It was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them in his career, maybe thousands.
He watched as the New York Knickv number one draft pick, a scrawny black kid from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward him with lightning speed. On Jerome's left ran the Knick's second round pick, Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a giant farmhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determination in their eyes.
Come to Papa, Michael thought.
Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them especially the man dribbling the ball.
The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stall him long enough for Michael's teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.
Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blocking Holloway's trail to the basket and picking up the free man Boone. He looked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that was okay better to shake up the rookies.
Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last moment Michael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seeking Boone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled.
Once Holloway's feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake.
A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began to move his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.
Like taking candy from a baby.
Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass and head back down the court for a fast break in his favor.
He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had been decided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward and extended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about to release the ball.
But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expression had been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched while Holloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, and glided toward the cylinder.
The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboard vibrated from the assault.
Holloway landed and turned toward Michael. The grin was still on his face.
Out of breath, Michael managed, "I know, I know. In my face, right?"
Jerome shrugged.
"You said it, old dude, not me. But I do love playing against legends."
"This is just practice, kid. We're on the same team."
"Knicks to the end. By the way, nice shorts."
"You don't like them?"
"Pink and aqua flowers? Very hip."
They ran up court. Sweat soaked all ten players running through the scrimmage. Their bodies glistened in the dim light.
Michael felt hot, tired, and a touch out of shape. His stomach was not helping matters much.
The upcoming season would be Michael's twelfth with the New York Knicks. He had begun, like Holloway, as a number one draft pick.
Coming out of Stanford at age twenty-two, Michael had been a superstar his first year in the NBA, winning the Rookie of the Year Award and making the All-Star team. That same year the Knicks went from last place in the Eastern Conference to second place a twenty-game swing-around. The next year Michael led them to the finals, where they lost in a seven-game showdown to the Phoenix Suns. Two years later he collected his first NBA championship ring. He had won three in his career with the Knicks, been named to the All-Star team ten times, and been the league's leader in steals and assists for eight seasons.
Not bad for an old dude.
Michael, an all-purpose shooting guard, did it all. There were many who could score like him, a few who could rebound like!
him, a couple who could pass like him, but next to none whoj could play defense like him. Add it all up and you had the kin of player every championship team needs.
"What's the matter, Michael? Feeling your age. Haul ass!"
Michael could hear himself suck in air. The voice belo to the Knick's new head coach, Richie Crenshaw. Richie had a second round pick by the Boston Celtics the same year Michael was drafted by the Knicks. There had been something of a IT between the two during Crenshaw's playing days, but for the most' part it was an amicable rivalry. The two men always got along off the court. Now Richie Crenshaw was Michael's coach and still his good friend.
Eat shit, Richie, Michael shouted. But only to himself.
His lungs burned in his chest, his throat was dry. He was getting older, goddamn it even though the gods of health had smiled upon Michael for his first ten-plus NBA seasons. No injuries. He had had a boating accident a few years ago, but that took place off-season so it didn't count. Only two games missed in almost ten full seasons and those were the result of a minor groin pull. Remarkable, really.
Unheard of. Then something must have really pissed off the gods.
Michael had landed wrong in a game against the Washington Bullets, twisting his knee. To make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullet's 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play.
Michael's foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not.
It bent the wrong way backwards in fact. There a snapping sound and Michael's scream filled the stadium.
Out of basketball for over a year.
The cast on his leg had been enormous and about as comfortable as wearing a jock-strap made of tweed. He hobbled around for months, listening to Sara tease him.
"Stop imitating my limp. It's not a very nice thing to do."
"Great. I married a comedienne."
"We can be a comedy team," Sara had enthused.
"The Gimpy Couple. Well limp our way to laughter. We'll be as funny as a rubber crutch."
"Awful, Horrendous. Not even remotely funny. Stop."
"Not funny? Then we'll become a dance team. Limp to your left. Limp to your right. We can switch leg braces during a tango."
"Stop. Help. Police. Somebody shoot."
