rental near the trailers. After the trial, he’d seen Running Bear walk into one of these trailers, ready to go back to work, not holding a grudge against the elders or anything like that. Gerry had been impressed as hell.
He knocked on Running Bear’s door, then stepped back. The chief emerged a moment later, his long shadow touching the hood of Gerry’s car.
“It’s Gerry, isn’t it?” the chief said.
“That’s right.”
“What can I do for you, Gerry?”
“Something has come up.”
“What’s that?”
“My father wants to bust the guy who killed Jack Lightfoot. He’d like you and me there backing him up.”
Running Bear considered the request, then went into the trailer. When he came out, he was wearing his hat. “Let’s go,” he said.
Valentine had grown up loving college basketball. Then one day, five star players at Seton Hall University in New Jersey had gotten caught shaving points. Overnight, the college had become known as Cheating Hall, and his love affair with the game had ended.
Miami College played their games at American Airlines Arena, the same auditorium used by the city’s pro team. Tonight’s game against Duke was sold out, and he begrudgingly approached a scalper standing outside the front doors.
“Need a ticket?” the man squawked.
Fifty bucks got him first row, second section. At the door, a security guard made him open the paper bag he was carrying. Valentine showed him the binoculars he’d just bought and was let inside.
The arena was packed, the crowd drinking beer and having a good time. Duke was on an eleven-game winning streak, and many fans were wearing their blue and white colors. Valentine settled into his seat and removed the binoculars. The two teams came out onto the court and began shooting warm-ups.
He scoured the faces at courtside. Candy’s red hair stuck out like a flag. She was sitting directly beneath the basket. To her left sat Nigel. To his left, Rico. The arena was warm, yet Rico was wearing a sports coat. Packing heat, he guessed.
The national anthem was played, and then the game got under way.
Years ago, he’d gotten his hands on a New Jersey Casino Control Commission report on sports betting. At the time, New Jersey’s governor wanted to legalize sports books and compete with Nevada in this lucrative market.
The commission had painted an ugly picture of the business. Through a variety of unsavory sources, they’d learned of an NFL playoff game being fixed, a semifinal match at Wimbledon that was thrown, point-shaving in both college basketball and the pros, scores of rigged boxing matches, and a dozen racetracks where it was common for jockeys to allow a rider having a bad streak to win a race.
What all of these events had in common was that money was being wagered on them—several billion dollars a year—and the commission had concluded that New Jersey’s casinos would be putting themselves at risk by entering the business.
By halftime, Duke was up by four.
It was an ugly game, with Duke having a difficult time getting off their shots. The players looked frustrated, and so did their coach. He was a black guy with a trigger temper, and he screamed at his team as they ran off the court.
Valentine went to a concession stand. Five bucks bought a program and a soda. Walking back to his seat, he read the team players’ biographies while slurping his drink. All of Duke’s players came from the Midwest. Miami College’s players hailed from Florida, except for two—Jorge Esteban from Brazil, and Lupe Pinto from the Dominican Republic. Both were freshmen, and both were starters.
The teams were back on the court, taking warm-ups. Reclaiming his seat, Valentine removed his binoculars and searched the court until he found the two foreign players. Both had shaved heads, making it hard to tell how old they were. As they hit basket after basket from different spots on the court, a thin smile creased his face.
42
Mr. Beauregard’s ukulele had gone silent. Hicks was driving through Miami searching for American Airlines Arena and saw the chimp rub his stomach. On average, he consumed eight pounds of food a day, and Hicks guessed he was starving.
“Hamburgers, Mr. Beauregard?”
Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands excitedly. He loved hamburgers. Downtown Miami was fast-food heaven, and soon Hicks was sitting in the drive-through at a Burger King. At the squawk box, he was greeted by a sultry Latino voice.
“Welcome to Burger King. Would you like to try today’s special?”
“What is that?”
“Two quarter-pound bacon cheeseburgers covered in special sauce for a dollar ninety-nine.”
Mr. Beauregard jumped up and down in his seat. He loved the special sauce.
“Give me ten,” Hicks said. “And a small fries.”
They ate in the car. Mr. Beauregard was not keen on bread products and tossed the buns out the window. Soon a security guard came out of the restaurant. He was a Cuban macho man and glanced menacingly at them, then pointed at the buns lying on the ground. “They teach you this at home?”
Mr. Beauregard stuck his head out the window and snarled. The guard recoiled in fear. Hicks jumped out of the car, fearful he might call the police.
“Please excuse my friend.”
“Your friend?”
“I am the owner of a carnival.”
“Is he . . . dangerous?”
“My friend, this is the world’s smartest chimpanzee. Do you like music?”
“Well . . . yeah,” the guard said.
“Mr. Beauregard, play for the gentleman.”
Mr. Beauregard took his ukulele off the floor, and the music that came out was Spanish-sounding, like calypso. “Holy shit,” the guard said.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hicks said.
“It’s my favorite song,” the guard replied.
In the fourth quarter, the game heated up.
Miami College began to play like they were possessed, and with five minutes left in the game, the score was even.
Since the half, Valentine had watched Jorge and Lupe exclusively with his binoculars. They were an unusual pair of athletes. Jorge was constantly busting up plays and stealing the ball from Duke’s forwards. He rarely shot the ball, preferring to pass to one of his teammates and let him get the glory.
Lupe, whose statistics in the program were terrible, was playing like he was possessed. He passed, he stole, he dunked, and he had more rebounds than anyone on the court. Two of Duke’s players were trying to cover him, leaving a Miami College player wide open.
With two minutes left in the game, Miami College took the lead for the first time. The crowd rose, screaming like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Valentine knew better. Miami College could have easily been ahead by ten points. Jorge and Lupe were playing below speed, a pool hustler’s term for playing just slightly better than your opponent.
They were pros.
