‘What’s that?’ Relief that couldn’t be disguised, worry lines on his face melted away. Despite his bluff, the big man was terrified of being arrested.
‘At the end of this game, we’re taking a drive to your office.’
‘It’ll be 9:00pm by the time it’s all over. Usually after the game there’s a bit of a get-together with some of the fans, drinks…’
‘Not tonight, mate.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘And you’ve got a poor memory. You viciously assaulted a police officer not minutes ago. I could either charge you with a crime or I could rearrange your pretty face. But where would that get us? Nowhere. Tonight, we play by my rules, otherwise you’ll be down at the employment office Monday morning.’
Parata ran fingers through his close-cropped black hair. ‘When word gets back to Gomez, I probably will be looking for a new job.’
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the owner, having ditched the drug-lord look for a conservative grey suit paired with a primrose tie, stuck his grinning face between Jack and Parata. He placed his arms around both of them like they were three amigos.
‘Glad to see you both could make it. I trust Roddy’s been entertaining you.’
‘You could say that,’ said Taylor. ‘I’ve never had such fun in Yorkville on a Saturday night. I’m surprised we haven’t seen you yet.’
‘Oh, I’ve been here the whole time. Sitting with the Lady Mayoress over there.’ Gomez tilted his head towards Florence Fittler, chief administrator of Yorkville for as long as anyone could remember. ‘She knows nothing about the game, so I agreed to give her a running commentary.’
‘I’m surprised you’re able to keep your cool.’ Jack spoke to Gomez, but he stared unflinchingly at Parata. ‘The tension in the stadium is off the scale. I’ve barely got any fingernails left.’
The owner laughed uneasily. ‘It’s not been bloody easy. I had to excuse myself and leave the mayor with her husband. I was on the verge of letting loose with some bad language.’
‘You going to win?’ said Jack.
‘For everyone’s sake, I damn well hope so.’ The slightest flick of the head towards Parata. Word must have got to the CEO about the dressing room flare up.
The announcer’s thunderous voice advised the game was about to resume, driving music blared. Sweat formed on Parata’s brow despite the air conditioning in the arena working like a dream.
The play was frenetic. No conversation took place between Jack and Parata, only guttural grunts of joy, disappointment and frustration with the referees’ calls. The odd comment during time-outs and free throws, but nothing of substance. Jack knew instinctively it was futile trying to get information out of the man while the game was on.
Despite her new friend Scud dropping the cops in the shit with his suspicions about a tanking player, it appeared Taylor had forgotten all about it. The occasional glance to Jack’s left was rewarded with girlish giggling as she lapped up the ex-star’s chat. It was all Jack could do to stop himself leaning across Taylor and slapping the bloke in the face.
Come on, son, eyes back to the game.
Time seemed to be running on fast forward, with not much of it left in the third quarter. The Scorpions quickly caught up with the Vikings with some slick offence, established a three point buffer which they maintained through ten lead changes right up to the final shot of the stanza.
With seconds on the clock, a mid-sized forward from the visitors’ side launched a looping hail-Mary shot from his own side of the half-way line. The ball took forever to sail the distance to the basket, where it struck the iron ring, lobbed straight up, high into the air, and dropped through the net in a classic buzzer beater moment. Jack could barely breathe, like he’d copped another punch in the guts, as the momentum was snatched away from Yorkville. The home team players’ heads hung in frustration as they lumbered off the court into the dressing rooms. The Vikings leapt about excitedly like someone had put cayenne chilli powder in their underwear.
88-88. All to play for in the last term.
Before Jack could get his breath back and regather his thoughts, the teams were on the court for the fourth quarter. Suddenly he was an ardent fan of the Scorpions. Amazing what a bit of razzle dazzle can do. The supreme athleticism and skill of the players got the blood pumping. Chuck in tight scoring, and it was a sports fan’s wet dream.
Tip off.
A score to the visitors before you had time to scratch. A quick return of fire. 90-90. And on it went. He had to check his pulse at one point. A pellet of nicotine gum mashed between his jaws.
Another foul to Leroy as he tried to block a player attempting a shot from the baseline.
