Part 14 (2/2)
”That's him,” Dixie said. ”Tried to steal my back-up two guard for his f.u.c.king sissy-boy team.”
Arnold smiled as if he were tired.
”Oh, give it a rest, Dixie,” he said and put out a firm hand to me. ”Chuck Arnold, what can I do for you?”
”Keep a hand on your wallet,” Dixie said. ”f.u.c.ker'll take it right out of your pocket, you're not careful.”
He turned away and rumbled back down the drab corridor toward his office. Arnold stared after him with no trace of affection. Then he looked back at me.
”What did you say your name was?” he said.
”Spenser. I'm a detective. I'm looking for a guy who played tennis here sometime in the last few years. He dated a girl at Pemberton and gave her his letter sweater.”
”I'm supposed to keep track of their love life?” Arnold said.
”Her name was Melissa Henderson. She was murdered about eighteen months ago.”
”Yes, of course, I remember that. Some black guy raped her and killed her.”
”Actually there was no evidence of rape.”
”Whatever,” Arnold said. ”I already talked to the other detective.”
”Which one?”
”I don't remember, big man, short blond hair.”
”Miller?” I said.
”I don't remember.”
”What did he want to know?”
”He was asking about Clint Stapleton.”
”Melissa's boyfriend?”
”That's what he said.”
”Who?”
”The other detective, for crissake. I try to teach them tennis. I don't delve into their s.e.x lives.”
”Is Stapleton the captain of the tennis team?”
”Yes.”
”Where do I find him?”
”Why do you want to know?”
”Because I want to find him and talk with him about the murder of his girlfriend.”
”Are you sure she was his girlfriend?” Arnold said.
”Perhaps she was a one-night stand.”
”He gave her his letter sweater.”
”How do you know that?”
”I'm a trained sleuth,” I said. ”Where do I find him?”
”Well,” he said, ”I guess I really must, mustn't I?”
”Yes.”
”He should be working on the bang board in the cage.”
”Thank you,” I said and started out.
”I'd, ah, I'd be just as happy if you didn't mention that I told you about him.”
”It is quite possible,” I said, ”that I will never mention your name again, Chuckster.”
Chapter 21.
I WENT OUT of his office, and along the cinderblock corridor to the cage. The cage had a lot of high windows, a dirt floor, and a pale green, rubberized, ten-laps to-the-mile indoor track around it, banked high at the curves. There was a broad-jump pit in the infield, and a pole-vault set up with thick spongy mattresses to land on. On the far curve was a chain-link hammer throw enclosure, closed on three sides so the hammer wouldn't get misdirected into somebody's kisser by an inexpert thrower.
I walked around the track to a doorway on the far side. It opened into the tennis area where two red composition courts occupied most of the s.p.a.ce. Along the back wall behind the baselines were solid green boards against which a tall rangy kid wearing a blue-and-white kerchief on his head was banging a tennis ball with a graphite racquet. He was wearing a set of blue and white sweats, and white tennis shoes, to go with the kerchief. He alternated slicing backhands and top spin forehands, hitting effortlessly and hard, without mis-hitting: backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand, alone in the big empty s.p.a.ce. The sound of the ball was almost metronomic as it whanged off the racquet, banged off the board, and popped off the floor. If he was aware of me he didn't show it. I waited for him to take a break. He didn't. So I said, ”Clint Stapleton?”
The ball clanged off the rim of his racquet and dribbled away from him. He looked up at me.
”G.o.ddammit,” he said. ”I'm trying to concentrate.”
”And doing a h.e.l.l of a job of it,” I said. ”My name's Spenser. You Stapleton?”
”Yeah, but I'm busy.”
”We need to talk.”
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