Murder at the Foul Line (3 page)

She nodded. “Stands to reason.”

“So they probably haven’t assigned people to guard him,” he said, “and he’s probably not taking precautions.”

“Probably not.”

“Should be easy.”

“It should,” she agreed. “So why are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed?”

“That’s the vibe I’m getting. Are you picking up on something? Like it’s really going to be a lot more complicated than it
sounds?”

He shook his head. “I think it’s going to be easy,” he said, “and I hope it is, and I’m not picking up any vibe. And I certainly
didn’t mean to sound disappointed, because I don’t feel disappointed. I can use the money, and besides that, I can use the
work. I don’t want to go stale.”

“So there’s no problem.”

“No. As far as your vibe is concerned, well, I spent the morning at the dentist.”

“Say no more. That’s enough to depress anybody.”

“It wasn’t, really. But then I was watching some guys play basketball. The Indian food helped, but the mood lingered.”

“You’re just one big non sequitur, aren’t you, Keller?” She held up a hand. “No, don’t explain. You’ll go to Indianapolis,
you lucky man, and your actions will get to speak for themselves.”

Keller’s motel was a Rodeway Inn at the junction of Inter-states 465 and 69, close enough to Carmel but not too close. He
signed in with a name that matched his credit card and made up a license plate number for the registration card. In his room,
he ran the channels on the TV, then switched off the set. He took a shower, got dressed, turned the TV on, turned it off again.

Then he went to the car and found his way to the Conseco
Fieldhouse, where the Indiana Pacers were playing host to the New York Knicks.

The stadium was in the center of the city, but the signage made it easy to get there. A man in a porkpie hat asked him in
an undertone if he had any extra tickets, and Keller realized that he did. He took a good look at his tickets for the first
time and saw that he had a pair of $96 seats in section 117, wherever that was. He could sell one, but wouldn’t that be awkward
if the man he sold it to sat beside him? He’d probably be a talker, and Keller didn’t want that.

But a moment’s observation clarified the situation. The man in the porkpie hat—who had, Keller noted, a face straight out
of an OTB parlor, a coulda-woulda-shoulda gambler’s face—was doing a little business, buying tickets from people who had too
many, selling them to people who had too few. So he wouldn’t be sitting next to Keller. Someone else would, but it would be
someone he hadn’t met, so it would be easy to keep an intimacy barrier in place.

Keller went up to the man in the hat, showed him one of the tickets. The man said, “Fifty bucks,” and Keller pointed out that
it was a $96 ticket. The man gave him a look, and Keller took the ticket back.

“Jesus,” the man said. “What do you want for it, anyway?”

“Eighty-five,” Keller said, picking the number out of the air.

“That’s crazy.”

“The Pacers and the Knicks? Section 117? I bet I can find somebody who wants it eighty-five dollars’ worth.”

They settled on $75, and Keller pocketed the money and used his other ticket to enter the arena. Then it struck him that he
could have unloaded both tickets and had $150 to show for
it, and gone straight home, spared the ordeal of a basketball game. But he was already through the turnstile when the thought
came to him, and by that point he no longer had a ticket to sell.

He found his seat and sat down to watch the game.

Keller, an only child, was raised by his mother, who he had come to realize in later years was probably mentally ill. He never
suspected this at the time, although he was aware that she was different from other people.

She kept a picture of Keller’s father in a frame in the living room. The photograph showed a young man in a military uniform,
and Keller grew up knowing that his father had been a soldier, a casualty of the war. As a teenager, he’d been employed cleaning
out a stockroom, and one of the boxes of obsolete merchandise he’d hauled out had contained picture frames, half of them containing
the familiar photograph of his putative father.

It occurred to him that he ought to mention this to his mother. On further thought, he decided not to say anything. He went
home and looked at the photo and wondered who his father was. A soldier, he decided, though not this one. Someone passing
through, who’d fathered a son and never knew it.

And died in battle? Well, a lot of soldiers did. His father might very well have been one of them.

Growing up in a fatherless home with a mother who didn’t seem to have any friends or acquaintances was something Keller had
been on the point of addressing in therapy, until a problem with his therapist put an end to that experiment. He’d had trouble
deciding just how he felt about his mother, but had
ultimately come to the conclusion that she was a good woman who’d done a good job of raising him, given her limitations. She
was a serviceable cook if not an imaginative one, and he had a hot breakfast every morning and a hot dinner every night. She
kept their house clean and taught Keller to be clean about his person. She was detached, and talked more to herself than to
him—and, in the afternoons, talked to the characters in her TV soap operas.

