Last Shot

by John Feinstein

  They got off on 19, which was Stevie’s floor, and decided to talk there. No one was around, at least for the moment. Stevie briefly told Susan Carol what had happened with Ventura. “You think you convinced him?” she said.

  “Yeah, I do. It was pretty close to the truth, really.”

  “Yeah. And we’re just a couple of kids,” she said. “How much trouble could we be causing?”

  “Speaking of trouble, you have any idea how to convince our dads we need to leave the hotel at seven-thirty in the morning?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  He wasn’t surprised. “And?”

  “There’s a Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting and prayer service at eight-thirty tomorrow morning at the Hilton. I saw it on the schedule they gave my dad. I’ll tell him I’m going to go instead of going to church because I’ll get a service and maybe get a story on the players who show up.”

  “What about me? I don’t go to church on Sundays.”

  “Just tell your dad there may be a story there for you because a lot of the coaches attend.”

  It was a good idea. The time was just about right and he could probably convince his father there was a story there.

  “Okay. That sounds good. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven-thirty.”

  She nodded. She started toward the elevator, then stopped. She walked back to where he was standing, put an arm around his shoulder, leaned down, and brushed a kiss on his cheek. Stevie felt his legs get a little bit weak, and he wondered if he was supposed to do anything in response.

  “Um, what was that for?” he said.

  “For making me feel safe,” she said, turning away. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

  Stevie walked to his room feeling about ten feet tall. Or, at the very least, five foot eight.

  His dad was lying on the bed reading a magazine when Stevie walked in. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said.

  “You know, I was actually rethinking that cell phone for a while,” his dad said. “But I wasn’t really worried. I knew it would be a late night after that first game took so long. You must be tired.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But can you set the alarm for seven-fifteen?”

  His father knitted his eyebrows. “Seven-fifteen? Why so early?”

  Stevie sighed as if greatly burdened. “Well, there’s this Fellowship of Christian Athletes prayer breakfast at the Hilton, and a lot of big-time guys are supposed to be there. I thought I’d go and get my Sunday story early rather than wait until the afternoon press conferences with the teams.”

  “A prayer breakfast?”

  “Dad, I’m not going to pray, I’m going to report.”

  “Uh-huh. And will Susan Carol be there, too?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one who told me about it.”

  His father smiled in a way that made Stevie blush but refrained from comment. Instead he changed the subject. “Tough night, huh? Amazing finish, but it’s too bad St. Joe’s lost.”

  Stevie really wanted to relive the game with his dad, but he was crashing. “It was amazing,” he said through a jaw-breaking yawn.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” said his dad.

  And then somehow the alarm was going off. Stevie’s father hit the snooze button while Stevie groaned and wondered how it could possibly be morning already. He lay perfectly still for a moment, wondering if he could roll over and go back to sleep. Maybe Susan Carol and Chip didn’t really need him. Yes they did, he finally thought, and rolled himself out of bed.

  Seeing him up, his father turned over to go back to sleep. “Try to be back for lunch, okay?” he mumbled.

  Stevie said nothing. He had no idea when he would be back. He pushed himself under the shower, which at least got his eyes open, got dressed, and slipped quietly out the door. His father was sound asleep.

  Susan Carol was waiting for him, her hair tied back in a wet ponytail. She was holding a Styrofoam cup.

  “Coffee?” he said, surprised.

  “I drink it sometimes before morning swim practice when I’m really tired,” she said. “It helps.”

  “You swim?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. I’m a butterflyer.”

  They started walking. It was a cool morning and the shuttle buses weren’t running yet.

  “Doesn’t that taste awful?”

  “Not with milk and sugar,” she said. “Try a sip.”

  She handed him the cup and he took a tiny sip. The hot liquid felt good going down and it really didn’t taste bad. “Pretty good, actually,” he said.

  “My dad doesn’t know I drink it,” she said. “He’d be horrified. He says caffeine can be an addiction, too.”

