Inside Cut

by Tom Fowler

  “You’re not clearing a high bar there.” The fact was Joey loved basketball. He served as the student manager of the team in high school. I didn’t bring it up, though, because it was a sore spot for him. The coach thought he was too fat to play and wouldn’t let him try out. Joey downplayed his disappointment and assumed a supporting role for a few years. The story went he got onto the court at the team’s last practice his senior year, showed a few players up, flipped off the coach, and walked away. I didn’t see it, and I’d never asked him about it, but I wanted to believe it.

  “How many games you got?”

  “The whole season. There are a few in particular to watch because I think the outcomes may have been . . . manipulated.”

  “I’ll need to go through the others to get a baseline, though.”

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  “When are you looking for results?” Joey moved on from the last mozzarella stick and started in on his entree without a pause to breathe inbetween. I long ago stopped wondering how he did it.

  “The sooner, the better,” I said.

  “Good thing I ain’t too busy right now.”

  “And I know I’m not keeping you from your exercise routine.”

  “You’re hilarious,” Joey said.

  Later the same evening, Joey called. “Twice in one day,” I said as I answered. “To what do I owe such a singular honor?”

  “I watched a couple of the games,” he said. “One not on your list at first, then one of the ones you highlighted.”

  “And?”

  “It’s two games. Small sample size. I’m not sure I have enough to go on.”

  “Like you said, it’s two games.”

  “I mean, I’m not sure I’m enough of an expert.”

  I closed my eyes and blew out a deep breath. Where would I find someone to analyze the games and keep everything confidential on short notice? “How are you not enough of an expert on basketball?”

  “I haven’t been involved since high school. Sure, I’ve watched a lot, but it ain’t the same. The game’s changed a ton since then, and the way people evaluate players and everything is different.”

  “You’re saying I need someone still involved with the game?”

  “Yeah, and I got someone in mind.”

  I heard the hair dryer fire up on the second floor. Thus began the ritual of Gloria getting her chestnut locks presentable enough to be seen in public. I thought she did at least three times the work she needed to—Gloria could be very pretty even with no effort—but I’d never gotten her to believe it. “Who were you thinking of?”

  “Luther Bowser.”

  I frowned as I struggled to recall the name. Sometime years ago, I’d heard it, but I couldn’t retrieve it. “Name’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “He was the head coach at Loyola when we were freshmen.”

  “Didn’t last long, did he?”

  “They fired him at the end of the year. He’s bounced around since. Right now, he’s the coach at Howard Community College.”

  “So in eleven years or so, this guy went from being a Division One coach to heading up a community college program?” Joey didn’t say anything. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s a stathead,” Joey said. “He embraced all the numbers early and didn’t really get along with his players.”

  “Or administrators, I imagine,” I said.

  “No doubt. But he’s a hell of a basketball mind.”

  “And he’s willing to help us out?” Upstairs, the dryer clicked off. This meant Gloria would be wearing a ponytail. I think it took her more than a year into our relationship to loosen up enough to pull her hair back. Gloria, like me, came from a wealthy family, but she didn’t relate to people as well as I did. To her credit, however, she was improving.

  “If you pay him for his time, yes.”

  “Fine. Tell him I will. Can you get the game files to him?”

  “Sure. I’ll put him in touch with you.”

  “Thanks, Joey.”

  We hung up. A couple minutes later, Gloria came downstairs. It must have been casual night. She wore a pair of designer jeans, a V-neck sweater with a very interesting neckline, two-inch heels, and her hair in a ponytail. “Where are you taking me, stud?” she said, swinging her leg over the chair and lowering herself onto my lap.

  I looked at her sweater, then met her gaze. “Maybe back upstairs.”

  She gave me a lingering kiss. It didn’t help. “Patience, grasshopper. Come on.” She stood and slipped into a jacket. “You’re not working tonight, right?”

  “I’d scuttle any plans I had,” I said.

