Murder At the Foul Line

NOTHING BUT NET by Jeffery Deaver

He’s stupid. And he makes three million a year.”

“And you won’t feel guilty getting a stupid man mixed up in a deal like this?” T. D. Randall asked.

Andy Cabot shook his head, sipped more beer and glanced out the greasy window as an ambulance eased through Mid-town traffic. “I don’t feel guilt. Never have. It’s inefficient.”

“Yeah?”

“The point I was making is, since he’s stupid he’s going to be more likely to go for it.”

Cabot and Randall were in Ernie’s, a small bar near Madison Square Garden. The place, a total dive, was a relic; there used to be dozens of these old sports bars in the neighborhood but they’d been squeezed out by the same fast-food franchises populating strip malls all over the country. Andy Cabot didn’t really like it here but he couldn’t see planning a deal like they were working on now while sitting next to the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday.

Randall called for another Stroh’s. “I hear you talking, Andy. But the thing is, I don’t know sports that good. Is this guy really the one we want? Danny Wa-”

“Shhh.” Cabot waved his hand to shut the man up. Ernie’s was a bastion for serious sports people and the name Danny Washington would turn a few heads, the sober ones at least. If the deal went south and people heard that Washington had been caught up in a scandal, someone might just remember that these two skinny white guys, unshaven, dressed in scuzzy jeans and T-shirts, had been whispering about the player.

“I mean, how good is he?” Randall asked.

“Don’t get any better than him when it comes to free throws and treys.”

“What’s a trey?”

“Three-point shot. You know, from outside the arc.”

“Whatever.”

Cabot was amazed that Randall didn’t know about Washington or about treys. He probably didn’t know what the arc line was either.

“But how do you know he’s stupid enough to go for it?”

“I joined the gym where he works out. And I got-”

“You’re in a gym?” Randall laughed, glancing at the man’s scrawny frame.

Cabot ignored the put-down. “I got to talking with him. Washington can hardly hang a sentence together. He lifts iron, he jumps rope. He stands on the free-throw line on the half-court and lobs basketballs for, like, two hours straight. Never gets bored. You ask him a question and he looks at you for a minute like you’re from Neptune or something. And it takes him another minute to figure out an answer.”

“But didn’t he go to college?”

“Nope. He got drafted right out of high school. And he’s a free agent. There’s nobody looking over his shoulder.”

“You think this deal’ll work?” Randall asked.

“I know it will.”

Andy Cabot, lifelong resident of Hell’s Kitchen, on the west side of New York, had had three or four dozen jobs in his life. He’d tried his hand at a hundred different hustles. Some worked out, some didn’t. He’d made some good money, lost more. He’d owned two houses, lost one to an ex and one to the bank. And, having just stepped blindly into middle age, he’d recently spent copious time reassessing his life situation and had come to the conclusion that he wanted more out of life than a disability payment of two thousand bucks a month for a faked back injury and twelve thousand in the bank. This introspection, goosed by massive quantities of Old Milwaukee one night, led ultimately to his asking the question: How do people make real money?

And the answer, he realized, was that it didn’t matter exactly what they did as long as it involved something they loved. That was the key to success.

So Andy Cabot came to a decision. He abandoned the slip-and-falls, the shoplifting, the rigged poker games, the real estate hustles, the knockoff polo shirts… Fom now on, his only “deals”-his word for scams-would be in a subject he loved and knew a lot about: basketball.

One day when he’d been channel surfing, he’d watched an ESPN interview with Danny Washington, who’d just thrown more than two thousand free throws in a row as part of a benefit for St. Vincent Hospital ’s Children’s Unit. When asked why he didn’t try to shoot another four or five hundred and beat the world record, the big man had said, blinking, that he’d thought it’d be more fun to go hang out with the kids.

Stupid, thought Andy Cabot, irritated that while the man probably had the skill to break the world record he simply didn’t have the brains.

But then Cabot got to thinking that the fact that this rich basketball player was stupid was a good thing, something he could use. And he’d come up with the plan he was now pitching to T. D. Randall, a wannabe mafioso from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, he’d met last month here at Ernie’s.

