'You destroy the myth of the graceful fat man," Becker said.
Tee swung mightily at the ball, catching it glancingly off the side of his boot so that it dribbled ineffectively in the general direction of Becker.
"Not fat," Tee puffed. "That's a paunch. It's a sign of respectability."
"You're getting awfully respectable," Becker said. He got to the ball in a few quick steps and rerouted it towards Jack.
Tee patted his stomach affectionately. "Think of it as a symbol of authority," he said. "Underneath all this flesh and equipment, I'm lean as a whippet. The uniform is very misleading. Right, Jack?"
Jack grunted something that could have been agreement as he concentrated on the ball, his mouth open with the effort. He and Tee had basically the same skill level, and each had been kicking a ball about the same amount of time.
"Your basic criminal type is skinny," Tee was explaining. "Righteous bulk just naturally intimidates him."
Jack kicked the ball to Becker and once again Becker deflected it to Tee with apparent ease. The guy was like one of those flippers in a pinball machine, Tee thought.
He barely touched the ball, hardly kissed it, and it seemed exactly where he wanted and with speed and power.
He was, once again, impressed by the easy athleticism of his friend.
Tee kicked another shot and laughed at himself.
"I'm more of a football player," he said. "This is a damned European game. Whoever heard of not using your hands? It's unnatural."
"Most popular sport in the world," Becker said, dancing to the ball and flicking it over to Jack.
"Oh, sure, the world. What do they know?"
"Speaking of your basic criminal," Becker said.
"Now you're talking," Tee said. "I know him well. I can pick him out of a crowd by the dishonest way he looks and moves."
"Nice talent," Becker said. "Must have its uses."
"It's why they made me chief of police," Tee said.
"The old unerring eye. I can not only pick out your malefactor-that's police talk, Jack, very sophisticated-" Jack nodded to indicate that he was listening. "I can even tell you his criminal specialty."
"How is that done, exactly? That specialty thing?"
Tee picked the ball up and placed it on his hip.
"You know how pets and their owners start to resemble each other after a while? It's the same with your average perpetrator. After a few years, he looks like what he does.
Your burglar develops big ears and shifty eyes, for instance."
"Pay no attention to him, Jack," Becker said.
"A sex fiend grows hair on his palms, just like they warned us."
"I was told you'd go blind," Becker said.
Jack took the ball from Tee's hands and the big man seemed hardly to notice. Jack recognized this tone in their voices; when the two men teased each other like this, Jack was better off playing by himself until the mood passed.
'You'll notice I do not wear glasses," said Tee.
'I hadn't noticed, but then I can't see too well."
"I feared as much. Always sad to see a good man go bad "Well, now, given your expertise in these matters…"
"I am, after all, the chief of police."
"And have the paunch to prove it," Becker said. "So, as the expert, what can you tell me about the man watching us from the hedge?"
Tee studied the forest hedge surrounding the playing field. It took him a moment to discern the shape of a man standing amid the foliage. He shook his head, acknowledging Becker's ability to see things without seeming to look. The man was behind Becker's back, and Tee could not remember that Becker had ever so much as turned around.
"What do you do, smell them?"
"This one is a little riper than most," Becker said.
The man was at least forty yards away. Tee had been joking; he was not sure that Becker was. He had asked Becker once how he did it, how he appeared to notice everything without paying attention. Becker's answer had only increased the mystery. "The way a deer does it," Becker had said. "He notices everything because everything is a threat. He's afraid." Tee could see nothing deerlike about his friend, nor could he detect any fear. The man he knew was not a passive prey animal, cringing at shadows. He was the shape within the shadow; he was a carnivore.
"He could be a scout," Tee ventured of the man in the bushes. "My legend may have spread. Or Jack's perhaps."
"Could be, I suppose," Becker said.
"You sound dubious. I'd say a soccer scout or a fan.
Or he could be lost."
"Waiting for a bus?":'Or a pervert."
"That's a fan of sorts," Becker said. "Maybe your legend has spread."
"Don't look at me. I don't attract that kind of attention.
I have my admirers, of course."
"Being the chief, you would."
"Can't be helped. But they're all manly men and homey women."
"I've heard about the women. Are you still chasing Mimi at the doughnut shop?" 'We're just good friends," Tee said, his voice temporarily serious. He cast a look at Jack to see if the boy was listening. "I want that understood."
"I believe you, but then I'm gullible."
"Do you think I should walk over there and intimidate the guy?"
"I wouldn't bother."
"I could beat him senseless for loitering. The chief is allowed to do that, you know."
"Or you could just shoot him from here and save yourself the walk."
"Not the worst idea. Then again, I have a radio on my hip, you'll notice."
"Let's have some music then," said Becker.
"I could summon help, provided there are any batteries in it."
"Actually, I wouldn't bother with any of that," Becker said. He signaled for Jack to kick him the ball. Becker scooped it up with his toe and caught it niidair on his ankle, bouncing it to his knee. "He'll be coming to visit us pretty soon. You can pound him senseless when he arrives."
"Oh, good."
As if on cue, the man stepped out of the hedge. and started towards them. How does he know these things?
Tee asked himself Associate Director Hatcher of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the man in charge of the various Violent Crime Divisions on the East Coast, stood in the bushes and watched John Becker kick a ball. He hated the way Becker kicked a ball, hated the way the man moved, the way he seemed to do everything with an effortless grace that mocked the clumsy efforts of those around him. It was one of the reasons that Becker was the most effective agent Hatcher had ever seen. One of several reasons, and Hatcher envied him all of them. Except one.
Hatcher, for whom most things came only with practice and diligent effort, had one consummate skill that Becker couldn't touch. Hatcher knew that he wasn't the brightest agent around, nor the bravest, nor the best organized. He certainly had no natural talent for sleuthing, no instinct for the profession, no insight into the criminal mind beyond what he had been taught in class. What Hatcher had, what Becker lacked totally, was the ability to manipulate people. They didn't usually give awards and medals for such a skill-they gave promotions. It was not a talent that others would praise or envy, and other men did not yearn to be close to it as they did to athleticism or humor. In fact, it made many people dislike the possessor. Many, but not all. It was recognized by others who had the skill, and they manipulated Hatcher to manipulate others, and it would work that way until he rose to the top and did all the manipulating himself. That was how it was with power.
Most men in the Bureau would not have made this trip to see Becker in person, they would have thought it belittled someone as highly placed as Hatcher. But that was because they viewed status as the important thing, and there they were wrong. The important thing was to get the results that would solidify his position and increase his grip on the power his office offered him. Becker could not be manipulated by telephone, nor could he be summoned to Hatcher's office as if he were still employed by the Bureau. He could not be ordered to take an assignment; he could not be soft-soaped into it either. The secret to manipulating anyone was to know his weaknesses, and Hatcher knew Becker's.