Game Face

by Mark Troy

  I reached for my gun, but it was gone.

  Paula said, “Don’t bother! Stay where you are! Sit down Szymanski!”

  Karen sat down on the grass a few feet from me, fear etched in her face. She looked more like a scared teenager than a jock babe.

  Paula said, “Lyon, you’re right, the threats, the newsletter, the water bottle, by themselves they’re easy to dismiss. But suppose Karen comes here to kill me and you stop her. Let’s say you have to kill her in the act. Then its not so easy to dismiss. It all fits together.”

  Karen gasped. Paula swung the gun in her direction and she shut up. “The clincher is when she manages to shoot you instead of me. That makes her a murderer.”

  I raised myself up on my elbow and got my legs under me. From somewhere inside my burning ribcage I found enough air to speak. “Kill me with my gun, it all falls apart.”

  “I have another gun.” She backed to a round table that held some towels and water. Lifting a towel, she revealed a small automatic. “Do you like irony, Lyon? This was Dad’s. A pawn shop gun, bought before all these background checks. You’ll be a hero taking a bullet for me. I can get Sandblasters to front a memorial tournament in your name.”

  “It’s not easy to shoot someone, Paula. A lot tougher to shoot two. Can you really go through with it?” My back throbbed. The gun could have bruised my spinal column. Would my legs work if I needed to move? I rubbed feeling into my thighs.

  “You think I can’t?” She pointed my gun at Karen.

  “Paula, don’t!” It was David Hino coming through the gate. Paula wheeled and fired, not aiming. I heard David grunt and saw him fall sideways as I launched myself at Paula’s back. I seemed to be moving through quicksand. She was turning again when I collided with her, forcing the Colt up. It caught in the net and went off a second time. The net gave under our momentum, one side tearing away from the post. I landed on Paula, got my hand on the Colt, but she rolled on top causing a tsunami of pain to crash over me. I held onto the gun and rolled her off, the net wrapping around our shoulders, coming off the other post, defeating our struggles.

  “Stop it,” yelled Karen. “I’ll shoot. I swear it.” She stood over us with Paula’s Dad’s gun. It shook wildly in her hands.

  “It’s over, Paula,” I said. She tried a last time to shake off the net, before sagging against me and sobbing quietly.

  David Hino called 911 on his cell phone. Paula’s shot had nicked a piece of his shoulder, but he still had the strength to take the gun out of our hands. The police arrived a few minutes later. They cut us free of the net and began the task of sorting things out. I found myself on a stretcher being checked by an EMT while several of them worked on David. He looked over at me.

  I said, “I thought you hotel dicks don’t spy on guests.”

  He smiled weakly. “I tried to warn you. Couldn’t get you on the phone so I followed her.”

  “You did good. I owe you.”

  The EMT working on me said, “That’s Vengelista they’re taking away. Isn’t she the kill leader?”

  “No,” I said. “She’s two kills short.”

  END

  Kill Leader was originally published in Plots With Guns, 1999

  THE BIG DANCE WITH DEATH

  Memorial Arena on the campus of U.C. Santa Christa had not changed in the years I'd been away. It still smelled like floor polish and competition. The hardwood gleamed like a California sunset. I stopped at the edge and removed my shoes before stepping onto the court on which my girlfriends and I had left so much sweat and tears.

  From the tip-off circle with the letters "S.C." in gold and black, I could look up at the he banks of seats rising steeply in a horseshoe shape, the top rows deep in shadow. A banner hung from the big scoreboard over the center of the floor. The banner said, "NCAA Women's Western Regional." The field was down to sixteen; round three of the Big Dance.

  That much was new.

  Carol Onofrido, head coach of the U.C. Santa Christa Golden Panthers, joined me at the circle. The click of her heels on the hardwood preceded her.

  She said, "Val Lyon. It's good to see you after how many years?"

  "Sixteen," I said, turning to the sound of her voice. "You're looking good, Carol."