She bought him presents at Christmas and on his birthday, usually clothing to replace garments he’d outgrown, but occasionally
something more interesting. One year she bought him an Erector set, and he’d proved quite hopeless at following the diagrams
in an effort to produce a flatbed railcar or, indeed, anything else. Another year’s present was a beginner’s stamp collecting
kit—a stamp album, a packet of stamps, a pair of tongs to pick them up with, and a supply of hinges for mounting them in the
album. The Erector set wound up in the closet, gathering dust, but the stamp album turned out to be the foundation of a lifelong
hobby. He’d abandoned it after high school, of course, and the original album was long gone, but Keller had taken up the hobby
again as an adult and cheerfully poured much of his spare time and extra cash into it.

Would he have become a stamp collector if not for his mother’s gift? Possibly, he thought, but probably not. It was one more
reason to thank her.

The Erector set was a good thought that failed, the stamp album an inspiration. The biggest surprise, though, of all the gifts
she gave him was neither of these.

That would have to be the basketball backboard.

Keller hadn’t bothered to note the seat number of the ticket he sold to the man in the porkpie hat. His own seat was 117,
situated unsurprisingly enough between seats 116 and 118, both of them unoccupied when he sat down between them. Then two
men came along and sat down in 115 and 116. One was substantially older than the other, and Keller found himself wondering
if they were father and son, boss and employee, uncle and nephew, or gay lovers. He didn’t really care, but he couldn’t keep
from wondering, and he kept changing his mind.

The game had already started by the time a man turned up and sat down in 118. He was wearing a dark suit with a subtle pinstripe
and looked as though he’d come straight from the office, an office where he spent his days doing something no one, least of
all the man himself, would describe as interesting.

The man in the porkpie hat had paid Keller $75 for that seat, which suggested that the man in the suit must have paid at least
$100 for it, and perhaps as much as $125. But, of course, the fellow had no idea that Keller was the source of his ticket,
and in fact paid no attention to Keller, devoting the full measure of his attention to the action on the court, where the
Pacers had jumped off to an early lead.

Keller, with some reluctance, turned his attention to the game.

Across the street and two doors up from Keller’s house, a family named Breitbart filled a large frame house to overflowing.
Mr. Breitbart owned and ran a furniture store on Euclid Avenue, and Mrs. Breitbart stayed home and, for a while at least,
had a baby every year. The year Keller was born she gave birth
to two—twin sons, Andrew and Randall, the names no doubt selected so that their nicknames could rhyme. The twins were the
family’s only boys; the other five little Breitbarts, some older than the twins, the rest younger, were all girls.

Every afternoon, weather permitting, boys gathered in the Breitbart backyard to play basketball. Sometimes they divided into
teams, and one side took off their shirts, and they played the sort of half-court game you could play with a single garage-mounted
backboard. Other times, when fewer boys showed up or for some other reason, they found other ways to compete—playing Horse,
say, where each player had to duplicate the particular shot of the first player. There were other games as well, but Keller,
watching idly from across the street, was less clear on their rules and objectives.

One night at dinner, Keller’s mother told him he should go across the street and join the game. “You watch all the time,”
she said—inaccurately, as he only occasionally let himself loll on the sidewalk watching the action in the Breitbart yard.
“I bet they’d love it if you joined in. I bet you’d be good at it.”

As it turned out, she lost both bets.

Keller, a quiet boy, always felt more at ease with grown-ups than with his contemporaries. On his own, he moved with an easy
grace; in group sports, self-consciousness turned him awkward and made him ill at ease. Nonetheless, later that week he crossed
the street and presented himself in the Breitbart backyard. “It’s Keller,” Andy or Randy said. “From across the street.” Someone
tossed him the ball, and he bounced it twice and tossed it unsuccessfully at the basket.

They chose up sides, and he, the unknown quantity, was picked last, which struck him as reasonable enough. He was on the Skins
team, and shucked his shirt, which made him feel a
little self-conscious, but that was nothing compared to the self-consciousness that ensued when the game began.

Because he didn’t know how to play. He was ineffectual at guarding, and more obviously inept when someone tossed him the ball
and he didn’t know what to do with it. “Shoot,” someone yelled, and he shot and missed. “Here, here!” someone called out,
and his pass was intercepted. He just didn’t know what he was doing, and before long his teammates figured out as much and
stopped passing him the ball.