Murder at the Foul Line

by Otto Penzler

  The court was about three-quarters of the length of a regulation floor. There were no bleachers for fans, just a single row of benches along the narrow side walls, which might have led me to believe this was just a practice gym, were it not for the score clock on the wall. The clock looked older than me, which cast doubts as to whether it actually worked. Taken together, a pair of depressing thoughts.

  There were ten men on the court, playing a practice game. Five wore red pullover jerseys, five did not. All were black. Most were lithe and thin. Some were tall. Some were broad. All had moves. None were dominant.

  Watching the action was a wizened old black man with horn-rimmed glasses, a whistle in his mouth, and a perpetual frown. As I watched, he blew the whistle, stopped action, strode onto the court.

  “No, no, no!” he complained, shaking his head. He addressed a lanky young man with an open mouth and a who, me? expression. “Clyde, what was that play? That was a pick-an’-roll. You pick, but you din’t roll. Floyd got the ball, two defenders on him, nowhere to go. All you do is bring another man to cover Floyd. Now, is that helpful? Is that useful? Is that what you were tryin’ to do?”

  Players from both teams grinned and snickered while Clyde shuffled his feet and muttered, “No.”

  “No,” the man with the whistle said. “Tha’s right, Clyde. Good answer. So we learnin’ here. So the next time you pick an’ roll, you roll.”

  Play started up again.

  I moved around the court, approached the man. “Coach Tom?”

  He spoke without looking or taking the whistle out of his mouth. “Yes?”

  “I’m here about Grant Jackson.”

  He exhaled hard enough to blow the whistle slightly. Heads turned on the court, but he waved it off. “Play on.” He turned to me, aggrieved. “What about him? Not bad enough I lose my star player, I gotta answer questions too?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It must be hard. But it’s harder for his family. For their sake, could you help me out?”

  Coach Tom squinted up his eyes and turned his back on the action on the court. “Just what you mean?”

  I was treading a fine line here, what with Richard rejecting the case. “I’m trying to help out Grant’s mom. See if there’s any insurance money to be had. It’s probably a long shot, but the woman had ten kids. If you can see a way to help me out.”

  “How could I do that?”

  “I understand Grant collapsed during a practice. Was that up here?”

  “Course it here. You think we got some other gym we use for games? This here’s it. Always has been, probably always will. ‘Specially now.”

  “You mean without Grant?”

  “Made a difference, that he did. Expectations were high.”

  “Justifiably so?”

  He squinted. “Wha’s that?”

  “Did you think Grant would have made a difference?”

  “Yes, he would. How much is hard to say, but he certainly would.” He jerked his thumb. “These are good boys, but without him they just another team.”

  “How will they do?”

  “Same as usual. Not too good, not too bad. Couple of schools we always beat, couple always beat us. Bunch inna middle. Same thing every year.”

  “How long have you coached this team?”

  “Twenty-six years now.”

  “Ever had a player like Grant?”

  “I had good players. But like Grant? No, not like Grant. Damn shame.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We havin’ a scrimmage, just like this. He goes up for a rebound. Come down holdin’ his side. I thought he got elbowed. By the guy in front. I’m giving him what-for ’bout boxin’ out, he fall down on the floor.”

  “Any chance he did take an elbow to the ribs, something might have hurt his heart?”

  “Sure there is. But that’s not what killed him. Not accordin’ to the TV.”

  “That surprised you?”

  “What?”

  “That he was taking drugs?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Coach Tom scratched his nose. “You gotta understand. I seen ’em come, I seen ’em go. All types of kid. I never seen a kid as good as Grant. But I seen kids like him. I know how they think.”

  “And how is that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  He tapped his glasses. “You can see it in their eyes. The fear. The fear of failure. They got all the goods they need to succeed, and they afraid it’s not enough. They scared to death to get out there, have to prove themselves.” He shrugged. “So they turn to junk. You think Grant the first star player I had took to drugs? What planet you live on?”

  “Grant was a special case. He had a heart problem. He knew drugs could kill him.”

  “Drugs could kill anybody. Sometimes do. They still take ’em. Kid got the fear, like Grant, he not thinkin’ that. He don’t care. I’m not sayin’ he tryin’ to kill himself. But it’s not a deterrent, you know what I mean? Grant decide to take a toot, stuff don’t agree with him, there you go. Shame, but there you be.”

  Coach Tom watched the action up and down the court. “Bounce-pass, Larry. Bounce-pass.”

  “Grant never used drugs before?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I don’t know. The college have a drug policy?”

  “Sure they do. Make me run drug tests.” He snorted. “What a joke. Guys pee in a cup. Big deal. Pass the cup around. Guy who’s not high pees for ’em all.”

  “You don’t supervise ’em?”

  He gave me the evil eye. “You like to hold that cup? They say test ’em, I test ’em. They don’t like it, jus’ too damn bad.”

  “So Grant passed his drug screen?”

  “That he did. Did he pass it on his own, I couldn’t say.”

  “If he was gettin’ high, who was giving it to him?”

  He gave me another look. “How the hell should I know?”