  The streets of the city were remarkably empty. There were a few people out running and some bleary-eyed tourists. That was about it.

  “Looks like everyone is still asleep,” Susan Carol said.

  “I don’t blame them,” Stevie answered with a yawn. Susan Carol gave him the last of her coffee.

  It was 7:55 when they walked into the Marriott lobby, which was almost deserted. Just them and the security guards.

  “You bring the key just in case?” he asked. She pulled it out of her pocket and Stevie felt better. They walked to the escalator unimpeded but Stevie was convinced they were being watched, if only because the security people had nothing better to do. There was another security guard at the top of the escalator. He nodded at Stevie and Susan Carol, who nodded back as casually as possible.

  Stevie was relieved to see that the only sign of the MSU radio network was the banner hanging over the table where they had been broadcasting the day before. Chip Graber was waiting for them, pacing. If Stevie hadn’t been expecting him, he might not have recognized him. He wore black sweatpants, a gray sweatshirt that said HOLY CROSS BASKETBALL, and a blue cap with a Mets orange NY on it. He had the cap pulled down so low on his head you couldn’t see his eyes.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Graber said. Neither Stevie nor Susan Carol saw much point in telling him they were a couple of minutes early.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he continued. “I want to put some distance between us and Whiting—or anyone else with the team, really.”

  “Okay,” Susan Carol said, starting to turn back toward the escalator.

  “No, no, there’s a better way,” he said. “Follow me.”

  He walked them down the wide hallway until they reached an EXIT sign and then down a stairwell that came out on a side street. “First thing I figure out in every hotel is the back way out,” he said. “Most of the time, walking through the lobby is murder. Let’s head toward Jackson Square. We’ll blend in with the tourists.”

  As they walked down the narrow streets of the French Quarter, Chip pelted them with questions.

  “So you talked to Dean Wojenski? And he really thinks he can help? What did he say, how did you find him?”

  Susan Carol quickly told him what they had learned and how they had learned it. Graber laughed when she told him that she was now his adopted little sister.

  “And he wants us to go to his house?”

  “Yes. He said he lives about an hour from here.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. “He e-mailed me directions and I printed them out last night after the game. It’s exactly sixty-one miles from here according to the MapQuest thing he sent me.”

  “So if we’re going, we need a car,” Stevie said.

  Graber nodded. “That’s not a problem,” he said. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, snapped it open, and dialed a number. It was apparently picked up quickly. “Bobby Mo,” he said. “Grabes.”

  There was a pause while Bobby Mo said something. “Yeah, man, thanks. Better to be lucky than good, right?” He listened some more, laughed—a fake laugh if Stevie had ever heard one. “Well, I appreciate it. Listen, you said if I needed something, to call you. I need something.” Another pause. “No, no, nothing like that. Come on, I’m playing for the national championship tomorrow nig
ht. I need some wheels for a couple of hours. Can you hook me up?”

  More talking by Bobby Mo. “Good. No, don’t bring it to the Marriott, too many people. We’re in Jackson Square. How soon can you be here? Twenty minutes? Okay. There’s an outdoor café on the corner—the Café du Monde, it says—meet us there?”

  Bobby Mo must have said something in response to the word “us,” because Graber laughed. “I’ve got a couple of my cousins with me. I promised I’d take them for a drive to get away from the crowds.”

  He snapped the phone closed. “All set.”

  “Who was that?” Susan Carol asked about a split second before Stevie could.

  “His name’s Bobby Maurice. He works for Brickley Shoes. All the shoe companies have been sniffing around since I was a sophomore. They all want to sign me because they think I’m ‘marketable.’ Basically, any of them will do anything I ask them to do, including get me a car for a few hours on twenty minutes’ notice.”

  “Isn’t Brickley the company that had that big scandal a few years ago?” Stevie asked.