  “My hero,” she told me as we walked to the car.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, I did two very important things before making coffee. First, I read recaps of the Drexel-JHC game. With a day to process everything, I expected the takes to be hot. Even the most cynical of columnists didn’t broach the specter of point shaving, however. A few commented on the Presidents coming out with an uncharacteristically sluggish offense. None pointed a finger at Calvin, who played a good game.

  The next thing I did was look at the cloned phone. I scrolled through a few meaningless texts and other messages from Calvin’s friends and well-wishers. Then, I saw the one from Eddie over the encrypted app. Good job. Everything went very well on this end. Using my amazing private investigator powers of deduction, I inferred Eddie made a nice bit of coin on the game. Calvin offered no reply, so Eddie kept the thread going. Next game opened at 7. Will keep you posted.

  I checked the conference tournament schedule as I put the java on to brew. Hanson played another home game tomorrow evening, taking the court against the Dukes of James Madison University. The Vegas sportsbooks kept the line at seven points. The Presidents took both games against JMU in the regular season.

  While I toasted a bagel, the cloned phone buzzed on the countertop. I saw another message from Eddie. We should talk today. I wondered what he had in mind. His earlier messages made it clear tomorrow’s game would be of interest, too. Fixing two consecutive tournament contests seemed reckless to me.

  Gloria remained upstairs while I ate my bagel and some turkey sausage. A few minutes later, another message flashed on the screen. Get back to me. I’ll send someone to talk to you if I need to. Eddie grew impatient. Calvin would be in class now. Maybe he saw the missive and chose not to respond. If Eddie paid for Denise’s cancer treatments and then held it over Calvin’s head, I understood the player’s resentment.

  I also thought I could use it to my advantage, at least in the short-term. I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast, got dressed without waking Gloria, and headed to the car.

  After parking on campus, I checked Calvin’s schedule. He was in the middle of a biology class in McCormick Hall. I walked toward the building, keeping an eye out for angry basketball coaches and vengeful football players. Maybe those three idiots were back to spring practice by now.

  I made it to McCormick without incident. Calvin’s class was on the top floor. I wandered up and down the halls to get a lay of the land. Most of the classrooms weren’t being used. Calvin looked bored in 307. I checked the doors leading down the hall to the exit. While 305 was locked, the knob at 303 turned. I padded into the room, kept the lights off, and sat at the teacher’s desk. Might as well try to look official. Keeping the door open allowed me to monitor Calvin’s class easier.

  Ten minutes later, chairs slid over nearby linoleum, and students milled about. I checked my copy of Calvin’s phone. He texted someone named Belle. Other people filed past. I stood and moved toward the door, standing close beside it. All was quiet on the hallway front. I edged my head out. Calvin talked to another guy in the class. He headed in the opposite direction while Calvin walked toward me.

  The hallway was empty.

  When he passed 303, I took a step to the side, reached out, grabbed his arm, and yanked him into the room. Before he could swear at me, I ki
cked the door shut with my heel. Calvin glared. “What the fuck?” He raised his fist.

  “Go ahead,” I said, sticking my chin out. “Free shot.” The brows above his hard eyes pulled down. “When you break your hand on my jaw, though, what will you do tomorrow night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  Calvin lowered his fist but continued to eye me warily. “Who the hell are you? Who sent you?”

  “What if I told you Eddie sent me?”

  He pulled away a step. “I was gonna get back to him. Honest, I was.” Another retreating stride made Calvin bump into a desk. He felt for it with his hand but didn’t look behind him. Whoever Eddie was, Calvin was scared of him. He stood at least four inches taller than me and probably outweighed me by thirty or more pounds. I couldn’t imagine many people made him afraid.

  I thought about continuing the ruse, but I preferred having Calvin on my side to making him fear me. “Relax. Eddie didn’t send me. I’m here on my own.”

  The rigidity of his posture eased. “Who the hell are you?”

  “C.T. Ferguson. I’m a private investigator.”

  “I heard of you. Didn’t you bust a bunch of pedos or some shit?”

