“There was no shot clock in those days,” Al said, “so Milan could just sit on its lead against Terre Haute. But against Muncie Central, a bigger and faster team, they were lucky to hang on to a tie. After three quarters, the game was knotted at twenty-six all.”
I was starting to wish we had a shot clock at our table. The letter carrier was on the move again, and I was certain she’d be past me before Muncie Central and Al threw in the towel. Then, for the third time, she was stayed in the swift completion of her appointed rounds. This interruption was a woman who could have been the twin of the lady who’d scratched the fender. She was wailing over a lost little girl—they were close enough now for me to hear—and crying like a little girl herself. It was another chance for me to be Galahad, but instead of getting up, I thought to myself, “What are the odds?”
“The odds were against Milan,” Al said, like he was reading my thoughts and not liking the way they were straying. “So what did Coach Wood do?”
“Punt?” I asked.
“He had his star player, Bobby Plump, hold the ball. He held onto it for four minutes and change in that fourth quarter, not even trying to score.”
The lost child, who looked to be ten or so, showed up just then, smiling like she’d taken a blue ribbon for something. The relieved mother seized the mail carrier’s hand and held it long enough for me to feel jealous.
Al said, “Plump then hit a fourteen-footer as time ran out. Milan won.”
“Finally,” I muttered, but softly, ‘cause I was trying to figure out what I’d just witnessed on Maple Street, what the lost guy and the fender bender and the missing child really meant.
Then Al said, “It was Woods’s decision to slow the game down that won it. ‘The big slowdown,’ the papers called it.”
I nearly jumped from my seat. As it was, I hit the table so hard the ketchup bottle playing Bobby Plump rolled clean off.
“Al, that’s it!” I said. “It’s a slowdown!”
The woman and child had finally finished their thank-yous and were heading toward a sedan double-parked halfway down the block.
“Al, where’s your car? Never mind.” I handed him my keys. “There’s my Caddy right there. Follow that Ford and call me when it lights. I think I just covered our lunch and maybe this month’s rent.”
Al lit out. I tossed some bills onto the table and did likewise. The mail carrier was about to enter a former house, a little frame number with that faux rustic siding, the kind where the edges of the boards still show the bends and bumps of the original tree. The business that called the cabin home was a travel agency. I would have been happier with something more substantial, like an accounting firm or a lawyer’s, but I told myself that the office I was after didn’t have to be this first one. It could be any one left on that block or maybe even the next block. I’d have to check every stop on the carrier’s route till I found it.
The mail lady was opening the agency’s front door—glass and aluminum and not rustic at all—to the buzzing of an electric bell. From somewhere in the back of the building, a voice called out, “That you, Carole?”
“Yep,” she called back.
At the same time, she reached for a stack of letters on one corner of a vacant desk. That’s the way things work in a small town, you see, and even in a former small town like Broad Ripple. The letter carrier waltzes in, shoots the breeze maybe, and knows right where to look for the goods.
“Just a minute, darlin’,” I said before she could touch the letters.
She turned around and smiled. A lot of women won’t smile when you call them darlin’ or sweetheart, which is one of the reasons I do it. It’s a little character insight freely offered, and a smart investigator never turns one of those down.
Carole smiled, as I said, showing a gap between her front teeth. That didn’t bother me a bit. Lauren Hutton had one of those, and it never held her back. Carole might have been amused by my sharkskin suit or my Elvis hair—blond going to gray but worn like the King’s, circa 1965—or by something else entirely. The mystery of that smile would have to wait.
“Just a minute,” I said again. Then I dialed the volume up. “Hey back there. Could you come out a minute?”
A guy appeared whose hair also looked like Presley’s. That is, it looked like Presley’s had after an army barber had gotten done buzz cutting it in ‘58. This citizen wore a Hawaiian shirt, which might have been a trick of his trade intended to get me thinking subliminally about a big-ticket vacation.
