A vidscreen set up at an information kiosk in the main lobby informed him that Team Sports Administration had their offices on the second floor. Another vidscreen greeted him when he got off the elevator on the second floor, this one informing him that Vice President McKelvey’s office was located at the end of the east corridor and, after scanning his credentials, opening the way for him. At the end of the east corridor he pushed through a set of double doors made of some dark wood he didn’t have a name for emblazoned with the crest of Hatis City University (knowledge, diversity, responsibility, around a golden ear of corn on a field of green) and found another reception area, this one helmed by an actual receptionist.
The nameplate on the huge, curved wooden desk just said Bonna. Ezra had no idea if this was a first name or a last. Bonna looked like she could have found work in any high end gentlemen’s club in Dream Street if reception work didn’t pan out for her; her glittery aquamarine dress, sleeveless and cut approximately to her smooth stomach in the front, clung to her generous curves like it was painted on. Her eyes, designer eyes that glimmered with a light all their own, were the same color as the dress; they weren’t filled with the cunning of a Dream Street girl’s eyes, though. Bonna didn’t look very bright; she was an ornament, as much for decoration here in this anteroom of the Vice President as the big ferns placed just so on either side of a big framed black and white hologram of a leaning barn with beams of sunlight reaching for the rolling fields around it through a screen of heavy clouds. Ezra wondered if Collin McKelvey was a married man. He didn’t wonder about what duties he expected his real life sex doll of a receptionist to perform.
Bonna looked up from her vidscreen as Ezra approached, flipping thick curls of platinum blonde hair away from her angular face with a practiced shake of her head. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said. She showed a lot of perfect little white teeth as she smiled, teeth that gleamed wetly out from between plump, glossy lips. Her teeth looked about as real as her body; expensive work, and a good compliment to the string of synthetic pearls circling her marble white throat and dangling in the massive cleavage of her round white breasts. “You must be High Guard Ezra Beckitt.”
“I must be,” Ezra said. Eye contact, he told himself. He was a professional.
Bonna continued to smile. It was her default position. Ezra would hate to be there if something made her frown; her face might break. “Still and all,” she said, an odd turn of phrase, “I’ll have to ask to see your identification. The vidscreen informed me you were coming, but we can’t be too careful. It’s university policy for me to confirm your ID.”
“Of course,” Ezra said. “Gotta keep a close watch on that sports equipment. Can’t have the team jock straps falling into the wrong hands.”
Bonna laughed; a coquettish titter of giggles that erupted from her slim throat because she knew a joke from tone of voice- whether she got it or not. She took the leather case Ezra offered her and inspected it for a long moment, turning it this way and that. “I just love the silver star,” she said. Ezra could see the badge reflected in her wide eyes- they were like wet, glossy mirrors. “So like the wild west, you know? Like you’re a marshal or a ranger, out on the trail of Kid William. Like there was this show when I was a kid- well, it wasn’t from when I was a kid it was ancient, it wasn’t even, like, in color, but my folks had this channel on the old TV called Yesteryear Retro and it played all these old reruns, like the one with the people stranded on an island, and this one about two women who shared an apartment and worked in a brewery- and the old westerns, of course. That’s what the star always makes me think of. Is it real silver?”
Ezra blinked. “Huh?” he said. He’d lost track of the conversation.
“Your star,” Bonna said. She leaned over her desk to hand the badge back, those pale globes he wasn’t supposed to be looking at almost slipping their earthly bonds as they pressed against the dark wood. “Is it really silver?”
“I couldn’t say, miss,” Ezra said. He slipped his ID back into his suit jacket. “And today I’m just on the trail of a Vice President of Team Sports. Could you buzz me into his office?”
“Nope,” Bonna said, still with that ultra hi-watt smile. “Well, like, I could,” she went on quickly, seeing the frown on the High Guard’s face, “but it wouldn’t do you much good. Mister McKelvey isn’t in his office at the moment. Aside from his administration duties he’s also the head coach of the baseball team. The team’s out on the practice field right now. I could call him in, if you want. Or you could just, like, wait here with me. I’m sure we could find some way to pass the time.” The receptionist leaned back in her office chair, everything about her full of a ripe, wet promise as she looked on him with those glittering aquamarine eyes. “Practice won’t be over for another forty minutes or so.”
