Fade Away

Chapter 14

Dimonte was waiting for him in the Meadowlands parking lot. He leaned out of his red Corvette. “Get in.”

“A red Corvette,” Myron said. “Why aren’t I surprised?”

“Just get in.”

Myron opened the door and slid into the black leather seat. Though they were parked with the engine off, Dimonte gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared in front of him. His face was sheet-white. The toothpick hung low. He kept shaking his head over and over. Yet again, the subtlety. “Something wrong, Rolly?”

“What’s Greg Downing like?”

“What?”

“You fucking deaf?” Dimonte snapped. “What’s he like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“But you knew him, right? In school. What was he like back then? Did he hang out with perversive types?”

Myron looked at him. “Perversive types?”

“Just answer the question.”

“What the hell is this? Perversive types?”

Dimonte turned the ignition key. The sound was loud. He hit the gas a bit, let the engine do the rev thing for a while. The car had been jacked up like a race car. The sound was, like, totally rad, man. No women were in the nearby vicinity to hear this human mating call or they would surely be disrobing by now. Dimonte finally shifted into gear.

“Where we going?” Myron asked.

Dimonte didn’t answer. He followed the ramp that leads from the arena to Giants Stadium and the horse track.

“Is this one of those mystery dates?” Myron asked. “I love those.”

“Stop fucking around and answer my question.”

“What question?”

“What’s Downing like? I need to know everything about him.”

“You’re asking the wrong guy, Rolly. I don’t know him that well.”

“Tell me what you do know.” Dimonte’s voice left little room for disagreement. His tone was less fake-macho than usual, and there was a funny quake in it. Myron didn’t like it.

“Greg grew up in New Jersey,” Myron began. “He’s a great basketball player. He’s divorced with two kids.”

“You dated his wife, right?”

“A long time ago.”

“Would you say she was left-wing?”

“Rolly, this is getting too weird.”

“Just answer the goddamn question.” The tone aimed for angry and impatient, but fear seemed to overlap them. “Would you call her politics radical?”

“No.”

“She ever hang out with perversives?”

“Is that even a word? Perversives?”

Dimonte shook his head. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for your shit, Bolitar?”

“Okay, okay.” Myron made a surrendering gesture with his hands. The Corvette swerved across the empty stadium lot. “No, Emily did not hang out with perversives, whatever they are.”

They headed past the racetrack and took the other ramp back toward the arena. It became apparent to Myron that they were just going to circle the Meadowlands’ vast expanse of paved lots. “Let’s get back to Downing then.”

“I just told you we haven’t talked in years.”

“But you know about him, right? You’ve been investigating him; you’ve probably read stuff about him.” Gear shift up. Extra rev power. “Would you say he was a revolutionary?”

Myron could not believe these questions. “No, Mr. Chairman.”

“Do you know who he hangs out with?”

“Not really. He’s supposed to be closest to his teammates, but Leon White—that’s his roommate on the road—seemed less than enamored. Oh, here’s something that might interest you: after home games, Greg drives a taxi in the city.”

Dimonte looked puzzled. “You mean he picks up fares and stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Why the fuck does he do that?”

“Greg is a little”—Myron searched for the word—“off.”

“Uh huh.” Dimonte rubbed his face vigorously, as if he were polishing a fender with a rag. He did this for several seconds, not looking at the road; fortunately, he was in the middle of an empty parking lot. “Does it make him feel like a regular guy or something? Could that be part of it? Getting closer to the masses?”

“I guess,” Myron said.

“Go on. What about his interests? His hobbies?”

“He’s a nature boy. He likes to fish and hunt and hike and boat, that goyish stuff.”

“A back-to-nature type?”

“Sort of.”

“Like maybe an outdoor, communal guy?”

“No. Like maybe an outdoor, loner guy.”

“You have any idea where he might be?”

“None.”

Dimonte hit the gas and circled the arena. He came to a stop in front of Myron’s Ford Taurus and put the car in park. “Okay, thanks for the help. We’ll talk later.”

“Whoa, hold up a second. I thought we were working together on this.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”

His voice was suddenly soft. “No.”

Silence. The rest of the players were gone by now. The Taurus stood alone in the still, empty lot.

“It’s that bad?” Myron said.

Dimonte kept frighteningly still.

“You know who she is, don’t you?” Myron went on. “You got an ID?”

Dimonte leaned back. Again he rubbed his entire face. “Nothing confirmed,” he muttered.

“You got to tell me, Rolly.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“I won’t say anything. You know—”

“Get the fuck out of my car, Myron.” He leaned across Myron’s lap and opened the car door. “Now.”