Part 14 (1/2)

I found my datebook in my pocket and wrote Bert a note: 'If I can get rid of these guys, grab your pal as soon as the game is over and scram.' We both started hopping around, trying to figure out where he should hide, while Pigeyes went on walloping the door and calling me names. Finally we noticed the shower and I helped Bert chimney up so that his back was braced against one tile wall and his feet were parallel. I drew the blue curtain slowly; none of the rusty hooks gave even the slightest tinkle. It looked okay.

By now somebody was working on the door hinges. I heard the tapping of a hammer and a screwdriver. 'Who is it?' I called sweetly.

'It's Wilt Chamberlain. Open up so we can play one on one.'

Pigeyes was dressed the same as yesterday. With him, he had his reptile-skin sidekick, Dewey, who was holding the screwdriver and hammer, and the two security guys I'd seen at the top of the runway up to the court, who were along for the ride.

' KoZ-f.u.c.king-Zd,' Gino said. He pointed a finger at me and said, 'Back.' He was awfully pleased. He'd got the drop on me twice now, counting U Inn. You'd never take this out of Pigeyes. He loved hunting some sc.u.mbag down, the whole pure adventure. Plenty of squirts come on the Force like that, adventure their watchword, it's all in their head, car chases, street scenes, kicking doors in, girls in the cop bars who can't wait to see them get hard. But the biggest adventure most of the time turns out to be department politics, seeing who gets back-stabbed in the latest downtown deal. Oh, plenty of excitement in the abstract. Every day you go to work and know in some fraction of your heart you might not come home. But usually, everyone does. Instead, there are hours of paperwork; there are nights of lame jokes and burning your tongue on bad coffee; the same old same-old on the street. Lots of folks, and I'm one, they get their fill and move on, knowing that life's life and can only be so much of an adventure. The guys who want adventure and stay - Pigeyes - they're the ones who seem to go wrong. Being a smarta.s.s, a wise guy, a rogue on your own - that's an adventure too. That's how they figure. That's one of the reasons he is like he is.

The two security types followed Pigeyes in, both of them looking around, deeply chagrined. As Bert said, no one was supposed to be in here. Dewey stayed at the door. I talked to the security men, one white guy, one black, with matching potbellies, and the same vermilion sport jackets with the university crest on the breast pocket, both with polyester trousers and cheap shoes. This was too good a gig, getting paid to watch basketball games, for me even to have to guess what these fellas did for a day job. Coppers off duty, or my ma wasn't named Bess.

'You didn't let him get away with that old thing that he was looking for someone, did you?' I asked. 'I've seen him badge his way into Sinatra. He'll say anything to get in for free.'

Pigeyes cast me a dirty look as he wandered around. He flipped the doors on the three banged-up lockers against the far wall, not really expecting to see anything inside.

'What gives, Malloy?'

'I'm hiding.'

'Funny place.'

I told him about representing the U, getting the tour, learning about all the out-of-the-way places in here. 'Billy Birken from Alumni Relations took me around.' The name, I could tell, bought me a little something with Security.

Sensing this, Pigeyes said, 'He's full of s.h.i.+t' and, as if to prove it, pointed one of his thick fingers at me. 'Who you hiding from?'

I went to the door and grabbed the doork.n.o.b, which was so old and so often handled that the bra.s.s had worn off. I leaned past Dewey, who laid a hand lightly on my chest as I scouted the hall. Both the gangway and the tunnel runway up to the court were clear. I looked back at Pigeyes.

'You,' I said and with that gave Dewey a little shove so he wouldn't be hit as I slammed the door between me and them and took off. I turned back once to make sure they were all right behind me.

I got a h.e.l.l of a lot farther than you would think. Four harda.s.s cops s.h.a.gging my f.a.n.n.y, but all of them heavier smokers than me, and they were lagging after the first twenty feet. Mack the Moose with one b.u.m wheel made a hairpin when I got courtside and bolted up the aisle beside the first-tier seats, taking the stairs three at a time. As I came up from beneath, the smell and color of the enormous crowd in all its great clamoring power seemed startling, like falling into the hot breath of some beast. Pigeyes was shouting prosaic things like 'Stop him!' but n.o.body seemed inclined. People watched us - those who didn't crane around so they could keep up with the game - with the same amused curiosity they'd take in a parade. It was nothing to them, part of the spectacle. Though it slowed me down, I could not keep myself from laughing, especially with the thought of Bert sneaking out of the room. One guy in a Milwaukee sweats.h.i.+rt yelled, 'Sit down, you clowns.'