No!
People stood and booed the referee who made the call. The crowd bayed for blood. Jack looked at the bench of infidels from Tasmania. Every player and staff member wore a smile of schadenfreude. There was still five minutes on the clock, but now the superstar couldn’t go near any of the Vikings without risking ejection. To Jack’s right, Parata’s breathing grew ragged. Damned if he wasn’t showing imminent signs of a coronary. Damp skin, sweats, shaking body.
But fuck him for now. The game was restarting.
Back and forth the teams went, traversing the length of the court and missing shots. Rebounds and turnovers of possession with the scoreboard unchanged. For two minutes neither team could put the ball in the basket.
Then, fed up with his team mates’ failed attempts from the perimeter, the Vikings’ nippy point guard faked left at the top of the keyway, put his head down and drove hard toward the basket. A metre before the ring, Leroy Costa appeared from nowhere and froze in a wide defensive position, hands on hips and bracing for impact. Crash! Two bodies slammed into each other just after the attacking player released the ball, which struck the backboard, caromed off the ring and out of play. No score. A shrieking whistle. Foul! Jack held his breath along with everyone in the stadium. The referee stepped forward, made a signal Jack didn’t understand. Big Roderick leapt to his feet. The vibrating stadium echoed with a deafening roar that hurt Jack’s eardrums.
‘What the hell happened?’ he shouted.
‘A fucking miracle, that’s what.’ Parata yelled back. ‘The ref called a charge on the other player. It could have gone either way. Leroy still has a foul up his sleeve.’
Before Jack could digest the good news, an even bigger cry went up. Jack turned his attention back to the court. The opposing player was getting up in the ref’s grill, screaming abuse and waving his arms. The red-faced ref blew the whistle again, pointed at the bench. The player snatched at a water bottle and a towel and stormed off towards the dressing rooms, ignoring the consolations and back pats from his team mates. A tantrum worthy of John McEnroe in his prime. The strains of Ray Charles’ jaunty “Hit the Road Jack” poured through the speakers, everyone was up on their feet joining in. Even DS Jack Lisbon belted out the lyrics, sensing no irony in singing his own name.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘He’s been ejected from the game,’ Parata beamed as he clapped in time to the tune. ‘That was his second technical foul, so he has to leave the court area. Get off, ya mongrel!’
‘Is he a good player?’
A frantic nod. ‘Their best. I’ve got a good feeling about this now. Surely we can’t lose.’ Parata spoke with such optimism and joy, Jack wondered if he’d forgotten about their own tête-à-tête.
But then, disaster.
On the next trip up the court, the Scorpions’ hyperactive ginger-nut guard bounced a pass to Costa between the legs of the opposition’s centre, too gangly to bend in time to make an intercept. The ball struck the inside of the man’s calf and dropped straight down. Scrambling desperately for the ball, Leroy cannoned into the back of the centre’s thighs, pushing him forward.
Whistle blast. Foul. Sullen march to the bench. A fluffy white towel dabbed away sweat. Game over for Leroy.
The multitudes fell silent. No
embarrassing Ray Charles serenade for Costa.
Jack glanced at Parata, whose head dropped into his shaking hands. From elation to agony in a split second. ‘That’s it. We’re fucked now.’ The muffled words were barely audible. Perhaps Parata was thinking of his own future too.
‘Why?’ Jack nudged him in the side. ‘There’s still 30 seconds left. We’re only one point down.’ The score was 115-114. ‘Always a chance.’
Eyes appeared between fingers, then the Ops Manager’s entire face emerged, pale and blank. ‘Are you joking, bro?’
‘Both teams have lost their top player. It’s an even-money proposition.’
‘Nope.’ A head shake. ‘We rely too much on Leroy. Their scoring has been spread out. Plus, in case you hadn’t noticed, they’ve got the ball. They’ll try and kill the clock.’
There was no more conversation as the Vikings took possession at the half-way line. Somehow, one of their tall timber found himself isolated under the basket. Instead of stalling for time, the opposition guard couldn’t resist temptation. A long alley-oop pass, simple dunk. 117-114. Groans filled the air. Twenty seconds left on the clock. Jack was no expert, but even he could see the cause was hopeless.
