Drop Shot

Chapter 22

Myron shot baskets on the blacktop off the driveway. The long summer day was finally slipping into darkness, but the basket was illuminated with spotlights. He and his father had installed them when Myron was in the sixth grade. A variety of barbecue smells competed in the still air. Chicken from the Dempseys' house. Burgers from the Weinsteins'. Shish kebab at the Ruskins'.

Myron shot, rebounded, shot again. He got a little rhythm going, the ball back-spinning gently through the basket. Nothing but net. Sweat matted his gray T-shirt to his chest. Myron always did his best thinking out here, but right now his mind was a blank. There was nothing but the ball, the hoop, and the sweet arc after the release. It felt pure.

"Hey, Myron."

It was Timmy from next door. Timmy was ten.

"Bug off, kid. You're bothering me."

Timmy laughed and grabbed a rebound. It was an inside joke. Timmy's mother was convinced that her son was bothering Myron and that Myron should send Timmy home whenever he came over. Didn't stop Timmy. He and his friends always came over when Myron was shooting. Once in a while, when they needed an extra body, the kids would knock on the door and ask his mom if Myron could come out and play.

He and Timmy shot around for a while. They talked about stuff that was important to little boys. A few other kids came by. The Daleys' boy. The Cohens' girl. Others. Bikes were parked at the end of the driveway. They started playing a game. Myron was designated steady passer. No one kept score accurately. Everyone laughed a lot. A few fathers came by and joined in. Arnie Stollman. Fred Dempsey. It'd been a while since they'd done this. A bit too Rockwellian for some, but it felt very right to Myron.

It was nearly ten when mothers started to call out for their children. From their front stoops the mothers smiled brightly and waved at Myron. Myron waved back. The kids "aw, Mom" 'd, but they listened.

Summer and school break. Still a touch of innocence. Kids were supposed to be different now. They had to deal with guns and drugs and crime and AIDS. But a summer night in middle-class suburbia was the great generational equalizer, a place far away from people like Aaron and the Ache brothers. A place far away from young women being murdered.

Valerie would have had fun tonight.

Mom opened the back door. "Telephone," she said shortly.

"Who is it?"

Her voice was like a closed fist. "Jessica." She made a face when she said it, like the name tasted bad on her lips.

Myron tried not to sprint. He walk/ran up the back steps and into the kitchen. The kitchen had been completely redone last year. Why, Myron couldn't say. No one in the house cooked, unless you count microwaving Celeste frozen pizzas.

"I'll take it in the basement," he said.

A grunt from Mom. No wisecrack. Like Esperanza, Mom too held grudges. Especially when it came to her little boy.

He closed the door, grabbed the receiver, heard his mother hang up the extension. "Jess?"

"Is this Stallions 'R' Us?"

As usual her voice made him soar. "Why, yes it is. What can we do for you, ma'am?"

"I'm looking for a true stallion."

"You called the right place. Any preference?"

"Well hung," she replied. "But you'll do."

"Nice talk."

There was a lot of noise in the background. "What took you so long to pick up?" she asked.

"I was outside. Playing with Timmy and the kids."

"Did I interrupt?"

"Nope. Game just ended."

"Your mom sounded a tad frosty on the phone."

"She gets that way," Myron said.

"She used to like me."

"She still does."

"And Esperanza?"

"Esperanza never liked you."

"Oh yeah," she said.

"You still at the Grand Bretagne Hotel?" Myron asked. "Room 207?"

Pause. "Were you spying on me?"

"No."

"Then how do you know-"

"Long story. I'll tell you about it when you get home. Where are you?"

"Kennedy Airport. We just landed."

His heart did a quick twirl. "You're home?"

"I will be as soon as I find my luggage." She hesitated. "Will you come right over?"

"I'm on my way."

"Wear something I can easily rip off your bod," she said. "I'll be waiting in the tub with all kinds of exotic oils from overseas."

"Hussy."

There was another hesitation. Then Jessica said, "I love you, you know. I get funny sometimes, but I do love you."

"Never mind that. Tell me more about the oils."

She laughed. "Hurry now."

He put the receiver back in its cradle. He quickly stripped down and showered. A cold shower for the time being. He was whistling "Tonight" from West Side Story. He dried himself off and checked out his closet. Something in the easy-to-rip-off family. Found it. Snap buttons. He sprinkled on a little cologne. Myron rarely wore cologne, but Jess liked it. He heard the doorbell ring as he was bounding up the stairs.

"I'll get it," he called out.

Two uniformed police officers were at the door.

"Are you Myron Bolitar?" the taller one asked.

"Yes."

"Detective Roland Dimonte sent us. We would appreciate it if you would come with us."

"Where?"

"Queens Homicide."

"What for?"

"Roger Quincy has been captured. He's a suspect in the murder of Valerie Simpson."

"So?"

The shorter cop spoke for the first time. "Mr. Bolitar, do you know Roger Quincy?"

"No."

"You've never met him?"

"Not to my knowledge." Not to my knowledge. Lawyer talk for no.

The officers exchanged a glance.

"You better come with us," the taller cop said.

"Why?"

"Because Mr. Quincy refuses to make a statement until he talks with you."