by T. R. Kelly
“Holdin’ it together, Mitch?” I said.
While I appreciated his tireless fundraising efforts for the high school, he was a power broker who could turn on a coach if you didn’t see things his way or if you lost two games in a row. But all was well when the Fighting Crabs were winning and topping the prep headlines on local websites and in Saturday morning papers.
“Coach! Hey, glad I caught you.” Mitch looked down, realized that the middle brass button on his fly had missed its slot, but simply let it be. He raised a hand as a cautionary signal, then let go a sneeze so ferocious that it sent his head rocketing to his knees. Unfortunately, a blue paisley handkerchief arrived too late from his hip pocket. He swabbed his drippy nose and mouth. “Say, want to join our poker group down at spring training?” Mitch surveyed the hanky. “That new Mariner complex near Phoenix. Should be a gas. Sun, baseball, who knows? We might even find a beer. Those young M’s should have a decent team this year and ...” He stepped away, arched his back, and blasted another big-league gesundheit into his hands. The tattoos on his stout forearms displayed his passions; a gold Navy anchor rested on his right, and a snarling Dungeness crab stared up from his left. The sneeze sparked a trickle of blood from the gaping twin cones leading from his nose. I sunk back on my heels, repulsed and amazed at the same time. I rushed to the restroom and grabbed a handful of paper towels.
“Thanks, Coach,” he muttered through the soggy cloth. “Can use these as backup.”
“No worries,” I said. “I heard you guys might be heading down to the desert. But that’s the state tournament week. Can’t miss it.”
Like a school kid yearning for June, I couldn’t wait for the depths of winter. Basketball is a winter game. High school buckets are all about jam-packed gymnasiums like Washington High’s legendary Crab Pot and shivering lines of parents, kids, boosters, and community leaders desperately waiting to leave the biting cold and enter a familiar, raucous sauna-like gym. While I’d been approached about job openings in Las Vegas and Tucson, I’d always thought coaching hoops in the Southwest was backward; it’s unnatural for people to escape the heat outside in order to attend a basketball game played between two rivals in a chilly, air-conditioned building.
“Tell you what,” Mitch said, holding his head back long enough to get the words out. “The boosters will even pick up your airfare.” He dabbed his nose. “That’s the least we can do for all of your years of service.”
His offer—and explanation—came as a complete surprise. The boosters had showered me with gifts and freebies at my retirement dinner. And, just about everyone in the county knew I hadn’t missed the state tourney in thirty years. Even so, it had been awhile since I felt flattered.
“Very tempting, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass,” I said. “A lot of the old boys would wonder what happened to me if I didn’t show up at state. You guys have a terrific time. And get some sun for me.”
Moore shifted his weight and poked me in the chest. “Ah, c’mon Ernie. What’s it going to take to get you down there? You know they’ll be some great after-dinner hoop talk. Bring back old times. I’ll even pick up your hotel, and we’ll have plenty of cars to get everybody around. Whole time won’t cost you a cent.”
“Like I say, it’s not the cost but the time. If the dates were different I might.”
“Just forget it,” Moore growled, waving a hand. “You’re one stubborn sonofabitch. Always have been.” He leaned in closer. “Wouldn’t even change defense when everybody in the building knew better. You go fuck yourself on your own time ’cause we’ll be having a big time without you.”
I stood open-mouthed, unsure if I could even muster a reply. Head cocked back, he waddled toward the parking lot, passing Cookie coming from the other direction. She cringed, backed against the wall, and lifted both hands as if being frisked, allowing Moore as much room as possible to pass.
“Don’t need those cooties. Eww!” Cookie took a moment to rebound then angled her head toward the dining room. “Let’s you and me go find a table.” She took a step, then turned and faced me. “Talking about tables, Peggy in our office said Mitch made a killing the other night at the casino. Sucker couldn’t lose.” She pulled a yellow notepad from a white patent leather purse that could have held my entire wardrobe. “How long do you think this is gonna take?” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve got a customer who’s been circling on a home at Big Lake for weeks and who might be ready to make an offer, with a little coaxing.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“You know, Cookie,” I began, as she eyeballed the dining room for a spot with a clean tablecloth, “why do I feel like you’re doing me a favor lately every time I ask to see you?”
