block.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“Good point. Come over here and let me give y’all a hug, man.”
Preacher Simmons stood up in pieces. When you’re six-foot-eight and close to three hundred pounds, you’re allowed to unfold yourself one part at a time. In the mid-’60s, Preacher “the Creature” Simmons was an all-city, all-world forward from Boys High in Brooklyn. These days, he would have been drafted directly into the NBA and given a few million dollars to sit on the bench and learn the pro game. But back in ’64 he wound up at a basketball factory down South and in the midst of a point-shaving scandal. Unlike Connie Hawkins, Preacher didn’t have the resources to resurrect his career. He was a power player
“What brings you down to the bowels of hell today, Moe?”
“You busy tonight?”
“Busy? Nah, man, why?”
“Feel like helping me with something?”
“A case?”
“Yeah.”
“Help how?”
“Meet me in front of Nathan’s at nine tonight.”
“Coney Island Nathan’s or Oceanside?”
“Coney Island.”
“We investigating hot dogs and beer?”
“Maybe after.”
“After what?” he asked.
“After you teach someone a lesson in basketball.”
“Y’all talk some shit, Moe. You know that?”
“Can you meet me?”
“See you there.”
“I’ll explain later,” I said, waving my goodbye.
“Why later?”
“Because I hope to figure out what the hell we’re supposed to be doing by then.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I came up with something, but like the rest of my ideas about being a detective, it was half-baked and spur of the moment. You make do with what you have, I guess. As scheduled, Preacher Simmons met me out in front of Nathan’s at nine. I always liked playing ball on an empty stomach. Preacher had different ideas on the subject. He had four hot dogs, two large fries, and two enormous lemonades before I dropped him off at the courts. They didn’t call him “the Creature” for nothing.
“I guess sitting on your ass all day in that security office makes for hungry work.”
“Man, you know me going on seven years, Moe. For me, breathing makes for hungry work.”
Argue that.
When I picked him up at the entrance to the courts about an hour and a half later, Preacher had toweled off and changed into some fresh clothing. Even after a full day’s work, the drive in from Queens, and ninety minutes of ball, his eyes were on fire. He’d once told me that the only place he ever felt truly alive was on the court. That was never going to change. He was forty-three now and I wondered where the fire would go when his hips and knees started to break down. You can’t carry as much weight as he did and pound your legs on concrete and asphalt courts for as long as he had without paying a big price.
There was a burning in me, too, but mine was envy. At least Preacher had a place in the world where he felt alive. All I had now were French Cabernets and California Chardonnays. A stupid piece of carbon paper-did they even have carbon paper anymore? — had taken that place away from me forever. Being a cop, putting on that blue
“So?” I said, trying not to let my envy show.
He thought my scouting report on the Nugget kid was right on. “For such a big head, he don’t seem to have nothing in it. You can’t tell that boy nothing.”
Preacher said he’d caught a lucky break, that another old-timer had recognized him from his Boys High years. Reggie Philbis was his name and they’d played against one another back in the day-Reggie for Thomas Jefferson. Currently, Reggie worked as a drug treatment counselor for the city, having come upon his education the hard way. Knowing Reggie paid off in two ways: it helped open up lines of communication with the guys waiting winners, and it got Nugget’s grudging attention.
“Anybody have anything to say about Malik?”
“You mean Melvin? Shit, yeah, but none of it kindly. He was like the neighborhood joke, you know what I’m saying?”
“Every neighborhood’s got ’em, guys that fancy themselves something they’re never gonna be. Guys that think they’re cool, but can’t get outta their own way with a tour guide.”
“That’s the boy.”
“But what did they say about him?”
“Strictly small-time, you know, a loser-”
“A loser that could afford half a key of coke.”
“You didn’t let me finish, Moe. My man Reggie say Melvin not only got a new name, but he got hisself some new friends in recent years.”
“New friends?”
“Wiseguy types.”
“Wiseguy
“Well, shit, ain’t like old Melvin been introducing his new white brothers around, if you know what I’m saying. The boys at the court seem to think they was sorta like Melvin in their own way.”
“Wannabes.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And Nugget?”
“Boy’s got some severe offensive game, but on D he moves his feet like a statue.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Some. He ain’t ready to hear me.”
“He’ll learn the hard way.”
“Nah, man, some go the hard way, but they don’t never learn a thing.”
It was getting close to midnight. Preacher wanted to treat for a nightcap, but I took a rain check and dropped the man back at his car. He asked me what was wrong. I lied and told him nothing. He left it at that. Preacher was good that way-he knew when to push and when not to push.
I had in mind to pay a visit on Malik Jabbar’s girlfriend, Kalisha. Given Mable Broadbent’s less than glowing commentary on her late son’s taste in women, I didn’t figure on asking her to make formal introductions. So I just sat in my car across from Rancho Broadbent and waited, hoping Kalisha would appear. I hadn’t a clue as to what Kalisha might look like, but somehow I just felt I would know her.
It was getting late and I was beginning to worry that Mable had exaggerated about the hours Kalisha kept. Another few minutes and I’d have to head back home or risk passing out in my car. When I looked up from my watch, a streetlight flickered and I noticed Mable Broadbent’s backlit silhouette in the front window of her flat. She, too, was waiting. I wondered if this was how she dealt with her grief, keeping tabs on a woman she despised, a woman who had somehow replaced her in her lost son’s life. It’s hard getting inside other people’s emotions, but grief is, I think, the hardest to slip into. Grief is a dark place, the darkest place.
The stoop light popped on, the front door swinging open. A woman came out onto the concrete landing and