Cabot now ordered another beer and continued. “He doesn’t know squat about anything. All he cares about is his mother, grandmother, brother and sister. They live in Maryland, where he grew up. He doesn’t hang out with the rest of the players, doesn’t have a girlfriend. There’re three things he feels passionate about: his family, playing basketball and…”

Randall looked at Cabot, who’d let the sentence dangle tantalizingly. “What?” Randall asked with faint exasperation.

“… and complaining about taxes.”

“He complains about taxes?”

“We’re shooting the breeze the other day and the next thing I know he’s going on and on about taxes. Sounds to me like when he started making real money he never knew the government’d take so much. I mean, maybe he never had a job before this and didn’t even know about taxes. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Is that, like, a significant fact? About him and taxes?”

“Oh,” Andy Cabot said slowly, “it’s very significant.”

Andy Cabot opened the door of his apartment on West Forty-fourth Street, near the Hudson River. The skinny five-foot-six man looked up into Danny Washington’s eyes, way above his, and said, “Hey, Danny, come on in. You want a beer?”

“Don’t drink.”

The player, in workout clothes, followed his host down the corridor of the old, dusty apartment, looking around with cautious eyes as if he were staring at Donald Trump luxury. A ceramic eagle Cabot had bought at a street fair on Columbus Circle and a three-foot-high cigar store Indian-plastic and made in Taiwan -got approving looks. One print, in a Wool-worth’s frame, stopped Washington cold.

“I like that,” the player said in his infuriatingly slow voice. “The guy who did it, he live ’round here?”

“Van Gogh? No, he’s dead.”

Washington leaned forward, studied the stained picture. “Man, too bad. What happened?”

“He lived a long time ago.”

“Oh. You know, I don’t like pictures of flowers as a rule. But that one’s okay. You ever wanna sell that, you let me know.”

“I will, Danny. Come on in the living room. This is my friend Tommy Randall.”

The big man folded his massive hand around Randall’s.

“T. D. lives over in Brooklyn.” Cabot said this with special emphasis on the borough. Suggesting that Randall had some connections with one of the crime organizations there-to impress Washington. But the player didn’t get the connection. He said slowly, looking at the floor, “ Brooklyn. I been there a few times. To see the Mets.”

“That’s Queens,” Randall said, glancing uncertainly at Cabot.

Washington paused a moment. Then he frowned. “I thought Shea Stadium was on Long Island.”

“It is on Long Island. Queens and Brooklyn’re both on Long Island.”

“Oh.”

Another man, older, with thinning curly hair, sat in the corner of the living room. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt and tie. Two briefcases sat in front of him. The man didn’t say anything and Cabot didn’t introduce him.

Cabot sat and gestured Washington into a chair. It creaked under his weight. According to the stats he was six-eight and weighed 245 pounds but in this small apartment he seemed a lot bigger than that.

“Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“Nope.”

Cabot said to Washington, “You know much about me, Danny?”

“Not too much. I seen you ’round the gym in the last month or so. And I seen you hanging ’round the Garden.”

“You know what I do?”

“Most people hang out ’round the Garden, either they’re scalping tickets or taking bets on the games, you know. I’m guessing you do some betting.”

Cabot said, “That-and a few other things. Mostly I make money for people.”

Washington ’s face broke into a slow smile. “That’s a good job.”

“You’ve got a good job too. And you’re good at it. I saw you last week. Against the Bulls. Twenty-four points.”

“I guess.”

“Is that good?” Randall asked.

Cabot laughed and rolled his eyes, said to Washington, “My friend from Brooklyn here knows all about lending money and all about getting paid back. But he doesn’t know sports.”

“I know baseball,” Randall said defensively.

“The Mets,” Washington said, squinting to see if this was an appropriate comment.

“That’s my team.” The man from Brooklyn offered a smile to his huge new buddy.

Cabot nodded toward Washington and said to Randall, “Danny’s a two-guard. Same as Michael Jordan. His speciality’s free throws and treys. He’s one of the best in the NBA.”

“I’m not too good under the boards,” the player said slowly.

