Fighting Chance

by B K Stevens

  “Do you really like Suzette now?”

  “I don’t know. She was nice, but I spent half the time worrying about what to say next.”

  “Are you taking her out again?”

  I sighed. “She asked me to call, and I said I would. I haven’t really thought about whether we’ll go out again. I’ve been too focused on this other stuff.”

  “Good sign.” He let out a short, sharp laugh and signed off.

  ***

  The next afternoon, at Berk’s house, we told Graciana and Joseph about the fight club, about the broken windshield and the flashlight. I paused, bracing myself, getting ready to hear them all tell me what an idiot I was.

  “This is probably going to sound stupid,” I said. “The night after Coach was killed, I said someone might’ve hired Davis to do it. You guys didn’t think much of that idea, and I agreed. For one thing, I couldn’t think of how someone who wanted Coach dead would’ve even heard of Davis. But if Davis is sort of famous because of this fight club, if lots of people know he’s a really good fighter, that could explain a lot.”

  Graciana nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. We haven’t found any connection between Coach Colson and Davis, and Coach moved to the area just two years ago and devoted all his time to Ridgecrest High. If he had a conflict with someone, it was probably with someone at the school.”

  “And you think,” Joseph said, “this person paid Bobby Davis to kill Mr. Colson at the tournament, and to make it look not on purpose?”

  “There’s no way to be sure,” I said. “But right now, I think that looks like a good possibility, yeah.”

  “Right now, it looks like the best possibility,” Graciana said. “I agree with Matt.”

  We spent the next half hour debating about whether to go to the police with what we had, finally deciding that we should finish the interviews first. Berk and Joseph had done two interviews and gotten some good stories, nothing that looked like a clue.

  I glanced at my watch. “We probably won’t learn anything useful from Paul Ericson, either, but if we’re going to his lake house today, we should leave. Ready, Graciana?”

  As soon as we got in her car, she gave me a quick sideways smile. “You and Berk seem to be getting along again. Is that why you went to Richmond, to make things all right with him? Was it a male bonding thing—you had to do something stupid and dangerous together, so you could stop being mad at each other?”

  I grinned, embarrassed. “Something like that.”

  “I thought so.” She lowered her voice to caveman level. “‘Come, let us hunt the wooly mammoth, just we two, using only these pointy sticks. In the morning, if we both survive, we can again be friends.’”

  That made me laugh. “When you put it like that, it does sound dumb.”

  “I don’t have to make it sound dumb. It was dumb. And I’m steamed you went to Richmond without telling Joseph and me. We’re working on this together, remember?”

  “I know. But we thought you’d try to talk us out of it.”

  “Definitely. And if I couldn’t, I would’ve wanted to come along. But that would’ve ruined it, wouldn’t it? This had to be no girls allowed.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, but she was right. “You think boys are weird. Don’t you?”

  “I think boys are interesting. And weird. I think the whole male bonding bit is weird.”

  “And girls aren’t weird? Girls bond, too, right? How? Shopping?”

  She made a face. “Thanks for the stereotype. But okay, some girls bond by shopping. Mostly, though, girls bond by talking. Even when shopping comes first, I think it’s mostly to give ourselves a chance to talk. I think, to feel close enough to really talk, girls do all kinds of things together. With boys, it’s got to be something physical, doesn’t it?”

  I thought that over. With most of my friends, she had a point. “It doesn’t have to be physical. But usually, yeah. Like playing on a team together, shooting pool, going camping. Maybe that’s not all that different from girls shopping together. Maybe, basically, we do stuff so we can trust each other enough to talk.”

  “Boys actually talk to each other? About what?”

  “All kinds of things,” I said, not wanting to get into details. “What do girls talk about? Shoes?”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. “And school, music, movies. But that’s probably a way to get down to talking about other things—relationships, parents, hopes, insecurities.” She laughed. “And boys. We spend lots of time talking about boys. Do boys talk about things like that?”

