by Roger Herst
The principal folded his hands, interlacing fingers with arthritis-swollen knuckles. He nodded in qualified agreement.
In the ensuing silence, she decided upon a tactful approach. “The fellows on the team tell me that no new tennis coach has been appointed. That’s a shame don’t you think? Allowing his program to waste away isn’t in the spirit of preserving Bart’s memory. Do you believe there’s a future for tennis at Anacostia, Dr. Shaboya?”
“Yes. Yes, of course there is. We have been looking for a replacement, but unfortunately the budget of our athletic department has been stripped to bare bones. And when I say bare bones, I mean there’s not an ounce of meat left. Whenever headquarters wants to cut expenses, the athletic program is the first target. It’s hard to justify moving an instructor from a successful program, such as track or baseball, to something marginal at best—one chronically under-subscribed by the students.” His eyes, magnified behind thick lenses, rose empathetically, “You’re right about tennis being an underdog sport. Boys in my school have their minds in other places.”
“That’s exactly why we need dynamic leadership.” She was suddenly more animated. “You’ve already got a core of good players. According to Bart, Marcel Clipper could be a star. I’ve hit a few balls with him myself and I can testify that’s no exaggeration. The kid’s got potential to be a lot more than he is. Without encouragement from the administration, he and his team have done a remarkable job training themselves. Show me another team at this school that’s flourished with so few resources. That’s got to send a powerful message. If given a chance, their enthusiasm will spread.”
“It will. Yes, indeed, I assure you that it will. Yes, of course, it will.” There was a velvet quality to Shaboya’s voice, though his repetition of the same words failed to convey strong conviction.
“There’s got to be at least one instructor who would take on the program. It isn’t a year round responsibility, you know.”
“We’re looking, Rabbi. I can assure you of that. The search is underway.”
“If it drags on much longer there won’t be a team left to salvage,” Gabby replied, suddenly aware that she had stumbled onto Shaboya’s strategy. Bart’s team was a self-liquidating nuisance for the principal. A semester of delay and the existing handful of players would graduate and no younger players would follow. By next year there wouldn't be a problem to fix. Resources, strapped as they were, would remain concentrated on what really mattered at Anacostia—basketball.
Shaboya flashed an ingratiating smile to fill the awkward break in conversation. She wondered if he were thinking that, like the tennis program, the lady before him would also disappear.
“Suppose I could raise money on the outside to fund tennis? Not through the school system, mind you, but through private funds from Bart’s family and admirers. Would the administration have interest in tennis then?’
His hands unfolded rather quickly, a sign that funds outside the school budget were always welcome. “What do have you in mind?”
“To raise enough from private sources close to Bart to pay for an afternoon tennis coach, say, once or twice a week. There are plenty of young tennis pros in area clubs who would love to coach good athletes like the kids on Marcel’s team and get a salary for doing it. Can the school hire a contractor outside the school system?”
Shaboya bent forward in his chair to share his thoughts in a low, conspiratorial tone. “In the past that was taboo. But, these days, just about anything is feasible. Particularly if there’s no pressure on the budget. We have a special procedure for appointing adjunct instructors.”
“That’s what I have in mind, Doctor. Now the trick is to raise the money. Fortunately, a lot of people loved Bart. It’s my job to convince them that this is the way to keep his memory alive. We have a meeting to discuss this tomorrow evening at the home of Bart’s parents. Can you join us?”
The principal pushed back from his desk and hauled himself to his feet. His eyes dropped to his white shirt and dated striped necktie, worn for more than four years and fraying at the edges. Male teachers at Anacostia had long since abandoned jackets and ties, but he wore this necktie as a symbol of authority. He shook his head negatively. “No. No, I’m afraid not,” he almost whispered. “Mrs. Shaboya and I don’t travel outside Southwest after sundown. Thank you, Rabbi. Thank you, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’d prefer you carried the torch for Skulkin. I don’t know these people and they don’t know me. But I’ll be praying for your success. Matter of fact, we’re going to have a little get-together at the church this evening, and I’m going to ask my pastor, Josiah P. Taylor III, to communicate with the Lord on this very project. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. With the pastor’s prayers and your friends’ money, who knows what the good Lord will bring.”