Frantic organ music blasted during a time-out called by Austin Gould, whose wobbly stomach almost popped out of his shirt as he paced back and forth. Heads hung low as the team huddled tightly together, but the coach bellowed at them nonetheless. Jack could almost hear the corny words. Do it for Dale!
Timeout over.
A quick pass in from the baseline found a long-haired Scorpions player with an orange headband, heavily guarded by two Vikings. The defenders windmilled their arms frantically, like they were trying to shoo away zombies. Somehow, the Scorpion flung the ball over their outstretched arms; it skimmed their fingertips before it landed in the arms of Ginger Nut standing unguarded between halfway and the basket. Ginger Nut took careful aim and made a long-range jump shot, releasing the ball a half-second before the buzzer sounded. Desperate to block, a Viking leapt at the ball. On the way down he lightly brushed the side of Ginger Nut’s forearm. The ref was right onto it. He blew the foul call a split second before the ball swooshed through the net without touching the ring. Three points with a free throw to come, a chance to snatch victory. A miss and it would be two halves of overtime.
Now, it was the Vikings’ turn to drop their heads, slump their shoulders.
Jolly fill-in music while Ginger Nut prepared mentally. With no game time left on the clock, no one lined up for rebounds.
‘I can’t watch,’ said Taylor, the first words she’d spoken to Jack since the start of the quarter. ‘Tell me when it’s over.’
‘Wot, Mr Charming not talking to you anymore?’
‘Are you kidding? I’ve been glued to the game the whole time. Haven’t you?’
Jack regretted his petulant jealousy, but pretended he didn’t hear her by cupping a hand to his ear. ‘Sorry?’
Taylor shook her head and smiled. ‘Never mind.’
The music stopped, as did everyone’s breathing.
‘Come on, Welshy,’ said Parata under his breath. ‘Please don’t miss…’
Jack remembered the name from the program. Martin Welsh. Oldest player in the team at 33 years of age. Three Olympics for the Boomers under his belt. If you wanted the ball in anyone’s hands right now, Jack figured it may as well be this guy.
Welsh bounced the ball three times, took a deep breath, bounced it again, wiped sweat from his brow. He spun the ball in his hands, bent his knees slightly and launched the shot. The trajectory seemed much too flat. It was going to hit the front of the iron. There’d be overtime, Jack’s heart wouldn’t survive the stress.
Yet somehow, the low-flying basketball crept over the top of the rim, banged into the back of it and dropped through the net.
The Scorpions had won.
Chapter 11
‘How’s your heart rate after all that excitement?’ Taylor spoke inches from Jack’s ear, her hot breath impacting on his vital signs. The crowd shuffled along with the human tide like their feet were shackled with a short chain.
‘Nearly back to normal.’ The exiting throng pressed in against itself, funnelled by the walls of the corridor. The crush reminded Jack of peak hour transit on the London Tube. Taylor was squeezed in tight on his left, her perfume gentle and alluring with a hint of mischief. To his right, the sweaty hulk of Parata. Three long minutes later they popped like champagne corks through the entrance into the warm night air. A summer rain shower while the game was on had left the carpark black, slick and shiny under floodlights.
Parata jangled his keys. ‘Right, I’ll see you two at my office.’
‘Are you serious, sunshine?’ Jack cocked his head. ‘You’ve been stacking the booze away. You’re coming with us.’
‘You gonna drive me back?’
‘I doubt it. It’s a 30 minute drive and I need my beauty sleep. You can pick your car up tomorrow.’
There was no chat on the drive to Scorpions HQ, no dissecting the electrifying spectacle just witnessed. In the mirror, Jack glanced occasionally at Parata in the back seat. The big man was a hulking shell, his shadowed faced stared fixedly out the window. As the car passed under street lights his watery eyes flashed for a moment. The sweet victory had a bitter aftertaste for the Scorpions’ family, Parata included.