Michael and Sara had both recognized that he might not be able to come back; they were prepared for it. Michael had never been a stupid jock who thought that a basketball career would last forever. There was talk in the Republican party about running him for Congress when he retired. But Michael was not ready to call it quits. Not yet anyway.
He worked hard for a full, painful year with the therapist Harvey had found for him and rebuilt his shattered knee.
Now he was trying to get himself back into playing condition at the Knicks' pre-season camp. But while the knee felt okay in its vise-like brace, his stomach was slowing him down. He had promised Harvey last night that he would swing by the clinic before three o'clock for a complete check-up. With a little luck, Harv would take a few tests, see it was just some stupid bug again, give him a shot of antibiotics, and send him on his way.
Harvey. Jesus Christ, what was going on? Michael and Sara had gotten little sleep last night. They drove home, made love again in a tangle of party clothes, then sat up and analyzed what Harvey had told them.
If what Harvey said last night was true, if he had indeed found a treatment for the AIDS virus... One of Michael's teammates set a pick for him. Michael used the screen and ran from the left side of the court to the right.
He caught a glimpse of the wall clock and saw it was ten. Another hour, and then he would go uptown and see Harvey. At the Clinic.
Capital C in his mind.
Michael was not looking forward to that visit. Immature to say but the place gave him the creeps. He was not sure if it was the magnitude of the disease or his not-so-latent homophobia, but the place intimidated him. Terrified him actually.
To be honest, Michael had never been all that comfortable with gays.
Yes, he believed that homosexuals should be treated like everyone else, that their private lives were their own business, that discrimination against someone because of his sexual preference was wrong. He recognized that Sanders and his gang of mentally malnourished bigots were deranged and dangerous people. But still, Michael found himself making the occasional gay joke, referring to someone effeminate as "that big fag," keeping away from someone who was a "blatant fruit." He remembered when his teammate Tim Hiller, a good friend and apparently a ladies man, shocked the sports world by admitting he was gay. Michael had stood beside him, supported him, defended him, but at the same time, he distanced himself from Tim. Their friendship did not crumble; Michael just let it slowly slide away. He felt bad about that.
Back on the court the ball was passed to Reece Porter, | Michael's closest friend on the team and the only Knick besides Michael who was over thirty. Reece spotted Michael and tossed him the ball.
"Do it, Mikey," Reece cried.
Michael made a beautiful fake on the rookie Holloway, dribbled down the middle of the key, and laid up a soft shot.
As Michael watched the ball float gently toward the basket, Jerome Holloway came flying into view. The rookie smacked the ball with his palm, sending the orange sphere off the court and into the seats. A clean block.
Again the rookie grinned.
Michael held up his hand.
"Don't say it. Faced again, right?"
The cocky grin strengthened.
"The word Spaulding is imprinted on your forehead, old dude."
Michael heard the laughter. It was coming from Reece Porter.
"What the hell are you laughing at?"
Reece could barely control himself.
"Old dude," he managed between cackles.
"You going to take that shit, Mikey?"
Michael turned back toward Holloway.
"Take the ball out of bounds, hotshot, and dribble up while I cover you."
"One- on-one?" the kid asked in disbelief.
"You got it."
"I'll blow by you so fast you'll wonder if I was ever there."
Michael grinned.
"Yeah, right. Come on, hotshot."
Jerome Holloway caught the ball. He took two dribbles and began to accelerate toward Michael. He was six feet past him when he realized that he no longer had the ball.
"What the?"
Holloway spun in time to see Michael making an uncontested lay-up. Now it was Michael's turn to smile.
Jerome Holloway laughed.
"I know, I know. In my face, right?"
Reece whooped and hooted like a lottery winner.
"Bet your sweet ass, brother. You've been faced something awful."
"Guess so," Holloway agreed.
"You know something, Michael? You're a smart old dude. I bet I can learn a lot watching you." Old dude. Michael sighed heavily.
"Thanks, Jerome."
A whistle blew.
