“Is that, like, a significant fact? About him and taxes?”
“Oh,” Andy Cabot said slowly, “it’s very significant.”
Andy Cabot opened the door of his apartment on West Forty-fourth Street, near the Hudson River. The skinny five-foot-six man looked up into Danny Washington’s eyes, way above his, and said, “Hey, Danny, come on in. You want a beer?”
“Don’t drink.”
The player, in workout clothes, followed his host down the corridor of the old, dusty apartment, looking around with cautious eyes as if he were staring at Donald Trump luxury. A ceramic eagle Cabot had bought at a street fair on Columbus Circle and a three-foot-high cigar store Indian-plastic and made in Taiwan -got approving looks. One print, in a Wool-worth’s frame, stopped Washington cold.
“I like that,” the player said in his infuriatingly slow voice. “The guy who did it, he live ’round here?”
“Van Gogh? No, he’s dead.”
Washington leaned forward, studied the stained picture. “Man, too bad. What happened?”
“He lived a long time ago.”
“Oh. You know, I don’t like pictures of flowers as a rule. But that one’s okay. You ever wanna sell that, you let me know.”
“I will, Danny. Come on in the living room. This is my friend Tommy Randall.”
The big man folded his massive hand around Randall’s.
“T. D. lives over in Brooklyn.” Cabot said this with special emphasis on the borough. Suggesting that Randall had some connections with one of the crime organizations there-to impress Washington. But the player didn’t get the connection. He said slowly, looking at the floor, “ Brooklyn. I been there a few times. To see the Mets.”
“That’s Queens,” Randall said, glancing uncertainly at Cabot.
Washington paused a moment. Then he frowned. “I thought Shea Stadium was on Long Island.”
“It is on Long Island. Queens and Brooklyn’re both on Long Island.”
“Oh.”
Another man, older, with thinning curly hair, sat in the corner of the living room. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt and tie. Two briefcases sat in front of him. The man didn’t say anything and Cabot didn’t introduce him.
Cabot sat and gestured Washington into a chair. It creaked under his weight. According to the stats he was six-eight and weighed 245 pounds but in this small apartment he seemed a lot bigger than that.
“Sure you don’t want a beer?”
“Nope.”
Cabot said to Washington, “You know much about me, Danny?”
“Not too much. I seen you ’round the gym in the last month or so. And I seen you hanging ’round the Garden.”
“You know what I do?”
“Most people hang out ’round the Garden, either they’re scalping tickets or taking bets on the games, you know. I’m guessing you do some betting.”
Cabot said, “That-and a few other things. Mostly I make money for people.”
Washington ’s face broke into a slow smile. “That’s a good job.”
“You’ve got a good job too. And you’re good at it. I saw you last week. Against the Bulls. Twenty-four points.”
“I guess.”
“Is that good?” Randall asked.
Cabot laughed and rolled his eyes, said to Washington, “My friend from Brooklyn here knows all about lending money and all about getting paid back. But he doesn’t know sports.”
“I know baseball,” Randall said defensively.
“The Mets,” Washington said, squinting to see if this was an appropriate comment.
“That’s my team.” The man from Brooklyn offered a smile to his huge new buddy.
Cabot nodded toward Washington and said to Randall, “Danny’s a two-guard. Same as Michael Jordan. His speciality’s free throws and treys. He’s one of the best in the NBA.”
“I’m not too good under the boards,” the player said slowly.
“Who cares?” Cabot asked. “You can shoot the long ones like nobody’s business.”
“I guess.” A cautious glance toward the man in the corner, who still said nothing and just stared at the tall man. At every pause in the conversation the rustling sound of traffic racing through Hell’s Kitchen filled the room, punctuated by horns and shouts.
“How come you’re such a good shooter?” Cabot asked.
“I dunno. Just got some kind of sense,” the big man said.
“Like Psychic Friends Hotline?” Randall suggested.
The big player didn’t get the joke. He said seriously, “Naw, naw, not that stuff my grandma goes for. I can’t explain it good. See, I’m not too smart-I got drafted by the Hawks right outta high school. I was probably gonna flunk out anyway. So I was thinking that maybe when you’re like that you get this sixth sense or something. Somehow I just know things on the court before they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when I throw the ball, whether it’ll be a miss or it’ll be nothing but net.”
“What’s that mean?” Randall asked. “Nothing but net.”
Cabot explained, “A perfect swish-the ball doesn’t even hit the rim, just drops right through. All it touches is the net. And that’s what Danny’s treys and free throws do most of the time.”
Washington shrugged. “It’s not that hard. All’s I’m doing is putting a nine-inch ball through a eighteen-inch hoop.” He frowned in concentration as he thought. Then, after a long pause, he said, “The thing is, it’s not just shooting-it’s seeing.”
“Seeing?” Randall asked.
“Yeah. Lotta players got good hands. But they don’t have the eye.” He pointed a huge finger at his right eye. “That’s one thing God gave me. Maybe I didn’t get a lotta brains but He gave me an eye.” He lowered his hand and glanced at Cabot. “So what you ask me up here for?”
“You and me were talking in the gym the other day, Danny.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And you were saying you didn’t like it that the government took half your money.”
“All them taxes… Don’t seem fair.”
“And you were saying that makes you mad.”
“Hells yeah, it makes me mad. But not much I can do about it.”
“Maybe there is one thing you can do about it,” Cabot said.
“What’s that?”
“Make more money.”
Washington nodded. “Might happen. My contract’s up next year. Maybe my agent can get me more.”
“Well, Danny, since you brought it up, there’s something I have to show you.”
Cabot took a piece of paper from a stained envelope and handed it to the player. “I’ve got a friend who works in the office of your team. He got his hands on a copy of this.”
Washington took it uncertainly and Cabot had a moment’s panic thinking that the man might be illiterate. But the player squinted and read over the sheet. As he struggled over the words his face grew troubled.
From: Head Coach Arnold Hopper
To: Management
Re: Daniel Washington
This confirms our decision not to offer Washington a new contract for next year. He’s shown some promise but his talent at shooting is offset by his lack of skill in making jump shots, not to mention his turnover record inside the wings. I’m also very troubled by his refusal to socialize with his teammates.
“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Arnie wrote this? This’s bullshit. What’s he mean, socialize?”
“Get along with the other players.”
“It’s not that… I like ’em all right. It’s just I like to go home after playing. Watch TV, talk to my brother on the phone. And when I get a couple days off I go visit my mother and grandmother and my sister and her kids.”