“Who cares?” Cabot asked. “You can shoot the long ones like nobody’s business.”

“I guess.” A cautious glance toward the man in the corner, who still said nothing and just stared at the tall man. At every pause in the conversation the rustling sound of traffic racing through Hell’s Kitchen filled the room, punctuated by horns and shouts.

“How come you’re such a good shooter?” Cabot asked.

“I dunno. Just got some kind of sense,” the big man said.

“Like Psychic Friends Hotline?” Randall suggested.

The big player didn’t get the joke. He said seriously, “Naw, naw, not that stuff my grandma goes for. I can’t explain it good. See, I’m not too smart-I got drafted by the Hawks right outta high school. I was probably gonna flunk out anyway. So I was thinking that maybe when you’re like that you get this sixth sense or something. Somehow I just know things on the court before they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when I throw the ball, whether it’ll be a miss or it’ll be nothing but net.”

“What’s that mean?” Randall asked. “Nothing but net.”

Cabot explained, “A perfect swish-the ball doesn’t even hit the rim, just drops right through. All it touches is the net. And that’s what Danny’s treys and free throws do most of the time.”

Washington shrugged. “It’s not that hard. All’s I’m doing is putting a nine-inch ball through a eighteen-inch hoop.” He frowned in concentration as he thought. Then, after a long pause, he said, “The thing is, it’s not just shooting-it’s seeing.”

“Seeing?” Randall asked.

“Yeah. Lotta players got good hands. But they don’t have the eye.” He pointed a huge finger at his right eye. “That’s one thing God gave me. Maybe I didn’t get a lotta brains but He gave me an eye.” He lowered his hand and glanced at Cabot. “So what you ask me up here for?”

“You and me were talking in the gym the other day, Danny.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And you were saying you didn’t like it that the government took half your money.”

“All them taxes… Don’t seem fair.”

“And you were saying that makes you mad.”

“Hells yeah, it makes me mad. But not much I can do about it.”

“Maybe there is one thing you can do about it,” Cabot said.

“What’s that?”

“Make more money.”

Washington nodded. “Might happen. My contract’s up next year. Maybe my agent can get me more.”

“Well, Danny, since you brought it up, there’s something I have to show you.”

Cabot took a piece of paper from a stained envelope and handed it to the player. “I’ve got a friend who works in the office of your team. He got his hands on a copy of this.”

Washington took it uncertainly and Cabot had a moment’s panic thinking that the man might be illiterate. But the player squinted and read over the sheet. As he struggled over the words his face grew troubled.

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.”

Randall shrugged and said, “The warrant was issued last week-before Cabot decided on Washington.”

Grimsby looked Washington up and down. He said to Harvey and his partner, “I’ll take over from here. You guys can go.”

“But-”

“It’s okay. I’ll call for transport. Officer Randall, you stay here.”

“Sure thing, lieutenant.”

When the two detectives were gone the lieutenant gestured Randall into the corner of the apartment and they spoke for a minute or two. Randall glanced at Washington a couple of times and nodded.

“Officer,” Pettiway muttered, “I want a lawyer. I’m entitled to one!” The policemen ignored him. Cabot sat miserably on the couch.

Randall and Grimsby finished their discussion and Grimsby walked up to Washington. He looked his unfortunate prisoner over once more, then said, “Let’s step into the hall for a minute, son.”

You got yourself into a mess here, didn’t you?” the lieutenant asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Yessir, I did.”

Grimsby offered a Marlboro to Washington, who shook his head. “I read that story about you. In the Times. How you take care of your mother and grandmother. You go home regularly to see them. You stay off drugs and out of those gangsta clubs in Midtown. You lead a good life… Why’d you get mixed up with Cabot?”

“My team was going to fire me and I-”

The lieutenant gave a sour laugh. “You believed that? Cabot and Pettiway faked it all. That memo in there? Cabot probably wrote it himself.”

“What?”

“The team’d be crazy to drop you. They find another two-guard could shoot like you?”

“Why’d Cabot do that?”

“He had to make you mad at your team so you’d agree to throw the game. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have, right?”

“Course not.”