Leaving Shaboya’s office, Gabby headed to the cafeteria where hyperactive students dashed between food counters, snatching plates and disposable plastic utensils, yelling at friends to save seats, and doing what kids do everywhere—trying to impress members of the opposite sex. Nostalgia welled up inside her for her own days at Beverly Hills High.
The presence of a stranger and a white woman attracted interest. A few young men showed off with a spate of catcalls.
“Hey, lady! What are you doing here?” A heavyset youngster blocked her path as she tried unsuccessfully to find Marcel and his teammates.
“I’m looking for Marcel Clipper,” she replied. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“He’s over there,” answered an ebony-skinned youth with straight black hair slicked back against his skull. He pointed to the far side of the cafeteria. To get there, Gabby was forced to weave through a maze of adolescents who did not voluntarily open a pathway.
To find a little privacy in the noisy cafeteria, Marcel had gathered his teammates at a circular lunch table by the wall. In addition to the pair she already knew, there were four additional players. One Marcel introduced as “Goofy,” another as “Frederick.” Nathaniel and Zeekie were just seating themselves at the table. Two had brought sandwiches from home; the rest ate school lunches. A place had been saved for her and when she sat, a spate of comments rose from nearby tables. The players ignored them until a crack was made about Gabby’s body parts. Without signaling what he intended to do, Diamond Moore untangled his short legs from his chair and bounded around a cluster of students to confront the disrespectful speaker.
Gabby jumped to her feet to dissuade him from intervening on her behalf, but he was ahead of her.
“You shut your fucking mouth,” he yelled, launching his attack while still in motion.
As if warned in advance to evacuate the area, students scampered aside. A lunch tray slid off the table and crashed to the floor, followed by screams from several girls. Diamond was too fast for his opponent who tried to meet the challenge on his feet. But he was a fraction of a second late for what came his way. Diamond’s fist collided with his nose, sending him back into the seat. Another lunch tray toppled off the table with a resounding clatter. The victim’s eyes filled with moisture, partially blinding him. Everybody knew that a fight might quickly escalate from fists to knives. When tempers burned hot at Anacostia, it was not unthinkable for guns to appear. But, for the moment, the wounded youngster could do no more than howl, “You fucking asshole!”
Diamond’s eyes swept threateningly over the circle of boys nearby, inviting them to continue the fight. None chose to do so. Two sophomore girls released a salvo of expletives, accusing him of overreacting and showing off for the benefit of the white woman.
By the time school authorities arrived, trays had been cleared and normality restored. A uniformed school guard, with colorful patches sewn onto his shirt, asked a series of questions. A phalanx of students shielded the youngster with the swollen face while others provided evasive answers. Eyes rolled. Lips, for the most part, remained sealed, except to express confusion about why the guard was interrogating them in the first place. Nobody fi
ngered Diamond for his temper. Gabby recalled Police Sergeant Miller’s observation that silence governed the lives of these teenagers. However violent their lives, they were suspicious of the authorities.
When the students returned to their tables, Goofy handed Gabby a Pepsi, which she used to moisten a dry throat. No one mentioned Diamond’s behavior, nor did anyone look at his adversary across the cafeteria. Once the guard had left, Gabby recounted her conversation with Dr. Shaboya. Their spirits seem to rise when she mentioned her plan to ask friends of Mr. Skulkin pay for a tennis coach. “Cool.” Goofy circled the air with his thumbs. “Get us a coach and we’ll get Mr. Skulkin the championship. That’s a promise.”
“If I need you to meet with the people who have the bucks, will you tell them about what you’re doing on the courts?”
