“He’s got, what, four points this evening? The way he’s playin’ tonight, I’d say the young emperor has no clothes.”
“The Lakers are a year away in every department. Look at their talent. Van Exel, Horry. Eddie Jones is bad. And Kobe Bryant is only gonna get better.”
“Anyway, I told M. J. that I had to save the Lakers game for my boy Dimitri. ’Cause I know how much you like the Lakers.” Clay side-glanced Karras. “Goin’ all the way back to Gail Goodrich, when you modeled your game after his.”
“Aw, shit, now you’re gonna start that again. I told you a hundred times, my game was always closer to Walt Frazier’s.”
“Well, you used to wear those Clydes of his, anyway.”
“And I could drive the paint like him, too.”
Clay and Karras laughed and shook hands. Clay squeezed Karras’s shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, man,” said Clay.
“Good to see you, too.”
“You look different. Happier or something. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right. My new job has helped. And so has time.”
“You still seeing the bartender’s wife?”
“Once a week for now. That’s helped as well.”
“What about Lisa?”
“I called her late the other night… I don’t know why. It was a mistake. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s going to change.” Karras finished his warm beer and put the plastic cup down on the concrete. “I know now that there’s two kinds of people in this world: those who’ve lost a child and those who haven’t. I’ll never be whole again, Marcus. I’ve accepted that.”
“But you got to keep trying.”
“I am.” Karras wiped his mouth dry with a napkin. “Speaking of work, I’ve got this friend down at the Spot, dishwasher named Darnell. Smart guy, a good cook, and a really good worker. I think he’s a good candidate to open his own small business. He’s not looking for a bar, just the food side of things.”
“I’ll talk to him, that’s what you want.”
“He lacks confidence, I think.”
“When the time’s right, then. Maybe you could come in with him, make it less painful for him. Be a good way for you to ease back on into the company, too. Clarence was just sayin’ the other day how we could use your people skills again.”
“Like I said, Marcus. I need a little time.”
O’Neal fought three defenders under the bucket and came up for a monster dunk. The hometown crowd had to applaud his effort.
“Now there’s a guy whose game has come around,” said Karras.
“You’re not lyin’. Shaq is the real Raging Bull.”
Karras looked over at his friend. Marcus had put on a few pounds, but it was natural weight gain and he kept it hard. His closely cropped Afro was salted with gray, and there were gray flecks in his thick black mustache.
“You still playin’?” said Karras.
“Still got that once-a-week thing over at the Alice Deal gym. My knees are gonna betray me one of these days, I know. And I can’t run the court with those young boys anymore. But I’m doin’ all right for an old man, I guess.”
“You’ll never give it up. You’re the original ball freak, man.”
Clay pointed his finger at Karras. “What about you? Goddamn, Dimitri! Was a time when you would not leave the blacktop. You even used to drag me to those ABA games back when D.C. had a team in the seventies.”
Karras smiled. “The Capitols.”
“Yeah, we’d have to go down to the old Washington Coliseum to see ’em play, too. What a dump that was.”
“Hey, we saw some good ball. They had Rick Barry for a while, right? And we got to see the Doctor when he was young and playin’ for the Squires, don’t forget that.”
“What was that team had all those crazy boys on it? The Spirits of St. Louis, right?”
“Marvin Bad Boy Barnes.”
“Hey, Mitri,” said Clay, “remember that backup center the Spirits had, big, Lurch-lookin’ mug, had a clown’s face, like? They used to put him into the game just to inflict pain.”
“I don’t remember his name. But yeah, it’s hard to forget a man that ugly.” Karras squinted. “Hey, check out that cheerleader, Marcus. The Asian girl, back row center.”
“Yeah, she is fine. But look at you, all gray and shit, staring at some twenty-year-old girl.”
“I was just commenting on her beauty, is all.”
“I know what you was doin’,” said Clay. “Booty monger like you.”
TWENTY-ONE
Nick Stefanos stood on the platform of the Fort Totten Metro station at seven-forty-five in the morning, blowing into his hands to warm them against the cold. He looked out into the parking lot at the blue Volvo pulling into the Kiss and Ride lane. He knew Terrence Mitchell would be right on time – he was that kind of man. Erika Mitchell stepped out of the passenger side, shut the door behind her, and walked across the lot.
Stefanos leaned against the side of a wind shelter as Erika emerged onto the platform. Her skin was dark, and she wore bright red lipstick on her ample mouth. She was a big-legged girl with big, straightened hair.
The lights at the edge of the platform blinked as the Green Line train approached. Erika boarded the train, and Stefanos took his time walking into the same car. She took the first seat by the doors; he had a seat three rows behind her.
“George Clinton,” said the recorded voice as the doors closed.
Stefanos settled in for the ride. Greenbelt was four stops away, and the trip would take a little while. But Erika got out of her seat two stops shy of Greenbelt and exited the car at the Prince George’s Plaza station. Stefanos followed her down to the parking lot and hung back at the newspaper racks as a chromed-up, ice-green Acura pulled alongside her.
The driver stopped the car so that it blocked traffic. He got out, walked over to Erika, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. He was tall and lean, midtwenties, wearing wide-leg jeans and a Nautica shirt with an unbuttoned thigh-length leather over the shirt. He wore his hair in a blown-out, seventies-style Afro. Erika and the tall man kissed, and then she got into the shotgun seat of his ride. The driver pulled away.
In the time that Randy Weston had been held on the murder charge, Erika Mitchell had found a new man. Or maybe he had been there all along. Even a control freak like Terrence Mitchell, thought Stefanos, couldn’t stop a young man and woman from getting together. He wondered if Erika Mitchell even had a job.
Stefanos checked his watch. He returned to the station and caught a train back to Fort Totten.
Stefanos fired up his Dodge and drove east, down Michigan Avenue and along the north-south railroad tracks of Brookland. He parked on the street, found the bay with the green door that he was looking for, and rang the bell. The door opened. A man stood in the frame, wiping his hands on a pink shop rag.
“Al Adamson?”
“That’s right.”
“Nick Stefanos. I phoned yesterday, remember? Marcus Clay sent me.”
Adamson’s biceps filled out the sleeves of his coveralls, and his upper body strained the fabric at his chest. He was shaved bald with a full beard and wore small rimless glasses. His face was deeply lined. Stefanos put him in his early fifties.
“Come on in,” said Adamson.
Stefanos followed him into the bay. A drop light hung over the open hood of a triple-black Mark III. Adamson went right to the car, grabbed a wrench off a cloth laid out across the top of the front quarter panel, and got to
