One False Move

6

Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.

He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. A tired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.

Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.

Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.

«We need to talk,» he said.

She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.

«Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,» Myron said.

The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. «This is too weird.»

«What?» Myron said.

She reached toward him and took the ball from his hands. She held on to it as though it might grow wings and fly off. «It’s so like my mother,» she said. «First the clothes gone. Now the money.»

«Your mother took money?»

«Every dime.»

Myron looked at her. She kept her eyes on the ball. Her face was suddenly so guileless, so frail, Myron felt something inside him crumble. He waited a moment before changing the subject. «Was Horace working before he disappeared?»

One of her teammates, a white woman with a ponytail and freckles, called out to her and clapped her hands for the ball. Brenda smiled and led her with a one-armed pass. The ponytail bounced up and down as the woman speed-dribbled toward the basket.

«He was a security guard at St. Barnabas Hospital,» Brenda said. «You know it?»

Myron nodded. St. Barnabas was in Livingston, his hometown.

«I work there too,» she said. «In the pediatric clinic. Sort of a work-study program. I helped him get the job. That’s how I first knew he was missing. His supervisor called me and asked where he was.»

«How long had Horace been working there?»

«I don’t know. Four, five months.»

«What’s his supervisor’s name?»

«Calvin Campbell.»

Myron took out a notecard and wrote it down.

«Where else does Horace hang out?»

«Same places,» she said.

«The courts?»

Brenda nodded. «And he still refs high school games twice a week.»

«Any close friends who might help him out?»

She shook her head. «No one in particular.»

«How about family members?»

«My aunt Mabel. If there is anyone he’d trust, it’s his sister Mabel.»

«She live near here?»

«Yeah. In West Orange.»

«Could you give her a call for me? Tell her I’d like to drop by.»

«When?»

«Now.» He looked at his watch. «If I hurry, I can be back before practice is over.»

Brenda stood. «There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’ll call her.»