  I shrugged. “You strike me as a man don’t miss much. I bet you could tell me the most likely source on your team for coke or grass.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Coach Tom blew the whistle. “No, tha’s a turnover. You can palm the ball all you want, no one care anymore, but you carry it like that, you gonna get called. Red ball onna side.” He turned back to me. “You talk a good game. You start talkin’ to my boys about drugs, they’re gonna think you a cop, no matter what cover story you give. You don’t need that, and neither do I. And you ain’t a cop. You got no authority to do it, so you don’t.”

  He stuck his finger in my face. “So lemme put it ‘nother way. How will knowing where Grant got his drugs help you get some insurance money for his mom? Riddle me that.”

  I couldn’t.

  MacAullif smiled when I walked in the door.

  I stopped, blinked, wondered if I was in the wrong office.

  “Hi, how you doin’?” MacAullif said.

  I looked at him suspiciously. “Just fine. How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  I was concerned. If things couldn’t be better, something was definitely wrong. Under normal circumstances Sergeant MacAullif treated my entrance into his office as an intrusion on his valuable time. If he was pleased to see me, the world was out of whack.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I’m wondering if you have time to discuss a case.”

  “As long as you can be calm.”

  “Calm?”

  “Yes. And don’t get riled up. And don’t get me riled up. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Why would I get you riled up?”

  “Because you always do,” MacAullif flared, and immediately pulled back.

  “Jeez, MacAullif,” I said. “You mind telling me why you’re trying so hard to keep calm?”

  MacAullif exhaled through his teeth. He sounded like a steam locomotive. “Blood pressure. I got high blood pressure. I had my physical, the doc
says it’s dangerously high. Gotta avoid stress. Gotta avoid tension. Tough assignment, the work I do, but there are ways and there are ways. The main way, Doc says, is don’t take it personally. It may be a homicide, but it’s just a job. You handle it and move on. So the bottom line is, while I’d much prefer you didn’t bring me any more stress, I’m not gonna let it bother me if you do. So how about it, can you handle this on your own?”

  “I could use some help.”

  A frown crossed MacAullif’s face, was instantly replaced by a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Pray tell me what you want. So I may help you with it before getting back to the three homicides I am coordinating. Among five detectives, as one is out with the flu.” He considered. “I said that very calmly. I should get points for that.”

  “You should get points just for saying among. Most cops would say between.”

  MacAullif gave me an utterly baffled look. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your calm. I was just wondering if you had anything on the Grant Jackson case.”

  MacAullif frowned. “What made you wonder that?”

  “The mother called Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “Indeed,” MacAullif said. He didn’t sound happy. “Well, it happens to have crossed my desk. It is not one of the three homicides I mentioned. It is in addition to the three homicides I mentioned. It is a closed case I was hoping to clear, for, as I say, manpower is short.”

  MacAullif took a cigar from his desk, began twirling it through his fingers, a nervous habit he had when thinking something out. “The Grant Jackson case is rather straightforward. A kid with a bad heart shoots a lethal dose of coke. It’s a no-brainer. It’s a slam dunk. The type of case you pray for with a case overload. Just this morning I was quite thrilled at the prospect of having chalked it up and not having to deal with it again.”

  “I’m not asking you to deal with it. I’m just wondering if you could discuss it.”

  MacAullif took a breath, then smiled what had to be the most forced smile this side of the Mona Lisa. It occurred to me if he were working any harder at being relaxed, his jaw might crack. “Of course,” he said.

  “You get anything from the autopsy report?”

  “Just what I said. Kid OD’d. Shame, but it happens all the time.”

  “The kid a user?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Not according to the M.E. No track marks. He might have snorted before, but he never shot. And for good reason. Guy with a heart condition mainlinin’ got to be suicidal.”

  “Think it was?”

  “What?”

  “Suicide?”

  MacAullif’s face contorted in what could only be preparation for a barrage of sarcasm. He re-collected himself, composed his features. One could almost hear him reciting a mantra. “I would think you could rule out suicide. Suicides kill themselves. They don’t get high and go play ball.”

  “What do you think of the theory he was trying to get himself up for practice?”

  “I don’t like it, but I’d take it over suicide.”

  “What do you think of the theory someone did him in?”

  He raised one finger. “That theory I don’t like at all. That theory takes the Grant Jackson case out of my inactive file and places it in my pending file. That theory gives me four homicides and five detectives. You do the math.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Do you? Tell me something. Why are you pushing this?”

  “If the kid OD’d, the mother doesn’t get a dime.”

  MacAullif squinted at me sideways. “Richard kicked the case?”

  “I was signing up the mother when we got the report that—”

  “Richard kicked the case?”

  “When we found out that the kid OD’d and—”

  “Richard kicked the case?”

  “You’re getting all worked up.”

  He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. “I’m not getting all worked up. I’m fine. Let me know if I understand you correctly. You came in to bother me about a case you are not even working on?”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t working on it.”

  “Is anyone paying you to work on it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, how delightful.” MacAullif spread his arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Actually there is.”

