Inside Cut

by Tom Fowler

  “You working on anything?” Rich asked when all our plates were mostly empty.

  “Just took a case.” I filled him in on the details in brief, along with my suspicion.

  “Point shaving?” he said. “Seems a little . . . old-fashioned.”

  “Doing it the original way would be. Everything’s moved online. Courts and governments are slowly warming up to casual gambling. You don’t need smoke-filled rooms and wiseguys anymore. Between local books and the offshore casinos, I think it could work.”

  “Someone still stands to profit, though.”

  “Of course. In this case, it’s someone named Eddie.”

  “Eddie who?” Gloria asked.

  “I don’t know. None of the info I’ve gleaned from Calvin gives me anything besides his first name. Whoever he is, he’s pretty careful.”

  “I haven’t heard of an Eddie doing anything like this,” Rich said. “You think he’s operating in the city?”

  “Doubt it.” I cut the last chunk of my steak into three manageable bites. “I talked to Tony. He’s in the dark. If this guy’s doing it in Baltimore, he’s doing a hell of a job of making sure no one knows about it.”

  Rich frowned. “Of course you talked to Tony.”

  “If he’s such a criminal, Rich, you guys should arrest him. Oh, wait. You can’t because the system doesn’t actually work.”

  We’d engaged in similar arguments before. This time, Rich didn’t take the bait. “Hanson’s in the county. Maybe he’s out there.”

  “I’m working with Gonzalez,” I said. “So far . . . nothing.”

  “Don’t the athletes normally get a cut of the proceeds in these schemes?” Rich said.

  “Usually. Calvin’s mother has cancer, though. She thinks he arranged to have her treatment paid for.”

  “Nice kid. Too bad he’ll be in hock to this Eddie for the rest of his life.”

  “I’m trying to get him out, but he’s not terribly cooperative.”

  “Doesn’t he have a baby?” Gloria said. She set her fork down, leaving only a bit of potato skin and a couple pieces of steak fat on her plate.

  “He does. I think it should make him concerned. He’s not married to the mother, but they seem to be together. If you add his own mother, it’s three places he’s vulnerable.”

  “I don’t think Eddie will want to let him go,” Rich said. “He’s probably making good money, and he doesn’t have to share any of it with the kid.” He paused. “He going pro?”

  “He certainly could,” I said. “Everything I’ve read indicates he’ll be among the first three picks if he comes out.”

  “Maybe Eddie has a say in whether he comes back for another year.” I frowned. “Think about it,” Rich continued. “The NBA is huge. National. Media all the time. Hanson’s a medium-sized school in a small state and a fairly minor conference. A lot less attention.”

  “And a lot less scrutiny,” Gloria said.

  “I really need to figure out who Eddie is,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Rich said, “you do.”

  Chapter 9

  After Rich left, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It was a number I didn’t recognize, a frequent hazard in my line of work. I use an app to filter out as many spam calls as I can. A few inevitably slip through. I do my best to answer the rest, and this one was no exception. “Hello?”

  “You Joey’s friend?” said a voice as unrecognizable as his number. Whoever it was spoke quickly and, in the three-word sample I heard, sounded serious.

  “I’d like to think I’m not so easily categorized,” I said.

  “He asked me to look at some basketball film.” Pause. “I don’t want to say much more over the phone.”

  Great. When I met the coach Joey contacted, I wondered if he’d be wearing a tinfoil hat and saving jars of his own urine. “Yes. Did he tell you specifically what I was interested in?”

  “He did.”

  I expected him to elaborate there. Maybe we could only continue this conversation where the government and the aliens couldn’t eavesdrop. If I met this guy in anything other than an underground bunker, I’d be disappointed. “And?”

  “And if you want to know more, we gotta meet in person . . . plus you gotta pay me for my time.”

  “No problem. When do you think you might be done?”

  “Could probably have something for you tomorrow.”

  “Wow.” He worked faster than I expected, especially considering the community college he coached should be playing its own games. Maybe Coach Bowser didn’t sleep much. “Sounds good. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

  “Will do.” He hung up right away. I’d gotten used to such abrupt discourtesies talking to cops like Rich or Gonzalez. Add socially inept basketball coaches to the list.

  “Who was that?” Gloria said, correctly reading my puzzled frown.

  “A very strange man. He’s a basketball coach, and I think he can help me shed some light on my case.”

  “You work with some interesting characters,” she said.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said.

  I hoped Coach Bowser would come through.

  My popularity continued to run high as my phone rang again a short while later. This time, it was a video call request. I saw the familiar pretty face and red wavy hair of Melinda Davenport. Ever since I rescued her from her life on the street as Ruby, we’d been close friends. I patted my hair to make sure it looked good before I answered. “Hey, Melinda.”

  “Hi, C.T.” She smiled, and it was a good one. A girl Melinda saved from a life of prostitution, T.J., told me Melinda liked me in the way which compelled girls and boys to pass notes in high school. I’d never seen a sign of it, but we men tend to be pretty dense about these things. Besides, I was happy in my relationship with Gloria. “You up to anything tonight?”

  “I just took a case. Haven’t done much with it today, so I figured I’d get back to it.”

