Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“According to press reports, the super PAC Mrs. Grandison represents is funded by the National Collegiate Athletic Association and the five major professional sports leagues, which vigorously oppose all forms of legalized sports gambling. We believe her intention was to create a scandal that would derail the gambling bill by forcing my resignation. The five sports organizations have disavowed any knowledge of her actions.

“One last point,” the governor said. “State law also prohibits anyone from willfully disseminating the contents of an intercepted conversation if they know, or have reason to believe, that it was illegally obtained. Since it was apparent on its face that my playful conversation with Mr. Mulligan was illegally intercepted, every news organization represented in this room could face criminal charges, and the reporters and editors directly responsible could spend the next half decade behind bars.”

More shouted questions.

“One at a time, please. Mr. Hardcastle of The Dispatch ?”

“Are you are seriously considering prosecuting news outlets?”

“That’s up to the attorney general.”

More shouts.

“Mr. Rock?”

“Are you currently in a lesbian relationship, and if so, can you tell us the name of the lucky girl?”

“None of your fucking business. Thanks for coming, and have a nice day.”

“How do you think it went?” Fiona asked.

“Are you kidding? You slayed ’em.”

We were sitting on the couch of infamy again, a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon White Gold, two Waterford crystal goblets, and a corkscrew laid out for us on the coffee table.

“Pop the cork,” she said.

So I did, filling the goblets and handing her one. We clinked glasses and drank.

“One thing, though,” I said. “Could coming out hurt your reelection chances?”

“If anything, it’ll help,” Fiona said.

The population of Rhode Island was 44 percent Catholic, the Bishop of Providence was fervently anti-gay, and the state had lagged behind the rest of New England on the gay marriage issue. But here, like elsewhere in the country, there had been a stunning change of heart. Two years ago, the state legislature had finally legalized gay marriage. The vote wasn’t close. Fifty-six to fifteen in the Senate. Twenty-six to twelve in the House. According to the opinion polls, the new law had overwhelming support among every demographic group except thugs named Mario.

“I was surprised you called on Iggy,” I said.

“It was part of the plan,” she said. “I was fishing for that final question, and I figured he’d have the bad taste to ask it.”

“Did you mean to say ‘fucking,’ or did you just blurt it out?”

“I was hoping to work the f-word in at the end.”

“Why?”

“Remember what David Ortiz said when he addressed the crowd at Fenway Park a few days after the Boston Marathon bombing?”

“Yeah. He said, ‘This is our fucking city.’”

“He struck just the right note of determination and defiance,” she said. “The crowd loved him for it. After what I’ve been through the last few days, I think the public will love me for it, too.”

And so they did.

Two days later, a new Dispatch /URI poll put the governor’s favorability rating at 73 percent and showed her surging to a twenty-five-point lead over Devereaux and a forty-point lead over Crenson.

By week’s end, the hottest item at the Providence Place Mall was a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words “None of Your F**king Business.”

Saturday morning, there was no more locker-room ribbing about sexy grandpa. Instead, the guys laughingly offered to hook me up with their maiden aunts and older sisters.

Coach Martin assigned me to work with Jefferson and Benton again while he and his assistants ran the rest of the players through some perfunctory drills at the other end of the court. When that was done, we chose up teams for a final five-on-five. The play was sloppy, the players tight, knowing this was their last chance to impress.

About twenty minutes in, Krueger took a bounce pass in the post, drew the defense with an up-fake, and fed a wide-open Sears at the top of the circle. As the shot went up, Jefferson and I crashed the boards. The ball hit the rim and bounced out. We both leaped for it. Jefferson leaped higher and came down with the basketball. I came down on the back of his right heel.

Jefferson dropped the ball, toppled to the floor, grabbed his foot, and screamed. In the stands behind the bench, his wife screamed, too. Then she jumped up and ran to him with their son in her arms.

Martin and his two assistants bent over Jefferson. I got out of the way and cursed under my breath. When they pulled the kid off the floor, he couldn’t put any weight on his right leg, so they lowered him back onto the hardwood. Martin walked to the bench, pulled his cell phone from a gym bag, and called for an ambulance.

When Jefferson’s wife began to weep, my heart sank.

“Hey, Mulligan,” Jefferson shouted. “It’s not your fault.”

But that’s not the way it felt.

After the EMTs carted Jefferson away, his wife and son trailing behind, the somber coaches assembled the players on the sideline and told Benton that he’d made the team. They wished the rest of us well and told us it was time to go home.

As the others filed into the locker room, I remained behind on the bench, holding my head in my hands. Martin wandered over and sat beside me.

“How bad?” I asked.

“Real bad. It’s his Achilles.”

“Snapped?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

He draped an arm over my shoulder.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mulligan. Shit happens.”

This particular shit that had happened meant surgery and a year’s worth of painful physical therapy. Keenan Jefferson’s dream of a basketball career was almost certainly over. He could look forward to a lifetime of flipping burgers now.

By the time I shuffled into the locker room, the other players had already showered and were getting dressed. Krueger, furious that he hadn’t made the team, shouted “Fuck” a dozen times and dented a locker door with his fist.

Benton came over and sadly shook his head.

“I guess I’m supposed to be happy,” he said, “but I feel like shit. I think I got the spot that was gonna go to Jefferson.”

“That’s not what happened,” I said. “Both of you were going to make it.”

“You think?”

I wasn’t sure about that, but what I said was, “Absolutely.”

He looked at the floor and thought it over.

“Either way, I owe you big time,” he said. “I’d never have gotten this far without your help.”

And then he grabbed my hand and shook it.

A minute later, only Sears and I remained behind.

“Too bad about Jefferson,” he said as he stuffed his Converse All-Stars into his gym bag. “That was a tough break.”

“It was.”

“When he went down, my first thought was that my chances were better with him out of the way. And then I felt like such an asshole.”

“Um.”

“So, listen,” he said. “The guys have had a good time playing together. We talked it over and decided to meet for a regular pickup game at Begley Arena every Saturday morning. Can we count you in?”

“I don’t think so, Chris. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to play basketball again.”

Late that afternoon, Joseph and I pulled on hooded sweatshirts and walked the mile and a half to Hopes. My plan was to get shit-faced on Bushmills shots and Killian’s. Knowing how Joseph liked to pound ’Gansett, I didn’t want either of us behind the wheel tonight.