Murder at the Foul Line (8 page)

Cabot sat and gestured Washington into a chair. It creaked under his weight. According to the stats he was six-eight and weighed
245 pounds but in this small apartment he seemed a lot bigger than that.

“Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“Nope.”

Cabot said to Washington, “You know much about me, Danny?”

“Not too much. I seen you ’round the gym in the last month or so. And I seen you hanging ’round the Garden.”

“You know what I do?”

“Most people hang out ’round the Garden, either they’re scalping tickets or taking bets on the games, you know. I’m guessing
you do some betting.”

Cabot said, “That—and a few other things. Mostly I make money for people.”

Washington’s face broke into a slow smile. “That’s a good job.”

“You’ve got a good job too. And you’re good at it. I saw you last week. Against the Bulls. Twenty-four points.”

“I guess.”

“Is that good?” Randall asked.

Cabot laughed and rolled his eyes, said to Washington, “My friend from Brooklyn here knows all about lending money and all
about getting paid back. But he doesn’t know sports.”

“I know baseball,” Randall said defensively.

“The Mets,” Washington said, squinting to see if this was an appropriate comment.

“That’s my team.” The man from Brooklyn offered a smile to his huge new buddy.

Cabot nodded toward Washington and said to Randall, “Danny’s a two-guard. Same as Michael Jordan. His speciality’s free throws
and treys. He’s one of the best in the NBA.”

“I’m not too good under the boards,” the player said slowly.

“Who cares?” Cabot asked. “You can shoot the long ones like nobody’s business.”

“I guess.” A cautious glance toward the man in the corner, who still said nothing and just stared at the tall man. At every
pause in the conversation the rustling sound of traffic racing through Hell’s Kitchen filled the room, punctuated by horns
and shouts.

“How come you’re such a good shooter?” Cabot asked.

“I dunno. Just got some kind of sense,” the big man said.

“Like Psychic Friends Hotline?” Randall suggested.

The big player didn’t get the joke. He said seriously, “Naw, naw, not that stuff my grandma goes for. I can’t explain it good.
See, I’m not too smart—I got drafted by the Hawks right outta high school. I was probably gonna flunk out anyway. So I was
thinking that maybe when you’re like that you get this sixth sense or something. Somehow I just know things on the court before
they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when I throw the ball, whether it’ll be a miss or
it’ll be nothing but net.”

“What’s that mean?” Randall asked. “Nothing but net.”

Cabot explained, “A perfect swish—the ball doesn’t even hit the rim, just drops right through. All it touches is the net.
And that’s what Danny’s treys and free throws do most of the time.”

Washington shrugged. “It’s not that hard. All’s I’m doing is putting a nine-inch ball through a eighteen-inch hoop.” He
frowned in concentration as he thought. Then, after a long pause, he said, “The thing is, it’s not just shooting—it’s
seeing
.”

“Seeing?” Randall asked.

“Yeah. Lotta players got good hands. But they don’t have the eye.” He pointed a huge finger at his right eye. “That’s one
thing God gave me. Maybe I didn’t get a lotta brains but He gave me an eye.” He lowered his hand and glanced at Cabot. “So
what you ask me up here for?”

“You and me were talking in the gym the other day, Danny.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And you were saying you didn’t like it that the government took half your money.”

“All them taxes… Don’t seem fair.”

“And you were saying that makes you mad.”

“Hells yeah, it makes me mad. But not much I can do about it.”

“Maybe there
is
one thing you can do about it,” Cabot said.

“What’s that?”

“Make more money.”

Washington nodded. “Might happen. My contract’s up next year. Maybe my agent can get me more.”

“Well, Danny, since you brought it up, there’s something I have to show you.”

Cabot took a piece of paper from a stained envelope and handed it to the player. “I’ve got a friend who works in the office
of your team. He got his hands on a copy of this.”

Washington took it uncertainly and Cabot had a moment’s panic thinking that the man might be illiterate. But the player squinted
and read over the sheet. As he struggled over the words his face grew troubled.

From: Head Coach Arnold Hopper

To: Management

Re: Daniel Washington

This confirms our decision not to offer Washington a new contract for next year. He’s shown some promise but his talent at
shooting is offset by his lack of skill in making jump shots, not to mention his turnover record inside the wings. I’m also
very troubled by his refusal to socialize with his teammates.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie wrote
this?
This’s bullshit. What’s he mean, socialize?”

“Get along with the other players.”

“It’s not that… I like ’em all right. It’s just I like to go home after playing. Watch TV, talk to my brother on the phone.
And when I get a couple days off I go visit my mother and grandmother and my sister and her kids.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. They don’t seem to care.”

Washington tossed the memo angrily on the floor. “This means I’m getting dropped?”

“I’m afraid so, Danny.”

“Hell… what’m I gonna do?”

Finally the man in the corner spoke up. “Danny, what do you think of the Lakers?”

“That’s a good team.”

“How’d you like to play for them?”

“I always wanted to play for L.A.” A grin broke out on his face. “Weather’s nice out there.”

“Nicer than here,” the man said.

“If I played for them I could move my grandmother out there. She’s eighty-two this month. Lives outside Baltimore. She don’t
like the cold.” Then he frowned. “But the Lakers got Bob Klinger—that big kid from Carolina. He shoots treys real good. They
don’t need me.”

Cabot glanced at the man in the corner and said, “Danny, this is Mr. Pettiway.”

“Hello, sir.”

Pettiway nodded.

“He’s sort of an agent.”

“Sort of?”

Pettiway nodded again. “Danny, the Lakers’re prepared to offer you a three-year contract. They’ll up your salary to four million
the first year, five the second, six the third. I think we can even convince them to move your grandmother out there if you
want.”

“They’d do that?”

“They would, yes. They’d like you on the team real bad.”

