Harlan Coben - Play Dead

The two men continued their onslaught without pause. Their blows did not stop coming. Each kick and punch seemed to be well placed and not rushed. Grunts forced their way passed Stan’s lips. Gloria could also see blood trickling out of his mouth. His eyes rolled back and then closed.

‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Leave him alone!’

B Man and Bart hesitated for a moment and looked up. Stan was not moving.

‘Pl… Please,’ she begged, ‘I’ll give you anything you want. Just leave him alone.’

B Man moved toward her. ‘Sweetheart, he owes a hundred thousand dollars.’

‘I’ll write you a check. Just please don’t hurt him anymore.’

B Man thought a moment. ‘You want to help him?’

She nodded. Stan had risked his life for her. Sure, he had a problem. He had admitted it to her, had asked for her help. Once she paid off these criminals, she could help him heal in much the way Laura had helped her. ‘Please. Don’t hurt him anymore.’

B Man shrugged. ‘Leave him alone, Bart. Wait for me downstairs.’

‘But, B Man – ’

‘Go.’

Reluctantly, Bart left the room.

‘My… my purse is in the bathroom,’ Gloria stammered. ‘I’ll be right back.’

When she had gone into the other room, when she was completely out of sight, Stan raised his head toward B Man. Stan took the remains of the blood capsule out of his mouth and put it in his pocket.

‘Thank Roadhouse for me,’ Stan whispered.

Then the two men shared a smile and a wink.

Mark Seidman showed the press pass T.C. had secured for him to the security guard. He moved past him and sat on the wooden benches with the other reporters. Hellenic College in Brookline, Massachusetts was home of the Soaring Owls. Their basketball program had been dumped off the curriculum twelve years ago after yet another pitiful season. If they had drawn thirty people for a basketball game, including the players and coaches, it would have been considered a major sell-out. But Mark Seidman and the handful of spectators were not there to watch the Soaring (or Wingless, as the school newspaper had labeled them) Owls. No, the gymnasium at Hellenic College was better known for their current guests:

The Boston Celtics.

Here was where the final try-outs were held before the pre-season games began. The seventeen players on the court would be trimmed down to twelve soon, leaving five crushed dreams on this wooden floor in Brookline. The Celtics were having double sessions this week. That meant two practices a day. The morning practice was an intense workout, but in the afternoon the mood was a bit more relaxed. Members of the press with the proper credentials were encouraged to come in and watch the players for a while.

Today, Mark Seidman was one such reporter.

Celtics coach Roger Wainright ran the players through a few simple drills and then gave the players time for free shooting. It was a quiet day for the Celtics. Mark counted only eight reporters in the stands. Not even Clip Arnstein was here. Mark watched the players shooting. Earl Roberts was working on his hookshot. Johnny Dennison dribbled laps around the court. And Timmy Daniels, the press’s pick to be this year’s best outside shooter, was practicing his long-range jumper with one of the towel boys rebounding for him.

Mark could see the smile on Coach Roger Wainright’s face as he watched his young guard put shot after shot through the cylinder. Suddenly, an idea surged into Mark’s head. He sat upright, mulling the idea over in his mind. It would work, he was sure of it. There was a big risk, but after all, what did he have to lose? He felt anxious, wanting to just get it over with. But Mark knew better than to try it today. No way. He would only get one chance. If he blew it… well, that was it. The end. Mark needed to get some money and wait until Clip Arnstein and the media were around. His scheme would fail without them.

Mark stood and stepped off the bleachers. He would have to wait until the team held its next press conference before putting his plan into action. The press conferences were usually the same – reporters asking about the team’s chances of winning the championship, and Clip Arnstein answering with either a joke or a sports cliche. Occasionally, the press would ask about a trade rumor or a change in personnel, but for the most part, press conferences were routine and not very exciting events.

Mark Seidman was about to change all that.

Gloria came out of the bathroom with her checkbook in hand. She spotted Stan’s body on the floor. He lay still, too still. She managed to write a check for $100,000 through her shaking fingers. She tore it out of the book and handed it to the bleached-blonde standing over Stan’s body.

B Man smiled graciously as she cringed away from him. ‘Thank you, lovely lady,’ he said, pocketing the check. ‘I assume you can cover this rather considerable sum?’

She nodded.

‘I would not advise your calling the authorities or trying to stop payment after I depart. My reaction to such a move would be, well, let’s say unpleasant. Do you understand?’

She nodded again, her eyes stained with fear.

‘Good.’ B Man looked down at Stan and shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you see in this deadbeat. Frankly, I think you’re being foolish.’

He smiled at her. She moved farther into the corner.

‘Alas, life is full of choices,’ B Man continued. ‘You’ve made your bed, my dear, and repulsive as it might be, you have to sleep in it.’ With a small bow (a custom he’d picked up in the Orient) B Man turned toward the door. ‘I wish you both all the best. Goodbye for now, lovely lady.’

As soon as the door closed, Gloria raced across the room and knelt by Stan’s still form.

‘Stan?’

He groaned.

‘Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.’

His hand reached out and grabbed hers. ‘No.’

‘But you’re hurt.’

‘Just a few knocks,’ he said, forcing a smile onto his face. ‘They’re experts on inflicting pain and messing people up without leaving any real damage. I’ll be fine.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Just help me up.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ Stan grimaced. ‘I’ll stand under a hot shower for a while and clean myself off.’ He smiled at her encouragingly. ‘It looks worse than it is, believe me.’ With a struggle, Gloria helped him to his feet. He looked at her solemnly. ‘I’m going to pay you back. Every last cent.’

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ she replied.

‘I mean it. Every cent. I’m so sorry about all this, Gloria. I would understand if you wanted to stop seeing me.’

‘I don’t want to stop seeing you,’ she said.

‘You don’t?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m not going to gamble anymore. I promise.’

‘It won’t be that easy, Stan. But I know you can stop if you really want to.’

‘I do. I promise. I’ll never gamble again.’

‘Good,’ Gloria answered. ‘We’re going to need a first-aid kit. Will you be okay while I run down to the front desk and get it?’

‘Sure,’ he managed. ‘I’ll be in the shower when you get back.’

She started toward the door. ‘Gloria?’ he called to her.

‘Yes?’

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you, too, Stan.’

She closed the door. Stan listened to her footsteps echo down the hallway. He quickly moved toward the phone and dialed.

‘Hi, it’s Stan,’ he said, ‘Put five hundred dollars on Broadway Lew in the third race.’

Monday morning came to Brookline, Massachusetts. T.C. drove Mark through Brookline’s town center on the way to the college’s gymnasium. Mark had been silent for most of the trip, which was no surprise to T.C. After all, today was the big day. T.C. and Mark had spent nearly all the weekend going over the plan, trying to figure out a solution to every conceivable problem that could arise. T.C. thought that they had covered it all. The plan was actually very simple – and completely dependent on Mark.