“Yes?” he said, looking from Carole to me. I produced one of my business cards, thermographically embossed and featuring a neat little etching of an eye. I’d wanted a holographic eye that winked when you moved the card, but I’d settled for the etching.
“Harley Rensselaer,” I said. “And you are?”
“Don Donaldson.”
“Mr. Donaldson, before this pretty lady here takes your outgoing mail, would you check it to see if anything is missing?”
Donaldson blinked at that, but he did what I’d asked, picking up the half dozen envelopes and sorting through them.
“There is a letter missing,” the agent said. “I told Susie to get it done before she went to lunch.”
So I’d hit the jackpot with my first nickel. It was that kind of day. I took the letters from Donaldson and handed them to Carole, who had to have been wondering by then if she’d ever get done with Maple Street. “Thanks for your patience,” I told her and got another smile in reply.
I hated to see her leave—every detective story could use legs like hers—but I knew where I could find her again on any given day. And I didn’t want a representative of the Post Office on hand for the next part of the conversation.
When the door stopped buzzing behind her, I said, “Don— can I call you Don?—your secretary, Susie, finished that letter and put it here on her desk. Someone took it after she went to lunch just now.”
“Took it?” Donaldson repeated. “There wasn’t anything valuable in it like a check. And we never mail cash.”
“A wise precaution. What exactly was in it?”
“An answer to an inquiry I received from a lady in Santa Barbara, name of Foggarty. She wanted to know the total spent on a trip I set up last year for a client, Clark Ralston. A month in Italy,” he added, in case I was thinking he meant a long weekend at Dollywood, which, judging by his office, would have been a likelier bet.
“Mrs. Foggarty is Mr. Ralston’s daughter and recently became his trustee. I guess he’s had some health trouble since he arranged for the trip.”
“Who was in your office besides Susie when you dictated the letter?”
Donaldson blinked twice this time. “How did you know there was someone with me?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I replied, which always sounds better than “I took a guess.”
It was a guess, but not a wild one. The three-act play I’d witnessed on the street had looked improvised, which suggested that the improvisers had heard about that letter at the last minute. And how else could they have heard? What’s more, their presence in Donaldson’s office that day had to have caused that letter to be dictated. Otherwise, the thing was too coincidental. I took a shot in the dark based on that reasoning.
“Your visitors also have a connection to Mr. Ralston.”
“Yes. It was his son and daughter-in-law.”
“They tried to tell you you didn’t need to answer that inquiry from Santa Barbara.”
“Yes. I called Mr. Ralston’s contact number when I received Mrs. Foggarty’s letter. I got his son.”
“Who insisted on coming to see you. Something about the interview made you send a reply right away.”
“Yes,” Donaldson said, flat amazed. I could’ve sold him a used car right then if I’d had one handy.
“I never like to get embroiled in family fights,” the agent said. “I mean, if Mr. Ralston wanted to treat certain members of his family to a trip and not others, that was his business.”
>
“So he sent a group to Italy?”
“Yes, a party of five, including his son and daughter-in-law. I decided the best way for me to get out of it and stay out was to dictate the letter and get it into today’s mail before anyone could strong-arm me. It was just one paragraph, giving the date of the trip and the total cost. But it got Mr. and Mrs. Ralston quite upset.”
“Susie, too,” I ventured, “since she had to delay her lunch to get the letter done before the mail pick-up, which she mentioned in front of the Ralstons. Lucky thing Carole was late today.”
“Yes. Wait! How could you know all that?” He looked at my card again, dubious for the first time. If only I’d gotten that holographic winking eye, it might have distracted him. “What’s your interest in this, Mr. Rensselaer?” he finally asked.
“I can only tell you that it’s a matter of the utmost urgency.” To my bottom line, I added to myself. “Tell me, did Clark Ralston set up the trip in person?”
“No, it was all done over the phone.”
“That’s all I need to know, I think.”
“Wait! If you’re saying someone snuck in here after Susie left and stole that letter, you’re mistaken. I would’ve heard the electric bell.”