  She had on a black Chanel suit that showed her to be still as trim as her playing days. Her hair, however, had lightened in the intervening years. It was now a shade lighter than the floor. L'Oreal, probably. As the likely coach of the year, she was worth it.

  She said, "What made you change your mind?"

  "I think you know, Carol."

  A week earlier, Carol had reached me by phone at my one-woman private investigation office with a surprising offer.

  "Assistant coach," she said.

  "Carol, my business is detecting."

  "I know. I need a detective, but my Athletic Director would have a cow. I have an opening for assistant coach."

  "I know zip about coaching."

  "You know the game. The University would love it. Former star returning to help her Alma Mater. Val, we have a problem and I need your help."

  I listened to her problem. Some stalkers had targeted two of the players. I suggested she go to the police, but Carol was sure there was more to it than simple stalking.

  At first I refused, but after two days of beating myself up about it, I told her I'd take the job. It was not about getting back into basketball, not even about helping my former team. In the end it was unfinished business with Carol.

  So now, here I was, officially an assistant coach of the Golden Panthers, working for the woman who had been my nemesis. Sixteen years ago our teams met in the last game of the season tied for first place in the Pacific Coast Conference. Carol and I were both in reach of the conference scoring record. At the end of the game, her team had the championship and Carol had the record.

  Carol looked thoughtful. "I've been thinking about our game," she said.

  Funny, calling it our game because that was how I remembered it, too. "What about it, Carol?"

  "When we took the floor that night, I remember standing where we are now and looking over at you. I felt . . . sad."

  "Sad?" A lump, like a golf ball, worked its way into my throat.

  "Sad and disappointed. The cast on your hand, the look on your face. You wanted the game as badly as I did. With you out of it, I was cheated."

  "You have the record," I said. Bitterness filled my mouth with a taste like dry ashes, surprising me in its intensity. "You beat a good team."

  "Yes, but could I have beaten you?"

  I said, "I don't think you could."

  Carol smiled. "But you hope to find out for sure."

  I slipped my shoes on, bringing me up to her height. "I'm only here for the Dance," I said.

  We walked over to the sideline. Carol moved with the long, confident stride of a woman who owns the house. I matched her step for step.

  "Can you believe it?" she said. "Did you ever think we'd get here?"

  "I'd have taken religious vows to get to the Dance."

  Getting to the Dance was the forbidden dream. In our day, the Dance was stag. The only athletes who made it were the ones with the broken chromosomes. The rest of us, with all the Xs, had our noses pressed to the glass.

  Carol sat in one of the sideline chairs. I took the one beside her. She said, "It might be a short run if we don't solve this problem with the girls."

  "Who are the targets?"

  "Beth Milgrim and Terri Pryor. You're familiar with Beth, of course."

  How could I not be? Beth Milgrim was Santa Christa's senior guard and scoring leader. In the last game of the regular season, she scored 34 points to break the school record for points in a season -- a record owned, until then, by yours truly.

  I knew less about Terri Pryor. From the media guide, I'd gleaned that she was a sophomore who'd suffered a knee injury and hadn't played much.

  Carol said, "Beth reminds me of you, the way you played." She gave me a
knowing look. "On and off-court," she added.

  "What does that mean?"

  "You can't deny you had a rep, Val."

  Trash talk. You'd think the statute of limitations would have run out on it. "I always brought my best game to the court." I said.

  "I wish Beth and Terri did."

  "Tell me about the stalkers, Carol."

  "About two weeks ago, right at the end of the regular season, two men showed up in the athletic office looking for Beth and Terri. Real creeps, these two."

  "These weren't students or alumni?"

  She shook her head. "No. We have open admissions but we haven't discarded all standards.'

  "Media?"

  "If they can write, it's with a crayon."

  Carol described the two men for me. One was young, college age. She remembered him having sloping shoulders, wearing a purple windbreaker pants and a hooded sweatshirt of the same color. The hood prevented her from seeing his hair, but she thought it was close cropped.

  The other man was about forty with dark hair that was styled and combed. He dressed neatly and expensively in sport coat, slacks and a golf shirt.

