'Fifteen points a game, eleven rebounds for the Nuggets,' Dixie said. 'But he still plays a little soft. He toughens up, he'll double that.'
'Can he read yet?'
'Hell, he's a college graduate,' Dixie said.
'This place?' I said.
'Absolutely.'
'Can he read yet?'
'Sure,' Dixie said.
'He still with Chantel?' I said.
'Heard they got married.'
'Good.'
'So what brings you nosing around out here. Miss me?'
'Young woman over at Pemberton,' I said. 'Got killed a year and a half ago.'
'Yeah, I heard about it. Some black guy, right? Raped her and strangled her?'
'No rape,' I said. 'I'm trying to clean up a few loose ends on that case.'
'Yeah, so whaddya want from me, buddy? I didn't touch her.'
'I've seen a picture of her,' I said, 'wearing a Taft tennis letter sweater that's obviously much too big for her.'
'So you figure she was dating somebody on the Taft tennis team.'
'Yes.'
'And you want me to point you at the tennis coach.'
'Yes.'
Dixie Dunham made a low ugly sound which he probably thought was a laugh.
'Be glad to,' he said. 'The sonova bitch. Tried to recruit one of my players last year, right off my team.'
'Tennis is a spring sport, isn't it?' I said.
'When you think the Tourney is played, buddy boy?'
'Oh, yeah.'
'Coach's name is Chuck Arnold. I'll walk on down the hall with you and introduce y' all.'
Chuck looked like a tennis coach. He was tall and flexible and lean and had the look of self-contentment that only expensive private education can confer. He wore a white cable stitched tennis sweater without a shirt, khaki pants, soft tan loafers, and no socks. The sleeves of the tennis sweater were pushed up over his tan forearms.
'That's him,' Dixie said. 'Tried to steal my back-up two guard for his fucking sissy-boy team.'
Arnold smiled as if he were tired.
'Oh, give it a rest, Dixie,' he said and put out a firm hand to me. 'Chuck Arnold, what can I do for you?'
'Keep a hand on your wallet,' Dixie said. 'Fucker'll take it right out of your pocket, you're not careful.'
He turned away and rumbled back down the drab corridor toward his office. Arnold stared after him with no trace of affection. Then he looked back at me.
'What did you say your name was?' he said.
'Spenser. I'm a detective. I'm looking for a guy who played tennis here sometime in the last few years. He dated a girl at Pemberton and gave her his letter sweater.'
'I'm supposed to keep track of their love life?' Arnold said.
'Her name was Melissa Henderson. She was murdered about eighteen months ago.'
'Yes, of course, I remember that. Some black guy raped her and killed her.'
'Actually there was no evidence of rape.'
'Whatever,' Arnold said. 'I already talked to the other detective.'
'Which one?'
'I don't remember, big man, short blond hair.'
'Miller?' I said.
'I don't remember.'
'What did he want to know?'
'He was asking about Clint Stapleton.'
'Melissa's boyfriend?'
'That's what he said.'