“Think I’ll just go find him myself,” Ezra said thickly. This girl, she was built a lot like Robin Drake. High Guard Drake’s generous body was real though, warm and inviting, and she was smart, funny, and fierce in the bargain. This girl, with all of her store bought curves, was as alluring as a new car. There was nothing to her. And aside from that, there was no way of knowing if she had some sort of peepshow rig set up here with her vidscreen; it was a lucrative way for an oversexed girl to use her body to earn some creds.
Bonna sat back up in her chair. Suddenly she looked bored- a disinterested receptionist dealing with an unwelcome intrusion into her day. The drastic sea-change in her face was fascinating to watch. “I’m sure that will be fine, High Guard Beckitt,” she said. “I’ll just message ahead and let Mister McKelvey know that you’re on your way. And what, may I ask, can I tell him this is regarding?”
“A student named Kevin Peters,” Ezra said. He watched the receptionist closely. Either she had an excellent poker face (which wouldn’t be difficult, she was more plastic than flesh), or the name meant nothing to her. He felt fairly confident that it was the latter; Peters hadn’t even started his career here yet- once he had he might have found himself spending a lot of time with Miss Bonna (and becoming a vidscreen celebrity at the same time, unbeknownst to him), but that was neither here nor there. He’d just been some kid…and that’s all he ever got the chance to be.
“I will relay that message,” Bonna said brightly. “Would you like someone to accompany you over to the practice field? The university complex can be a bit of a maze.”
“No,” Ezra said. “I think I can manage. Thanks for the help, miss. You’ve been most cooperative.”
“Any time,” Bonna said. She licked her glossy lips and leaned forward over the desk again. “Any old time at all, High Guard Beckitt.”
Ezra turned and left the reception area, shaking his head. Once he got back to the lobby and pushed his out through the revolving door, he got a smoke lit. He felt he needed one.
-
Storm clouds were in full retreat, the bright summer sun tearing what was left of them to tatters and banishing the rain for good measure. The green grass of the practice field’s outfield and the home run territory out beyond the tall chain link fence glittered with droplets like a piece of green felt littered with diamond chips. The base lines were churned up muddy ruts. Ezra walked through the grass, his engineer boots turning black with moisture, and climbed the visitor’s side stands and took a seat. The rows of metal benches caught the sunlight and threw it in his eyes, turning everything to quicksilver. He squinted out at the field and had himself a smoke.
It didn’t take long for someone to notice him and point him out to the man in the warmup jacket and polyester shorts who was hitting balls out along the third base line and into left field for the players to chase down and throw in. The man looked up, eyes lost in the shadows of his cap, and then handed his bat off to some assistant and came on the run. He jogged easily, as if it was his standard mode of getting around and he could do it all day. He was in good shape. When he got to the bleachers he took them two at a time, shaking the one Ezra sat on.
“This ca
mpus is a smoke free facility,” Coach McKelvey said by way of introduction. They were off to a poor start.
Ezra took a long drag on his Chesterfield, staring at the man. McKelvey was big and robust, in his prime. He looked like every gym coach Ezra had ever seen: a silver whistle dangling from a white lanyard against the front of his warmup jacket; ball cap pulled down straight against his ears; those high-waist shorts that were apparently sold exclusively to gym teachers and coaches, with the elastic and Velcro band at the waist instead of a button; knee-high socks, gleaming white, pulled up over his muscular calves; beat up old sneakers brown with dust and black with grime. He was a hairy guy- the hair on his long legs and thick arms could almost be described as a pelt; wiry black hair sprung out from the neck of the white t-shirt underneath his half-zipped jacket as well. Ezra let his cigarette drop down between the bleachers to the bare earth far below; it took a second.
“Probably a gun free zone as well,” Ezra said. He opened his jacket to show the grips of his twin .45s. “Want me to pitch these, too?”