“This’s sounding pretty good,” Washington drawled.

Pettiway fell silent. Then Cabot nodded at him and the man continued. “Well, Danny, there
is
a little something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re playing them tonight, right?”

“The Lakers? Yessir.”

Pettiway said, “I could arrange for this contract for you—but the Lakers have to win.”

“Man.” Danny Washington shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s gonna happen. Doug Hamilton, their center, he’s benched—his
knee’s out. And Sammy Johnston, he’s back from that wrist surgery—first time he’s played for months. Everybody’s saying we’ll
win by twenty…” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait… wait… You’re saying you want me to do something to…”

The big player couldn’t bring himself to say “throw the game,” but he wasn’t so stupid he didn’t understand Pettiway’s meaning.
“The
Lakers
want me to do that?”

“No, no,” Cabot said. “The team doesn’t know anything
about it. This is something Mr. Pettiway and I’ve been working on. I told you my job is making money for people. We’ve got
a lot of money tied up in bets on this game tonight. With Hamilton out and this being Johnston’s first game in two months,
you’re right—the odds are real good for your team. So if the Lakers win we’re going to make a lot of money. If that happens
then Mr. Pettiway’ll pull some strings at the Lakers and get you that contract. We can guarantee it.”

A blank look filled the player’s face as he looked around the room. His eyes settled on the van Gogh. What was he thinking?
Cabot wondered. Anything at all?

Finally the player turned back to Pettiway. Washington squinted and said, “You guarantee it in
writing?
”

Cabot looked at Pettiway and grinned. “I told you Danny knows what he’s about. Just ’cause a man talks slow doesn’t mean he
is
slow.”

Pettiway pulled a document out of one of his briefcases and slid it toward the player, who read it slowly, his lips moving.
He read it again. Then once more. “Some of this I can’t scope out. Maybe I should have my lawyer look it over. I get into
trouble sometimes if I don’t do that.”

“Um, Danny,” Pettiway said delicately, “we probably don’t want to do that, now, do we? Not with the talk of making sure your
team loses that game tonight.”

“Oh, right. That’d be bad.”

“Yes, it would.”

Washington took the pen and looked over the paper again. “I don’t know. I never done anything like this before.”

At a glance from Cabot, Pettiway opened his second briefcase, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s a signing
bonus, Danny. Half a million. You were saying you didn’t like
paying taxes? Well, since this’s cash, you don’t have to pay a penny in tax. It’s yours if you sign now.”

Washington’s eyes slid to the memo from the head coach. “I gave the team everything I got and they treat me like that? Man,
that’s low.” He gripped the pen in tight fingers.

“Go ahead, Danny,” Cabot said.

The big man signed the letter. Then. Pettiway did too and gave Washington a copy.

They shook hands.

Cabot grinned and said, “Maybe you don’t drink beer, Danny, but I’ve got some champagne in the fridge. How ’bout we celebrate?”

But before he got halfway to the kitchen T. D. Randall pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from his pocket and shouted,
“I need backup, now!” He leapt to his feet, drawing a pistol from the back of his waistband and training it on Cabot.

“Jesus,” Cabot gasped, eyes wide.

Pettiway stood up, confusion on his face. “What’re you—”

And then the apartment door burst open and two men in suits, also brandishing guns, pushed inside. Badges hung from their
necks.

Cabot snapped, “What the hell’s going on?”

Pettiway looked horrified. One of the policemen—a short, muscular man—grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t
move.” He roughly frisked the man and cuffed him. The other did the same to Cabot, then to Washington.

The taller of the cops said, “I’m Detective Harvey, Midtown Vice.” Then he recited, “You men are under arrest for conspiracy
to alter the outcome of a sporting event and for wagering on the outcome of said event.”

“You!” Cabot turned to T. D. Randall. “You’re undercover?”

Randall’s only response was to read the men their rights. He then took a tape recorder out of his pocket. Harvey played a
portion of the tape. All their voices were clearly audible.

“Oh, man,” Washington said. “I don’t understand. What’s this mean? What’s—”

“It means you’re going to jail, big fella,” Harvey said.

“No, I can’t—”

“You lying son of a bitch!” Cabot snapped at Randall.

The little man said evenly, “You say your job’s making money, Andy? Well, mine’s arresting people when they do it illegally.”

A third man in a suit, a badge around his neck too, walked into the room. Balding and pudgy, he surveyed the men in the room.
“Hey, Lieutenant Grimsby,” Harvey said. “We got the contract, the tape and the perps.” He laughed and looked at Washington.
“The case’s a slam dunk.”

The lieutenant followed Harvey’s eyes to the basketball player, who stood, with his hands cuffed in front of him, staring
miserably at the floor. Then the lieutenant frowned. He said, “Wait a minute, that’s Danny Washington? I didn’t know
he
was the guy. The warrant only listed a John Doc.”

Randall shrugged and said, “The warrant was issued last week—before Cabot decided on Washington.”

Grimsby looked Washington up and down. He said to Harvey and his partner, “I’ll take over from here. You guys can go.”

“But—”

“It’s okay. I’ll call for transport. Officer Randall, you stay here.”

“Sure thing, lieutenant.”

When the two detectives were gone the lieutenant gestured Randall into the corner of the apartment and they spoke for a
minute or two. Randall glanced at Washington a couple of times and nodded.

“Officer,” Pettiway muttered, “I want a lawyer. I’m entitled to one!” The policemen ignored him. Cabot sat miserably on the
couch.

Randall and Grimsby finished their discussion and Grimsby walked up to Washington. He looked his unfortunate prisoner over
once more, then said, “Let’s step into the hall for a minute, son.”

You got yourself into a mess here, didn’t you?” the lieutenant asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Yessir, I did.”