"Take five," Coach Crenshaw shouted.
"Get a quick drink and then I want everyone to take fifty foul shots."
The players jogged toward the water fountain all save Michael. He stayed where he was bent forward, his hand leaning on his knees. Richie Crenshaw walked over.
"I've seen you look better, Michael." Michael continued to draw in deep breaths.
"Appreciate the pep talk, Coach."
"Well, it's true. You wouldn't want me to lie to you, would you?"
"Maybe a little."
"The knee giving you problems?"
Michael shook his head.
"You look like something's bothering you."
"I'm " The next word never came out. A surge of white-hot pain pierced right through Michael's abdomen. He let loose a loud, short cry and clutched his belly below the ribcage.
"Michael!"
The shout came from Jerome Holloway. Wide-eyed with fear, the rookie sprinted back on the court. Reece Porter quickly followed.
"Mikey," Reece asked while kneeling beside him, "what is it?"
Michael did not answer. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.
It felt like something was raking at his insides with sharpened claws.
"Call an ambulance!" Reece shouted.
"Now!"
Dr. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian's main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center's many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awe-struck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation.
There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.
And all of this medical brilliance had been jammed west of Broadway between 165th and 168th Street in Spanish Harlem.
A block or two farther west and north was student housing for Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons, again one of the most reputable and selective medical schools in the country.
But another five blocks farther north was J. Hood Wright Park, a respectable name for one of the original crack alleys, where passers-by can witness or partake in drug trafficking. Its proximity to the hospital, Harvey had half-joked, made it a convenient place to overdose.
One of the newest and smallest sections of the medical center, almost hidden from view, was near 164th Street. From the outside one would never guess that the broken-down edifice was dedicated to healing and experimental medicine. Named Sidney Pavilion after Harvey Riker's brother, this area of epidemiological study was cloaked in secrecy and security. No one could enter without the permission of Dr. Harvey Riker or Dr. Eric Blake. Staff and patients were kept to a minimum, and all had been specially selected by Riker and the late Dr. Bruce Grey personally. The medical center's board members rarely, if ever, discussed the new section in public.
Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara's blood to a nurse.
"Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat."
"Yes, Doctor." "A beta HCG?" Sara asked.
" "Fancy talk for a pregnancy test," Carol Simpson explained.
"Doctors like to use code words no one else understands. Makes us sound more intelligent, don't you think?"
Sara liked Carol Simpson. Unlike so many others in her profession, there was nothing stuffy or intimidating about her.
Her relaxed attitude put Sara at ease.
"If you say so," Sara replied.
"Well, we have to do something to justify all the years of schooling and internship and residency besides having the M.D.
license plate so we can park illegally in front of Macy's."
"You do that?"
"Only during a sale."
At least forty other patients sat biding their time in the waiting room, sneaking glances from their magazines and wishing their doctor would call their name.
"Give me a ring this afternoon," Carol said.
"The results should be in by then." "Great," Sara said.
"And try not to worry. I know you're anxious, but try not to think about it too much. Do what I do when I need to distract yself: shop till you drop.
Urn; "Well, hello there, ladies."
Sara and Carol turned and saw Harvey coming toward them.
His entire person emanated exhaustion, Sara thought. His head tilted slightly to the side as though he were dozing; his back had curved into a slump.
"Hello, Harvey," Dr. Simpson said.
"Hello, Carol. How's my favorite patient doing, Doc?"
"Very nicely. We should know the test results in a few hours."
Dr. Simpson turned her head toward the people in the waiting room.
"Mrs. Golden?"
A massive-bellied woman looked up.
"Over here."
"Come on down. You're the next contestant." Harvey and Sara said good-bye and headed for the elevator.
"You're in good hands," Harvey said.
"Carol Simpson may be young, but she's already considered one of the top obstetricians in the country."
"I like her."
"Listen, Sara, about what I said last night..."
"Yes?"
"Well, in the light of day, my conspiracy theories always seem a little more whacko. Don't have me committed, okay?"