  "He had a look. You could see it in his eyes. It was as if there was a short circuit back there."

  "A look?"

  "And a little scar," she said.

  "On his face?"

  "On his throat. It kind of peeked above the top button of his shirt, which he kept buttoned all the way up."

  Something clicked in my memory and I touched the soft tissue at the base of my throat.

  "Yes, right there," she said. "About the size of a dime."

  Scars are not unusual in my profession. People who need my services have them in abundance -- on their bodies, on their psyches, on their relationships. I couldn't put a memory tag on this one, however, so I let it go. I said, "Did you notice anything else?"

  "He was mean, you know? A man who thinks rules don't apply to him. We're a no-smoking campus, but he wouldn't put out his cigarette. He started getting belligerent but when I threatened to call campus security the two of them left."

  The pair had been spotted at two other times on campus. Once Carol had seen them loitering around the field house but when she approached they moved off. Another time, just three nights ago, someone matching the young guy's description was spotted trying to get into the athletic dorm. A security officer ran him off. The officer noted that he fled in a waiting Range Rover but was unable to get a license.

  I said, "Any threats?"

  "God, Val, their presence is threat enough. I keep thinking of Nancy Kerrigan and Monica Seles."

  "What did Beth and Terri say about these guys?"

  "They denied knowing them."

  "Do you think they're involved in something?"

  She thought a moment, then she said, "Drugs crossed my mind. I've alerted my staff to look for strange behavior. I ordered a surprise drug test last week and everybody came up clean. God, I hated to do that to these players."

  "Who am I replacing, Carol?"

  "Letitia Hill," she said. "She was a graduate assistant, working on a Master's Degree. Six weeks ago she was killed in an automobile accident."

  "That must have been hard on the team."

  Carol nodded slowly. "Very hard."

  "Any chance her death is connected to these creeps?"

  Carol looked shocked. "Connected? To these men? Why would you think that?"

  "First a fatal accident, then a couple of hardheads show up. It's my business look for connections."

  "Well, I doubt there's one here. We had a late game at San Jose State. It was televised -- tip off at eleven."

  "Why so late?"

  Carol shrugged in resignation. "Network schedules. I'd just as soon not play on TV if we can't get prime time. Eleven on the West Coast is two in the morning on the East Coast."

  "Nobody's going to see you."

  "Precisely. When we have a late game, we stay over and come back the next day. Letitia decided to drive back alone because she had an exam in the morning. She left right after the game. The police say she fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line into the path of a pickup. It happened near Lakeville."

  On the flight to Santa Christa, I'd read the Sports Illustrated story about the team's extraordinary season. There had been a brief paragraph about Letitia. There was probably nothing more to the story.

  Carol glanced at her watch. "We'd better get ready for practice," she said.

  * * * * *

  If practice was an indication, I was a long way from coach of the year. My only contribution was feeding balls on shooting drills. It wasn't until we were going to the locker room that I had a chance to pull Beth Milgrim aside and talk to her.

  Beth had a square-jawed face with a dark, serious expression. Her big hands and long legs made her a natural. On the court she had impressed me with her agility and aggression. I'd never been very analytical about my own abilities, so it was hard for me to see the similarities that Carol had seen, but watching her I felt an excitement I hadn't had since leaving the game.

  I said, "Beth! Hey, congratulations on breaking my record." I put a wry smile on my face. "I thought it would stand a hundred years, at least."

  She gave my hand a quick shake. "Yeah, well listen, don't take this personally, Coach, but I made it my goal to break it."

  "It's good to have goals," I said.

  "You're taking Letitia's place?"

  "I'll try. You two were close?"

  "She was my friend," she said, turning towards the locker room.

  "Beth, can I ask you something? Who are these men who are looking for you?"

  "I have no idea," she said. "Listen, I've gotta ice down and shower."

  Before she could head off we were joined by another of the three seniors on the team. "Hi Coach," she said. "Beth, you know your leather skirt and jacket? Hey, if you're not wearing them tonight, could I? Cody wants to take me --"

  Beth said, "I returned them. They didn't look good on me."

