by Mark Troy
"Look, Julie, word won't get around. She finishes school and she's out of here. Suppose she makes good on the four thou, can't you forget the vig?"
Julie's neck pulsed again. "Hey!" he shouted, "You think I'm running a student loan program?"
"I'll get the money," Beth said.
"This is collection time. If you don't have it now, then I have to go to plan B."
"Plan B is what you gave me, right?"
Julie grinned. "Aw c'mon. This is a new era. Now it's motivation, the power of thinking. Eddy, show the ladies your trick. Watch closely. You're gonna love this."
Eddy moved to a bench on the other side of the room. He took his hands out of his pockets and pulled one pants leg up above the knee. His knee had thick ridges of scar tissue, like little mole runs. He produced a carpet tack about half an inch long from his jacket pocket, licked it lovingly, and touched the point to a spot on his knee between a pair of scars. He pushed it in. Beth gasped. Eddy stood up, spread his arms and genuflected. His knee struck the concrete floor with a metallic click. He stood and I could see blood welling around the tack.
Beth clutched by arm. I said, "So what's the point of the freak show, Julie?"
"Eddy doesn't feel pain. Been that way since birth. You hit him and he keeps coming at you. Think about it, out on the hardwood, a guy . . . or a girl . . . who doesn't feel pain is unbeatable. He could drive the lanes all night, nothing to fear, nothing to stop him.
"But that ain't you, is it college girl? You get a little pain in your knee, the Achilles gets inflamed, a hamstring pulled and you're done, right? You think you could play with a tack in your knee?"
Eddy wiggled the tack and pulled it out. Blood trickled down his shin.
Beth's face turned pale. She shook her head. "No," she said.
"Think about it. Now, about your debt, I've got a way out of your problem. You shoot, I'm guessing, 61, 62 percent on an average night. A couple bricks, a hurried shot, that drops ten, fifteen percent. To me, that ten percent's worth eight large easy."
"How?" asked Beth.
Anger buzzed in my head. I wanted to shake Beth and to lash out at Caesar at the same time. I did neither. I said, "Julie figures we're favored, but in a game like this, if the leading shooter goes cold, the dynamic of the game changes. Julie puts his money on the other team and cleans up. That's what Goldie did when you broke my hand, isn't it?"
Caesar said, "Bone-breaking wouldn't work today. What with cell phones and computers, the line on you swings the minute you show up wearing a sling."
"You want me to throw the game?" Beth asked. "You want me to make us lose?"
"You'd be out of the Dance," I said. "You and the rest of the team. The Dance belongs to them, too. And to Letitia."
"Who's to blame you?" Caesar said. "You did your best and the shots didn't fall. In the excitement of the big game you force some bad ones. You make it look good and you could even get a Player of the Game out of it. Who's to know?"
"Coach Lyon would know. She could tell."
Caesar studied me closely. "Coach is going to miss this game."
"Where will you be?" Beth asked.
"Yeah, Julie, where will I be? Out on the highway, like Letitia, with my neck broken?"
Beth looked at me, her eyes wide in disbelief. "What?" she demanded.
"Letitia died of a broken neck," I said. "They made it look like an accident." I studied Eddy's face for a reaction. He looked blank. Why should I be surprised? "Here's how I think it happened, Eddy. She was asleep in the front seat. You got in behind her and snapped her head back. Did she wake up or make a sound?"
Eddy's mouth turned up at the corners, remembering. "Like a bowl of cereal," he said. "Snap, crackle, pop."
"Shut up," Julie ordered.
"Then what?" I said. "You put her behind the wheel, put the car in drive and set the cruise control. Maybe you had to drive it a short distance first. Either way, it was going slow enough when you set the control that you could jump out and let it accelerate away on its own. A guy who doesn't feel pain could jump out of a car going, say, twenty?"
Eddy rolled his sloping shoulders. "Do it at thirty," he said.
"Hey," shouted Julie. "She's making it up. It didn't happen."
"You're right, Julie. I can figure Eddy the freak being stupid enough to jump out of a moving car, but a guy isn't stupid in just one thing, he's stupid in everything. It would take someone a whole lot smarter to figure out the cruise control."