McKelvey’s whole demeanor changed. In a hurry. That tended to happen. “You must be High Guard Beckitt,” he said. An easy grin broke out over the broad planes of his face. He offered his hand, which Ezra stood up to take. The coach’s hand wasn’t as big as Sam Goodwin’s; nor was his grip, for all of his gym muscle, as strong. He had a Vice President’s handshake- a brief, noncommittal pressing of the flesh. “Bonna just messaged me, let me know you were coming. I expected you over by the main gate.”
Ezra shrugged. “Thought I’d bide and watch a spell,” he said. “It’s a relaxing thing, watching a ball game. Soothing. Reminds me of sitting on the porch with my own dad when I was a kid, listening to the play by play on the radio.”
“Hell to play, though,” the coach said. “You play ball?”
“Nah,” Ezra said. “Had other interests. Not much time for games.”
The coach’s eyes grew a trifle cooler at that; Ezra wasn’t of his tribe. “And what interests you today, High Guard Beckitt?” he said.
“Kevin Peters.”
“Peters,” the coach said. “A tragedy, that. Tragedy. But I thought it was already done and over with.”
Ezra shrugged. “Somebody forgot to cross an I and dot a T,” he said. “And they hate loose ends uptown, let me tell ya. So, I came over to have a look.”
“Can’t imagine there’s much to look at,” McKelvey said.
Ezra’s eyes narrowed down to slits. “What makes you say that?”
“Well,” the coach said. His eyes wouldn’t hold steady under Ezra’s gaze. “I mean, the kid’s dead. The Guards were here already. I just figured his apartment must be all cleaned out by now. It sounds cold, I know- but a college is a business like anything else. If one kid goes, there’s another waiting to step into his spot. That’s just how it works. So, I just thought…what could there be for you to look at?”
“Not much,” Ezra said. He grinned, watching to see how the coach would react to that, but the big man only looked at him expectantly with the eyes of a cow. “That closet you call an apartment is all set and ready for the next sucker coming down the pike, all geared up to go into debt for the rest of his life for a piece of parchment with his name on it in fancy ye olde letters.” Ezra lit a cigarette and waited for the coach to say something about it. McKelvey kept quiet. “Only found this,” he went on, pulling out the business envelope. “It got caught on a curtain and the cleaners missed it. The envelope’s addressed to Mister Peters- from you.”
“From my office, anyway,” McKelvey said. He took the envelope and blew it open, looking at all of the nothing inside it. “No letter,” he said. “So what do you want from me, Beckitt?”
Ezra raised his eyebrows. So now he was just Beckitt- that was the way of it? McKelvey was a man used to being on top; everyone he came across and dealt with merely another subordinate. That wasn’t the case here, but the coach would figure that out soon enough. “I want to know what was in that letter,” he said.
“I’m sure I have no idea,” the coach said. “It was probably nothing more than a letter welcoming him to the school, and the baseball program, rubber stamped by my administrative assistant. A form letter, in other words. Do you have any idea how many letters go through my office in the course of any given school year?”
“Couldn’t even guess,” Ezra said. “But how many letters do you have going out to kids who end up dead, coach?”
McKelvey froze up like he was welded to his spot on the metal bleachers, a smile frozen on his broad face. Sweat glistened on his tanned skin.
Ezra sighed. “I gotta say, I don’t buy it. I get the feeling you’re holding out on me, coach. I think you know something, and I think you don’t want to tell me whatever the something is that you know, and I think that you think that you don’t have to tell me. In fact, I think you consider yourself a VIP and me just a commoner here, and I don’t care for that one bit.”
McKelvey shook himself free of his momentary paralysis. “And I think,” he said, “that I’m done talking with you, Beckitt. I’ve got a team to run here. This week is our first big game of the season, a Big Thirteen conference game against Rosemount, and my boys are nowhere near ready. If you need anything else from me, make an appointment- with my attorney.”