"Not yet anyway. Has the clinic really found a cure?"
"In some cases maybe most cases, yes. Like I said last night, it's still in the developmental stage and it hasn't worked on everyone but "
Harvey's beeper went off. He looked at the LCD digits coming onto the screen.
"Oh shit."
"What is it?"
But he was already sprinting toward the nurse's desk and picking up the phone.
"That number means it's an emergency."
He dialed and the phone was picked up on the first ring.
"Dr. Riker here." Pause.
"What? When?" Another pause.
"I'll be right there." He replaced the receiver.
"It's Michael. They just rushed him into the emergency room."
The corpse was in the trunk.
George drove onward. Last night the body in the trunk had been filled with life. He had hopes, dreams, goals, desires. Like most people, he probably just wanted to be happy, to find his niche in this world. He was probably a person struggling through life, trying to do his best, grasping at the few joys life offered and trying to dodge the many hardships. Now he was dead.
Dead. Gone. Nothing.
He was no more than decaying tissue, useful only to medical students and worshipped by only the grieving family. Why, George wondered, did people care so much about the empty shell of a man, the facade? Why did they treat the worthless flesh as something invaluable? Was it man's innate inclination to see only the outward mask of the human being and not acknowledge the soul? Or was George being too harsh on his fellow man? Maybe man just needed to take hold of something tangible when he was faced with the ultimate intangible.
Heavy stuff, George. Very deep.
He chuckled and lit a cigarette.
After Dr. Lowell's gala last night, George had followed the limousine until the long, silver automobile dropped the victim off at his apartment in the city.
p" Perfect.
A true professional, George had already cased the building and surrounding area. He knew his victim lived in apartment 3A. He knew there was no doorman. George parked the car across the street and moved into the apartment building. Taking the stairs it her than the elevator, he stopped in front of a door with a faded nailed to it.
George wondered why, with all his money, his ictim chose to live in this quasi-dump. He could live anywhere 7ifth Avenue, Central Park West, the San Remo Building, the )akota, anywhere. George shrugged, dismissing the thought, was none of his concern.
His fingers searched his pocket and removed a small tool.
Ie jimmied the lock twice, just as he had done at the Days Inn rith Dr. Bruce Grey. This time, however, he did not allow the mnd of the lock being disengaged to be audible. Surprise in combat, George had learned long ago, always gave you the upper hand. Bruce Grey had been suspicious so a simple knock on the door would not have brought him in front of the wooden portal unaware. For Bruce Grey had been prepared for an attack and was on his guard. But having the door smashed against him during a brief moment when he felt safe, when he thought the door was secure and no one was in front of it, that had been all George needed.
This victim, however, would not be suspicious. Unlike Grey, he had no idea that death had crept down his hallway. A knock was all George would need.
With the lock made useless, George put the small device back in his pocket and knocked.
A voice called out.
"One moment."
George heard the victim coming to the door. He wondered whether the man was so stupid he would open the door without asking who it was. But the voice called out again.
"Who's there?"
George knew that the man was standing right behind the door now, probably leaning forward to look through the peephole. l Without hesitation, George threw his full weight into the door.| The wooden planks crashed against the man standing behinc them, knocking him to the floor on the other side of the room. l George moved quickly. He closed the door and pounced upon his prey. His hand gripped the man's neck and he began to squeeze. There was a quick, choking noise and then silence. The man struggled, lashing out with his hands and kicking, but his blows were wild and imprecise. They did not bother George.
Maintaining his grip on the man's throat, George lowered his face to within inches of his victim's.
"There is only one way I will allow you to live," George said, his voice chillingly monotonous, as though he were reading a prepared text.
"And that is if you do everything I tell you. Deviate from what I say and you will die. Do you understand?"
The man's eyes bulged out from lack of oxygen and a surplus of fear. He managed a nod.
"Good. I will let you go. Call out or try to escape and you will know a pain very few have ever experienced."
He let go. The man rolled back and forth, retching uncontrollably.