Eddy's eyes darted wildly, his fists pumped furiously inside his jacket pockets. "Who you calling stupid? The cruise control was my idea. The cops bought it."
I braced myself on the edge of the bench, watching Eddy closely. Suddenly Beth sprang off the bench crying, "Monster! You killed Letitia!" She drove herself at Julie. He backed away momentarily from her flailing claws and then caught her arms to defend himself. I scooped up a dumbbell, reached them in two steps and chopped Julie's forearm with my weight-filled hand. He screamed like a young girl.
"Run," I shouted at Beth. It was my last sound before Eddy head-butted my chest. I felt myself spinning, the weight flying from my hand, my breath following it. The pain was at once a sharp, burning iron and a tight compression band. Dark blobs swam in front of my face and I knew the floor was coming up fast, knew that I should roll, but then the blobs merged into an inky curtain.
* * * * *
Joe Mohr had a large, shiny head and the bland, pleasant face normally associated with someone like a college administrator, not a cop. He leaned against a wall locker while a medic checked me over.
On first awakening, the pain of sucking air into my tortured lungs had been excruciating. Now, it was merely awful. Talking was a chore. The medic pronounced me bruised, but otherwise intact. Julie Caesar, however, had to be sedated and carried out on a stretcher.
"Pity the doctor who has to set his arm," the medic said. "No clean break there."
I buttoned up my blouse, while Mohr told me that Beth was unhurt and that Eddy was in custody. "Sorry we didn't get here sooner to help you out," he said, "but we did hear Eddy-boy admit to killing Letitia Hill. We have enough to slap a murder charge on both of them plus gambling on Caesar."
"Can you go light on the gambling?" I asked. "Murder's enough to put him away."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"You pursue the gambling end you'll drag Beth down. It might drag the whole program down."
"Five years I've been looking to roll up Julie."
"You've got him now. Beth knows she has a problem. I'll see she gets help."
He sighed. "Full disclosure will help a lot. I can't promise anything."
* * * * *
I found John Pogue in his office. The shades were drawn and the only light came from a small desk lamp. Pogue's chair was turned towards the wall. All I could see was the back of his head.
"Come in Coach," he said without turning around.
"You know what happened in the locker room?"
"I've got an idea."
"An ordinary fan couldn't get back there without an escort from a coach."
"My letter's on the desk," he said. "I hope it explains everything."
The letter was addressed to Carol.
"I already called her," he said. "I guess you're second in charge now."
"How deep are you into Caesar?" I asked.
"Fifty thousand, more or less."
"How did it start?"
"What does it matter? Some golf, some poker. I ran up some debts, but nothing I couldn't handle. Then when I got passed over for the head coaching job, I just went nuts for awhile. I was thinking I'm forty-four, I should be at the peak of my career. Instead I found myself the wrong age and the wrong sex. I've given my life to women's basketball. Now it's taking off, but they don't want me. They want younger coaches, women coaches -- coaches who can relate to the players. Call it a mid-life crisis, an angry white man syndrome, whatever."
"You self-destructed."
/> "Gambling was just a means to a lousy end."
An anguished sound came from the doorway. It was Carol.
"John, I'm sorry. I didn't know," she said.
Pogue spun around in his chair. His face had deep pockets of shadow, making him look strung-out and crazy. "You know, Carol, I resented you from the beginning. I was sure you wouldn't last two seasons. I never thought you'd turn it around like this."
"You're a part of our success," she said.
"No, I coached because that's what I do."
"But Julie had you under his thumb," I said.
"So to speak. He came to me and reminded me of the debt, said he could let it float if I kept him up on things -- injuries, dissension, players dogging it at practice . . ."
"You were spying for him, feeding him inside information so he'd have an edge on the odds."
Carol said, "John! The NCAA . . ."
"Hell with the NCAA. Have they ever done anything to help us teach players? Most of the information I passed was public anyway."
"But it was enough," I said. "He had you."