“We can do it that way,” Ezra said. “I can go and tell a judge that you seemed suspicious under questioning, and request a writ of investigation. He’ll draft that up and hand it over to me- any judge knows my word is good-, and I’ll come back here with a bunch of Guards and tear your office, and your life, apart. Who knows what we might find in the course of our investigation? At the very least, I’m sure we’ll discover some flashsticks containing some pretty hardcore administrative work going on between you and that sex doll of a receptionist. I see you got a wedding ring there. How do you think your wife would feel about seeing some ultra-definition footage of you and Bonna grinding it out on her desk?”
McKelvey’s face turned red as a brick. “Now you just listen,” he said, pointing a thick finger at Ezra’s face. “I-”
“You can get that sausage out of my eye, is what you can do,” Ezra said. “Stop being so goddamn combative an just listen. Why are you trying to dodge me? I saw Kevin Peters’s body. The kid wasn’t shot or carved up with a knife; the ME says no drugs. What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing!” McKelvey said. The big man sat down on the bleachers, shoulders slumped; he looked washed out. “You didn’t hear a thing from me, ya get?” he said, eyes boring into Ezra’s. “Anyone asks, I toed the mark and held to the company line, all right?”
Ezra nodded, gesturing for the coach to go on with a twirl of his fingers that made grey and blue rings of smoke float in the air between the two men.
McKelvey took a deep breath. “The school freaked out when Peters turned up dead,” the coach said. “Because of the letter I sent out to him. The board was terrified of a lawsuit. But the High Guard in charge of the investigation said everyone was in the clear, the boy was dead but there was no evidence of foul play- he certainly didn’t kill himself, which is what the board members were so scared shitless over.”
“Why would they be worried about that?” Ezra said. “What the hell was in that letter?”
“Peters showed up late,” the coach said. “For whatever reason, he was late getting here for the start of the season. My ball players are supposed to get here by the end of spring, to start training- that was made very clear in the intent to play contract he’d signed. Maybe he thought his spot was guaranteed, I don’t know. But he didn’t get here. I couldn’t wait. I needed a shortstop, Beckitt. I went with the next prospect on my list.”
“And then Peters showed up and moved in to his crawlspace on East Laird Avenue,” Beckitt said. “And you had to inform him that his spot on the team, and his scholarship to the university, was gone.”
“The kid could have stayed on,” McKelvey said. “He could have worked something out wi
th the financial counselors, he could have been a backup on the team. Maybe he would have even gotten a couple turns at bat. And next year…well, a lot can change in a year. But you know kids. No patience. He didn’t see things that way.”
“And now the kid’s dead,” Ezra said.
“Sure,” the coach said. “Now the kid’s dead. But it’s not my fault he’s dead. And it’s not the Team Sports Administration’s fault. Or the college. We’re not liable.”
“Cherry for you,” Ezra said. He blew smoke in the coach’s face and stood up.
“The case was closed, Beckitt,” McKelvey said, standing on the bleachers above and behind the High Guard. “We had your department’s word on that. Whatever brought you here, I hope that you’re satisfied. I don’t want to see you again.”
Ezra laughed. “That makes two of us, pal,” he said, without turning around.
-
Leaning against the hood of his prowler, Ezra smoked and looked off at nothing. This whole thing stank to high heaven. There was no denying that- but he wasn’t exactly sure what, if anything, he was supposed to do with it. There didn’t seem to be much of anything to do with it. No foul play. There were some characters he certainly didn’t like, and the “it’s just business” attitude of the college made him want to puke, but he couldn’t go anywhere with that.
His phone rang, pulling him out of his funk.
“Jim,” Ezra said. “What’s the word?”
“You out there looking at the Peters case?” Jim said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, forget about it.”
Ezra frowned. “Jim,” he said. “There’s something here.”
“No, there isn’t,” Jim said. “Not for you. The body was collected by the parents. What’s left of Kevin Peters is off to Barnhill to go in the family plot, which I’m sure is shady, restful, and picturesque. Sunrise, sunset- all that shit. It’s off our plate, and not because of any pressure or political BS- it’s just done.”
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