“Oh,” Danny Clarke said. “Now I remember. You’re the old basketball player. The one who hurt his knee.”
“At your service,” Myron said.
“Is Christian okay?”
Myron tried to look noncommittal. “I understand he didn’t get along with his teammates.”
“So? You his social coordinator?”
“What was the problem?”
“I can’t see how it matters now,” he said.
“Then humor me.”
It took the coach some time to relax his glare. “It was a lot of things,” he said. “But I guess Horty was the main problem.”
“Horty?” Clever interrogation techniques. Pay attention.
“Junior Horton,” he explained. “A defensive lineman. Good speed, good size, good talent. The brains of a citrus beverage.”
“So what does this Horty have to do with Christian?”
“They didn’t see eye to eye.”
“How come?”
Danny Clarke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Something to do with that girl who disappeared.”
“Kathy Culver?”
“Right. Her.”
“What about her?”
He turned back to the VCR and changed tapes. Then he typed something on his computer. “I think maybe she dated Horty before Christian. Something like that.”
“So what happened?”
“Horty was a bad apple from the get-go. In his senior year I found out he was pushing drugs to my players: cocaine, dope, Lord knows what else. So I bounced him. Later, I heard he’d been supplying the guys with steroids for three years.”
Later my ass, Myron thought. But for once he kept the thought to himself. “So what does this have to do with Christian?”
“Rumors started circulating that Christian had gotten Horty thrown off the team. Horty fueled them, you know, telling the guys that Christian was turning them all in for using steroids, stuff like that.”
“Was that true?”
“Nope. Two of my best players showed up game day so stoned, they could barely see. That’s when I took action. Christian had nothing to do with it. But you know how it is. They all figured Christian was the star. If he wanted his ass wiped, the coaches asked Charmin or Downy.”
“Did you tell your guys Christian had nothing to do with it?”
He made a face. “You think that would have helped? They would have thought I was covering for him, protecting him. They would have hated him even more. As long as it didn’t affect their play-and it didn’t-it was not my concern. I just let it be.”
“You’re a real character developer, Coach.”
He gave Myron his best intimidate-the-freshman glare. The forehead vein started pulsing. “You’re out of line, Bolitar.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I care about my boys.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You let Horty stay as long as he pumped your boys with dangerous albeit play-enhancing drugs. When he graduated to the big leagues-to the stuff that had a negative on-the-field impact-all of a sudden you became a righteous drug czar.”
“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” Danny Clarke ranted. “Especially from a no-good, bloodsucking vampire. Get the hell out of my office. Now.”
Myron said, “You want to catch a movie together sometime? Maybe a Broadway show?”
“Out!”
Myron left. Another day, another friend. Charm was the key.
He had plenty of time to kill before he visited Sheriff Jake, so he decided to take a stroll. The campus was like a ghost town, except no tumbleweeds were skittering along the ground. The students were gone for summer break. The buildings stood lifeless and sad. In the distance a stereo was playing Elvis Costello. Two girls appeared. Co-ed types wearing crotch-riding shorts and halter tops. They were walking a hairy, little dog-a Shih Tzu. It looked like Cousin It after one too many spins in the dryer. Myron smiled and nodded as the girls passed him. Neither one fainted or disrobed. Astonishing. The little dog, however, snarled at him. Cujo.
He was nearly at his car when he spotted the sign:
CAMPUS POST OFFICE
He stopped, looked around the grounds, saw nobody. Hmm. It was worth a try.
The inside of the post office was painted institutional green, the same color as the school bathroom. A long V- shaped corridor was wallpapered with p.o. boxes. He heard the distant sound of a radio. He couldn’t make out the song, just a strong, monotonous bass beat.
Myron approached the mail window. A kid sat with his feet up. The music was coming from the kid’s ears. He was listening to one of those Walkman clones with the minispeakers that bypass the ears and plug directly into the cerebrum. His black high-tops rested on a desk, his baseball hat tipped down like a sombrero at siesta time. There was a book on his lap. Philip Roth’s
“Good book,” Myron said.
The kid did not look up.
“Good book,” Myron said again, this time yelling.
The kid pulled the speakers out of his ears with a sucking pop. He was pale and red-haired. When he took off his hat, his hair was Afro-wild. Bernie from
“What?”
“I said, good book.”
“You read it?”
Myron nodded. “Without moving my lips.”
The kid stood. He was tall and lanky.
“You play basketball?” Myron asked.
“Yeah,” the kid said. “Just finished my freshman year. Didn’t play much.”
“I’m Myron Bolitar.”
The kid looked at him blankly.
“I played ball for Duke.”
Blink, blink.
“No autographs, please.”
“How long ago did you play?” the kid asked.
“Graduated ten years ago.”
“Oh,” the kid replied, as though that explained everything. Myron did some quick math in his head. The kid had been seven or eight when Myron won the national title. He suddenly felt very old.
“We used peach baskets back then.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Can I ask you a few questions?”
The kid shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“How often are you on duty in the post office?”
“Five days a week in the summer, nine to five.”
“Is it always this quiet?”
“This time of year, yeah. No students, so there’s almost no mail.”
“Do you do the mail sorting?”