He put his head in his hands and leaned forward on his elbows. "Yes, he had me. Then Carol gave me the task of monitoring their gambling. I don't know how Julie found out. One day he showed up my house with that goon, Eddy. While Julie is talking to me in the kitchen, Eddy is outside with my daughter Allison, popping his joints out of their sockets to amuse her. Julie tells me I should mind my own business as far as the gambling's concerned. Then he and Eddy left."
"You could have told me," Carol said.
"No! And have him do something to Allison? Caesar has a long reach."
I said, "Letitia Hill found out the gambling was still going on so she came to you about it."
He nodded slowly. "Yes. She was worried about it, worried what the NCAA might do, and worried about Beth and Terri. She wanted to go to Carol and then to the police. She thought that if we did a thorough investigation and went public with it, that the NCAA would assess only minor penalties. I stalled her by telling her I'd talk to Carol about it."
"But you didn't. You went to Julie," I said. "What happened?"
"Julie said he wanted to talk to Letitia. He asked me to set it up. I kept putting him off."
I said, "Tell us about the night of the San Jose State game, John."
"The San Jose State game." He gave a sob and then began speaking in a halting voice. "Letitia was pressing me about the gambling and Julie was pressing me about Letitia, so when she asked if I'd drive her back after the game, I told her I would."
"You set her up with Julie," I said. I looked over at Carol. Her face had lost its color as the enormity of John's confession dawned on her.
Pogue said, "All Julie wanted was a meeting. It was to be at a pancake house up on 101. When we got there, Letitia was asleep, so I left her in the car. Julie and Eddy were waiting. Julie said not to worry, he'd talk to Letitia when she woke up and make sure she got back. He called me a cab and I went back to the hotel." He looked from me to Carol. "That's the truth Carol. God help me. When we got the news about the accident, all I could do was hope that . . . that she'd woken up and left on her own."
Nobody said anything for perhaps thirty seconds, then Pogue said, "What do we do now?"
"You turn yourself in to the police," I said.
"It will destroy the team," Carol said.
Pogue made a wry smile and said to me, "So what do you do, Coach? You're here to help the team. Doesn't the team come first?"
"Just like it came first for you, Coach?"
"I never let the team down."
"You let Letitia down."
Carol said, "Letitia wanted this dance more than anything. The least we can do is give her that."
Pogue settled back with an easy expression on his face. "If you wait till after the game, I can make it right. Tell the team I'm sick or something. I'm not going anywhere."
Carol turned to me. "Val?"
"Be here, Pogue," I said. "You think Julie Caesar has a long reach, don't test mine."
* * * * *
The Panthers were down five points with forty-three seconds to go when Beth drained a three-pointer. The Ducks took possession, but Santa Christa put on a press that denied them the middle lanes. With the shot clock running down, their forward forced a bad shot and we got the rebound. Carol called time. The clock stopped at twelve seconds.
As we broke the huddle, I said to Beth, "This is Letitia's Dance."
Beth took the in-bound pass. She drove the baseline to deliver the ball to the basket and draw a foul. Coming to the line with the score tied, she looked over to the bench where we were all on our feet. For an instant our eyes made contact. Then she sank the go-ahead point and we held on for six agonizing seconds. The Golden Panthers had an invitation to the next round.
I extricated myself from the celebratory pile-up in the middle of the floor and headed to the locker room. Joe Mohr met me on the ramp with two uniforms. He said, "Eddy's trying hard to cut a deal. You know what he's saying?"
"I have a good idea."
I followed them to Pogue's office. Mohr knocked on the door. "Coach Pogue," he called.
No answer.
Mohr tried the knob. It was locked. He knocked again and called louder. I produced my key and unlocked the door. Mohr rushed in followed by the uniforms. Pogue wasn't there, but the door to the trainer's room was ajar. Joe Mohr pushed it open. I followed him in.
"Damn!" he said.
John Pogue sat in the whirlpool bath. He was fully clothed. The whirlpool jets swirled crimson water around his inert body and churned the surface into a pink froth which gave off a sickly sweet smell. One hand hung over the side. On the floor beneath his curled fingers lay a utility knife, its razor edge lined with blood. Mohr donned a pair of latex gloves and pulled Pogue's other hand out of the water. it had two gashes across the wrist -- one tentative, but the other one went almost to the bone. The now bloodless flesh around the wound gaped whitely like the gills of a bass.
