Game Face

by Mark Troy

  The case held a three-ring binder, an appointment book, and a small plastic box. The box seemed out of place with the other items so I opened it first. Inside, was a contact case with lenses in solution. There were cosmetic smudges on the case indicating regular use so these were probably not backup lenses. I assumed they were Letitia's. If so, why wasn't she wearing them to drive home?

  If there was an answer to the question, it was not one I could find tonight. I put the contact stuff aside and picked up the binder. For the rest of the evening I read about the strengths and weaknesses of each player, the drills they ran in practice, and the plays they ran in the games. Around one o'clock the play diagrams began to swim together like an Esther Williams water ballet.

  The two men are wearing dark suits. I'm wearing nothing but a black and gold basketball uniform.

  The fat man says, "You ever hear of responsibility, college girl?"

  I try to respond, but my vocal cords freeze up.

  The fat man says, "You need to learn responsibility college girl." He seems to like that sentence because he says it again and then a third time. Then he turns to the younger man and says, "She's a southpaw, got that? A southpaw."

  Suddenly the younger man grabs my wrist and drags me towards some double doors which he pushes open. As he turns, my eyes lock onto a little puckered scar peeking above his collar at the base of his throat. He tightens his grip on my left wrist. It hurts. I look up just as he swings the door into my immobilized hand. The shock resonates to my shoulder. I go down on one knee while a scream sticks in my throat.

  I woke from the dream with a start and sat bolt upright. The binder slid off the bed to the floor. Two-thirty, according to my watch. My left arm felt numb where I'd been laying on it. I massaged some feeling back into it and picked up the binder. My whole body trembled. I shut off the lights and lay back on the bed, still in my clothes. It was after four before I was able to get back to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Morning came too soon. I was awakened about 7:30 by the sounds of students passing my door. By eight I was able to drag myself out of bed. I did some warm-up stretches, which I followed with some crunches until I felt about 90% awake, and headed out for a run around the campus.

  The campus had not changed much since my years there. The economic woes of California's higher education had put a hold on large-scale expansion, but a few new buildings had been added, including the dorm where I was staying. Most of the change was on the fringe of campus. What used to be open area was now filled with the visual detritus of a mobile, consumer society. The development plan was to plant a sports bar between a fast-gas and a fast-food place. Repeat as necessary. If there were any bookstores and coffee houses, they were well-concealed.

  My mind, though slow to get started, woke up somewhere during the first mile. It locked onto the scar in my dream and wouldn't let go. Why had I seen it? It had been years since I'd had that dream. Had the scar been there before? If not, why did it appear now? Was it planted by Carol's description of the man looking for Beth, or did it come from my own memory? Had I seen that scar before and repressed it?

  The blast of a car horn jolted me out of my reverie as I stepped off a curb. I leaped back, heart lurching in my chest, as the car sped by me. The traffic signal facing me burned a bright red. I bent over, elbows on my knees, taking deep breaths, and looked around. I was at a four-way formed by one of the two main streets entering the university and a major artery that bordered the west side of campus. The light post, against which I was leaning, marked the corner boundary of a parking lot around a bar and restaurant called "Booties." I started to jog in place waiting for the light when a flash of purple caught my eye. It came from alongside Booties. A man in purple windbreaker pants and a sweatshirt emerged from a side door. Before I could get a look, he flipped the hood over his head, but I did notice that his arms seemed to hang from deeply sloping shoulders. If it wasn't Carol's creep, it was a major coincidence. I started towards him at a run.

  He turned the corner behind the building and I noticed a vehicle behind it, it's tail lights and bumper the only visible parts. I kicked up my pace and reached the corner as the vehicle sped off. A Range Rover, two people inside. I caught the license number and recited it all the way back to the dorm.

  When I was new to the San Francisco Police Department, I'd had a relationship with a California Highway Patrol officer named Brandon Boyle. For six months we thought we were in love. He had a passion for motorcycles and some nights we'd head out Highway 1 and ride until dawn. They were exciting adventures, but it was the interludes when the engine was off that warm my memories. Brandon transferred to Sacramento and wanted me to go with him, but I wasn't ready to leave the S.F.P.D.

