Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks

by Brenda Stewart

  “I swear that WLBC is good with weather. It’s a lot cooler.

  “Yep, we need a fire.”

  “Always snows once during basketball tourney.”

  “Usually it’s the sectionals not the finals.”

  They opened the big furnace and as fast as they took off the black clothes, threw them in the fire. They counted the money, placed it into piles. Each pile got the same amount. The rest went into a concealed wall safe.

  “Gentlemen, a job well done. We got a cut for the shop. Sheriff gets the money for his kid program. Orphanage gets money. Schools get their share. The rest goes to the scholarship fund. And some big gang boss will wind up in the bend of the river when the big Chicago boys come through like a tornado with their counterfeit money.”

  Later on these same big out of town gang bosses dressed in black suits, went into the court house with empty briefcases as if they were on emergency city business that had to be conducted, walked out with a little fatter briefcases. Then climbed into a black Packard and drove swiftly away.

  Lawrence Edward kept up his staggering act as he went home.

  The field house doors broke open. People rushed out screaming and shouting. “We’re the Mighty Bearcats.” They bounded to their cars. Honked horns. Danced in the street. Filled Orv’s, and all the diners, restaurants and bars. Celebrations went on all night.

  The bike shop slept. Sheriff Rawlins made all the public appearances to watch over the good money left behind. Night slipped over the town as if nothing had happened.

  The men in black were counting out money in their room at the Delaware Hotel before they sorted out the shares. One of men who was counting and sorting said quietly, “Stop.”

  “Go get that Lawrence Edward guy. There seems to be some confusion.”

  “Money short?”

  “Money bad. Counterfeit.”

  While the city was ending its celebration, a big black Packard drove up the street as Mr. Lawrence Edward was walking home. Still pretending to sway just enough.

  “Need a ride, Mr. Edward?” The car stopped along the curb. One man got out and held the door. Another got out of the back seat, and pointed to the empty space. He whispered in Lawrence Edward’s ear, “The money was counterfeit.” Then slammed the door.

  Sheriff Rawlins watched from his office window as the Packard drove away.

  “You know,” he said to his deputy, “crime just doesn’t pay.”

  The deputy smiled and continued to count out money and put it in big manila envelopes.

  “This time it paid.”

  “Enough for the schools?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There enough for the boys scholarships?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cheerleaders scholarships?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cheering block?”

  “Well, sir, not quite enough.”

  The sheriff thought a minute.

  “Them Jackson boys still running shine over by the big bridge?”

  “Yes, sir. They are trying to.”

  “And are those Northern boys up by Gary still trying to muscle in on their business?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And is the old-timers Basketball Tourney next week?”

  “Indeed it is, sir.”

  “Then I think we can fix it so there’s more scholarship money for the cheer block if we get busy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The real tax money back in the safe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sheriff Rawlins smiled. He liked things on schedule and going smooth.

  Clarence Crain: A Former High School Hoops Player Remembers Championship Run

  M. B. Dabney

  Shortridge is the oldest high school in Indianapolis. It made it to the state boys basketball final game once – in 1968 – and, according to Clarence Crain, it was a magical time. “The whole season was special,” former Shortridge player Crane says decades later.

  Under future ISHAA Hall of Fame Coach George Theofanis, the well-disciplined Blue Devils won the regional championship in 1968 for the second year in a row, this time against their arch-rival George Washington, with its stars George McGinnis and Steve Downing.

  In the state semi-final game in the afternoon, played before a wildly cheering crowd at Hinkle Fieldhouse on the Butler University campus, the Blue Devils won 58-56 against Marion on a last second shot by Oscar Evans. But they fell 68-60 to Gary Roosevelt for the championship that night.

  “It was disappointing,” says Crane, who was a junior at the time. “But the seniors reminded us we’d have another “shot” the next year. And we thought we did.”

  Unfortunately, Shortridge players never cut down the nets in a state championship.

  Despite Shortridge having its best regular season in its history (19-3) in 1969 and being ranked No. 7 in the final state press rating, McGinnis – who would be named Mr. Basketball that year – got his revenge.

  Washington beat Shortridge 46-38 in the regional championship game. “We were leading until late in the game,” Crain says. And, he learned a valuable lesson that he remembers from that day. “Sometimes you’re playing not to lose instead of playing to win. It’s not a formula for success.”

  Crain, who is now a program officer at Lilly Endowment, went on to play college ball at Butler, also under Theofanis, who remained a mentor and friend until the coach’s death in January 2011.

  And as for McGinnis and Downing, there are no hard feelings. He remains friends with them to this day.

  REQUIEM IN CRIM1SON

  Brandt Dodson

  After the expiration of the Bobby Knight years, I.U. basketball experienced a series of ups and downs that challenged the faithfulness of their most ardent fans. This was one of the up years, and March Madness was in full throttle. Indianapolis was bathed in crimson and nearly everywhere I looked, I.U. reigned supreme. Even as Mary and I sat in a booth at Johnny Rockets in the Circle Centre Mall and our server made a ketchup face on my plate, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was an I.U. fan.