She snickered. “When did you become so touchy?”
“Am I not hitting the numbers you expect, or is it you feel I have little to say?” She curled her lip and hurriedly primped her silver-streaked hair before taking her seat—a dark, high-back chair that I was late tugging back from the table.
“A gentlemanly thought,” she smiled. “But slow.” After a moment, she said, “Regarding work? We can all do better.”
I snorted at her familiar line, and then I gave her a blow-by-blow of the previous day. Cookie tapped her ballpoint on the tablet. “Has any competitor called, saying they were headed out to show your Dolan property?”
“I usually hear about it when an agent takes somebody up there,” I said. “The house simply hasn’t gotten that many showings since the first of the year. You know how it goes up there in the winter. Most of the people who do look are neighbors driving by. Too cold and nasty for the big-city people.”
She dug back into her bag. “Tell me something. Have you heard of any break-ins at the lake? Stuff gone missing?” She unfolded a cocktail napkin with scribbled notes. “A broker said one of her owners thought some heirloom place settings were missing. Old Maryland, engraved. Expensive, I guess. Custom water skis gone from another home. Yamaha outboard from a shed.” She took out a pencil and checked the list. “Here’s a Mastercraft ski boat reported stolen on the north shore. These ring any bells?”
“No, but it sounds like kids. Happens sometimes. I don’t see them hocking silver, though. Anyway, what’s good flatware doing at a lake house in the first place?”
“Retired couple. Sold their Seattle mansion and moved up there pretty much full time. Oh, well.” She shook her head, dumped the paper in the purse, then pulled out a small gold compact with the same motion. “All right, let’s try this. Get Dolan on the phone. The cops might’ve told him something was up. Let’s reassure him that the house looks fine and that things will work out with Linn. And be low-key. That poor Dolan family has had enough drama.”
“I’ll say. It’s been two years since the accident in Mexico.”
She popped the compact’s top and rotated her face in front of the tiny mirror and made sure I was looking her way. “Level with me here, Ernie. What’s your gut tell you on this? Could Linn have been running with the wrong crowd?”
I looked around the dining room. A young waitress folded napkins on a far table preparing for the early dinner crowd. “He’s smart enough to stay clear of the riff-raff. Sure, there were a few keggers and joints along the way, but I’m fairly certain you would see that just about anywhere. The youngsters he hung around with were all pretty good kids. He really got hammered over in Stanwood one night, though. It was not long after his surgery because he was still in a cast. His girlfriend called me at home, saying Linn didn’t want to give up his keys at a beach party. I drove the bus down there and took a bunch of them home.”
“Did Dr. Oliver find out?”
“Never did. Barbara called there first, but he was at the hospital, and Linn’s mom was out of town. But I honestly haven’t seen him in several weeks and can’t really say how he was doing.”
“Well, I heard through the grapevine that the young man was very despondent,” Cookie said. “From what I understand, he no longer can
make a lot of baskets. Something about him not being able to properly shoot the ball or run as fast. I don’t know. I just hope he wasn’t so discouraged that he ...”
I didn’t want her to finish the line. “I think every good player goes through a tough time accepting a decline in skills,” I said. “I know he’s tried several anti-inflammatories and some have worked well from time to time. He’s biding time at the Shell station now, but he loves those big trees. Even after he got hurt that one summer. Probably end up in the family timber business, eventually.”
“Wait a minute,” Cookie said. “The UW said he was completely healed. I understood the university conducted a thorough examination before awarding him that scholarship. Besides, he had that very impressive senior year.”