“You’re goddamn right, we will,” Zeekie said. A plump teenager, with triangular shoulders that merged into the base of his skull like a pyramid, he played just below Marcel on the tennis ladder. “We’ll tell them how we’re gonna beat the pants off those muthafuckas.”
Gabby’s dimples puckered with amusement. “I don’t think you’ll want to use that exact language, fellows, but the sentiment is right. I’ll be meeting with Mr. Skulkin’s family and friends tomorrow. In the meantime, I need a promise from you.”
“What that?” Diamond asked.
“That no matter what, you guys keep practicing. Every day. Follow Marcel’s model. Play and play. Practice hard and practice to win. Because if Dr. Shaboya learns that the team doesn’t train, then he’ll have an excuse to nix our idea. Without a team that plays and wins, we’re dead meat. Understand? Without you fellows on the courts there won’t be another Anacostia team. Not now and not next year.”
When lunch ended, Gabby asked for directions to the library. Diamond marched alongside her through the cafeteria, daring fellow students to utter a single defamatory word. No one accepted his challenge. In the main hallway, he pointed toward the library, then veered off into another corridor, carefully watching until she had passed safely through the library door.
Inside, Gabby approached the circulation desk and asked the librarian, a young lady with an artificial yellow rose in her hair, the location of the class yearbooks. Like encyclopedias, they were stored on nearby shelves for easy reference. Not many students, Gabby guessed, had the money to purchase these special-edition books for themselves.
She selected yearbooks for the last three years and began to leaf through the earliest. Its glossy pages provided photographs of the faculty, student officers, academic achievers, and club presidents. Half the book was dedicated to sport programs, though she could find no mention of the tennis team. She was about to search a newer yearbook when she discovered an addendum dedicated to the activities of Small Clubs. Between short articles about the ping-pong and Frisbee clubs, a half page highlighted the tennis team. In contrast to the sections on basketball, football, and baseball, in which uniformed players were photographed individually on their respective playing fields, a single picture showed the tennis players in front of the school gymnasium—in street clothes and without their racquets. In this unflattering picture, Bart Skulkin was standing awkwardly in the rear, towering over his players.
From her briefcase, Gabby took out the picture of Daryl Bender the police had provided and compared it to the faces in the photograph. As freshmen, Marcel and Zeekie had still looked like middle school pupils. None of the other players resembled the police mug shot. In the second yearbook, she recognized two more of the players she’d met in the cafeteria. In that photograph, off to the side, stood a youth who resembled Bender. It was not a perfect match, but after careful study she concluded that it was the young man now serving time. She now had a link between Daryl Bender and Bart. The librarian agreed to make a photocopy of the photograph for her.
As she left the library, Diamond Moore shot from a vacant classroom. He moved quickly, his head darting from side to side, to make sure no one was watching.
As soon as Gabby recognized him, she said, “Thanks for helping me at lunch. I wasn’t offended, but I know that kid will think twice about insulting a woman again.”
Diamond cut her off before she could turn a corner into a hallway full of students. “Got something I want to tell you,” he said.
“You guys can always talk to me.”
His eyes shifted left, then right. “Not here. I don’t want nobody seeing me with you. Gotta be private.”
She turned back toward the library but immediately dismissed the idea of talking there. “How about my car in the parking lot?”
“I’m not supposed to leave school during class hours.”
“But you’re still in the parking lot. If necessary, I’ll vouch for you with Dr. Shaboya.”
He was clearly impatient and didn’t have time for additional indecision. “Okay. I’ll meet you there. What kind of wheels you got?”
“Jeep Grand Cherokee. Desert sand color.”
“Cool. I'll find it.”
***
She locked herself inside the Jeep and sat back against the leather seat, looking through the windshield to the other parked vehicles and knowing that those outside could not see through the tinted safety glass. Her mind was filled with questions about what Diamond had to relate and why secrecy was essential. She didn’t have to wait long. A tap on the passenger door signaled her to release the lock. Diamond almost leaped inside. She locked the doors behind him.