When I reached the mezzanine level, my knee hurt like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d from my gallivanting, but I was holding my lead. Huffing and puffing, I went down the exit pa.s.sageway, ran past a big refreshment stand, with its Coca-Cola sign clock and long stainless-steel counter, and took a quick right up the old concrete stairs for the upper tiers. I could hear their voices ringing up the stairwell behind me. On the top level, I popped into the men's room and hustled into one of the stalls and waited. In about five minutes the game would be over and I'd have a chance to get out with the crowd. But that meant entertaining Pigeyes at my house. Besides, if they lost me completely, they might go back to the changing room, near which Bert would be lingering, waiting for Orleans. So I hid out another minute or two, then adjusted my sport jacket and found a seat in the second balcony.

There were about forty seconds left on the big game clock when Pigeyes sat down beside me. The Hands were losing now by eighteen and were taking bad shots for treys, with the Meisters picking up the long rebounds. Gino was winded. His forehead was bright with sweat.

'You're f.u.c.king,' he said, 'under arrest.'

'For what? There a law against running in a public place?'

'Resisting.'

'Resisting? I'm sitting here talking to you almost like we were friends.' Dewey came up then. He put his hands on his knees for a minute to catch his breath, then he sat down in the seat on the other side of me. The place was emptying, but there were enough people left to keep me safe. I wanted to see the end of the game.'

Pigeyes told me to f.u.c.k myself.

'Did you tell me I was under arrest, Gino? Did you have a warrant?'

Pigeyes looked at me levelly. 'Yes,' he said.

'Fine,' I said. 'Show me the warrant. Hey, miss,' I called to a fat college girl two seats down, and reached for her sleeve. 'Would you please witness something?'

The girl just stared.

'Don't be a smarta.s.s, Malloy.'

'Battery of a police officer,' said Dewey.

'The way I remember, you put your hand on me first.'

They exchanged a primitive look. I could remember how much I hated lawyers when I was a cop. The game horn went off then. Various people swirled out on the floor, the cheerleaders, photographers, TV crews, more security guys and kid ushers, the players from both benches. Bert Kamin was right at the edge of the court, among a hundred gawking fans. I saw him from three levels above, a distance of two hundred feet. He motioned to Orleans and went running down the tunnel behind him.

'I think they could play in this conference,' I said, 'if they had a big man inside.'

'Listen, pencil-d.i.c.k. You're way past being humorous.'

'Have I forgotten something, Gino? Did I take a shower with you?'

'Keep it up, Malloy.' He sighted me down the line of a finger. 'We been on your a.s.s since six tonight. You tear out of your house, you run around here like some f.u.c.kin mutt smelling heat, I say you're here for a meet. You got a call and you showed, lickety-split.'

'And who would I be meeting?'

'Stop playin, Malloy. Who am I looking for?'

He still didn't have the remotest idea who Kam Roberts was. He was suspicious of course, because this was a basketball game and that was what Archie was fixing. But he didn't know how. Eventually, of course, the significance of my presence in the refs' room would come to him. But he'd been too busy running after me for that glimmer to strike home yet.

'I'm going to tell you this again, Pigeyes, and so help me, if I'm lying then put me in the paddy wagon. I've never met this Kam Roberts. Never said boo to him.'

'Then it's the other guy. What's-it. Bert.'

Tm a basketball fan.'

'I've had it a lot with you, Malloy. Not a f.u.c.king little. A lot. I want to know what gives.'

'Forget it, Gino.' I puckered my lips and made that little motion, the lock and the key.

He wasn't kidding about having had it. He was all gone. Looking into Gino's eyes, no one would be surprised to find that humans are carnivores.

'Stand up.' I didn't at first, but when he repeated it, I figured I'd about run out the string. He tossed my pockets then. He pulled them out viciously so they were hanging from my trousers. He threw my keys and folding money down on the floor. He jammed his hands in my sport coat and found my datebook there, which he went through page by page until he got to the note I wrote Bert. He pa.s.sed Dewey the book and was so overheated that his lips were sort of rumbling around on their own. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he spat a big wad on the floor.

'Illegal search,' I told him. 'With only two, three hundred witnesses. And all of them holding season tickets. I don't even have to take names.'

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the datebook from Dewey and threw it as hard as he could toward the scoreboard over the court. It flipped around in the air over the seats, then opened along its main seam and looked like a swallow in flight, diving at last and disappearing between the lights. Pigeyes got up close and lowered his voice.

'I'm coming back with a subpoena.'

'Do what you like. You start subpoenaing a lawyer, Pigeyes, with all those privileges and stuff, you'll have some poor a.s.sistant prosecuting attorney still dragging to court after you've got your thirty.'

'Malloy, I cut you too much slack, twice now. I could have jacked you up good with that credit card, and I'm feeling what I always felt about you. That you're an a.s.s-wipe. That you don't know d.i.c.k about how to say thank you.'

'Thank you, Pigeyes.'