  “Not in front of girls. Not even in front of most other guys. I can’t see a bunch of guys having a slumber party, staying up all night talking about relationships. But one-on-one, with someone you trust, yeah. Except, of course, we talk about girls, not boys.”

  “Interesting,” Graciana said. “I hadn’t known boys talk about those things.”

  I hadn’t, either. At least, I hadn’t really thought about it, not until talking to her made me put it into words. I looked out the window and saw a sign: Lake Charlotte—15 Miles. “We’re getting close,” I said. “There used to be a big hotel on the far side of Lake Charlotte. Twin Dogwoods Manor. My dad says it was a resort, with a band on weekends, dancing, all that. He says people from nearby towns came on weekends for the dancing, and people from all over stayed for whole weeks for boating and fishing, and for hiking at the nature preserve.”

  “That’s right—the nature preserve isn’t far from here. And Ellis Creek.” Graciana turned her face to the right, in the direction of Ellis Creek Bridge, and the corners of her mouth got tight. “Poor Nina,” she said.

  Nina Ramsey had committed suicide not far from here, jumping off the old stone bridge over Ellis Creek, hitting her head on the rocks beneath it and drowning in the cool, clear water. I’ve been to that bridge, lots of times. It’s in an isolated spot, sort of pretty, that somehow feels shady and sunny at the same time. I knew guys who’ve taken girls there when they want to get romantic, and people who’ve gone there to have wedding pictures taken. I didn’t know if people would still do those things at the bridge, now that a girl had ended her life there.

  Graciana let out a sharp sigh. “So what happened to the resort?”

  “It caught fire,” I said, “when my dad was in high school. No one was killed, and the building didn’t burn down, but there was lots of damage. The owners couldn’t afford the repairs, so it’s been empty ever since.”

  “It’s still standing?”

  “It was last year. My father worked on a project in this area and drove by the hotel every day. He talked about how he’d love to renovate the place.”

  “That’s right. Your father’s a contractor. Does he like his job?”

  “Loves it,” I said. She had lots of questions about what contractors do. Then she asked about my career plans, and I said maybe engineering. After she’d asked a bunch of questions, I admitted I don’t know much about engineering, and I mention it when people ask me what I want to do mostly because it’s embarrassing to admit I haven’t figured that out yet.

  “You’ve got it all figured out,” I said. “You want to be a reporter. On television?”

  “For a newspaper. I want to write, not stand in front of a camera and read stories other people wrote. I want to investigate stories myself, too. I like gathering facts, talking to people, figuring out what’s true and what isn’t.”

  “Then you must be loving this whole business.”

  She gave me another quick little smile. “So are you.”

  “Look,” I said, pointing. “That’s the Ericson lake house.”

  It’s a big, spread-out, angular building with two decks and lots of oversized windows. The walls are rough and stained reddish-brown, so they look like planks nailed together. But you can tell it’s expensive, and the builder made it s
eem rustic on purpose.

  Paul stood out front, stuffing broken branches and other yard trash into a garbage bag. When Graciana pulled into the driveway, he walked over.

  “Good to see you, Matt,” he said, pulling off his work gloves to shake my hand. He hesitated, then held his hand out to Graciana. “Hi.”

  She shook it. “Hello, Paul,” she said, her voice crisp and formal. “We’re sorry to interrupt your work.”

  “I can use a break. Let’s sit on the porch. Fifteen minutes, okay?”

  We started with the general questions, and Paul said nice things about Coach Colson—how hard he worked, how fair he treated everybody. It sounded flat, though, and when we asked him for stories, he kept them general—“After we beat Appomattox, he bought everyone ice cream, with his own money.” I’d expected him to be more enthusiastic, more personal. I noticed, too, that when Graciana asked him a question, he never made eye contact with her—he kept his head turned slightly to the side. When she wasn’t looking at him, though, he’d sneak glances at her, scanning her up and down.

  She looked up from her notes, and he looked aside again. “If you had to name one thing that made him really special,” she said, “what would it be?”