  “How’s business,” Mary asked, snatching a French fry from my plate and dipping it in the smiling condiment.

  “Better. The insurance work keeps the wolves from the door and…”

  “And Callie?”

  “Better. She’s heading to college this fall.”

  “Lemme guess. I.U.?”

  “Wow,” I said. “You really are quite the detective.”

  “Agent. I’m an FBI Special Agent. You’re the detective,” she said, smiling and resting her folded arms on the table. “At least you are since leaving the bureau.”

  I dipped a French fry in the ketchup face.

  “I didn’t leave the bureau. It left me, remember?”

  I had been terminated several years earlier for unprofessional conduct and although I was still considered a leper by a few in the local law enforcement community, I had managed to build a stable and growing private investigation business.

  “Let’s just say it was a separation and let it go at that,” Mary said. “The point is you are a detective.” She sighed and pursed her lips.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t ask me out to lunch and then drive all the way downtown to meet me if there wasn’t a good reason.”

  She sighed again. “Do you remember Maurice Norman?”

  “Sure. Nice guy. One of Indianapolis’ best agents. He was killed in a bank holdup a few years ago.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I’ve stayed in touch with Estelle since he died. We’re not close friends, but I look in on her once in a while just to say ‘hi’ or ‘how’re you doing,’ that sort of thing.”

  “Sure.” I bit into my cheeseburger.

  “I saw her yesterday and I knew the minute I went into the house that something was wrong. It didn’t take long before she opened up.”

  “And?”

  Mary shook her head
. “Nothing specifically and everything generally. Estelle said their son, Malcolm, isn’t himself lately. He’s picked up some new lingo and some new friends. Strange friends. And then there’s the money. Lots of money. And items that he shouldn’t have.”

  “What kind of items?”

  “An iPad, a high-end cell phone. Video game systems. Expensive electronics.”

  “How long has Maurice been dead?”

  “Three years.”

  “And how old is the boy?”

  “Seventeen.”

  I began subtracting the figures in my head. I’ve never been good at fractions, but if simple subtraction is involved, I’m your man.

  “He was fourteen when Maurice got killed,” Mary said.

  “I would have gotten it if you’d given me a little time.”

  “I only get an hour for lunch.” She bit into her hamburger.

  “Does Malcolm have a job? A lot of kids do at his age.”

  “Yes, but he’s only working part time. Estelle told me she found a thousand dollars rolled in his sock drawer.” She stole a fry and dipped it in my ketchup face. “He’s working twenty hours a week at minimum wage.”

  I was tempted to run the numbers again, but decided against it.

  “Maybe he’s been saving.”

  She shook her head. “Huh uh. He’s only been working for a month. Even if they didn’t take out taxes, he couldn’t have saved that much. Not by half.”

  The math was too advanced. I decided to take her word for it. “You added that up pretty fast.”

  “I went to college.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No. Just college.”

  “Cute,” I said.

  She shrugged and snatched another fry. “Maybe. Drugs are always a concern.”

  I agreed. “Lots of kids seem to have money.” I glanced around the mall, and Mary followed my eye line to the kids who seemed to dominate the establishment. Most of them were dressed in designer clothes and wearing tennis shoes that cost more than my car. Nearly all of them had cell phones, MP3 players or other electronic devices, and a majority of them were carrying more than one shopping bag from brand name stores. The bags were filled to capacity.

  “I had a paper route,” I said. “After collecting from the people who actually paid what they owed, I had less than twenty dollars a week.”

  “That was good in your day.”

  “It was. But I didn’t save any of it.”

  Mary grinned. “Who was she?”

  “Candace Paxton. Candy.”

  “Blonde?”

  “Nope. Redhead.”

  “Wow. You and Charlie Brown have something else in common.”

  I ignored the remark. “I made sure she had all the shakes and bubble gum she could stand.”

  She dipped another French fry in my smiley face. All the dipping had given Mr. Ketchup a bad case of Bell’s palsy.

  “What do you want?” I asked. “Why tell me all of this?”

  “Estelle wanted me to talk to him,” she said around the French fry, “but I thought you’d be a better choice.”

  “Why? I haven’t exactly done well in the daddy department.”

  She shook her head. “Callie’s fine. You did well with her and when I look at Malcolm, I can see the same thing. Callie lost her mother. Her confidant. Malcolm’s lost his confidant at a time when a boy needs his father the most.” She ate another fry. “I thought maybe you could look into it. See where the money’s coming from and help him get straightened out before it’s too late.”

  I finished my cheeseburger and pushed the tray of fries toward Mary. “How does Estelle feel about that?”

  “I haven’t told her.”

  I gave her my best stern look.

  “But I will,” she quickly added. “If you’ll take the case.”

  “What case is there to take, Mary? The kid’s getting money from an unknown source, maybe drugs, maybe not, and he’s too reckless to hide it from his mom. She can talk to him about it, clamp down a bit and he’ll be fine.”

  She folded her arms. “It’s more than that. He needs a man to come along side and set him straight.”

  “I can’t replace Maurice.”

  “No one’s asking you to. I’m asking you to look in on the kid and see what you can find out.”