He was breathing heavily, “I know you were good friends with Mr. Skulkin. He helped us a lot when we were in trouble. You could always hit him up for dough if things were bad. Sometimes he’d help with the police.”
“Tennis team members?” she asked.
“Yeah. We were his favorites. He’d do just about anything for us. That’s what got him killed.”
While Diamond was talking, she was rummaging through her briefcase for the picture of Daryl Bender. Diamond’s remark about Bart’s death caught her by surprise and she hesitated, looking at him. When he didn’t follow up on his observation, she gave him the picture and pointed to Daryl. “Do you recognize this fellow?”
“Sure. He was on the team for a while. Good player, but he had a bad attitude and he didn’t come for practice much. They say he’s in big trouble with the police.”
“Worse than that. He’s in the Detention Center serving time for armed robbery. Did Mr. Skulkin help him?”
Diamond leaned toward her. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. Daryl gave Mr. Skulkin a gun to return to a dealer, but Mr. Skulkin didn’t know how to find him. So he comes to Marcel and me. We didn’t know which Switchboard to use, so we went to a friend for help. His uncle is a dealer. He made some calls and told us where to go and who to talk to. That guy told us about the Switchboard that Daryl used. We told Mr. Skulkin.”
“And he was returning the gun when he got shot?” Gabby was ahead of Diamond.
“We ain’t sure, but we think so.”
“Do you know the dealer?”
“Nope. But I know what Mr. Skulkin told Marcel and me. Before he left, he told us he was going to a shit house in the park. Said there would be a yellow paper on the door to a commode. You sit in one stall. The dealer sits in the next. You’re not supposed to look. Everything goes under the wall. I don’t know more than that; I never saw Mr. Skulkin again.” Diamond didn’t take his frightened eyes off her, but swerved toward the door—a signal he was ready to leave.
She released the automatic locks. A sharp click punctuated the momentary silence. “At least now we know what Bart Skulkin was doing when he was murdered.”
He began to climb out.
“Before you go, one last question,” she placed a hand on his arm and pulled him back.
“Is there a men’s toilet near the field house in Dupont Park?”
“Sure. And a shit house for ladies, too,” he said, impatient to escape. A moment later, he had climbed out of the Jeep and disappeared among the parked vehicles.<
br />
Before pulling out of the parking lot, she pulled out her DC map and turned to the page for Anacostia. Fort Dupont was just across a network of roads, about a mile from the school. It was an easy drive if she could find the entrance. But that, in Anacostia’s warren of narrow streets, was problematic.
Dupont Park looked far less threatening in daylight than it had at night. There were no eerie floodlights and no walls of black forest. Two elderly women, standing only twenty feet from each other, tossed a Frisbee back and forth. A man stood nearby, smoking a cigarette and apparently enjoying the warmth. She reckoned that, during daylight hours, the park provided peaceful recreation to hundreds of inner city residents. At night, though, it was a different story, to which her memory could attest.
The field house was little more than a metal roof covering a slab of concrete—a place to hold barbecues, dances, games, and meetings. In daylight, Gabby felt moderately comfortable leaving the safety of her Jeep to reconnoiter. To reach the field house she had to cross an overgrown field full of crabgrass and weeds. By rough triangulation she calculated the location at which the spotlight beams converged. But once standing there, she could find absolutely nothing to mark the place where Bart was gunned down.
Behind the field house she discovered the public restrooms, a cinderblock building covered with graffiti. There were no doors, though angling walls at the entrances blocked one from peering inside. Standing at the entrance to the ladies restroom she could hear the sound of running water from a broken tap or toilet. To see where the weapon was actually transferred, she would have had to enter the men’s side, but dared not surprise an unsuspecting man inside. Instead, she decided that the general layout would be similar enough and entered the ladies’ restroom.
