Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

Graham opened the refrigerator. “You got no milk in here, no eggs, no orange juice. So, one of the cards was in the first and the second bunch. Which? Don’t look.”

“I’m gonna go shopping this afternoon. I think maybe Roosevelt Grier.”

“You ‘think maybe Roosevelt Grier’?”

“It was Roosevelt Grier.”

“Roosevelt Grier is correct. Let’s play again.”

“Why?”

Graham didn’t answer, but he shuffled the cards, selected five, and handed them to Neal. Neal had looked at them for maybe five seconds before Graham snatched them out of his hand, regrouped the cards, and handed them back.

“John Brodie?”

Graham shook his head.

“Matt Snell.”

“Three more guesses, you might get it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right answer, but not good enough. It was Doug Atkins.”

Neal grabbed a small spiral pad and pretended to carefully write out a shopping list.

“Okay,” he said, “it was Doug Atkins. What difference does it make? What’s the point?”

“The point is, in our business, you see somebody more than once, you better know it. Point is, in our business, you better develop an eye for detail. Quick and accurate. The point is-”

“In our business-”

“You need a memory.”

Graham resumed his inspection of the kitchen. “I’ll do the shopping. You stay here and memorize these cards.”

“What do you mean, ‘memorize’?”

“Gimme your shopping money.”

Neal went into the bedroom and came out with five dollars.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Graham asked.

“What rest? The cost of living here-”

“Soda, candy bars, magazines… What happened to that budget we made up?”

“It’s my money.”

“Give.”

Neal came back with another seven dollars and slapped them into Graham’s hand.

“I’ll be back,” Graham said.

“Yippee.”

Graham set the two large grocery bags down on the counter, put the perishable items in the refrigerator, took the cards from Neal, and sat down. He opened the roll of medical tape, cut ten small strips, and taped them across the names of the players on the front of the cards. Then he held up a card in front of Neal.

“John Brodie.”

Graham held up the next one.

“Alex Sandusky.”

Another one.

“Jon Arnett.”

He got all ten, first try, no mistakes.

“Not bad,” Graham said.

“Not bad?”

“Take another look at them,” Graham said, and he gave Neal a couple of minutes before taking them back. Then he taped over everything but the eyes. He held up a card to Neal

“George Blanda?”

“‘George Blanda?’” Graham mimicked.

“Alex Sandusky?”

“It’s George Blanda.”

“Tricky.”

“Your first guess is usually right.”

They went on this way most of the day. Graham would place the cards in various groups, flash them, and have Neal recite them in order; or show him five different groupings and then ask in which group a particular card had been. On and on, backward, forward, and sideways-until Neal could answer correctly. Every time.

Next saturday. Neal‘s place.

“Jimmy Orr,” said Graham.

Neal closed his eyes. “Five eleven, one eighty-five, eighth year, Georgia.”

“Gino Cappelletti.”

“Six flat, one ninety, sixth year, Minnesota.”

“In the picture on the card, was he wearing home or away?”

“Home.”

“You sure?”

“Home.”

“Home is right.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, Graham, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but football cards are getting boring.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

Next saturday. Graham‘s place.

“Miss April.”

“Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-seven. Brown hair, green eyes. Likes sunbathing, swimming, and water polo. Wants to be an actress. Turnoffs: tan lines and narrow-minded people.”

“Miss October.”

“Thirty-eight, twenty-five, thirty-eight. Blond, and blue. Five foot five. Hails from Texas. Likes horses, mellow music, and picnics. Wants to be an actress. Turnoffs: pollution, world hunger, and narrow-minded people.”

Graham got the tape out. “Who’s this?”

“Janice Crowley. Miss… some winter month…”

“Which winter month?”

“February.”

“You guessed.”

“But I guessed right.”

“How did you recognize her?”

“Modesty forbids.”

A few saturdays later. Neal’s place.

“I have a new one,” Neal said to Graham as he came through the door.

“A new what?”

“Memory game.” Neal held up the Saturday New York Times. “The crossword puzzle.”

Graham looked at it. There was nothing written in the squares.

“So what, you’re going to do the puzzle?”

“I already did.”

“Cute, Neal. Now let’s get to work.”

“It was tough.”

Graham plunked himself down in the decrepit easy chair. “You asked for it, kid. Okay, twelve down.”

“Apse.”

“Where are the answers?”

“Monday’s paper.”

“Thirty-one across.”

“Kipling.”

And so on and so forth, Graham wrote the answers in and checked the papers on Monday. They were all right. Graham told Ed Levine about it, and he told Ethan Kitteredge. Ethan Kitteredge phoned a friend at Princeton, who came up to New York with a bunch of tests. Neal didn’t want to take them until Graham held up three hundred baseball cards and offered the alternative, Neal took the tests and did pretty well.

Neal and graham had finished a particularly easy job one night, an over-and-out surveillance on a visiting toy salesman who had found his own Barbie doll in the Roosevelt and who should never have ordered room service.

“When his old lady hears these tapes…” Neal said as they strolled up Broadway.

Graham shook his head. “No, we’ll just file the report and use the tapes as backup.”

“You’re no fun.”

Graham slowed his pace, tipping Neal off that he had something on his mind. He wasn’t long getting it off.

“Neal, remember those tests you took?”

“That you made me take? Yeah.”

“You did good.”

“Swell.”

Graham made a point not to look at him as he said, “So you’re going to start Trinity School in the fall.”

Neal froze. “Bullshit, I am.”

Graham shrugged.

Neal turned to face him. “Who says? Who says I start Trinity in the fall?”

“The Man says. Levine says… I say.”

“Yeah? Well, I say no way.”

“Nobody’s asking you.”

Neal was angry. “It’s a prep school! Kids wear jackets and ties! Rich kids go there! Forget it!”

He started to turn away, but Graham grabbed him by the wrist and held him still.

“This is a great opportunity for you.”

“To be a fag. And leggo of me.”

Graham released his wrist. “You’re thirteen years old, Neal. You have to start thinking about your future.”

Neal stared at the sidewalk, “I think about it.”

“Yeah, you want to be me.”

Graham saw the tears begin to form. He pushed on, anyway.

“You want to be me, son. But you can’t be.”

“You do okay.”

“I do fine, but you can do better.”

“I don’t want to be better than you!”

“Listen, Neal. Listen. You’re smart. You have brains. You don’t want to spend your whole life sniffing people’s sheets, peeking through windows-”

“We do other things. The time we found that old lady who inherited the money… the lawyer we caught ripping off that guy… that kid that ran away we found-”

“I’m not saying you can’t work with me anymore. I’ll always want you to work with me. But you have to go to school!”