  “That’s too bad.” Her brows pulled down into a delicate frown. “I know it’s short notice, but I have a pair of extra tickets to my father’s big fundraiser tonight.”

  “Really?” The same fundraiser Gloria told me she couldn’t get an invitation to attend. “How did you wrangle those?”

  “I don’t know. Someone backed out last minute, I think. Anyway, Dad gave them to me to see if I could unload them. No charge—whoever can’t come already sent in his money.”

  “You know Gloria helped your father plan this soirée, right?”

  Melinda’s head bobbed, causing her hair to bounce in a wave. “I know he’s worked with her a few times. He’s very impressed with how she does things.”

  “So impressed she didn’t even get an invitation to attend.”

  “I heard.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. Dad isn’t the only one who allocates tickets. I guess this one got away from him.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you guys want to come?” she said after a pause.

  “Gloria’s pretty salty she didn’t get an invitation before,” I said. “However, I know how much work she put into this, and I’ll bet she wants to be there.”

  “So you’re in?”

  “We’re in.”

  She flashed a winning smile again. It would make some lucky man’s knees turn to jelly someday. “Great. I’ll leave the two tickets for you, then. See you tonight.”

  “Thanks, Melinda.” We hung up. I walked down the hall. Gloria sat on the couch reading something on her phone. “Guess where we’re going tonight?”

  She perked up at the mention of a social engagement. “Where?”

  “Actually, you’ll need to tell me because I don’t know the venue. But I just scored us two tickets to the Davenport gala tonight.”

  Her eyes widened. “How’d you manage that?”

  “Someone needed to cancel on short notice. Melinda asked me if we wanted to come, and I said yes. I know you’re perturbed about Davenport not inviting
you himself. Maybe you can spit in his champagne when we see him.”

  Gloria grinned. “I would never do something like that.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “It’d be pretty hot.”

  She got off the couch and slinked to me. “How hot?” She wrapped her arms around my neck. I felt the heat of her body as she pressed it against me.

  “Why don’t I show you?” I suggested.

  “Yeah.” Gloria gave me a lingering kiss and led me toward the stairs. “Why don’t you?”

  Gloria looked stunning in a purple gown. The first time I saw her was at a fundraiser at the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore. She wore a similar red number then, and she drew more eyes than the artist we were all there to see. I feared we’d encounter similar reactions tonight. Though if people focused on her instead of Vincent Davenport, I’d consider it a win.

  I sported a Calvin Klein tuxedo—one of two I own—and I complemented Gloria’s gown with a purple bowtie. In deference to my inability to tie one properly, it was a clip-on, though a convincing one. To celebrate being the best-looking couple out on the town tonight, we took Gloria’s Mercedes coupe. It only had two seats, and was the color and approximate shape of a rocket. It also drove like one on the highway and sounded like its engine came from NASA under open throttle.

  The fundraiser was at Martin’s Valley Mansion in Hunt Valley. The town sat north of Baltimore. I navigated the coupe out of the city, enjoyed putting my foot down on the highway, and we took I-83 North most of the way there. The venue was constructed almost entirely of brick, white columns, and tall windows. We parked amid a sea of Lexuses and walked hand-in-hand into the Empire of Brick and Glass.

  Inside, we collected our tickets from a tuxedoed man standing behind a podium and entered the ballroom. The walls were covered in white and gold, and a similar pattern continued on the ceiling. Even the tables were done in the same color scheme. The floor, at least, featured black instead of white. I wondered if this were the default configuration or something Davenport recommended. He struck me as the type of man to not know which colors to pair together.

  Along the far wall, a podium sat in the center, flanked by two long tables covered in chalk-colored cloths. At least the napkins possessed the good sense to be dyed black and inject some color into the room. We walked in close to the witching hour, so plenty of people sat or milled about. The din of conversations was loud.

  Gloria and I snagged two open seats near the center of the room. Four couples, all older than us, occupied the other eight chairs. The men all wore tuxes, and none of the women looked as good as Gloria. We exchanged pleasantries, accepted a drink from the waitress, and waited for the festivities to commence.

  We didn’t need to wait long. A couple opening acts took the podium and told us what we could’ve read in our programs. After the preamble, Vincent Davenport strode up to a standing ovation. To avoid being the only one who remained sitting, I dutifully got to my feet and clapped as little as I could. Davenport was about my parents’ age, making him around sixty. He still looked pretty fit, though I guessed the dark hair came from a bottle. His glasses lent him a professorial look. “Good evening,” he said to the crowd. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

  More applause arose, but this time everyone stayed seated. Thank goodness. I didn't want to expend the energy of standing for forced politeness more than once. Davenport continued. “I know this wasn't a cheap ticket. I promise you my speech isn't worth the price of admission.”

  This drew some laughter, and I had to admit it was better self-deprecating humor than I figured Davenport capable of. “We’re here tonight for two reasons. The first is to recognize my daughter Melinda. Go on, stand up.” Melinda did so reluctantly, giving a polite wave as the audience cheered. She wore a medium blue gown and looked terrific.