  I called the Sacramento headquarters from the dorm. Brandon had been promoted to lieutenant. I identified myself and heard a short intake of breath.

  "Val!" he said. "Is it really you?"

  "It's really me, Brandon. I need a favor. Can you run a tag number for me?"

  "Official capacity?"

  "Hunh uh. I'm private now. Security for the Santa Christa women's team. We've been getting some harassment."

  "That who the vehicle belongs to?"

  "I believe so." I gave him the number and a description of the Rover. I could hear him pecking a keyboard.

  "Server's down," he said. "Be a little bit."

  "Can you do something else for me? I'd like to see the accident report on one Letitia Hill. L-E-T-I-T-I-A. Hill, standard spelling. It happened near Lakeville about six weeks ago."

  "Any reason?"

  "Nothing I'm ready to talk about. Tell you when I see you."

  "Val, you remember that night at Reyes point?" I felt my pulse quicken. "That big cedar . . ."

  "The one we called Hotel California."

  ". . . is still there."

  "I'll see you later, Brandon."

  After a quick shower and breakfast in the dorm's dining hall, I went back to studying the playbook. Tonight's opponent was Oregon State. They would not be easy. The Ducks had a five-eight guard and an all-conference power forward. They ran the pick and roll like pros. The only way to stop them, I thought, was to blitz the ball handler. If we could do that, and if Beth could penetrate on offense, we stood a chance.

  My mind soon swam with play diagrams. Who was I kidding? Pogue had me pegged right. I knew no more about basketball coaching than the average couch potato. If I was to help this team, it would not be with what I knew on the hardwood, but with what I could dig up on these guys who were harassing the team.

  I put the playbook aside and picked up Letitia's appointment book. It was an academic year calendar, going from August to July, with places for class notes and assignments. She had been diligent about recording appointments and adding notes so that it read almost like a diary. Like most students, she had to ration her money and used her appointment book to keep track of it. On September tenth, Letitia had loaned Beth five dollars. On September nineteenth, she had loaned Beth ten dollars and Terri Pryor five. In the following months there were other loans of varying sizes, all under twenty-five, to Beth and Terri. At first, Letitia made no mention of the purpose of the loans, but on October third, the entry read, "Beth, $5, fb pool." Other loans followed with notes such as, "fb pool," "bb pool," "hockey." Letitia recorded loan repayments, too. They were not as frequent, but they were generally larger, being repayments of several loans at once.

  It didn't take a gumshoe at fantasy coaches camp to figure this out. Beth and Terri were borrowing money to bet on sports pools. The bets were always small and the loans were always paid back. At least that's how it began. For most students that's how it would remain. During football and basketball seasons the dorms would be alive with betting pools. Anyone wanting more action could find it in the sports bars around campus.

  There was more. John Pogue's name showed up three times. The first mention was in late October. It said, "Talk to Pogue re: B. and T. loans." It accompanied a calenda
r entry, "NCAA rules mtg." There was nothing to indicate that she ever talked to Pogue, but the loans to Beth and Terri ceased. An entry in late January said, "Beth/Booties. Tell Pogue?"

  The third time Pogue's name came up was on the date of the San Jose State game. According to her calendar, Letitia expected Pogue to ride back with her.

  The way I saw it, Letitia was concerned about the betting and the possible violation of NCAA rules; she talked to Pogue about it and the betting stopped, at least for a time. But then Letitia found some connection between Beth and Booties and wondered if that meant a resurgence of her gambling.

  I would talk to Pogue about it when I reached the gym. I also wanted to ask why the change in plans on the ride back from San Jose.

  Pogue wasn't in yet, but Carol was. Her makeup was fresh and her hair shiny. A news team was setting up equipment in her office. She led me through a connecting door into the trainer's room -- a large area with a padded table, a whirlpool bath and supply cabinets. Carol sat on the edge of the trainer's table and I sat on a padded stool with rollers "You heard?" she asked. "U Conn and Ohio State advanced. Tennessee and Marquette play tonight." She was charged with excitement.