“Yeah, everybody thought he’d be fine. Make a full recovery. But the truth is he was never the same player after he tore up his right knee when that choker cable slipped in the forest. Frankly, I think it started to show in the state final. When he got to Washington, he could no longer play hard on it every day. Took a while for him and his coaches to figure it out.”
“Well, even so. After all this time, you would think his own uncle would at least give him an office job,” Cookie said. “I just hope he lands on his feet—and soon.”
I leaned in closer. “When he lost his scholarship, he left the UW and never did get a degree. He told me he was really just drifting for more than a year. Couldn’t get motivated to graduate. He didn’t think it was right to drop out then be accepted into the family timber business just because his name was Oliver.”
“Interesting, especially since his dad had no involvement in the company. I’m still not clear on how all that happened.”
“That’s a long story, but Dr. Oliver started in the logging camps with the rest of the family.”
Cookie peered at her Mickey Mouse watch, centered on a beaded bracelet, and bounced out of her chair. “You can fill me in some day, but not now,” she said. “I gotta go.”
“OK. I’ll find out from Harvey Johnston if he knows who was up there last night and check with my ferry guys and the state patrol,” I said. “I promise to keep you posted.”
She dug into the purse for a silver canister of lipstick and slapped on some deep red. “By all means. I’m going to go grind on that lakefront buyer to make a move.”
“On you, or on that house?”
“Drop dead. Better yet, go and sell a piece of real estate for me before you do.”
**
On the Division Street Bridge above the mighty Skagit, I watched the river run fast and high, the result of melting snow on the eastern slopes. Random branches and logs created floating snarls. The drive to the office took fewer than five minutes. I slipped silently through the back door. Off-the-cuff clothing critiques would just have to wait. I didn’t have the energy for creative comebacks; couldn’t rally the resources to be scintillating. Ted the Army Man’s last statement hit too close to home.
I heard the kid could really shoot it.
Edith was the agent on the floor. Her drawn-on eyebrows arched up as I sneaked into the office meeting room.
“Oh, Ernie,” Edith said in her not-so-endearing singsong manner. “I seeee youuuu. Now, let me tell you something for your own good.” Curtness cut into her voice. She pulled a pencil from the white hair above her ear. A heavy gabardine skirt started too high above her hips and extended to her mid-calf. It looked like a drape yanked from a medieval manor.
“Not now, Edith. I’m preparing for a client call. Please ask the others not to disturb me.” I nearly lunged at the doorknob.
“You really should stay away from large checked patterns. Especially blue and black above your waist. They do nothing for you. You need to get your colors done. Women prefer ...”
“It’s plaid, and there’s some red in there too,” I said.
“If you weren’t so snippy, I would have told you earlier that there’s a nice gentleman asking for you or Cookie in the lobby,” Edith said. “She’s not back yet, but you might pay attention to how he chooses to dress. Unlike yourself, his shoes are actually shined.”
Mark Rice was one of the good guys who always finished first—except in the eyes of the two women he left at the altar. A tireless worker and former all-state shortstop, “Pee Wee” became the top producing agent in a huge Redmond-based multi-office brokerage by spending more time in his cavernous Cadillac than he did in any building. When a customer wasn’t opposite him in the comfy shotgun seat, he’d often yank the cigarette lighter and use it as a microphone as he mimicked Jim Morrison down I-5. Slick yet authentic, he reserved his library of ridiculous pickup lines for female strangers while remaining earnest and honest in his business dealings. I’d never been paid faster, or better, for a referral.
After the usual intro pleasantries, I said, “What can I do for you? Do you happen to have another Bellevue attorney who needs a mansion with a private dock to accommodate his yacht?”
“Actually, I did have another person who’s looking for a second home to send your way, but she wanted me to conduct the tour,” Rice said. “Can you imagine? I hope to hear from her tomorrow and then cover a lot of ground up here in the next couple of days.”
“Does not surprise me at all,” I said. “I’m betting you’ll cover more than ground.”