“They had their bets all lined up in Atlantic City and Vegas. Put a ton of money on the Lakers. They stood to win two million if your team lost.”

Washington ’s face twisted into an angry frown. “And they fooled me. Damn! That’s why they picked me, ’cause I’m stupid. Oh, man, now what’m I gonna do?”

“You never been in any trouble with the law before?”

“No, sir.”

The lieutenant smiled sadly. “My son and I go to nearly every game. We love watching you make those shots.”

“I love making ’em.”

The cop’s eyes took in the cheap, stained wallpaper, focused on the corpse of a spider crushed against the wall a long time ago and never cleaned off. “Danny, your name’s not on the warrant. There’s a possibility I may be able to make this go away-if you promise you never get in any trouble with the law again.”

“Lord, sir, you’ve got my word on that.”

“But it’ll cost you.”

“Cost me?”

“I’ll have to take care of those other cops who were here, Harvey and his partner. Officer Randall too. Then I’d have to make sure the evidence gets lost-permanently. And then the judge who issued the warrants is going to wonder why nothing ever happened with the case. If he asks questions I’ll have to pay him off. His clerk too.”

“You can do that?”

“I wouldn’t otherwise, Danny, but you’re a legend here in town. A lot of kids look up to you.”

“I like it when there’re kids in the bleachers. If I disappointed them ’cause of this, man, I’d feel so bad… How much money would it take, you think?”

“Probably all of your savings.”

“Man, I’m using that money for my family back in Maryland. My mother and grandmother… My nieces-I’m making sure they’re going to college.”

Grimsby shook his head. “Well, Danny, you’re going to have to make a choice here. You don’t have to get me that money but then you’ll go to jail. And what’re your mother and grandmother going to do then?”

“Man, that’d be terrible.”

“And if you stay out of jail,” Grimsby pointed out, “you’ll be able to make more money.”

“That’s true. I will. What about Cabot?”

“Have to let him go too. But this probably shook him up bad. He may just change his ways-at least for a little while. So what’s it gonna be, Danny?”

The big man looked down at his hands for a long moment, then held up the cuffs for Grimsby to unlock.

Three hours later Teddy Grimsby walked up the sour-smelling hallway of Andy Cabot’s apartment building.

The duffel bag he carried was heavy and he was out of shape. Still he moved quickly; you don’t want to dawdle when you’re carrying a million dollars in cash through Hell’s Kitchen. Washington had come through. They’d met at his gym an hour ago and the player had-almost tearfully-given Grimsby his entire savings account.

Grimsby now came to Cabot’s apartment. The door was open and the man walked inside, to find himself in the middle of a celebration. Cabot was pouring Asti Spumante into Styrofoam cups and passing them out to the crew from Ernie’s-Mike O’Hanlon and Sedd the Greek, who’d pretended to be Harvey and his partner, the vice cops. Here was Tony Benotti, who’d swallowed his Queens drawl long enough to play “sort of” sports agent Pettiway from L.A.

Sitting on the couch was T. D. Randall, who’d spent all night rehearsing his critical role by shouting, “I need backup, now!” and leaping up from a table in his Brooklyn apartment about fifty times.

“I got it,” Grimsby said, gasping from the effort of carrying the money. He opened the duffel bag and dumped a portion of the contents out onto the table. The packets spilled across the stained wood and onto the floor.

“Jesus,” Randall muttered, picking up one and smelling it. “Ain’t that pretty.”

“The big dumb shit… Know what he did?” Grimsby asked, taking a cup. “I meet him in the middle of the locker room of his gym, right? And he says, right in front of everybody, ‘Hey, Detective, I got the money.’”

“I’ll bet somebody’s got to tie his Nikes for him,” Cabot said, and started distributing stacks of Washington ’s million dollars.

It had been Cabot and Randall’s idea to lay the scam on Washington. So they split $600,000 between them. The others divvied up the rest but nobody complained-they were all just punks and barflies, mostly in debt, and were delighted to be involved in a deal that both made good money and featured a victim who wasn’t going to go to the cops.