  “Yeah, exactly. The guy who had Bobby Mo’s job back then, Miles Akley, got caught trying to buy a player for Louisiana. He got fired, and they hired Bobby Mo. He’s a sleazebag, too, but not like Akley was. And he’s actually not as bad as some of the other guys.”

  They walked past a row of open-air portrait painters, fortune-tellers, and NCAA-official-merchandise vendors all setting up for the day. They got a table at the café, and after they’d ordered café au lait and beignets, Chip said, “Okay, Susan Carol. You have Wojenski’s number there?”

  She gave it to him and he dialed it on the cell. “Dean Wojenski?” he said. “Chip Graber. I hope you’re up.”

  He listened for a moment. “No, it’s really me. Thanks. I was lucky. But I’m kind of in a jam now, like my sister told you yesterday. She said you thought you could help?” He listened for a while, then nodded and looked at Susan Carol. “Yes, she got the directions.” Susan Carol nodded in confirmation. “We have to pick up a car. I think we can be there between nine-thirty and ten, if that’s okay for you.” He nodded again. “Great. We’ll see you in a little while.”

  He snapped the phone closed. “He’ll be waiting for us,” he said.

  “Did he find a copy of your transcript?” Stevie asked.

  “No, not yet. He said he’d keep looking—that it might be buried in his computer somewhere. God, wouldn’t it be amazing if he had it?”

  They were all quiet, thinking how much was riding on one year-old computer file.

  “Won’t anyone miss you, Chip?” Susan Carol said as they ate. “Where do you have to be today?”

  “Press conference is at one,” Graber said. “We practice at four. I’ve got some time.”

  About twenty minutes later, a green Jeep SUV pulled up in front of the café, and a tall, middle-aged man with short black hair and an equally black goatee jumped out. He was dressed in a lime green sweat suit that said BRICKLEY on it. He walked over to Graber without so much as a glance at Stevie and Susan Carol.

  “Grabes!” he said, hugging Chip like a long-lost brother. “What a performance last night! You made yourself some serious bucks, kid.”

  It had never occurred to Stevie to think of Graber’s 38 points and last-second heroics in terms of money. Which, he quickly decided, was naive.

  “Thanks, man,” Graber said, untangling himself from Bobby Mo. “I want you to meet my cousins—Stevie and Susan Carol.”

  “Nice to meet you, kids,” Bobby Mo said, offering Stevie one of those silly soul handshakes that had gone out about twenty years ago. He took Susan Carol’s hand in both of his, smiled at her, and said, “Aren’t you pretty?”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Susan Carol said, clearly wanting to get as far away from him as possible.

  Bobby Mo turned to Graber. “Brought your wheels, man. Can you drop me off back downtown?”

  “No can do, pal,” Graber said. “We aren’t going back that way. I’m really sorry.”

  “No problem at all!” Bobby Mo enthused. “I’ll just catch a cab. You go have a good time.”

  He and Graber exchanged a soul shake and another hug. “Thanks, man,” Chip said. “I really appreciate you doing this.”

  “Just remember who has your back, okay?” Bobby Mo said.

  “Always,” Chip said.

  He walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Front or back?” Stevie said to Susan Carol.

  “Your call,” she said.

  “I’ll take the back,” he said. “You have the directions.”

  They all climbed in, waved to Bobby Mo, and Graber pulled out. “Chip, you know we have to go back through downtown to follow these directions, don’t you?” Susan Carol said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Graber said. “But I didn’t want to have to make conversation with him. You spend too much time around those guys, you start to feel the slime washing all over you.”

  “Will you sign with them?” Susan Carol asked.

  “I have no idea. I’m going to wait until the draft. If I go as high as these agents say I’m going to go, I’ll be in a position to get a lot of money.”

  “Do you think you’ll go number one?” Stevie asked.

  “No. No one is going to draft a five-foot-eleven guard with the number one pick. Too risky. They’ll go for a six-eleven high school kid first. But I’m told I’ll go in the top five. The Celtics look like they’re going to be drafting high, and I read a quote someplace where Red Auerbach said I was the next Tiny Archibald.”

