Drop Shot (1996) (9 page)

"Let's go grab a couple burgers," Jake said, wiping his face with a moist towelette. "I'm starving."

Myron picked up the Slim-Fast can and smiled sweetly. "'A delicious shake for breakfast. Another for lunch. And then a sensible dinner.'"

"Bullshit. I gave it a try. The shit doesn't work."

"How long were you on it?"

"Almost a day. Zip, nothing. Not a pound gone."

"You should sue."

"Plus the stuff tastes like used gunpowder."

"You get the file on Alexander Cross?"

"Yeah, right here. Let's go."

Myron followed Jake down the street. They stopped at a place very generously dubbed the Royal Court Diner. A pit If it were totally renovated, it might reach the sanitary status of an interstate public toilet.

Jake smiled. "Nice, huh?"

"My arteries are hardening from the smell," Myron said.

"For chrissake, man, don't inhale."

The table had one of those diner jukeboxes. The records hadn't been changed in a long time. The current number one single, according to the little advertisement, was Elton John's Crocodile Rock.

The waitress was standard diner issue. She was grumpy, mid-fifties, her hair a purplish tint not found anywhere in the state of nature.

"Hey, Millie," Jake said.

She tossed them menus, not speaking, barely breaking stride.

"That's Millie," Jake said.

"She seems great," Myron said. "Can I see the file?"

"Let's order first."

Myron picked up the menu. Vinyl. And sticky. Very sticky. Like someone had poured maple syrup on it. There were also bits of coagulated scrambled eggs in the crease. Myron was losing his appetite in a hurry.

Three seconds later Millie returned, sighed. "What'll it be?"

"Give me a cheeseburger deluxe," Jake said. "Double order of fries instead of the coleslaw. And a diet Coke."

Millie looked toward Myron. Impatiently.

Myron smiled at her. "Do you have a vegetarian menu?"

"A what?"

"Stop being an asshole," Jake said.

"A grilled cheese will be fine," Myron said.

"Fries with that?"

"No."

"To drink?"

"A Diet Coke. Like my low-cal buddy."

Millie eyed Myron, looked him up and down. "You're kinda cute."

Myron gave her the modest smile. The one that said, Aw, shucks.

"You also look familiar."

"I have that kind of face," Myron said. "Cute yet familiar."

"You date one of my daughters once? Gloria maybe. She works the night shift."

"I don't think so."

She looked him over again. "You married?"

"I'm involved with someone."

"Not what I asked you," she said. "You married?"

"No."

"All right men." She turned and left.

"What was that all about?"

Jake shrugged. "Hope she's not getting Gloria."

"Why?"

"She kinda looks like a white version of me," Jake said. "Only with a heavier beard."

"Sounds enticing."

"You still with Jessica Culver?"

"Guess so."

Jake shook his head. "Man, she's something else. I've never seen nothing that looked that good in real life."

Myron tried not to grin. "Hard to argue."

"She also got you wrapped around her finger."

"Hard to argue."

"Lots of worse places for a man to be wrapped around."

"Hard to argue."

Millie came back with the two Diet Cokes. This time she almost managed to smile at Myron. "Good-looking man like you shouldn't be single," she said.

"I'm wanted in several states," Myron said.

Millie did not seem discouraged. She shrugged, left. Myron turned back to Jake.

"All right," Myron said. "Where's the file?"

Jake flipped it open. He handed Myron a picture of a handsome, healthy man. Tan, fit, wearing tennis shorts. Myron had seen the picture in the paper after the murder.

"Meet Alexander Cross," Jake began. "Age twenty-four at the time of the murder. Wharton graduate. Son of United States senator Bradley Cross of Pennsylvania. On the night of July twenty-four, six years ago, he was attending a party at a tennis club called Old Oaks in Wayne, Pennsylvania. The esteemed senator was there. It's a pretty ritzy place fancy food, indoor and outdoor courts, hard court, clay, lit, unlit, the works. Even grass courts."

"Okay."

"What happened next is a bit fuzzy, but here's what we have. Alexander Cross and three buddies were taking a walk around the grounds."

"At night? During a party?"

"Not unheard of."

"Not common either."

Jake shrugged. "Anyway, they heard a noise coming from the western end of the club. They went to check it out They ran into two suspicious-looking youths."

"Suspicious-looking?"

"The youths were what are they calling us today? African American."

"Ah," Myron said. "Is it safe to assume that Old Oaks did not have a lot of African American members?"

"Like none. It's exclusive."

"So you and I could never be members."

"Real shame," Jake said. "I bet we'd have loved that party."

"So what happened next?"

"According to the witnesses, the white youths approached the black youths. One of the black youths later identified as one Errol Swade reacted by whipping out a switchblade."

Myron made a face. "A switchblade?"

"Yeah, I know. Such a clich+!. No imagination. Anyway, an incident ensued. Alexander Cross was stabbed. The two youths ran. A few hours later the police caught up with them in north Philadelphia, not far from where the youths lived. During the apprehension, one of the punks pulled out a gun. A Curtis Yeller. Sixteen years old. A police officer shot him. Yeller's mother was at the scene, from what I understand. She was cradling the kid in her arms when he died."

"She saw him being shot?"

Jake shrugged. "Doesn't say."

"So what happened to Errol Swade?"

"He escaped. A nationwide manhunt began. His mug shot was in all the papers, sent to all the stations. Lot of cops on it, of course the victim being the son of a U. S. senator and all. But here's where things get interesting."

Myron sipped the Diet Coke. Flat.

"They never found Errol Swade," Jake said.

Myron felt his heart sink. "Never?"

Jake shook his head.

"Are you telling me Swade escaped?"

"Appears so."

"How old was he?"

"Nineteen at the time of the incident."

Myron mulled that over a moment. "That would make him twenty-five now."

"Whoa. A math major."

Myron did not smile. Millie brought the food. She made another comment, but Myron did not hear it. Twenty-five years old. Myron couldn't help but wonder. It was a dumb thought Unforgivable. And maybe even racist. But there it was. Twenty-five years old. Duane claimed to be twenty-one, but who knew for sure?

But no. It can't be.

Myron took another sip of the flat soda. "What do you know about Errol Swade?" he asked.

"A pedigree punk. He had already been in jail three times. First offense was stealing a car. He was twelve. Assorted felonies followed. Muggings, assaults, car thefts, armed robberies, drugs. Also a member of an ultraviolent street gang. Guess what the gang was called."

Myron shrugged. "Josie and the Pussycats?"