “So are my parents,” Graciana said, “but I can go to early mass. Berk, Matt, I’ll pick you up around eleven. Kelly’s has a beginners’ class at one. We’ll say we’re thinking of signing up and want to observe, and then we’ll mingle and get people talking about Davis.” She checked her watch. “I should go. I told my brother I’d babysit. Berk, will you thank your mom for me, say I loved the lasagna? Thanks.”

  Derrick waited till she’d gone. “Wow. Gracie’s a take-charge girl, isn’t she?”

  “She’s so stuck up,” Suzette said. “She thinks she’s a big-shot reporter, and she’ll solve a murder and write articles about it and win a Nobel Prize. Plus she had a huge crush on Coach Colson. I don’t know if it went anywhere, but my friends heard that’s why she joined the club.”

  “You’re kidding,” Derrick said. “He was like twenty-five, twenty-six.”

  Suzette shrugged. “Some girls like older men. You’ve heard about her and Mr. Bixby, haven’t you? Everybody says they’ve been sleeping together since last spring.”

  “Mr. Bixby is married,” Joseph said. “He has children.”

  She shrugged again. “Some girls don’t care. Now, I don’t know for sure, but they stay late in his classroom, just the two of them, with the door closed, supposedly working on the newspaper. Last month, when I was at school one night for a dance team rehearsal, I walked past his room, and I heard them talking and laughing. They sounded drunk.” She sighed. “I mean, I think it’s disgusting, but I guess that’s how you get to be editor.”

  “Wow,” Derrick said. “Maybe that’s why none of the guys can get anywhere with Gracie. She only goes for teachers.”

  “I doubt this,” Joseph said. “Though the door was closed, I hope for valid explanations. Graciana appears a proper girl.”

  Suzette smiled. “You’re a proper boy, Joseph. Naturally you think everybody else is proper, too. But not everybody is.” She flexed her shoulders, as if letting bad thoughts roll off. “Enough about that. Anybody want to do something fun?”

  They started trading ideas. I let it pass by, thinking about what Suzette had said. There couldn’t have been anything between Graciana and Coach Colson, could there? He wasn’t the type to go aft
er students. I didn’t know Mr. Bixby, though. And Graciana’s awfully pretty. Suzette’s pretty, too, one of the prettiest girls in school—nice body, nice hair, face all sweet and soft and smiley. Graciana’s different. She’s got a nice body, too, and great hair, but she’s—well, not as soft and smiley. I don’t know how to put it, but when you look into her eyes, you can tell a lot’s going on inside her head, all sorts of thoughts and stuff. Sometimes, I’ve caught myself staring at her eyes, wondering what she’s thinking.

  I’ve never tried to get close to her, though. She’s a senior, I’m a junior, and like Suzette said, she seems stuck-up. But tonight, when she sounded so strong and sure, I’d felt a bond, almost. Now, thinking about her and Mr. Bixby—God. Suzette didn’t know for sure, but it sounded bad. And Mr. Bixby’s wife had another baby last year. Much as my parents get on my nerves, at least they’re together. Berk sees his father two or three times a year. He acts like it’s no big deal, but I can tell it hurts him. Nobody should mess with a family.

  “So, miniature golf,” Suzette said. “How does that sound, Matt?”

  She gave me a sweet, open smile. And her eyes were so blue, so clear, so friendly. She really is pretty, I thought, and smiled back. “Sounds fine,” I said.

  Four

  We didn’t fool Mr. Kelly for one minute. While Graciana told him our story, he stood with hands on hips, lips pursed tight. A tall, skinny guy who looked around thirty stretched out nearby, listening and grinning.

 

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