  “I might have known. Pray what might that be?”

  “Well, I know you scrutinized this case carefully before you decided it wasn’t worth your notice. I imagine you checked out where Grant might have copped the cocaine. Did that investigation bear fruit?”

  “Oh, sure,” MacAullif said. “We had people linin’ up claimin’ to be the dope dealer who sold him his last toot. Would you like a list of names?”

  “Good, MacAullif. You’re getting better at calm sarcasm. Actually I was wondering if you pulled the rap sheets on his friends, family, and teammates.”

  MacAullif had.

  Of the gentlemen in question, there were two with prior drug busts.

  One was Larry White, one of Grant Jackson’s teammates.

  The other was brother Lincoln.

  Lincoln Jackson met me at a small coffee shop near the project in Bed-Stuy. He had no reason not to. As far as he knew, I was still working for his mother. He slid into the booth, propped his elbows up on the faded Formica table, and demanded, “Why we meetin’ here? Why not up there?”

  “Don’t you want coffee?”

  “I don’ want coffee. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “I want to talk with you. I didn’t want to disturb your mom.”

  “She interested.”

  “I know she is. I wanted you to be able to talk freely.”

  He glared at me suspiciously. “ ’Bout what?”

  “I think you know ’bout what.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t ‘preciate this.” He turned, yelled to the waitress. “Hey, we get some coffee here?”

  I didn’t remind him he didn’t want coffee. “Your brother died of an overdose. I bet the cops wanted to know where he got it.”

  He muttered something about the integrity of the police force in general and one detective in particular. The waitress shoved a cup of coffee in front of him. He didn’t notice. He looked at me as if I were a cockroach he was about to step on. “They talk to me ’cause I got a prior. Is that stupid or what? That I’d give my own brother junk when I know he got a weak heart.”

  “You knew that?”

  “Course I did. Grant don’t want to tell, can’t hide nothin’. Face like a road map. He come back from the doctor, we all knew somethin’s wrong.”

  “You dealin’ coke?”

  His face twisted into a snarl. “I jus’ tol’ you, wasn’t me.”

  “Yeah, but if it was in the house, Grant could have got his hands on it. Say if he wanted a boost, to play better.”

  Lincoln snorted. “Play better? Tha’s a good one. You never seen him play. Grant didn’t need to play better. Grant was the best.”

  “That bother you?”

  “What?”

  “That your brother was the star and not you?”

  Lincoln took a sip of coffee. Like MacAullif, he seemed to be composing himself, holding himself in, framing a moderate response. “Do I wanna be Grant, sure I wanna be Grant, but I ain’t, Grant’s Grant, so I’m glad of that. When I find out who did give him dope, that sucker in trouble.” He jabbed a finger in my face. “You hear me? You hear what I say?”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  I’m not sure I believed him.

  Larry White was suspicious. “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You sure?”

  “I think I’d know.”

  “If you a cop, you gotta say.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “If you a cop, I ask you direct, you gotta say. Tha’s the law. You don’ say, you can’t bust me anyhow, don’ matter what I do.
”

  “I don’t wanna bust you.”

  His eyes widened. “You a cop? Then you can’t bust me, even if I whip out a ki-lo, ask you if you wanna buy.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Truth. Leroy say so.”

  “Savvy guy.”

  “Damn right. He been aroun’. He done time.”

  I blinked in despair over a generation that regarded a jail sentence as a qualification, had to remind myself I liked Robin Hood as a boy.

  “Now we got that out of the way, you mind answering a few questions?”

  “You make it quick. I gotta get to class.”

  I knew that. I had located the administration building, looked up his schedule, and ambushed him coming out of math. He’d been easy to spot. He was the one who had to duck to get out the door.

  “You were there when Grant Jackson collapsed?”

  “Course I was. Durin’ practice.”

  “What did you see?”

  A girl with a Cedar Park College sweatshirt put her book bag in one of the metal lockers lining the hallway. She flashed us a look as she went by.

  Larry White frowned. “Hey, man,” he said. “Maybe you can’t bust me, but she think I’m talkin’ to a cop.”

  “That bad for business?”

  He frowned. “Hey! What you mean?”

  “Lemme speed things along for you, Larry,” I said. “I pulled your record. You got drug busts. I don’t give a damn, except how it relates to Grant. If Grant got coke from you, I gotta know.”

  He shook his head. “No way!”

  “And if Grant got works from you, I gotta know.”

  His head kept shaking. “No way!”

  “The medical examiner says Grant was a virgin, never shot before. If he wanted to shoot coke, he wouldn’t have the equipment. He’d have to get a hypodermic. I’m wondering if he got it from you.”

  “No way! Christ, man, you say you not a cop, then you come on like this. I ain’ talkin’ to you. I get my lawyer.”

  “That would be a very bad move.”

  “You ain’ seen my lawyer.”

  “No, I haven’t, but that’s not the point. Let me say it one more time. I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator trying to get insurance money for Grant’s mom. You talk to me, that’s as far as it goes. You tell me what I need to know, and that’s that. No one hassles you.