Part 15 (1/2)
”No we don't,” he said. ”I need to hit for another half hour and you need to get lost.”
He was looking straight at me and I realized that he was... black certainly didn't cover it. His skin color was about the same color as mine... of African heritage, or partly so, seemed to say it better. I don't think I'd have noticed if the kerchief hadn't predisposed me.
”I can wait,” I said.
”I don't like anyone watching me.”
”Clint,” I said. ”Under ordinary circ.u.mstances worrying about what you like and don't like would occupy my every waking hour. But these are desperate times. And I'll have to hang around until I can talk with you.”
”Maybe I could wrap this racquet around your head,” Clint said.
”No, you couldn't,” I said. ”I'd take it away from you and play Steamboat Willie on it.”
Stapleton stood and studied me for a time, slapping the racquet gently against his leg, looking as arrogant as he was able to, making sure that I knew he feared nothing.
”What do you want?” he said finally.
There was weariness in his voice, as if he was fighting off his darker impulses, trying to be civil. I was fairly sure that if I had been a short person with small bones he would have given in to his darker impulses.
”I want you to tell me about Melissa Henderson.”
”Who?”
He said it too fast, and too loudly.
”Melissa Henderson, whom you used to go out with, who was murdered.”
”Oh, Melissa?”
”Yeah. Melissa. Tell me about her.”
”Nothing to tell. We dated a few times. Then she got killed.”
”Don't you hate when that happens,” I said.
He shrugged.
”How many times?” I said.
”How many times what?”
”How many times did you date her.”
”How the h.e.l.l would I know? I go out with a lot of girls. I don't keep track of every date.”
”More than five times?” I said.
He shrugged again.
”Yeah, I imagine.”
”More than ten?”
”For crissake,” he said. ”I told you I don't keep f.u.c.king track.”
He rolled a yellow tennis ball up onto his racquet and began to bounce it on the racquet, studying the bounce as if it was important.
”You got a girlfriend?” I said.
”What are you, Ricki Lake? Yeah, I got a girl I'm going with.”
”Who?”
”None of your G.o.dd.a.m.ned business.”
”You give her your letter sweater?”
”No. What the h.e.l.l are you asking all this c.r.a.p for?”
”You gave Melissa Henderson your letter sweater.”
”How the h.e.l.l do you know?”
”I am wise far beyond my years,” I said.
”Yeah?” he said. ”Well, bulls.h.i.+t.”
I had no idea where I was going. There was something phony about him. I didn't believe a kid would give away his letter sweater to someone he dated casually. And I wanted to keep him talking and see what came out.
”So how come you gave Melissa your letter sweater?” He continued to watch the tennis ball bounce rapidly on the racquet face. Then he gave it a little sharper bounce and it went up in the air. As it started down he whanged the ball across the length of the tennis facility and watched it burrow into the netting that hung around the outside of the courts.
”I'm sick of you, pal,” he said. ”I got better things to do than hang around here and talk s.h.i.+t with you.”
”Good for you,” I said. ”You know a State Police Detective named Miller?”
”Never heard of him,” Stapleton said.
He zipped his racquet up in its case.
”Talk to any cops at all about this case?” I said.
”h.e.l.l, no,” he said.
He put his racquet under his arm and walked away across the courts toward the exit, leaving the court area littered with yellow tennis b.a.l.l.s. I wanted to tell him that it was bad form not to pick up the b.a.l.l.s. I wanted to scuttle alongside him and ask more questions. But his legs were longer than mine and I decided to work on dignity. I'd already been compared to Ricki Lake. So I went looking for the Sports Information Office, instead, and found it in a wing attached to the field house.
”My name is Peter Parker, the photographer,” I said to the young woman at the reception desk. ”We're publis.h.i.+ng a photo essay on Clint Stapleton, and I need some bio.”