As Cabot dug the last of the cash out of the bag, he frowned and said, “Hey, what’s this?”

He lifted a little black box from the bag.

“Looks like a pager,” Grimsby said. “It’s Washington ’s bag. Must be his.”

Pettiway took the device. “Naw, it’s no pager.” Then his eyes grew wide in alarm. “Hell, it’s a GPS tracer!”

“Oh, shit,” Cabot spat out. He leapt up, just as, for the second time that day, the door to his apartment burst open. This time, however, the law enforcement officers who pushed inside were very real.

And far more numerous than before.

In sixty seconds the gang was cuffed and sitting on the floor. A detective from the real Midtown South Vice Unit read them their rights while the crime scene team started collecting evidence: Randall’s “informant” tape, the fake badges, the guns, the phony contract and letter from the coach, the briefcase containing the signing bonus-which wasn’t $500,000 at all but stacks of play money, each one topped with a single hundred-dollar bill. One cop started counting Washington ’s cash.

A moment later a furious and frightened Andy Cabot heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and two men entered the room. One was Danny Washington. The other was a middle-aged man in a suit. His ID card identified him as Detective Tim Getz. “Are these them, Danny?” the cop asked.

“Yeah. All of them. Those two played they was detectives. And he was an undercover cop, the one with the tape recorder. That guy there, Pettiway-he was playing at being some agent or something for the Lakers, and”- Washington angrily pointed at Cabot-”he was playing at being a asshole.”

Cabot muttered to Grimsby, “What the hell did you do to tip yourself off?”

“Nothing!” the faux cop protested. “I did just what you told me to!”

Getz ignored the bickering. He said to Washington, “The whole thing was a setup, Danny. From the start. They tricked you into agreeing to throw the game, they tricked you into thinking you were arrested, they tricked you into giving up your savings as a bribe. It almost worked too. Except you had the guts to come to us. A lot of people wouldn’t have.”

The cop inventorying the money finished and looked up. “The serial numbers on the first million match.” He looked around. “Where’s the rest?”

“Rest?” Cabot’s head turned slowly to the duffel bag.

“The other five million.”

“What six million?” Grimsby asked. “ Washington only gave me a million.”

“No, man,” Washington said, frowning. He nodded at Grimsby angrily. “He said to fix it so I wouldn’t go to jail, I had to pay him six million. My whole savings account.”

One of the cops nodded. “That was the withdrawal receipt from the bank. Six million.”

Cabot coldly asked Grimsby, “You got six from him? You told us you asked for one million.”

“I did ask for one!” the man protested. “And that’s what he gave me.”

Washington blurted, “He said he wanted six million or I’d go to jail and never play basketball again.”

“No, no!” Grimsby said. “He gave me one million. He must’ve skimmed the rest himself.”

Getz laughed. “Why the hell would he skim money from himself? That doesn’t make a lot of sense, now, does it, Grimsby?”

“I don’t know. But he had to. I didn’t do it.”

Cabot snapped at Grimsby, “You gave it to somebody on the way over here, didn’t you? Who was it? Was it that scumbag Lorn Smales you’re always hanging around with? Or maybe your slut girlfriend? Who? You son of a bitch, you’re going down-”

Getz waved his hand at Cabot to silence him.

“Where’s my money?” Now it was Danny Washington who was raging. “That was for my mama and grandma! That was my whole savings account-all everything I saved up playing ball!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Grimsby said.

“We’ll track it down,” Getz said to Washington to calm him. “But for now let’s book these losers.”

The gang of extortionists was led outside into paddy wagons for the ride down to central booking.

The police searched Grimsby ’s car, his office at BQE Auto Parts, his and his girlfriend’s apartments and the home of his bewildered friend, Lorn Smales, a skinny druggie living in a walk-up in the East Village. They found no sign of the missing five million. Getz came to the conclusion that Cabot and Grimsby together had probably skimmed the money and hidden it someplace.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Washington,” the detective said. “We’ll do what we can but if we can’t recover the money… well, you better prepare yourself for that. You have insurance?”

The player said miserably, “Only fifty thousand or something like that-you know, enough to replace my stereo and TV and watch and stuff if my apartment got broke into. I never thought I’d get robbed this much-five million.”

