Small Vices

Chapter 20

Taft University was in Walford, about twenty miles west of Boston and two towns north of Pemberton. I had been out there maybe seven years ago trying to do something about a basketball point fixing scam involving a kid named Dwayne Woodcock. In the process I had gotten to know the basketball coach, a loudmouth blowhard named Dixie Dunham, who was a hell of a basketball coach, and not as bad a guy as he seemed if you had a good tolerance for bullshit.

When I came into his office at the field house he knew me right off.

“Spenser,” he said, “you son of a bitch.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Dixie,” I said.

The office was pretty much the same. A VCR, a cabinet full of video tapes, a big desk, a couple of chairs. Above Dixie’s desk there was still a picture of the Portland Trailblazers point guard, Troy Murphy. Murphy had played his college ball for Dixie. Beside it there was now a picture of Dwayne Woodcock. Dixie was pretty much the same, too. He had on a gray tee-shirt, blue sweat pants with a white stripe down the leg, gray shorts over the sweats, and a pair of fancy high-cut basketball shoes, which I happened to know he got free by the case, as part of his consulting deal.

“So you come to make trouble for my program again?” Dixie said.

“I saved your damn program,” I said. “You hear anything from Dwayne?”

“My players stay in touch,” Dixie said. “I hear from them or I hear about them.”

“How’s Dwayne doing?”

“Fifteen points a game, eleven rebounds, for the Nuggets,” Dixie said. “But he still plays a little soft. He toughens up, he’ll double that.”

“Can he read yet?”

“Hell, he’s a college graduate,” Dixie said.

“This place?” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“Can he read yet?”

“Sure,” Dixie said.

“He still with Chantel?” I said.

“Heard they got married.”

“Good.”

“So what brings you nosing around out here. Miss me?”

“Young woman over at Pemberton,” I said. “Got killed a year and a half ago.”

“Yeah, I heard about it. Some black guy, right? Raped her and strangled her?”

“No rape,” I said. “I’m trying to clean up a few loose ends on that case.”

“Yeah, so whaddya want from me, buddy? I didn’t touch her.”

“I’ve seen a picture of her,” I said, “wearing a Taft tennis letter sweater that’s obviously much too big for her.”

“So you figure she was dating somebody on the Taft tennis team.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to point you at the tennis coach.”

“Yes.”

Dixie Dunham made a low ugly sound which he probably thought was a laugh.

“Be glad to,” he said. “The sonova bitch. Tried to recruit one of my players last year, right off my team.”

“Tennis is a spring sport, isn’t it?” I said.

“When you think the Tourney is played, buddy boy?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Coach’s name is Chuck Arnold. I’ll walk on down the hall with you and introduce y’all.”

Chuck looked like a tennis coach. He was tall and flexible and lean and had the look of self-contentment that only expensive private education can confer. He wore a white cable stitched tennis sweater without a shirt, khaki pants, soft tan loafers, and no socks. The sleeves of the tennis sweater were pushed up over his tan forearms.

“That’s him,” Dixie said. “Tried to steal my back-up two guard for his fucking sissy-boy team.”

Arnold smiled as if he were tired.

“Oh, give it a rest, Dixie,” he said and put out a firm hand to me. “Chuck Arnold, what can I do for you?”

“Keep a hand on your wallet,” Dixie said. “Fucker’ll take it right out of your pocket, you’re not careful.”

He turned away and rumbled back down the drab corridor toward his office. Arnold stared after him with no trace of affection. Then he looked back at me.

“What did you say your name was?” he said.

“Spenser. I’m a detective. I’m looking for a guy who played tennis here sometime in the last few years. He dated a girl at Pemberton and gave her his letter sweater.”

“I’m supposed to keep track of their love life?” Arnold said.

“Her name was Melissa Henderson. She was murdered about eighteen months ago.”

“Yes, of course, I remember that. Some black guy raped her and killed her.”

“Actually there was no evidence of rape.”

“Whatever,” Arnold said. “I already talked to the other detective.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember, big man, short blond hair.”

“Miller?” I said.

“I don’t remember.”

“What did he want to know?”

“He was asking about Clint Stapleton.”

“Melissa’s boyfriend?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who?”

“The other detective, for crissake. I try to teach them tennis. I don’t delve into their sex lives.”

“Is Stapleton the captain of the tennis team?”

“Yes.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to find him and talk with him about the murder of his girlfriend.”

“Are you sure she was his girlfriend?” Arnold said. “Perhaps she was a one-night stand.”

“He gave her his letter sweater.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a trained sleuth,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

“Well,” he said, “I guess I really must, mustn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“He should be working on the bang board in the cage.”

“Thank you,” I said and started out.

“I’d, ah, I’d be just as happy if you didn’t mention that I told you about him.”

“It is quite possible,” I said, “that I will never mention your name again, Chuckster.”