Rice grinned and rotated one of his gold cufflinks. “Don’t think she’s going to be the future Mrs. Rice, but you never know. She’s an intelligent person and fanatic about the Mariners. You have to admit, brains and baseball can be a decent foundation for a long-term relationship and, hey, spring training’s just around the corner. Throw in a bubbling personality and looks that could ...”
“Listen to you.” I laughed. “I thought you were done with long-term relationships after that second time you couldn’t find your way to the church.”
“New confidence, Ernie. You’re lookin’ at the brand-new me. Got a handle on the nerves. No more problems down the road. Or down the aisle, for that matter.”
I smiled and looked at my watch and then to my second-string Nikes. They were no match for his spiffy Italian imports. “Good to hear, Pee Wee. Really, it is. Now, can I get you printouts of some properties?”
He raised his chin slightly. “Coupla of things. I was going to show this woman your Dolan listing at Wilhelmina. Does the place still look OK? I haven’t been there since October.”
I stared off over his shoulder, wondering when the cops might take another look.
“I was up there recently, and the home looked fine,” I told him. “It came through the hard part of winter in great shape. If you can, give me a holler before you make the decision to go up there.”
He nodded. “Say, talking about decisions, when are you going to make the move back into coaching? I know I’m probably not the only one asking.”
“I like the scouting work I’m doing now,” I said. “Although there are plenty of real estate agents here that wish I was back in a gym instead of taking up space here. Maybe I’ll get involved with a select team. You never know. We’ll see.”
I wished Rice the best and sent him on his way. The farewell felt awkward yet cordial; all threshold conversations that included coaching seemed to be that way. Perhaps I underestimated my need to be back on the bench, diagramming plays on a whiteboard, and encouraging exhausted young men to somehow find the will to continue.
The conference room remained vacant, and I was eager to secure its privacy and telephone. I dug the Dolan folder out of my file cabinet, hustled down the hall, and closed the conference room door behind me.
Jim Junior’s Bellevue telephone number was listed below his signature on the last page. He was the oldest of the four Dolan children and held power-of-attorney for all matters regarding their Lake Wilhelmina cabin. I recalled the reason for the action. Jim Dolan, Sr., and his wife, Martha, two of the more popular characters at the lake, accepted an invitation for an extended vacation in Mexico with two other couples. Martha never
returned.
According to police reports, she died in a scuba diving accident. Jim Dolan, Sr., ridden with guilt for partying in a sea of gin and tonics at the time of the incident, never fully recovered. Senior told me he couldn’t bear the thought of being at the lake for more than an afternoon visit without Martha, so he deeded the cabin to his four children.
The Dolans had rented their place out a few weekends in the past, mostly to other lake families and their friends for special occasions. There was an unwritten “trade it forward” environment on the lake, allowing longtime residents to take a summer week or a long weekend free of charge in return for the reciprocal use of their cabin for a special occasion at a future date. The only time real cash actually changed hands occurred when out-of-towners insisted on fair compensation for wonderful accommodations they couldn’t have secured without the help of a lake neighbor.
Since Martha’s death, the Dolans were always giving and never using. The kids reluctantly decided to sell. They replaced some of the rounded cedar decking on the lake side of the property and had Mitch Moore bring in his backhoe to extend the drain field. Last September, they called me, and I listed it for sale. Linn Oliver moved in later that month to watch over the place.
I reached Jim Junior at home, explained that I had been unable to contact Linn, and had stopped by the cabin last night.
“No problem, Ernie,” Dolan said. “I heard from Harvey Johnston yesterday. One of his guys came down here around noon for a key. I never expected Linn to be there all the time anyway. I mean, what is he, anyway? Twenty-two or twenty-three?”
“He’s twenty-three.”
“Well, what kid didn’t disappear for a few days at that age? Good-looking young man like Linn probably has a ton of girls. Probably whisked one of them away for a romantic interlude.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“That sounds right to me. Is he still going with Barbara what’s-her-name? That cute brunette?”