“We’ll do everything possible, Danny.”

“Thanks, Detective.”

The cop started to leave, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Danny, one thing… I hate to ask at a time like this… but…”

Washington ’s face broke into a wan smile. “You want an autograph?”

“For my kid, you understand.”

“Sure. What’s his name?”

A week later Danny Washington was getting ready for a game against the Detroit Pistons. The two-guard had limbered up with a run and plenty of stretches and had just donned his uniform when one of the assistant coaches called him over to the phone.

He took the receiver.

“Danny?” the man’s voice asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Detective Getz. I just wanted you to know. That last lead about the cash didn’t pay off.”

“Oh, man,” Washington muttered.

“It’s still an open case but the way it usually works is that if we don’t find stolen cash by now, it’s probably gone for good. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s nobody’s fault but my own,” the player said, sighing. “I shouldn’t ever’ve listened to somebody like Andy Cabot. That was stupid. And I’m paying for it now.”

“Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching the game.”

“I shoot a couple of treys for you, Detective.”

After they’d hung up, Washington leaned his head against the locker room wall for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again and placed a call. This one was to his accountant at the man’s home in Manhasset, Long Island.

“Jerry? It’s Danny Washington.”

“Danny, how you doing?”

“Gotta go play some hoops in a minute but I got a question for you. Had this thing happen to me last week.” He explained about the scam and the money.

“Oh, Danny, that’s terrible. They got five million?”

“Yeah, it hurt,” the player said. “Anyway, you know I’ve been working on my degree in business during the off-season.”

“I remember.”

“Now if I read the tax code right it looks to me like, on my Schedule A, I can take a theft-loss deduction in the amount of the money stolen. Well, less that exclusion-ten percent of adjusted gross income, of course.”

“That’s absolutely right.”

“Okay, my question is-since the loss is five million and I’ll only have three million income this year, can I carry the other two million loss forward and offset most of next year’s income too?”

“I’ll have to check. But I’m pretty sure you can.”

“So basically,” Washington summarized, “I’ll hardly be paying the IRS any tax for two years.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, now, that’s good to hear.”

The accountant said, “It’s still a bummer you had to lose all that money to get out of paying taxes, though.”

“A damn shame, Jerry,” said the ballplayer, and hung up, thinking: Well, it would be a shame except that the five million, which he’d hidden in a second locker at the gym before he gave the duffel bag to Grimsby, was currently earning sweet interest in an offshore banking account he’d opened years ago in his and his mother’s names.

Of course he’d known from the minute that little weasel Andy Cabot approached him in the gym more or less what the scam artist had in mind. The two-guard had foreseen the plan unfold as clearly as he could anticipate a 1-3-1 offensive alignment against a 2-3 zone defense.

Somehow I just know things on the court before they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when I throw the ball, whether it’ll be a miss or it’ll be nothing but net.

He looked at his battered Casio. Five minutes until game time. He made one more phone call-to the men’s detention center in downtown New York, where Andy Cabot and T. D. Randall and those coconspirators who couldn’t post bond-which was most of them-were awaiting trial.

The chief night guard snapped to attention immediately when Washington identified himself. The player and the guard chatted about a recent game, then Washington said, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure thing, Danny, anything you want. Everybody down here, we’re all big fans of yours.”

“Make sure the prisoners watch the game tonight.”

“We don’t usually let ’ em watch TV after six but I’ll make sure it’s on. Just for you.”

“Thanks.”

That night, toward the end of the game, Danny Washington found the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d just got possession of the ball from his center, who’d fired him a distant lob after a rebound from a missed shot by the Pistons. All alone, Washington jogged fast toward the net and could’ve gone in for an easy dunk but he suddenly braked to a stop outside of the arc. Turning toward the nearest ESPN cameraman filming him, he glanced into the lens of the camera, offered a faint smile and pointed toward his right eye. Then he sank down real slow, leapt high into the air and let fly a long trey. The instant the ball left his hands, he looked away from the hoop and jogged back down the court to take up his defensive position.