I tried the door. It didn’t open a foot before tripping the switch that set off the buzzer.
“Dang, you’re right,” I said. “No adult could get through that gap. They’d of had to have a ten-year-old girl waiting in the car. And maybe a couple of accomplices to help slow Carole down, ‘cause the girl couldn’t slip in here until Susie had finished and gone to lunch. So I don’t blame you for doubting me, Don. I wouldn’t believe it myself except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The letter’s gone. Sit tight till you hear from me. And have a nice day.”
The rest, as they say in True Detective, was routine. Al had trailed and identified Mr. Clark Ralston, Jr., who’d played the man in the Colts jersey in need of directions, his wife Briana, the woman who’d lost her child, and their real-life daughter and letter thief, Rosemary. As a bonus, Al had also tagged the woman who’d scratched the fender, Briana’s sister, Tina, and the supposed owner of the fender, Tina’s husband Willie.
It didn’t take me much longer to establish that those five had all been along on the famous trip to Italy. Clark Ralston, Sr., a former Eli Lilly executive who was as rich as Midas’s banker, hadn’t been able to enjoy the trip he’d financed or any of the other extravagant purchases recently made in his name. His health problems, a series of strokes, had actually begun before the Italy junket, not after. He was currently living out his days in a nursing home.
It only remained for me to decide whether to shake down Clark, Jr., and company or offer my services to the out-of-state daughter who had grown suspicious enough to have herself appointed her father’s trustee.
I opted for the latter course. It promised to be less lucrative, but I knew it would make Al happier. And I owed Al. Also Coach Wood of Milan and Bobby Plump. And basketball in general. I told myself that I’d even take Al to a Pacers game if they won the playoff slot they were chasing just then. Luckily for me, they didn’t.
Tom Crean
Brenda Robertson Stewart
Tom Crean, a native of Mount Pleasant, Michigan, was named head coach at Marquette University in 1999 after serving as an assistant coach at various universities. Under his guidance, Marquette made a number of changes to create a new team image and to compile an impressive record. Crean left Marquette after nine seasons.
Crean was hired as head coach of the Indiana Hoosiers at Indiana University in April, 2008. Due to sanctions against the university after the Sampson years and players leaving or being dismissed, Crean began with a depleted roster and a damaged recruiting record. The first three seasons saw losing records—some of the worst in the school’s history.
Crean never gave up. He played like a winner stressing the Hoosier’s long traditions. The recruitment of standout high school player, Cody Zeller, saw a turnabout in the acquisition of top recruits. The 2011-2012 season saw a 27-9 record with wins over # 1 ranked Kentucky, # 2 ranked Ohio State, and # 5 ranked Michigan. Crean had guided his program from the depths of despair to one of the most remarkable comebacks in NCAA history.
For the 2012-2013 season, Indiana was ranked # 1 for 10 weeks and was in the top five for all but two weeks. For the first time in 20 years, the Hoosiers won the Big Ten regular title and were a #1 seed in the NCAA Tournament.
Under Tom Crean’s guidance, the magic has returned to Assembly Hall in Bloomington.
REDEMPTION
Brenda Robertson Stewart
If someone unfamiliar with Hoosier Hysteria had walked into the Needmore Hilltoppers’ gymnasium on a cold February night in 1952, he might have suspected he had walked into one of Dante’s circles of Hell. A full capacity crowd was writhing and yelling with purple and gold pompoms being vigorously shaken by spectators on the north side of the arena, while blue and gold pompoms were dominating the south side. With three seconds left on the clock, the basketball was knocked out of bounds. Jack Simpson in-bounded the ball to Needmore High’s star player, shooting guard George Henderson. With the score tied, the Oolitic Bearcats’ fans were screaming, “Defense, defense,” while the Needmore crowd was shouting, “Shoot, shoot.” Perspiration dripped off George’s brow and ran into his eyes. His purple and gold basketball uniform was plastered to his skin. It had been a rough game. Dribbling the ball toward the basket, George lost his bearings. He headed the wrong way down the court. The Needmore crowd exploded with “No, no,” while the opposing side was shouting “Shoot, George, shoot…” The Needmore fans covered their open mouths as the ball sailed through the air and swished through Oolitic’s basket. George, caught up in the moment, suddenly realized he was on the wrong end of the court. The Oolitic fans clapped, cheered, jeered and stomped until the gym shook as if it were struck by an earthquake. Needmore fans shook their heads in disbelief.