  “Many of you know Melinda heads The Nightlight Foundation. Rescuing girls from lives on the hard streets of this city is near and dear to both our hearts. She's only been doing this a few months, but last week, the foundation saved its twentieth young woman.” Everyone clapped, and I joined in with sincerity. Melinda worked a hard job and did it well.

  “The other reason we're here tonight also ties in to the future of our city. I want to talk about the recent past for a moment, however. Baltimore has seen two mayors get forced out of office over corruption scandals. The leadership at the police department has been in flux, and this started even before Freddie Gray died. Baltimore is routinely cited as the most dangerous city in America. I want to change this.”

  Short of hiring his own paramilitary force to supplement the police, I didn't see how Davenport would accomplish his goal. A packed ballroom paid a lot of money to find out, so I bit down on my skepticism and listened. “Starting tonight,” Davenport went on, “I'm forming a political action committee. Making a Difference for Baltimore—yes, you could call it ’Mad for Baltimore’ if you wanted—is going to identify and recruit new leaders. The ones we've had for years have let us down. It's time for new ideas and new voices. I want Baltimore to be a cleaner city, a safer city, a less corrupt city, and a city which earns back the nation’s trust.”

  Davenport paused for applause. I noticed Melinda’s tepid reaction at one of the long tables. The idea sounded good, but I trusted Vincent Davenport about as far as I could drop-kick him. I hoped to test the distance one day.

  While the man of the hour blathered on, my phone buzzed. Denise Murray. I ignored the call. A minute later, she tried again. I did the same thing but texted her this time. Can't talk at the moment. What's up?

  I'm worried about Calvin.

  I already knew this. It was why she came to me in the first place, of course. Something must've happened to ramp up her concern. What's going on with him?

  He's talking about staying in school. Calvin’s been wanting to turn pro for a while.

  Another year in college meant more games for Eddie to profit on. I texted back. You seen anyone strange around Calvin lately?

  No.

  What about the name Eddie?

  I heard it once. Don't think I was meant to. I'm worried. Who's Eddie?

  I didn't have a good answer for her, so I went with the truth as I knew it. He's the guy your son is in debt to. He must want another year of profit.

  A minute later, her reply flashed on my screen. Can you get him out?

  I really didn't have a good answer. I didn't even know who Eddie was. He'd done well to mask his identity so far, and I'd been focused on the basketball aspect rather than the man counting the money after the game. This would need to change.

  Yes.

  I hoped she believed it.

  I hoped I did, too.

  Chapter 10

  Gloria let me drive the Mercedes home, too. I relished every chance I got behind the wheel. Tonight, however, more weighed on my mind than the performance of the AMG-made engine. Davenport’s new political action committee worried me. He’d been a power broker in the city for a long time. Being the most prominent business owner brought a high level of cachet, and I felt sure Davenport used his influence over the years. What did a PAC get him he didn’t already enjoy?

  I was all for new ideas and new leadership. The city needed both. I was not all for Vincent Davenport being the driving force—and funding source—behind these efforts. He denied it any time it came up, but I knew he was aware of Melinda’s life as a prostitute. He reconciled with her when I’d removed all the obstacles between them, and then he managed to turn it into a positive for himself.

  Maybe he was a decent man and a good father. I could never shake the feeling he was an asshole. “Huh?” I said, vaguely aware of Gloria saying something and interrupting my stream of thoughts.

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Your buddy Davenport brings it out in me.”

  I felt Gloria bristle in the seat beside me. She knew how I felt about Davenport, but she enjoyed a good relationship with him. He liked working with her for fundraisers, even giving her
a first big break when she started doing it. Whenever I referred to him as her buddy, she didn’t care for it. “He means well,” she said.

  “I hope so.”

  We drove the rest of the way down I-83 and into the city in silence. I swung the red rocket onto my parking pad, and we walked into the house. “More than Davenport is upsetting you,” Gloria said. She rubbed my shoulders. “I know you don’t like him, but this feels like more.”

  I nodded in time with her massage. “I’m concerned about Calvin. His mother thinks the pressure’s getting ramped up on him. She’s not convinced Eddie’s going to let him go pro next season.”

  Gloria’s fingers stopped working their magic. “He could do that?”

  “I guess so. If he paid for Denise’s cancer treatment . . . I’m sure it wasn’t cheap. She said it was some kind of trial. Medical bills like these bankrupt people. Let’s say it cost him half a million dollars. He’s going to make Calvin shave points to pay it off. They can’t do it every game, though, or people will catch on. Maybe they get ten or twelve games a year. He’d have to be making about fifty grand a game to break even, and I doubt he’s getting such a rate.”

  “I’m sure he’d want to keep Calvin around to make a profit, not just earn his money back.”

  “Right. Let’s say Eddie makes twenty grand a game. He’ll need to fix twenty-five games, and they all need to go his way. Calvin alone, good as he is, can’t always guarantee the outcome. But let’s say he hits on all his games. He’ll need twenty-five to break even. Over twelve a year. He has to pick and choose the games carefully. Even after next season, Eddie might think Calvin’s still in debt to him.”

  Gloria’s hands gripped my shoulders and went back to work. “I know you’ll be able to get him out.”