Part 17 (1/2)
The fine and delicate lines of his face, high cheekbones, look as if they were carved using a sculptor's knife in earth-toned clay. He has a prominent chin that finds its strength below generous, sharply defined lips. These are closed in silence, causing you to guess at the tones that might issue from the voice that lies within. It is the kind of face that would prompt you to listen, the features of some ancient bronze mask. It would not be a reach to imagine that the blood of n.o.bility runs through William Epperson's veins, royalty of some timeless African tribe. He has the bearing and stature of a Tutsi warrior; perhaps the narrowing genetics of aristocracy that resulted in his stature, and left him with an inherited cardiac condition.
”Nice weather, huh?” Harry can't restrain himself. He breaks the silence, confident that Epperson hasn't made us.
The tall man looks down at him. There is nothing imperious or arrogant, only gentle eyes and a kind of confidence that comes with knowing you are probably the tallest man in this part of the state.
”It has been pretty nice, hasn't it?” His voice fits the image, a deep resonance with no wasted effort.
More silence, and Harry has to work at it. ”A regular Indian summer,” he says.
”I suppose.” Epperson is smiling. Tight-lipped, he looks at Harry.
I'm getting worried that my partner might pull the red b.u.t.ton, jerk us to an emergency stop so he can give Epperson the third degree on the spot. Bad heart condition and all, the man could pound both of us through the floor like bent nails.
Harry now looks at him and engages the bigger man's eyes directly. ”Have we met?”
Epperson studies Harry for a brief second. ”I don't think so.”
”You're Bill Epperson, aren't you?”
He doesn't answer him, but instead looks at Harry with an expression that says, Who wants to know?
”I saw you play a few years ago. High-school game back in Detroit. You scored forty points if I remember.”
”Thirty-four,” says Epperson.
Leave it to Harry. Master of the file trivia. He has combed all the doc.u.ments, including the press clippings that earned Epperson his scholars.h.i.+p to Stanford. He gets the figures wrong just enough to make it believable.
”You were there?” Epperson leans away from the wall. You can read the gleam in his eye. His feet may be on the floor, but his mind is somewhere in that ethereal moment of fame and lost glory.
”Never forget it,” says Harry.
”You don't look like you'd be from Motown.”
”Just visiting,” says Harry. ”I have a sister back there. Lives in Ann Arbor.” Harry making it up as he goes. Now he has Epperson talking about the old days, his Detroit roots. ”We ended up at the game. Lucky for us,” says Harry.
”Really?”
The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors begin to open.
Epperson is still smiling. He takes a step toward the opening. ”Well, it was good meeting you.” Epperson heads out the elevator door.
”You know, my son would kill for an autograph.” Harry's not going to let the conversation die that easily.
Before Epperson can turn around, Harry is on his tail, pen in hand.
”Would you mind?”
They step outside the elevator into the building's lobby. Epperson is embarra.s.sed. The first graceless moment I have seen. He's not sure whether to take the pen, what to do. He holds his hands out, palms open as if warding off somebody wielding a knife, shaking his head, out of his depth.
”No. No. I really don't do that.”
”Why not? You don't have to charge me for it,” says Harry.
They both laugh.
”It's just, I'm never asked.”
”Well, you are now.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to appear rude, Epperson looks at me, then takes Harry's big Mont Blanc.
Suddenly he's all thumbs. Can't get the cap off. Harry explains that it is a fountain pen, and shows him how to unscrew it. They're at a loss for something to sign. Finally Harry hands him one of the case files, a legal-sized manila folder. Fortunately he has the presence of mind to turn it over, so that the tab with the label is facing the other way, the one that reads PEOPLE V. DAVID CRONE.
”What's your boy's name?” Epperson is finally regaining some composure. He's willing to personalize it.
This catches Harry flat-footed.
”What would you like me to say?”
”Just a signature would be great.” Let Harry think about it for a minute, and he'll drag Epperson to a stationery store for a clean sheet of paper and have him put his John Hanc.o.c.k on it so that we can type an alibi for Crone above it.
”My boy won't believe that I actually met you,” says Harry.
”How old is he?”
”Twenty-six,” says Harry.
With this, Epperson actually rocks on his heels. He lifts his gaze in mid-signature to check Harry out, to make sure all the gum b.a.l.l.s are still in the machine. Epperson may be flattered, but his ego doesn't match his stature. What in the h.e.l.l does a twenty-six-year-old man want with an autograph from a has-been high-school star, even if he does hold a state record?
”High-school heroes were his big thing. He's got a collection of autographs.” I'm waiting for Harry to say, People who never made it big-a truly rare collection, but he bites his lip.
”He never forgot that game.” Harry tries to patch it up. ”He's even told his boy about it.”
”Kids of his own. Really?”
”Oh, yeah. It's funny how some things just make an impression. Sports moments,” says Harry. ” You always remember them. Like the catch made by Clark in the end zone. The Forty Niner playoff game they beat Dallas. The one that sent 'em to their first Super Bowl. You always remember it, don't you?”
Epperson makes a face. Nods. He remembers.
”Well, that game where you scored forty points”-Harry's back to inflating the numbers-”that's the same kinda thing.”
Epperson hands Harry the signed folder and his pen. ”Good meeting you,” he says. He shakes Harry's hand and heads for the door.
”You know, I wonder, cuz he's sure to ask me . . .”
”Hmm?” Epperson stops again and turns.
”Why didn't you play in college?” Anything to keep him talking.
”Injuries,” says Epperson.