  Paul half-shrugged. “Like I said, he was nice.”

  Graciana stared at him, silent, waiting for more. After a few seconds, he half-shrugged again.

  “He wasn’t fake,” he said. “Not at all. Once, when he gave me lousy advice during a game, he apologized afterward and said it was his fault I hadn’t done better.” Paul gave me a look. “Not exactly like Tomlinson.”

  “Nothing like Tomlinson,” I agreed. “If he ever admitted to being wrong about anything, I’d pass out from shock.”

  “We all would,” Paul said, and then his eyelids popped up. “Damn. Are you gonna put the stuff about Tomlinson in the newspaper?”

  “Of course not,” Graciana said. “You clearly intended that to be off the record. Though for future reference, the next time you want to keep something off the record—”

  Paul winced. “I should ask before I open my big mouth. Good tip.”

  We all laughed, enough to break the tension. I looked at my list of questions.

  “Coach Colson was always such an upbeat, enthusiastic person,” I said. “Lately, though, he seemed down, like something was troubling him. Did you notice that, too?”

  The tension snapped back so fast you could practically hear it whiz by. Paul’s head jerked back, and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Damn. I should’ve been ready for that question. “Nothing much. He just seemed to have something on his mind, something that was worrying him.”

  His hands clenched into fists. “Did he say anything to you? What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. Nothing. And he didn’t have anything on his mind. He was fine. I talked to him the day before it happened, and he was in a great mood.”

  Graciana pounced. “What did you and he talk about?”

  “None of your business.” Paul stood up. “What the hell are you implying, anyhow?”

  “Nothing,” I said, totally confused now. “I just thought—”

  “You were wrong. I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “We have one more question,” Graciana said. “If you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I would mind. We’re done.” He started to walk away. “Foley, get over here.”

  It was like we were back in the gym, and he was going to chew me out for missing an easy layup. I shot Graciana a glance and followed him clear across the yard.

  He turned to face me. “Tell me the truth. Did Colson say anything to you? Anything about me?”

  “No.” I felt sweat starting on the back of my neck. “Not one word.”

  “So what’s this crap about him having something on his mind? Where did that come from?”

  I lifted my shoulders. It was hard to give him a plausible explanation when I’d made the whole thing up to see what people would say. “I just got an impression. It confused me, and I hoped you could explain it.”

  He looked over at Graciana. “Did she tell you to ask me?”

  “No.” At least I could tell the truth about that. This particular lie had been my idea. “She had nothing to do with it.”

  “Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, and some of the tension seemed to go out of his shoulders. He looked at me with something close to a smile. “I heard you took Suzette out last night. You have a nice time?”

  Where did that question come from? “Sure.”

  “That’s good. Suzette’s the kind of girl you should date. If you wanna be captain, the guys have to respect you. Mostly, they’ll respect you for the way you treat them, and the way you play the game. But the people you hang out with—that matters, too. If you hang out with someone like Graciana, they’ll think you’re a joke.”

  I should’ve stood up for Graciana, but I felt too stunned to find the words. “I’m not hanging out with her. We’re working on this memorial issue together. That’s it.”

  “Good. Finish it up, and then stick with your own kind of people. And stop asking people if Colson had something on his mind. He didn’t.” He paused. “I heard you’re taking a martial arts class. That’s good. It’s important to stay in shape off-season, so you’re ready for basketball. You working out, too?”

  “Every morning before school. I exercise, and then I run laps in the parking lot of a church near my house.”

  “Good.” He slapped my arm awkwardly, turned away, and started picking up yard trash again.

  I walked back to Graciana. “Interview’s over. Let’s go.”

  She waited until we got in the car and started down the road. “So? What did he say?”

  More quick, tough decisions about what to say and what to hold back. “He asked again if Coach said anything to me, if he’d said anything about him.”

  “He asked if Coach said anything about him? Really? What else?”

  Damn. “He wanted to know why I was asking about Coach’s mood.” I paused. “He asked if you’d told me to ask about that. I said no.”