  “And then what? Say, ‘hey kid, you shouldn’t be doing that?”’

  She sighed and studied me by tilting her head to one side. Her hair fell over her shoulder like spun coal and her jade eyes fixed on me in a cop stare. “If that’s what it takes.”

  I ate a fry. “Where do I find him?”

  I couldn’t remember a time in recent history when March Madness didn’t manifest itself as much in the inclement weather as it did in fan fervor. But this year the season was unusually mild. There was virtually no snow, no ice, and very little rain. The temperature hovered in the mid-50s and nearly everyone was out and about touting the colors of their favorite team. When I reached Broad Ripple on the near north side, roving gangs of fans had congregated along the sidewalks, spilling over into the streets. I worked my way around them and found the Happy Jack’s burger joint that employed Malcolm. According to Mary, Estelle said he was scheduled to work until closing at eleven, less than a half hour away.

  I had never met Malcolm, so there was little chance of being recognized. But I knew his father well and the trying circumstances of his death.

  Maurice Norman was an FBI agent assigned to the Indianapolis field office. In his day, he was the best of the best. But time took its toll and smoothed the edge he once had. He was killed in a bank holdup while making a deposit for his son’s college fund. Feeling the invincibility that comes with years of carrying a badge, he had forgotten the cardinal rule for every police officer— always have your gun. He had left his in the car and when the robbers began shooting the customers indiscriminately, Maurice died with them.

  Losing a parent is a trying event for anyone, particularly for a teenager about to blossom into adulthood and particularly if it’s a boy who has lost his father. Especially if he loses his father suddenly and under the circumstances like those in which Maurice died.

  I went into the restaurant and ordered a cheeseburger and soft drink for the second time that day. No ketchup faces here, though. Just a tray of food and a seat in the dining room.

  I sat with my back to the wall, eyeing a group of teens that had gathered around an older man I guessed to be in his late twenties and who seemed to hold sway over the kids. Nearly all of them were sporting I.U. sportswear or other logo items, but the older man was dressed plainly in a leather jacket, jeans and tennis shoes. His smile, though, was infectious and the crowd hung on his every word. As the closing hour approached and the dining room began to empty, Malcolm emerged from behind his work station and approached the crowd. He smiled broadly at the older man who stood to exchange hand clasps and an embrace with the teen.

  “Malcolm, my man. How are you?”

  I couldn’t hear the response, but it must have amused the man and the kids gathered around him. All of them laughed and Malcolm glanced at his watch.

  “Later, my man,” the older man said, as Malcolm left him to approach me.

  “Sir, we’re getting ready to close.”

  “Sure. Sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.” I stood and handed him my empty tray. Over his shoulder, I saw that none of the kids were looking in my direction, but were once again, focused on the older man.

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just leaving.”

  I left the restaurant and drove to the parking lot of a competitor across the street. My contact with Malcolm had yielded more than I had anticipated. Now, I would wait for the rest.

  It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, well after closing, before the crowd of teens that had gathered around the older man left the restaurant. Malcolm left with them and I watched as he again embraced the man and they exchanged hand clasps. Malcolm lef
t in an older model Toyota, but it was the man I needed to know and I waited until he started his car and pulled from the lot heading south toward downtown Indianapolis. As soon as he drove out of the lot in a late-model BMW, I started my car and followed him, allowing enough room for intervening vehicles to allay suspicion. As soon as I had a make on his tag, I called Mary on my cell.

  “Colton?” Her voice was raspy.

  “I need you to run a tag.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Excuse me, but didn’t you want me to check up on Malcolm?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No buts, Mary. Call the office and have someone run this tag.”

  She sighed. “Okay. I’ll call you back.”

  I flipped my phone closed and continued following the Beamer toward Indy. The traffic was heavy and the reveling crowds remained strong, due in part to the fervor of the basketball finals as well as the mild weather. Within minutes, my phone chirped.

  “It comes back to a Jamal Evans Crane.” According to the address she gave me, he lived in an apartment building on north Meridian, just a couple of miles from the center of the circle city.

  “He must be heading home,” I said.

  “There’s more.” Jamal had been arrested on two separate occasions for assault and once for armed robbery. He resisted arrest the last time, and an officer ended up in the hospital. There were no warrants, though, and he had a clean driving record. But although his record appeared clean, and he was idolized by a group of kids, it was clear that Jamal’s relaxed demeanor was a faÇade, masking the heart of a very violent man.

  I slept well that evening and began my day with a run around the perimeter of Garfield Park. My home lies on the periphery and the spacious area serves the residents of the Fountain Square area of Indianapolis quite well. After a significant renovation during a period of urban renewal, the drug dealers, gangs, and other ne’er do-wells vacated the Indianapolis landmark, leaving a peaceful oasis in the midst of the country’s eleventh largest city.

  After finishing my run, I showered, shaved, and filled my travel mug with coffee before taking the ten minute trip downtown to IMPD headquarters. I found Harley Wilkins, Captain of detectives, seated at his desk with his tie undone. It was standard fare for the man and I often wondered why he bothered to wear the thing at all.