  “A few months ago, yes.”

  “Why you here now?” Calvin said.

  “You have people who are concerned about you, Calvin.”

  He waved a hand. “Ain’t nothin’ to be concerned about. I got shit under control.”

  “So why did you look like you saw a ghost when I mentioned Eddie?”

  He scowled at me. “Fuck you, man. I’m out.” Calvin started toward the door, but I was still blocking it. I didn’t step aside as he approached. “Move.”

  “You’ve got it all under control,” I said. “Big man on campus. You don’t need my help with Eddie. Why don’t you move me?”

  Calvin laughed. “You don’t think I can?”

  “No, I don’t.” He stared at me. “Three guys on the football team recently tried to discourage me from asking around. I’m not sure they’re back to practice yet.”

  “Three of them?”

  “Three of them. One’s probably eating through a straw for the next six weeks. So what do you think your odds of getting past me and leaving this room are right now?”

  The stare persisted a few more seconds before Calvin broke eye contact. He shuffled back a few paces. “Who sent you?” he said in a small voice.

  “I told you people are concerned about you. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Seems like Eddie has his hooks in you pretty deep.” Calvin didn’t say anything. “How many games has he asked you to fix?”

  “How do you—”

  “In addition to being able to beat up three linemen, I’m really smart. Good-looking, too, but it hasn’t helped me here so far.”

  A small smiled played on Calvin’s lips. Finally, I got a reaction other than anger or fear. All it took was the truth. “A few.” Calvin couldn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Anyone else on the team involved?”

  “Here and there. It’s hard to take it all on myself.”

  “You’re being awfully vague for someone who’s in so deep,” I said.

  “I said I don’t need help.”

  “You’re wrong. I’ve dealt with guys like Eddie before. I can get you out.”

  Now he looked up at me. “Ain’t no getting out for me yet.” Calvin shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

  Behind us, someone cleared his throat. I turned to see a bookish Indian man in a cheap suit standing outside the doorway. “I have a class in here soon,” he said.

  “We’re done,” Calvin said as he moved past me.

  I didn’t have many good options, so I let him go.

  Calvin may have been the BMOC at John Hanson, but on social media, he was merely one of billions. Being a college-aged Generation Z type—I tended to think of anyone younger than me as a Gen Z’er—he was all over various platforms. His bite-sized thoughts, written in grammar forcing me to question how much he paid attention in English class, dotted the Twitter landscape. They were rarely about basketball and made sense every bit as often.

  On Instagram, Calvin posted a lot of pictures of himself in uniform, plus an occasional video at practice. I wondered who worked the phone camera for him. Many people his age posted pictures of everything they ate. I guessed Calvin avoided this because he was confined to eating on the JHC meal plan. College athletes aren’t supposed to accept gifts from anyone, even a free meal, and uploading a plethora of food pics would’ve brought the NCAA Gestapo to his doorstep.

  His Facebook profile was a different animal altogether. Calvin went to some effort to hide it or at least make it harder for people to find him. He used his middle name of Richard Murray, didn’t identify himself as a basketball player, and rarely uploaded a shot of himself in uniform. It consisted of other pictures of Calvin, plus some of his family and friends. This would be where the treasure trove lay.

  I found some photos of his mother both prior to and after her cancer diagnosis. She looked pretty and full of life and vigor before, but in more recent pictures, she appeared tired. This matched what I saw when she came to my office. Calvin posted a few shots of him and his mother together in the hospital, then of him in the kitchen cooking her first post-treatment meal. He seemed like a loving and devoted son, and this was something a person like Eddie would exploit. I saved a few pictures and kept looking.

  Several albums were dedicated to Iris. She was a beautiful baby with bright eyes and an infectious smile. According to a video, she started walking at ten months. Calvin’s post mentioned her as a future star athlete. Her mother, who was tagged in many of the photos, ran track in high school and competed in college until pregnancy forced her to back away from the team. Iris certainly possessed the genes for athletics.

