'Who?'
'The other detective, for crissake. I try to teach them tennis. I don't delve into their sex lives.'
'Is Stapleton the captain of the tennis team?'
'Yes.'
'Where do I find him?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Because I want to find him and talk with him about the murder of his girlfriend.'
'Are you sure she was his girlfriend?' Arnold said.
'Perhaps she was a one-night stand.'
'He gave her his letter sweater.'
'How do you know that?'
'I'm a trained sleuth,' I said. 'Where do I find him?'
'Well,' he said, 'I guess I really must, mustn't I?'
'Yes.'
'He should be working on the bang board in the cage.'
'Thank you,' I said and started out.
'I'd, ah, I'd be just as happy if you didn't mention that I told you about him.'
'It is quite possible,' I said, 'that I will never mention your name again, Chuckster.'
Chapter 21
I WENT OUT of his office, and along the cinderblock corridor to the cage. The cage had a lot of high windows, a dirt floor, and a pale green, rubberized, ten-laps to-the-mile indoor track around it, banked high at the curves. There was a broad-jump pit in the infield, and a pole-vault set up with thick spongy mattresses to land on. On the far curve was a chain-link hammer throw enclosure, closed on three sides so the hammer wouldn't get misdirected into somebody's kisser by an inexpert thrower.
I walked around the track to a doorway on the far side. It opened into the tennis area where two red composition courts occupied most of the space. Along the back wall behind the baselines were solid green boards against which a tall rangy kid wearing a blue-and-white kerchief on his head was banging a tennis ball with a graphite racquet. He was wearing a set of blue and white sweats, and white tennis shoes, to go with the kerchief. He alternated slicing backhands and top spin forehands, hitting effortlessly and hard, without mis-hitting: backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand, alone in the big empty space. The sound of the ball was almost metronomic as it whanged off the racquet, banged off the board, and popped off the floor. If he was aware of me he didn't show it. I waited for him to take a break. He didn't. So I said, 'Clint Stapleton?'
The ball clanged off the rim of his racquet and dribbled away from him. He looked up at me.
'Goddammit,' he said. 'I'm trying to concentrate.'
'And doing a hell of a job of it,' I said. 'My name's Spenser. You Stapleton?'
'Yeah, but I'm busy.'
'We need to talk.'
'No we don't,' he said. 'I need to hit for another half hour and you need to get lost.'
He was looking straight at me and I realized that he was… black certainly didn't cover it. His skin color was about the same color as mine… of African heritage, or partly so, seemed to say it better. I don't think I'd have noticed if the kerchief hadn't predisposed me.
'I can wait,' I said.
'I don't like anyone watching me.'
'Clint,' I said. 'Under ordinary circumstances worrying about what you like and don't like would occupy my every waking hour. But these are desperate times. And I'll have to hang around until I can talk with you.'
'Maybe I could wrap this racquet around your head,' Clint said.
'No, you couldn't,' I said. 'I'd take it away from you and play Steamboat Willie on it.'
Stapleton stood and studied me for a time, slapping the racquet gently against his leg, looking as arrogant as he was able to, making sure that I knew he feared nothing.
'What do you want?' he said finally.
There was weariness in his voice, as if he was fighting off his darker impulses, trying to be civil. I was fairly sure that if I had been a short person with small bones he would have given in to his darker impulses.
'I want you to tell me about Melissa Henderson.'
'Who?'
He said it too fast, and too loudly.
'Melissa Henderson, whom you used to go out with, who was murdered.'
'Oh, Melissa?'
