"I will tell them that I have had enough of peace. I am a man of war."
"You are not thinking clearly. Remember that most of the hundred and twenty-four thousand prophets sent to mankind by the Almighty have been forced at one time or another to perform hegira, either to go into exile or to go into the desert. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and our own Prophet all were forced into exile."
"I do not belong in such company."
"Do you not?" The imam leaned forward intently. "The hegira is a means of struggle for those who have no links with this world, those who cannot be enslaved by earthly possessions and interest. Does that not describe you?"
The Prisoner thought: Does that describe me? Have I nothing left?
"It is you," said the imam.
The Prisoner bowed his head. He thought of the girl with the broken face. "Yes, it is I."
6
SAMMY made the assignments, and he gave the Polk College job to Vince. Vince frowned when he heard it, and shook his head.
"You got a problem with this?" asked Sammy.
"Definitely."
"I don't see it." Sammy was genuinely surprised. "You go up to New Hampshire, you get close to the team, and you tap their heads. You find out which of the players are in on the fix, and you take it from there. What's the problem?"
"We don't even know if there is a fix. This Domino could have some other angle."
"You've got to be kidding. Domino's instructions are simple, the Polk Bulldogs have to lose, and there's only one way to guarantee that. There has to be a fix."
"Maybe, but I still don't want it. Let me switch with somebody else."
"No switching, not unless you have a damn good reason."
"How about this one. It's racist. Just because it's basketball, you figure that you have to put a black man on the case. That sucks, Sammy."
Sammy said calmly, "I'll let that one go by. You call it racist, and I call it common sense. They've got a twelve-man squad at Polk, and seven of those kids are black. The coach is white, but the assistant coach is black, and so is the team manager. You think I'll get the same results if I give the job to a white man?"
"How about a white woman? Martha would love it, all those young studs running around in their underwear."
"Martha has her job, and you have yours. You'll have to give me a better reason than that."
"Basketball is the stupidest game in the world. Did you know that eighty-seven percent of all college games are decided in the last two minutes?"
"So what?"
"So why don't they play just the last two minutes? The hell with the rest of the game."
"Get serious, will you? That's no reason."
"Then how about this one? I can't take the cold. Look at the others. All right, Martha gets the rape job, and that's no day at the beach, but Snake goes to Florida on the arson job, Ben gets to go on a Caribbean cruise while he bodyguards that comic, and good old Vince gets to visit that iceberg in New Hampshire."
Sammy shrugged. "Dress warm."
"I'm not going to any New Hampshire."
"You are."
"Old Hampshire is more like it. Clotted cream, fishing in the Avon, strolls along the chalk downs. Send me there, Sammy, that's my style."
Sammy stared at him for a moment. "There's something else, isn't there? Something you aren't saying."
Vince hesitated, then shook his head.
"Come on, open up. What's bugging you?"
"Forget it."
"Meet you head-to-head?"
Vince nodded. He and Sammy opened up, dropping the mental blocks that were part of their everyday equipment, and doing it that way, head-to-head, Vince was able to show what he had not been able to voice.
You're asking me to put the finger on a brother.
Doesn't have to be a brother doing the fix.
The odds say yes. How the hell can I tag some ghetto kid who's looking to make a dollar the only way he can?
Not the only way. It's crooked, Vince.
Crooked? Just about everything in this country is twisted out of shape, there's no reality any more, and you're worried about a lousy basketball game.
Don't preach to me. I'm worried about the job. The game is just a part of it.
Not my part, not if it means handing some black kid over to the law.
Who said anything about the law?
How else?
That's up to you. All I care is that the game gets played on the level. You work it out whichever way you want.
No law?
Not if that's the way you want it. Just get the job done.
This straight?
When did I ever?
Never, Vince admitted.
You know, you remind me of my grandmother.
You got a black grandmother?
I've got a Jewish grandmother, and she goes into instant mourning whenever she reads in the paper about some Jew who's screwed up. Makes no difference what he did-a holdup, a swindle, an axe murder-if the guy has a Jewish name it's like the disgrace is on her own family. She shrivels up and walks around all day shaking her head and muttering to herself. She takes it personally, not just the shame, but the burden of responsibility. Which is stupid, because nobody can carry that much weight, not even my grandmother, and she's one tough old lady. You can't carry it, either.
Easy to say. You know what you've got, Sammy?
Besides a Jewish grandmother?
You've got leadership qualities, that's what you've got.
Listen, any time you want this fucking job…
Less than twenty-four hours later, Vince struggled along a plowed path on the Polk College campus that led from the Administration Building to the athletic fieldhouse. His head was lowered against a cutting wind. He was dressed in boots and parka, ski pants and long Johns, watch cap and fur-lined gloves, but he was cold to the bones. His fingers, toes, and nose were numb, and the rest of him wasn't far behind. The campus was covered by three feet of snow. Bare trees were sheathed in black and ugly ice, the same ice hung from eaves and windows, and the sky was the color of lead. It was a dismal scene, relieved only by the splashes of color on the bedsheet banners that were posted on every wall. Painted in Day-Glo orange, and red, and green, they all shouted the same message, BEAT VAN BUREN.
Got nothing against that, thought Vince, but why can't they beat them in tennis, or baseball, or something else that you play in the sun?
He picked up his pace, and the PR guy beside him had to jog to keep up. The PR guy was young and enthusiastic, and his head came no higher than Vince's shoulder. His name was Willard, and the weather didn't bother him. He pointed to one of the signs, and said, "As you can see, the whole school is up for the game."
"Lots of rah-rah," Vince agreed.
"School spirit."
"Can't run a school without spirit."
"It's our big game of the year. It may not be Army-Navy or Yale-Harvard, but it's traditional."
"Can't beat tradition. The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton."
"Hey, I didn't know that."
"Believe it."
"I didn't even know they played basketball at Eton. I guess you guys know all those things."
"Believe that, too. If we don't know it, it didn't happen."
In Vince's pocket were papers that named him as a reporter for Hoops magazine, the national review of college basketball. Willard lit a candle in front of a copy of Hoops every night before he went to bed. A call to the offices of Hoops in Kansas City would have confirmed that Mister Bonepart was, indeed, on assignment for the magazine, but no confirmation had been necessary. The athletic director's office had accepted his credentials without question, and had assigned Willard as his gofer, apologizing for the fact that Head Coach Haggerty was out of town on a scouting trip.