  Tagging the mother would also make her a target for Eddie. Her face alone would be enough. They’d have ways of figuring out who she was. Identifying her only made things easy. More people needed to understand the ramifications of sharing so many details of their lives and others’. I wondered if Calvin ever told Tamika Robinson about how he earned the money to pay for his mother’s cancer treatments. I wondered if he ever mentioned the danger she and Iris would be in if a game didn’t break the right way. Then, I shook my head. Of course he hadn’t. Tamika looked too happy in recent snapshots to have been burdened with this sort of news.

  As before, I saved a few choice photos. Once I felt I’d collected a strong sample, I put a few in a text message to Calvin. I attached a picture of his mother smiling and giving a thumbs up during her recovery, one of Iris looking delighted at the fact she crawled across carpet, and a final one of Tamika holding their baby.

  You have a lot to lose, Calvin. You’re risking way too much. Let me help you.

  I waited a few minutes. My phone buzzed as he replied. Rather than accept my gracious offer of help, he opted to be confrontational. How’d u get this number? I told u I didn’t need no help.

  I sent a reply. If it were just your funeral, I’d be happy to let you plan it. But it’s not. If you don’t want my help, fine. Don’t do it for yourself. Do it for everyone else Eddie might hurt.

  A few minutes passed, and no reply came.

  My stomach rumbled, and I pondered what to make for lunch when Rich called. “Just want to be sure you’re staying out of trouble,” he said.

  “Never. I am incorrigible.”

  “You doing anything for lunch?” I told him I wasn’t. “Mind if I come by?” I told him I didn’t. We hung up. I looked outside my living room window. Gray dominated the sky, and fresh raindrops danced in puddles on the sidewalk. This took grilling off the table. I inventoried my fridge to see if I would need to make a mad dash to Harris Teeter before Rich arrived. I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  When I got back, two grocery bags in to
w, Rich and Gloria chatted at the kitchen table. My girlfriend smiled at me as I walked in. My cousin seemed more interested in the contents of the brown paper bags. “What’s for lunch?” he said.

  “You invite yourself, and I have to shop and cook?”

  “Yep.” He and Gloria exchanged grins.

  “This seems to be a one-way arrangement.” I unpacked the bags, putting items into the fridge or pantry as appropriate.

  “You never answered my question,” Rich said.

  “I bought three steaks,” I said, “plus some potatoes and green beans.” I busied myself with turning the oven on, getting out my cast-iron skillet, and plugging in the vegetable steamer. When the oven beeped its readiness, I put the lightly-oiled and foil-wrapped potatoes in. Next, I removed the steaks from the fridge and let them grow closer to room temperature before I seasoned them. I put them in the hot skillet to build a sear on all sides. The green beans went in the vegetable steamer as I turned the cooktop down to let the New York Strips cook throughout.

  At the end of the process, I plated a steak, a baked potato, and a serving of green beans times three. Rich went to the Herculean effort of opening three beers while I cooked. At least he didn’t insult me by pretending to wipe his brow. I joined him and Gloria at the kitchen table, which was exactly the right size for the three of us. A fourth diner would have been as unlucky as someone crammed into the backseat of Rich’s Camaro. My cousin cut into his steak and examined the piece. “Medium,” he said, nodding in approval.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m not a barbarian.”

  “Jeanne eats hers rare,” Rich said. He didn’t often mention his girlfriend, who served as a uniformed officer in the BPD. The infrequency led me to believe they’d split up on more than one occasion.

  “I suspect anyone who eats rare meat of being a werewolf,” I said.

  “Your father takes his steaks rare,” Rich pointed out.

  “Why do you think I avoid him when there’s a full moon?”

  Gloria laughed around a mouthful of beer, covering her lips with a napkin. We settled into eating our lunches. It was a bit decadent for a midday meal, but I didn’t have a lot of advance notice. Besides, a slight lapse into degeneracy now and again could only be a good thing. This had been one of my beliefs for most of my thirty years, and it never did me wrong.