Otto Penzler - Murder At the Foul Line

From: Head Coach Arnold Hopper

To: Management

Re: Daniel Washington

This confirms our decision not to offer Washington a new contract for next year. He’s shown some promise but his talent at shooting is offset by his lack of skill in making jump shots, not to mention his turnover record inside the wings. I’m also very troubled by his refusal to socialize with his teammates.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie wrote this? This’s bullshit. What’s he mean, socialize?”

“Get along with the other players.”

“It’s not that… I like ’em all right. It’s just I like to go home after playing. Watch TV, talk to my brother on the phone. And when I get a couple days off I go visit my mother and grandmother and my sister and her kids.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. They don’t seem to care.”

Washington tossed the memo angrily on the floor. “This means I’m getting dropped?”

“I’m afraid so, Danny.”

“Hell… what’m I gonna do?”

Finally the man in the corner spoke up. “Danny, what do you think of the Lakers?”

“That’s a good team.”

“How’d you like to play for them?”

“I always wanted to play for L.A. ” A grin broke out on his face. “Weather’s nice out there.”

“Nicer than here,” the man said.

“If I played for them I could move my grandmother out there. She’s eighty-two this month. Lives outside Baltimore. She don’t like the cold.” Then he frowned. “But the Lakers got Bob Klinger-that big kid from Carolina. He shoots treys real good. They don’t need me.”

Cabot glanced at the man in the corner and said, “Danny, this is Mr. Pettiway.”

“Hello, sir.”

Pettiway nodded.

“He’s sort of an agent.”

“Sort of?”

Pettiway nodded again. “Danny, the Lakers’re prepared to offer you a three-year contract. They’ll up your salary to four million the first year, five the second, six the third. I think we can even convince them to move your grandmother out there if you want.”

“They’d do that?”

“They would, yes. They’d like you on the team real bad.”

“This’s sounding pretty good,” Washington drawled.

Pettiway fell silent. Then Cabot nodded at him and the man continued. “Well, Danny, there is a little something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re playing them tonight, right?”

“The Lakers? Yessir.”

Pettiway said, “I could arrange for this contract for you-but the Lakers have to win.”

“Man.” Danny Washington shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s gonna happen. Doug Hamilton, their center, he’s benched-his knee’s out. And Sammy Johnston, he’s back from that wrist surgery-first time he’s played for months. Everybody’s saying we’ll win by twenty…” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait… wait… You’re saying you want me to do something to…”

The big player couldn’t bring himself to say “throw the game,” but he wasn’t so stupid he didn’t understand Pettiway’s meaning. “The Lakers want me to do that?”

“No, no,” Cabot said. “The team doesn’t know anything about it. This is something Mr. Pettiway and I’ve been working on. I told you my job is making money for people. We’ve got a lot of money tied up in bets on this game tonight. With Hamilton out and this being Johnston ’s first game in two months, you’re right-the odds are real good for your team. So if the Lakers win we’re going to make a lot of money. If that happens then Mr. Pettiway’ll pull some strings at the Lakers and get you that contract. We can guarantee it.”

A blank look filled the player’s face as he looked around the room. His eyes settled on the van Gogh. What was he thinking? Cabot wondered. Anything at all?

Finally the player turned back to Pettiway. Washington squinted and said, “You guarantee it in writing? ”

Cabot looked at Pettiway and grinned. “I told you Danny knows what he’s about. Just ’cause a man talks slow doesn’t mean he is slow.”

Pettiway pulled a document out of one of his briefcases and slid it toward the player, who read it slowly, his lips moving. He read it again. Then once more. “Some of this I can’t scope out. Maybe I should have my lawyer look it over. I get into trouble sometimes if I don’t do that.”

“Um, Danny,” Pettiway said delicately, “we probably don’t want to do that, now, do we? Not with the talk of making sure your team loses that game tonight.”

“Oh, right. That’d be bad.”

“Yes, it would.”

Washington took the pen and looked over the paper again. “I don’t know. I never done anything like this before.”

At a glance from Cabot, Pettiway opened his second briefcase, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s a signing bonus, Danny. Half a million. You were saying you didn’t like paying taxes? Well, since this’s cash, you don’t have to pay a penny in tax. It’s yours if you sign now.”

Washington ’s eyes slid to the memo from the head coach. “I gave the team everything I got and they treat me like that? Man, that’s low.” He gripped the pen in tight fingers.

“Go ahead, Danny,” Cabot said.

The big man signed the letter. Then. Pettiway did too and gave Washington a copy.

They shook hands.

Cabot grinned and said, “Maybe you don’t drink beer, Danny, but I’ve got some champagne in the fridge. How ’bout we celebrate?”

But before he got halfway to the kitchen T. D. Randall pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from his pocket and shouted, “I need backup, now!” He leapt to his feet, drawing a pistol from the back of his waistband and training it on Cabot.

“Jesus,” Cabot gasped, eyes wide.

Pettiway stood up, confusion on his face. “What’re you-”

And then the apartment door burst open and two men in suits, also brandishing guns, pushed inside. Badges hung from their necks.

Cabot snapped, “What the hell’s going on?”

Pettiway looked horrified. One of the policemen-a short, muscular man-grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t move.” He roughly frisked the man and cuffed him. The other did the same to Cabot, then to Washington.

The taller of the cops said, “I’m Detective Harvey, Midtown Vice.” Then he recited, “You men are under arrest for conspiracy to alter the outcome of a sporting event and for wagering on the outcome of said event.”

“You!” Cabot turned to T. D. Randall. “You’re undercover?”

Randall’s only response was to read the men their rights. He then took a tape recorder out of his pocket. Harvey played a portion of the tape. All their voices were clearly audible.

“Oh, man,” Washington said. “I don’t understand. What’s this mean? What’s-”

“It means you’re going to jail, big fella,” Harvey said.

“No, I can’t-”

“You lying son of a bitch!” Cabot snapped at Randall.

The little man said evenly, “You say your job’s making money, Andy? Well, mine’s arresting people when they do it illegally.”

A third man in a suit, a badge around his neck too, walked into the room. Balding and pudgy, he surveyed the men in the room. “Hey, Lieutenant Grimsby,” Harvey said. “We got the contract, the tape and the perps.” He laughed and looked at Washington. “The case’s a slam dunk.”

The lieutenant followed Harvey ’s eyes to the basketball player, who stood, with his hands cuffed in front of him, staring miserably at the floor. Then the lieutenant frowned. He said, “Wait a minute, that’s Danny Washington? I didn’t know he was the guy. The warrant only listed a John Doc.”