  "Didn't look good? That outfit was you, girl. You said so yourself. It was hot. Your signature outfit. You were going to be married and buried in it."

  "I changed my mind," Beth said. "They didn't fit." She disappeared into the locker room.

  The player looked at me, confused and disappointed. "I don't believe it, Coach. She paid four hundred and fifty dollars for that outfit. She looked really, really awesome in it."

  * * * * *

  Carol's second-in-command was John Pogue, a tall man with a professorial stoop. His sandy hair had receded to the top of his head adding to his scholarly appearance. Early forties. He'd played college ball for John Wooden and pro ball for Pat Riley. Carol had already talked about him. "God knows what I'd do without him," she said. "We argue, we cry, we lean on each other. I'm afraid of losing him to another program."

  With all that was going on at practice, Pogue and I did little more than exchange nods. It was afterwards, when the three of us were together in Carol's office, that I had the first hint that Pogue wasn't happy with my presence on the team. He said, "Now that you've met the players, what do you really think you can contribute Coach?"

  Carol came to my rescue. "Val's played in the pro's, John. You know her resume."

  "I know she can play, but can she teach?"

  "John, we're past the teaching stage, but a fresh perspective can't hurt."

  "Does she know our system?"

  "I'm a quick study," I said.

  Carol said, "I'll give you a play book when we're done here."

  Pogue said, "You'll be cramming hard tonight."

  Carol quickly moved the discussion to the next game, twenty-four hours away. She said, "We have to keep Beth's head in the game. She missed some shots this afternoon she should have made."

  "Sometimes good shots just don't fall," Pogue said.

  "She was putting up bricks, John. They were clunking off the rim."

  "Any chance she ran into those two stalk
ers?" I asked. "That could take her head out of the game."

  "It's doubtful," Carol said. "Today's her heavy class day. The rest of the time she's been here."

  Pogue said, "I'd say having the famous Val Lyon, whose record she broke, show up at practice is enough to mess her head."

  "You don't like my being here, do you?"

  "I'd prefer someone with more experience," he said.

  Carol said, "We've been over this, John."

  "What do you think of this stalking problem?" I said.

  "I think the police can handle it. You want a distraction? See what happens when the media discover a private eye as coach."

  Carol said, "We'll deal with it when it happens." She slapped her palms on the table. "It's late, we've all been working hard, and we've got a big game tomorrow. Let's call it a night while it's still fun."

  I stayed behind after Pogue left. I said, "What did I do to get on his bad side?"

  "It's nothing you did," Carol said. "It's this crazy season. Everybody's acting odd. Who wouldn't? I've been on an adrenaline high for two weeks and I'm sure John has too. When we crash, it won't be pretty. I'm just trying to hold my staff together until the last buzzer."

  I reminded her about the play book.

  She took a black zippered case from a file cabinet. The case had the seal of the university in gold. "Top secret," she said, solemnly. "This was Letitia's. It's been locked up ever since the troopers returned it to me."

  "Letitia had this when she died?"

  "It was in the car with her. There are only five of them -- one for each of the staff. Don't let it out of your sight. Mine never is." A wide smile crossed her face. "My husband says he's going to name it in a divorce action," she said with a laugh.

  The precious case in my hands, I made my way to the athletic dorm where Carol had arranged a room. It was a new, five-story building in the center of campus. Security rivaled a modern prison's. I had to use my pass card on an outer and then an inner door before gaining access to the lobby area where I had to pass the open door of the residence hall advisor. Beth and Terri couldn't be in a safer place.

  My room was on the second floor, which happened to be the senior floor. It was a two-person room, but, in deference to my exalted status as former record holder and coach, I had it all to myself. My bags had arrived before me, carried, no doubt, by a student who felt honored to be pressed into the service of the "famous" Val Lyon. I changed into shorts and a sweatshirt and settled into the lower bunk with Letitia's case.