George walked off the court with his head hanging low. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. He snuffled trying to stop the tears but they came anyway. As he walked toward the locker room, he felt lower than a sidewinder. Unable to face his team and coach, he walked down a darkened hallway to a side door. He watched fans get into their cars as he hid like a thief behind some tall shrubbery. Some laughed about Wrong-Way George. He was still hiding when he heard his father, Frank, and his grandfather, Charlie, calling for him. Covering his ears with his hands, he sobbed quietly. His family searched for him. He heard his dad say, “He’s probably walking home to cool off since he’ll naturally be upset. We’ll pick him up on the road.”
The weather was warm for February, but it was still winter in southern Indiana. That meant the temperature hovered between 32 and 35 degrees. George, freezing in his scant, wet-with-perspiration basketball uniform, knew he had to get back into the school to get his clothes. He watched his teammates and the coach leave the school parking lot. If he didn’t get inside, he would be locked out and would suffer from hypothermia. Smarting from scratches inflicted by the prickly shrub, he hurried to the side door hoping the janitor hadn’t locked it yet.
He shook like a tree in a windstorm, his teeth chattering. George pulled the door open and made his way to the locker room. He knew he had to hurry or be locked in the school, but he was so cold, his movements were slow and labored. Dressed in his regular clothes, he realized he hadn’t worn a hat that evening. Ice crystals decorated the crew cut plastered to his scalp. He grabbed a bath towel to wrap around his ears which he couldn’t feel anymore. He hoped they weren’t frozen.
As George ran toward the door, he could hear the janitor whistling. He dodged the man checking the halls and locking the doors. George hurried out as fast as his freezing body would allow. He tied the towel around his head and began the two mile walk home, thinking he’d warm up if he walked briskly.
As George walked, he began to think about the tough breaks he�
�d had in life.
George wondered if his life would have been different if his mother hadn’t died from tuberculosis when he was a baby.
The only mothering I’ve had is from my dad’s sister—my Aunt Fanny. I love it when she cooks my favorite foods and tries to make sure I eat right.
George knew his dad loved him, but as hard as he had to work in the stone quarry, he didn’t have much time to spend with him. His grandpa, himself a widower, took care of George. His dad got up before dawn to go work. When he came home in the late afternoon, his clothes were saturated with stone dust. He was either hot from the summer sun or chilled from winter’s freezing cold. After he washed up in the kitchen sink using cold water from a pitcher pump mounted on the counter, Frank ate the supper his dad cooked and headed to bed.
No wonder there’s no time for me, George thought. He’s exhausted just trying to make us a living.
George thought about how much fun the weekends were in the summer. They never missed a Cincinnati Reds home baseball game. When there was no game, his dad’s buddies gathered at their house to play penny-ante poker while they drank beer, ate peanuts and told tall tales.
There was no money to fix up the house which was four rooms and a path. To take baths, they’d heat water on the kitchen cook stove and pour it into a big galvanized tub they dragged into the kitchen.
I’ve tried to talk my dad into letting me get a job in the quarry during summer breaks as a water boy, but he says he wants a better life for me, George thought. He’s hoping I get a basketball scholarship so I can go to college. After the stupid mistake I made tonight, probably no one will want me. I do get good grades. Maybe I’ll get a small academic grant, he hoped.
George reached the dirt lane that led back to his house. He took a deep breath and tried not to cry. As he opened the front door to the house, his dad ran into the living room. “We were gettin’ ready to get in the car and come look for you. We knew you’d be upset.”
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 28