Jack parked the car next to the HQ shed’s front door. The trio dashed inside to avoid a soaking from a cloudburst. Parata escorted them to their destination in silence. He slapped a switch and a neon light flickered. There was more stuff in Parata’s office than Gomez’s; the Kiwi probably did some actual work in here. An old-fashioned gunmetal grey filing cabinet sat underneath a wide window, a pile of folders formed a hillock on his desk. Sparse yet functional. Jack had to ask. ‘How come the club’s headquarters is such a dingy hole?’
‘Simple. It allows me to spend more money on what matters. Quality players, coaches and equipment. What’s the point of a fancy façade if the team’s performing poorly? And you have to admit, the decision’s been proven correct. Besides, it’s purely an admin centre. If we have to meet important people, we hire space at the stadium. Much better facilities.’
Jack made an upside down smile that wasn’t a frown but a sign of agreement. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. It’s getting on and we’d all like to be at home curled up with a…whatever you like to be curled up with.’ Jack side-eyed Taylor. Thankfully, she missed it. ‘Give us everything you’ve got on the current playing roster and staff and we’ll be out of your hair.’
Parata slumped in his swivel chair, which gave a groan of protest. ‘Look, Detective Lisbon. I’m not sure I should just hand over private information.’
‘And I understand your reluctance, I really do. I can only offer two words in response. Assault charge.’
For a moment Parata’s eyes rolled like marbles on an old washing machine. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a foil and swallowed a pill without water. A lump travelled from under his jaw, disappeared under the jugular notch.
‘We’d like electronic files as well as the physical ones,’ Taylor added.
‘Physical ones? That filing cabinet is chockers full. And so is that one over there.’ Parata pointed at a second cabinet behind Jack. ‘It’ll take you years to go through that lot.’
‘OK, Just give us a USB stick or whatever,’ said Jack. ‘We’ll print off what we need back at the station.’
Parata inserted a flash drive, made a series of mouse clicks and handed Jack the little device. Jack curled his fingers around it with a slow wink and a smile. The Kiwi stood, fished a large-screen mobile the size of a small iPad from his pants pocket and started scrolling. ‘If that’s all, I’m gonna call a cab and get back to the celebrations at the stadium.’
‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘You’ve been most co-operative. I suggest you take an anger management course if you want to keep your job.’
Parata either didn’t hear or
pretended not to. He spoke to the despatcher, organised his ride. Ending the call, his eyes bulged slightly when he noticed the cops were still sitting comfortably in their seats. ‘You two still here?’
‘Sure. I figure on a busy night like tonight it’ll take a while for the taxi to arrive. Let’s have a chat first.’
‘I’m not sure what I can help you with.’
Jack gave the Ops Manager a sly wink. Parata had already tucked a lot of booze away tonight, he’d agree to more.
‘Sure you do.’ Jack nodded at a bottle of single malt Lagavulin whisky sitting on top of a drinks cabinet behind Parata’s left shoulder. This was going to be a big test of his own will power – could he have one scotch and then no more? ‘Let’s have a nightcap to celebrate tonight’s win. While we wait for the cab, I’d like you to do nothing more than have a good hard think.’
‘About what?’ Parata was already back at the table with the bottle, unscrewing the cap.
‘About who in the club could have had it in for Dale.’
‘Man, I’ve been racking my brains about it, but seriously bro, I can’t think of anyone.’
Jack poured himself a small half-nip, clinked glasses with Parata. He sniffed the sweet scent of the alcohol. It made his head spin. What would ingesting it do? Perhaps he’d just pretend to drink it.
‘Don’t I get one?’ said Taylor, heading for the drinks cabinet and selecting a whisky tumbler. ‘I don’t see why you blokes get to have all the fun.’ She snatched the bottle away from her partner and tipped a good three-finger serve for herself, sat back in her chair. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d put her feet up on the table and lit a cigarette.
‘Sorry for not offering,’ said Parata.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Taylor cryptically. Then, back on track: ‘Would Austin Gould be motivated to bump off the head coach, to snatch the glory from Collins? The team’s in the best shape it’s ever been, on the cusp of a title.’
Shot Clock Page 8