George stood and watched the man's agony with something approaching boredom.
"We are going down to my car now," he said, when he thought his victim could understand, "just like a couple of buddies cruising the town. Do as I say without question and you won't be hurt."
The man nodded. His immediate obedience made things so much easier. If George had been forced to kill the man here, he would have to clean up the blood, get rid of any possible clues, and worst of all, drag a body to his car without anybody seeing.
Much more difficult.
They crossed the street together and George opened the trunk.
"Get in."
"But- " George grabbed the man's hand and squeezed, breaking two bones.
With his free hand George covered the man's mouth and snuffed out his scream. Then George readjusted his grip on the shattered hand, squeezed a little tighter, forcing the broken bones to scrape against each other and rip at the tendons. The man's face went white.
"I told you to do what I say without question. Will you remember that now?"
The man nodded quickly and ducked into the trunk. George knew the man wanted to ask if there would be enough air once the trunk was closed, but he did not dare. He had experienced pain. Pain, George had learned, can be a greater threat than death.
George looked down the street. Three men had just circled the corner and were coming toward them. They looked pretty wasted, each walking a wobbly line which more often than not crossed the others. George closed the trunk and drove away.
He found an abandoned road that he had used for this purpose before. He parked the car and grabbed the knife from the glove compartment. As per the instructions given to him on the phone, George slipped on surgical gloves and a mask. He felt like a doctor, preparing for a major operation.
"Scalpel," he said out loud. He laughed at his own joke.
George got out of the car and went toward the trunk. This was the part of the job George found most intriguing. He always wondered what was going through the victim's mind. A little earlier, his world had been normal, average, seemingly safe.
Suddenly, he had been threatened, assaulted, and locked in a trunk. No longer did he have any say in what happened to him.
What was going through his mind?
It was a fleeting thought. In the end, George knew it didn't matter.
For George only the finished job mattered.
When George opened the trunk, the man looked up at him with the eyes of a trapped animal.
"Wh... Wh... What...?"
George put his finger to his mask-covered lips.
"Shhh."
George reached down and grabbed the man's head to hold still. Then he gripped the knife and placed it below the man's nose, the cool blade directly below the nostrils. He lowered the handle toward the mouth, almost touching the lips, and drove) the blade upwards. It sliced through the thin tissue, through th cartilage, and into the brain.
Blood gushed freely. The body spasmed, but death was instantaneous.
The man's final gaze was locked on George, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.
George tugged the knife out and just as he had with the first two jobs, he stabbed the body two dozen times. Wet, ripping sounds accompanied his methodical undertaking. George's face remained calm as he drove the knife home over an dover again.
It was all very messy.
George knew that he would have to keep the body in the trunk for the night. Then he would be able to dump it in the appropriate area. With the others, it had not mattered where the corpse was found, but the voice on the phone had given specific instructions to leave this one in the alley behind a gay bar called Black Magic in Greenwich Village. At night, George knew, such places were filled with all sorts of bizarre happenings. They were crowded. He decided it would be safer to dump the body in the daytime when the area was empty.
Early the next morning George awoke refreshed from a wonderful, dreamless sleep. He drove back into the city and pulled up behind the Black Magic bar. A sleazy-looking dump, he thought. It reminded him of Patpong Street in Bangkok.
Patpong, Bangkok's famed red-light district, catered to heterosexuals, but everyone knew about the area two blocks farther north devoted exclusively to homos. And Pattaya, the popular Thai beach resort not far from Bangkok, had a whole street jammed with little boys who served their male customers without question or hesitation.
Pretty sick, George thought.
He stopped the car and stepped out. He glanced about the alley. No one. Dozens of stuffed plastic trash bags were piled by the bar's rear entrance. Rear entrance, George mused. How appropriate.
Taking one last look, George hefted the corpse out of the trunk, dumped it by the trash bags, climbed back in the car, and drove off. He had traveled three blocks when he glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Damn. His hair looked horrendous."