  Stevie had no idea who Tiny Archibald was. He assumed by the name that he was a little guard. He did know who Red Auerbach was, because his dad ranted constantly about all the championships Auerbach and the Celtics had stolen from the 76ers.

  Chip sighed. “It’s all such a crapshoot. Sometimes I think I should just sign my contract when the time comes and not bother with all this other stuff. But there’s so much money on the table potentially.”

  “All of which would go down the drain if you don’t throw the national championship game,” Stevie said, then was sorry he had.

  “Or if I get caught throwing it,” Graber said darkly.

  “Which is why we have to stop these guys from blackmailing you,” Susan Carol said.

  A road sign loomed on the right, directing them to I-10 East. “This is it,” Chip said, pulling into the exit lane. “Next stop, Bay St. Louis.”

  14: DEAN WOJENSKI

  THE TRIP TOOK JUST UNDER AN HOUR. Because the MapQuest directions were so precise, they had no trouble winding their way to the little road where Dean Wojenski lived. The house was directly across the street from the beach, and even at nine-thirty in the morning, a pretty stiff breeze was coming in off the water.

  “What body of water is that?” Susan Carol said as they got out of the car.

  “The Gulf of Mexico?” Chip guessed.

  If he was wrong, Stevie certainly wasn’t in a position to argue. Benjamin Wojenski was standing on his front porch to greet them. He looked exactly the way Stevie would expect a retired college professor and dean to look: distinguished, white hair, medium height and build. Stevie guessed he was in his seventies, although he was clearly in good shape. Even on a cool, windy morning he was wearing shorts, moccasin shoes with no socks, and a golf shirt.

  “Not often we get a true celebrity visiting here in Bay St. Louis,” the old dean said, smiling broadly.

  “Being a celebrity is overrated,” Chip said, shaking his extended hand. “I’ve found that out in a hurry.”

  The dean laughed. “And who have we here?” he said.

  They had talked about this in the car to get their stories straight.

  “Well, you’ve talked to my sister,” Chip said, pointing at Susan Carol. “This is my cousin, Stevie Thomas.”

  The dean shook both their hands. Then he looked at Chip. “You say you’re in trouble, Chip, and I’m happy to help. But let’s drop the charade. You don�
��t have a sister and I’m guessing this isn’t your cousin.”

  Stevie glanced at Chip to see his reaction to being caught in a solid lie. The dean had folded his arms, waiting for an answer. Stevie wondered if Susan Carol might jump in with one of her quick-thinking explanations, but she was also looking at Chip. This one was up to him.

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  The dean laughed. “What do you think, Chip, that everyone in academics spends his life living under a rock? I’ve been following your career for years. Plus, your dad and I know each other from way back. So let’s start over. Why don’t you introduce me to your friends.”

  Chip didn’t argue. He reintroduced Stevie and Susan Carol and told the dean who they were and then added, “They’re trying to help me.”

  “Come sit down,” the dean said. “And tell me what’s going on.”

  He led them to a screened porch that faced the water. “Great view,” Chip said.

  “Yes. My wife and I thought about retiring in Rhode Island, where we’re both from, but after all those Minnesota winters we thought we deserved a little time in the sun.”

  Once they were all seated on the porch, they got down to business. Chip began with his story about Professor Whiting, and Susan Carol took over to explain how they had accidentally gotten involved. When they were finished, the dean was gaping at them.

  “You said there was a problem, but this is much worse than I imagined. This is really serious. What are you going to do?” he asked. “Are you prepared to have Whiting and whoever else is involved release those transcripts if you don’t throw the game tomorrow night?”

  “Well, that’s where you come in. Did you find my transcript on your computer? That would prove they changed the grade.”

  “No, I’m so sorry. I don’t have it here. I thought I might, but it’s gone.”