  “Did he say anything else about me?”

  I hated this. “Nothing much.”

  I was afraid she’d press for details. Lucky for me, she let it go.

  “So,” she said, her eyebrows scrunching up as she focused on the road, “he’s afraid Coach might’ve said something about him. And any reference to this thing makes Paul angry and defensive.”

  “But that doesn’t mean this thing, whatever it is, had anything to do with—well, with what happened to Coach. Maybe Paul cheated on a test, and Coach found out and wanted Paul to admit to it, and Paul wouldn’t. That’d be enough to get Coach upset. And naturally Paul wouldn’t want people talking about it, because it could mess up his scholarship.”

  Graciana thought it over. “That’s a reasonable explanation.”

  Obviously, she didn’t buy it. “Look, you don’t know Paul the way I do,” I said. “He acted uncomfortable today, and it looks like he’s feeling guilty about something. Basically, though, he’s a good guy. The idea he had some really horrible secret, and Coach found out, and Paul hired Davis to—I can’t even say it. That’s how ridiculous it is.”

  Graciana took her eyes off the road and turned to look at me, eyes soft. “We won’t jump to conclusions. We’ll gather more information, and we’ll make careful decisions about where the evidence seems to point.”

  She shifted to talking about our interview with Ms. Nguyen tomorrow. She’s being nice to me, I thought. She thinks Paul’s involved in Coach’s death somehow, but she realizes that idea’s hard on me, so she’s not pushing it. Not yet.

  Sixteen

  “Finally!” Ms. Nguyen said. She pulled a small rubber snake out of a sagging c
arton and held it up. “I knew we had one of these. So how, I’d like to know, did it end up in the As You Like It box?”

  “It crawled out of the Forest of Arden?” Graciana suggested.

  Ms. Nguyen laughed. “Not bad.” She checked something off a list, dropped the snake into a large envelope labeled Antony and Cleopatra, and flipped open another box.

  It was Monday afternoon, and we all stood in the prop room behind the auditorium. Mr. Van Zant wanted a full-props rehearsal tonight, so Ms. Nguyen had to locate a last few things. She didn’t want our help, she’d said—the prop room was too small and crowded, and things would get crazy if more than one person tried to work. So Graciana and I stood with our backs against the wall, watching as she darted from one stack of cardboard boxes to another. Ms. Nguyen’s slim, pretty, and quick, every movement small and precise. I think it’d drive her nuts if she had to stand still for a full minute. I could see why she and Coach had been friends.

  “Ms. Quinn said Coach Colson was going to be in Scenes from Shakespeare this year,” I said. “In a scene from Macbeth?”

  She smiled. “Don’t ever say that title in a theater, Matt. It’s bad luck. Call it ‘the Scottish play.’ Yes, he was playing Banquo. He nailed it, too.”

  “That’s what Ms. Quinn said,” Graciana said. “She said she saw him rehearse the scene once.”

  Ms. Nguyen nodded. She was still smiling, but a wistfulness crept into her eyes. “She’d helped him learn his lines. Several other people came by to watch—Dr. Lombardo, Mr. Carver, Mr. Meyer. Mr. Quinn wandered in at one point, too, and stayed a while. Plus some guys from the basketball team, but they giggled so much Mr. Van Zant made them leave. He’s lenient about letting people watch rehearsals—he thinks it’s a good learning experience—but these guys were causing a distraction.”

  “Did Paul Ericson come?” Graciana asked, in a tone I’d come to recognize as fake-casual.

  “No, I don’t remember seeing him. But Brian came, and Chris and Dan.” Ms. Nguyen sighed. “And poor Marie Ramsey, right at the end. I think that’s one reason I remember that rehearsal so vividly. Marie’s very quiet, never likes speaking up in front of a group. But she ran right up front, calling out for her sister. I spoke to her, and she was frantic—she’d gotten an odd text message from Nina and texted her back again and again, but Nina wasn’t responding. I told Marie I was sure everything was all right.” She winced. “Damn.”