  We discussed the defensive strategy for awhile and then I brought up what I'd learned from Letitia's appointment book.

  "Yes," Carol said heavily. "The gambling was in the Fall. Letitia went to John because I was out of town, but he told me about it when I got back. I met with both players and read them the riot act. They assured me they were just fun bets, but that it would stop."

  "Did it?"

  "I handed it to John to follow up."

  "He stayed on top of it?"

  "Yes. Val, this was a serious matter. The NCAA could hang us out to dry. Coaches can't make loans to players. I jumped on Letitia. We informed the NCAA who opened an investigation. When she died, they quietly dropped it."

  "So the team profited from her death," I said.

  Carol shot me a fierce look. "That's cruel, Val."

  "Don't get self-righteous on me, Carol. This isn't the fun game we played back then. It's high stakes. I'm just learning that, but you've mastered it."

  "Your implication . . ."

  "You didn't hire me just to walk the athletes to practice. Tell me about Booties. Is it off-limits to the girls?"

  "No. It's not a place we encourage them to go. C'mon would you want your daughter in a place called, ‘Booties?' But we can't keep them out if they choose to go there."

  "Letitia had a note that she saw Beth at Booties. Do they make book there?"

  "I don't know." Carol sighed heavily. "Are they still gambling?"

  "This morning I saw a match for slope-shoulders coming out of the place. That's a lot of coincidence."

  The door opposite the one to Carol's office opened and John Pogue entered. He nodded at me, "Val," he said, then to Carol, "They're ready for the interview, Coach."

  "Oh, God! Talk, talk, talk," Carol said. I hate talk. Just let us play." She went out.

  Pogue turned to go too, but I stopped him. "John, you got a minute?"

  He looked at me narrowly. "A minute," he said. "Is this about basketball?"

  "The word is you're one of the hardest working coaches in college ball. Eighteen hours is a normal workday, right?"

  "Not just me. You can't bring a team this far without that kind of work. What's your point?"

  "It would be tough to miss the Dance because of something off-court, after giving eighteen hours a day. I'm not after your job or your glory. I just want to help you get what you've earned. Is that fair?"

  Pogue thought about it a second. "Fair enough," he said.

  "Letitia talked to you about Beth and Terri? About the bets?"

  "I was more concerned about the loans. The NCAA theory is that an athlete shouldn't get an advantage not available to a regular student."

  "I know the NCAA rule."

  "Then you know Letitia was wrong."

  "What about the betting by your players?"

  "Every dorm has a sports pool. They're as common as bootleg term papers."

  "Did you warn them about it?"

  "I told them to come to me if they thought they were getting in trouble. I met with them regularly and reviewed their finances."

  "You kept on top of it?"

  He shrugged. "Yes. The betting stopped. They probably found meeting with me was too much of a hassle."

  "What about Booties, did Terri and Beth ever go there?"

  "It's a beer and wings place. A lot of students hang out there. The problem with Booties isn't gambling, but drinking."

  "One of the creeps who's been shadowing Beth and Terri was there this morning."

  He threw up his hands. "I don't know what you're getting at."

  I sighed. "I don't know either, John. I'm trying to put two and two together and it doesn't add up. I shouldn't have cut so many math classes."

  Pogue checked his watch and started for his door. "I've got a ton of stuff to get ready for the game."

  I got to my feet, said, "Let me ask you one question, completely off the subject. Weren't you riding back with Letitia the night she was killed?"

  He turned so quickly, I thought he was attacking me. I backed up against the trainer's table and kicked a metal wastebasket with my heel. It fell over with a loud "clang."

  "Who told you that?" Pogue demanded.

  "Her appointment book."

  "Her appointment book!" The words rushed out and he sagged against a cabinet by the door. "Her appointment book," he repeated. He looked up at me, his face drained of color. "Ever since that night I've lived with the thought that I could have saved her. She asked me the day before, just in passing, you know, or so I thought, if I would drive back with her after the game. She had to get back but she didn't want to go alone."

