“Probably won’t be for very long.” Myron took another shot. Swish. “When do you think Greg will be back?”
In one motion Leon grabbed the bouncing ball and swooped it back to Myron. “I don’t know.”
“How’s Greg feeling? The ankle doing okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
Myron took another foul shot. Another swish. His shirt, heavy with sweat, felt right. He grabbed the towel and wiped his face again. “Have you talked to him at all?”
“No.”
“That’s funny.”
Leon passed the ball to Myron. “What’s funny?”
Myron shrugged, took four dribbles. “I heard you two were tight,” he said.
Leon gave a half-smile. “Where did you hear that?”
Myron released the ball. Another swish. “Around, I guess. In the newspapers and stuff.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Leon said.
“Why’s that?”
He bounce-passed the ball to Myron. “The press loves to build up a friendship between a white player and a black player. They’re always looking for that Gale Sayers–Brian Piccolo slant.”
“You two aren’t close?”
“Well, we’ve known each other a long time. I’ll say that.”
“But you’re not tight?”
Leon looked at him funny. “Why you so interested?”
“I’m just making conversation. Greg is my only real connection to this team.”
“Connection?”
Myron started dribbling again. “He and I used to be rivals.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So now we’re going to be teammates. It’ll be weird.”
Leon looked at Myron. Myron stopped dribbling. “You think Greg still cares about some old college rivalry?” There was disbelief in his voice.
Myron realized how lame he was sounding. “It was a pretty intense thing,” he said. “At the time, I mean.” Extra lame. Myron didn’t look at Leon. He just lined up the shot.
“I hope this don’t hurt your feelings or nothing,” Leon said, “but I’ve been rooming with Greg for eight years now. I’ve never heard him mention your name. Even when we talk about college and stuff.”
Myron stopped right before releasing the ball. He looked over at Leon, fighting to keep his face neutral. Funny thing was—much as Myron didn’t want to admit it—that did hurt his feelings.
“Shoot already,” Leon said. “I want to get out of here.”
TC lumbered toward them. He palmed a basketball in each hand with the ease most adults palm grapefruits. He dropped one of the balls and did a handshaking/slapping ritual with Leon. Then he looked over at Myron. His face broke into a big smile.
“I know, I know,” Myron said. “Thumped, right?”
TC nodded.
“What exactly is thumped?”
“Tonight,” TC said. “Party at my house. All will be revealed then.”
Chapter 14
Dimonte was waiting for him in the Meadowlands parking lot. He leaned out of his red Corvette. “Get in.”
“A red Corvette,” Myron said. “Why aren’t I surprised?”
“Just get in.”
Myron opened the door and slid into the black leather seat. Though they were parked with the engine off, Dimonte gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared in front of him. His face was sheet-white. The toothpick hung low. He kept shaking his head over and over. Yet again, the subtlety. “Something wrong, Rolly?”
“What’s Greg Downing like?”
“What?”
“You fucking deaf?” Dimonte snapped. “What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“But you knew him, right? In school. What was he like back then? Did he hang out with perversive types?”
Myron looked at him. “Perversive types?”
“Just answer the question.”
“What the hell is this? Perversive types?”
Dimonte turned the ignition key. The sound was loud. He hit the gas a bit, let the engine do the rev thing for a while. The car had been jacked up like a race car. The sound was, like, totally rad, man. No women were in the nearby vicinity to hear this human mating call or they would surely be disrobing by now. Dimonte finally shifted into gear.
“Where we going?” Myron asked.
Dimonte didn’t answer. He followed the ramp that leads from the arena to Giants Stadium and the horse track.
“Is this one of those mystery dates?” Myron asked. “I love those.”
“Stop fucking around and answer my question.”
“What question?”
“What’s Downing like? I need to know everything about him.”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, Rolly. I don’t know him that well.”
“Tell me what you do know.” Dimonte’s voice left little room for disagreement. His tone was less fake-macho than usual, and there was a funny quake in it. Myron didn’t like it.
“Greg grew up in New Jersey,” Myron began. “He’s a great basketball player. He’s divorced with two kids.”
“You dated his wife, right?”
“A long time ago.”
“Would you say she was left-wing?”
“Rolly, this is getting too weird.”
“Just answer the goddamn question.” The tone aimed for angry and impatient, but fear seemed to overlap them. “Would you call her politics radical?”
“No.”
“She ever hang out with perversives?”
“Is that even a word? Perversives?”
Dimonte shook his head. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for your shit, Bolitar?”
“Okay, okay.” Myron made a surrendering gesture with his hands. The Corvette swerved across the empty stadium lot. “No, Emily did not hang out with perversives, whatever they are.”
They headed past the racetrack and took the other ramp back toward the arena. It became apparent to Myron that they were just going to circle the Meadowlands’ vast expanse of paved lots. “Let’s get back to Downing then.”
“I just told you we haven’t talked in years.”
“But you know about him, right? You’ve been investigating him; you’ve probably read stuff about him.” Gear shift up. Extra rev power. “Would you say he was a revolutionary?”
Myron could not believe these questions. “No, Mr. Chairman.”