"Somebody shut the damn machine off," Joe Mohr said.
* * * * *
The NCAA launched an investigation, but considered Pogue's suicide when assessing penalties. In his last letter, Pogue took all of the blame on himself which went a long way towards deflecting penalties away from the team. It was his final gift to the Golden Panthers.
Sports Illustrated labeled us, "Cinderella at the Ball," because nobody expected us to make the finals after losing two coaches. Beth made all the highlight shows for two days afterward. The attention, the excitement and the packed stands were more than I'd experienced, even as a pro. I envied the players for just being able to take part.
One week after the Dance, I got my own dance. It happened on the floor of Santa Christa's field house in front of nearly empty stands. I met Carol for the long-delayed shoot-out -- the one that had been postponed for sixteen years. The event was witnessed by a handful of custodial staff and all of the Golden Panther team.
For the record book: I shot the lights out.
END
The Big Dance With Death was originally published in FUTURES, (June 2001)
WAHINE O KA HOE
There were six of us in the canoe, all wahine, stabbing and pulling in unison as Leilani Fo, in the strokes bow seat, pounded out the pace. The craft throbbed with each punch of the paddles -- seventy-two throbs per minute. The canoe was alive, sensing, surging ahead as our paddles ripped the sea.
The sea was alive, too. It was a tossing, lurching jumble of crossing forces -- trade winds from the East and long northerly swells. Oahu was a low cloudy shape up ahead. Also ahead were the women of Outrigger Canoe Club, but we were gaining on them -- small gains, measured in seconds, with every rip of the paddles. No time for talk. Just gasp and dig and pull your weight. A swell angled in from the stern and lifted the boat. For no more than a heartbeat we were balanced on the crest, forty-four feet and fourteen hundred pounds of fiberglass and women. “Dig! Now!”
yelled Leilani. My paddle bit air on one stroke and water on the next and we howled together as we drove down the blue slope.
The support boat churned past, giving us a wide berth on the port side. It carried three teammates, extra paddles and Bruce Scanron, our coach. The support boat disappeared into a trough while we surfed another swell, the highest one yet. The canoe shot down its face like a runaway ore train and our yells became fearsome shrieks. Up ahead, the support boat had dropped the relief crew in the water. Their heads, under their colorful caps, bobbed in the swells about twenty yards apart. Melissa, the steerswoman in back, yelled, “Teri, Val, Holly! Change!”
We dropped down the face of another wave and suddenly Holly’s relief ducked under the iako, the outrigger struts, and appeared by the canoe. Holly gave up her seat just as my relief appeared. I abandoned my paddle while, ahead of me, Teri prepared to do the same. My relief hauled herself in over the port side and I flopped out the other. The canoe seemed to lurch as I let it go.
At first I couldn’t find the escort boat when I surfaced, but then a swell lifted me up and I saw it, making a tight turn back to get me. The canoe was also turning. Something had gone wrong. Teri was still paddling in the third seat. Another swell lifted me and I had a quick glimpse of a pink and lime colored cap as it disappeared under the waves about twenty yards ahead.
Holly swam to my side. She had seen the cap, too. “My God! It’s Nani,” she said. Together, we struck out for the spot in the water where we had last seen her, but the support boat got there first. I still had half the distance to go when Bruce plunged into the water and brought Nani’s limp form to the surface.
Even he wasn’t in time.
* * * * *
Nani had suffered a massive blow to her head behind her ear, lost consciousness, or the ability to help herself, and drowned. The Medical Examiner speculated that the prow of the canoe rammed her while she waited to climb aboard. He guessed that a rogue wave had hit the canoe. Several others had felt the same lurch of the craft that I had felt as I flopped out.
I didn’t see any of the team for a whole day after the accident. Teri called the second evening after the race.
“I have to talk,” she said.
Me, too. For two days I’d felt like a subject in an isolation experiment, out of touch with even my own feelings. I drove to Teri’s apartment.