  "So you said, ‘Yes.'"

  "I said, ‘Yes,' but then I didn't think anymore about it and she didn't say anything about it. I thought maybe she'd asked someone else, or had decided not to go at all."

  "She had an exam the next morning."

  "I know. So she had to go. The truth is, I didn't want to go that night. It was late. I had a cold. All I wanted was to sleep and ride back with the team. I didn't mention a ride at the game and afterwards I just avoided her. I went straight to the hotel, popped some cold tablets and went to bed."

  "You went to sleep?"

  "Zonked. She could've called, I don't know -- I turned off the phone. I hoped she didn't wait for me. I've been telling myself she wasn't expecting me to drive her."

  "Because you didn't want to feel guilty."

  "Didn't want to? What do you think I've been feeling? It was the first thing I thought of when we got the news. She's dead because I let her down. I let her drive alone."

  I was lost for something to say. Finally, I said, "I'm sorry, Coach," but it sounded inadequate.

  * * * * *

  Letitia's optometrist was located in the Golden State Professional Building in downtown Santa Christa. After showing her my investigator's license, I produced the contact lenses and asked if she'd made them for Letitia.

  "I can't say for certain, but these are like the ones I made for her. This is my lens case."

  "Are these the only ones you made for her?"

  "The only contacts. We made a pair of sports goggles to her prescription."

  "Could anyone else have made contacts or glasses for her?"

  "Sure, but Letitia's been my patient since she was fourteen. Another doctor would have to do an eye examination before making lenses for her."

  "When was the last exam you gave her?"

  She consulted a folder before answering. "It was October, the seventeenth."

  "One final question. Could Letitia drive without contacts or glasses?"

  The optometrist shook her head. "She couldn't have seen past the hood."

  * * * * *

  I reached the Highway Patrol headquarters in Sacramento about quarter past one. The drive from
Santa Christa had taken nearly an hour but it could've been fifteen minutes for all I remembered of it. My mind raced, not with thoughts of Beth or Letitia, but with thoughts of Brandon Boyle. My palms felt sweaty on the wheel as I pulled into a visitor's spot alongside the headquarters building. I did a final inspection in the mirror before going in.

  Brandon, damn him, looked as sexy as he had a decade before. Sexier, even. He still had the little comma of hair over his forehead and the little dimples around his mouth. I appreciated the cut of his uniform which showed his wide shoulders and flat stomach to good effect. Someone must have released a chemical in the air. How else to account for the flutter that began in my heart and headed south? I smoothed my skirt with my palms and held out my hand.

  "Val," he said shyly. "God, it's great to see you." He took my hand. It was warm and strong. I hoped my own hand was dry. Hoped my knees wouldn't betray me by collapsing.

  "You look good, Val."

  "You, too, Brandon."

  "No, you look great. After all these years you look like a dream. I'm nervous. You nervous?"

  "Yeah. I don't remember anything on the drive up. It's a blackout."

  "Well, I'm dying. I must've banged my knee on my desk three times this morning. You had lunch? I know a place."

  "We shouldn't. I've got to get back."

  "Sure," he said.

  We went to Brandon's desk in a room full of similar desks, some occupied by officers and some empty. I sat in his swivel chair and he hooked his hip over the corner of the desk.

  "Brandon, what I called you about . . ."

  "What are you involved in, Val?"

  "I was looking to you for an answer."

  He took a notepad from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. "These numbers." He read off the license I'd given him. "They lit up the computer like Chinese New Years. Your guy is Julio Cesare. Julie Caesar to his friends, a nightmare to everyone else."

  A nightmare to me, too.

  "You need to learn responsibility, college girl," Goldie Bergman says. "Hey Julie, she's a southpaw. Got that? A southpaw."

  "Southpaw," Julie Caesar says.

  I shivered violently. I hoped Brandon didn't notice He was saying, "I called around on my own. A guy down in Santa Christa detective division says Julie is big league bookmaking and loan sharking. He passes himself off as a sports agent, but his client list consists of a couple has-been wrestlers. The sports bar's his base of operations. Hey! You all right?"