Part 14 (1/2)
”I know,” I said.
Hawk walked back to the chair and sat where he could see Lila again. He put the shotgun, still c.o.c.ked, in his lap. I got out of my chair with the gun still in my hand and walked to my window. In maybe a minute I saw all four of them gathered on the corner of Berkeley and Providence Street, which ran between Arlington and Berkeley behind my building. In another moment a maroon Chevy station wagon drove down Providence Street and stopped. They got in. The wagon pulled out onto Berkeley and headed toward the river. It had Ma.s.sachusetts plates. I turned from the window and wrote the number on my desk calendar.
”You'd shot him dead, the others would have told you everything they knew and more.”
”I know.”
”Lucky you got me around,” Hawk said, ”to keep them from inducting you into the Girl Scouts.”
”It's the physical,” I said. ”I always have trouble with the physical.”
”You Irish, ain't you?”
”Sure and I am, bucko.”
”So you don't have a lot of trouble with the physical,” Hawk said.
”Just enough.”
Chapter 20.
TAFT UNIVERSITY WAS in Walford, about twenty miles west of Boston and two towns north of Pemberton. I had been out there maybe seven years ago trying to do something about a basketball point fixing scam involving a kid named Dwayne Woodc.o.c.k. In the process I had gotten to know the basketball coach, a loudmouth blowhard named Dixie Dunham, who was a h.e.l.l of a basketball coach, and not as bad a guy as he seemed if you had a good tolerance for bulls.h.i.+t.
When I came into his office at the field house he knew me right off.
”Spenser,” he said, ”you son of a b.i.t.c.h.”
”Don't get sentimental on me, Dixie,” I said.
The office was pretty much the same. A VCR, a cabinet full of video tapes, a big desk, a couple of chairs.
Above Dixie's desk there was still a picture of the Portland Trailblazers point guard, Troy Murphy. Murphy had played his college ball for Dixie. Beside it there was now a picture of Dwayne Woodc.o.c.k. Dixie was pretty much the same, too. He had on a gray tee-s.h.i.+rt, blue sweat pants with a white stripe down the leg, gray shorts over the sweats, and a pair of fancy high-cut basketball shoes, which I happened to know he got free by the case, as part of his consulting deal.
”So you come to make trouble for my program again?” Dixie said.
”I saved your d.a.m.n program,” I said. ”You hear anything from Dwayne?”
”My players stay in touch,” Dixie said. ”I hear from them or I hear about them.”
”How's Dwayne doing?”
”Fifteen points a game, eleven rebounds for the Nuggets,” Dixie said. ”But he still plays a little soft. He toughens up, he'll double that.”
”Can he read yet?”
”h.e.l.l, he's a college graduate,” Dixie said.
”This place?” I said.
”Absolutely.”
”Can he read yet?”
”Sure,” Dixie said.
”He still with Chantel?” I said.
”Heard they got married.”
”Good.”
”So what brings you nosing around out here. Miss me?”
”Young woman over at Pemberton,” I said. ”Got killed a year and a half ago.”
”Yeah, I heard about it. Some black guy, right? Raped her and strangled her?”
”No rape,” I said. ”I'm trying to clean up a few loose ends on that case.”
”Yeah, so whaddya want from me, buddy? I didn't touch her.”
”I've seen a picture of her,” I said, ”wearing a Taft tennis letter sweater that's obviously much too big for her.”
”So you figure she was dating somebody on the Taft tennis team.”
”Yes.”
”And you want me to point you at the tennis coach.”
”Yes.”
Dixie Dunham made a low ugly sound which he probably thought was a laugh.
”Be glad to,” he said. ”The sonova b.i.t.c.h. Tried to recruit one of my players last year, right off my team.”
”Tennis is a spring sport, isn't it?” I said.
”When you think the Tourney is played, buddy boy?”
”Oh, yeah.”
”Coach's name is Chuck Arnold. I'll walk on down the hall with you and introduce y' all.”
Chuck looked like a tennis coach. He was tall and flexible and lean and had the look of self-contentment that only expensive private education can confer. He wore a white cable st.i.tched tennis sweater without a s.h.i.+rt, khaki pants, soft tan loafers, and no socks. The sleeves of the tennis sweater were pushed up over his tan forearms.