“No, man,” Washington said, frowning. He nodded at Grimsby angrily. “He said to fix it so I wouldn’t go to jail, I had to pay him six million. My whole savings account.”
One of the cops nodded. “That was the withdrawal receipt from the bank. Six million.”
Cabot coldly asked Grimsby, “You got six from him? You told us you asked for one million.”
“I did ask for one!” the man protested. “And that’s what he gave me.”
Washington blurted, “He said he wanted six million or I’d go to jail and never play basketball again.”
“No, no!” Grimsby said. “He gave me one million. He must’ve skimmed the rest himself.”
Getz laughed. “Why the hell would he skim money from himself? That doesn’t make a lot of sense, now, does it, Grimsby?”
“I don’t know. But he had to. I didn’t do it.”
Cabot snapped at Grimsby, “You gave it to somebody on the way over here, didn’t you? Who was it? Was it that scumbag Lorn Smales you’re always hanging around with? Or maybe your slut girlfriend? Who? You son of a bitch, you’re going down-”
Getz waved his hand at Cabot to silence him.
“Where’s my money?” Now it was Danny Washington who was raging. “That was for my mama and grandma! That was my whole savings account-all everything I saved up playing ball!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Grimsby said.
“We’ll track it down,” Getz said to Washington to calm him. “But for now let’s book these losers.”
The gang of extortionists was led outside into paddy wagons for the ride down to central booking.
The police searched Grimsby ’s car, his office at BQE Auto Parts, his and his girlfriend’s apartments and the home of his bewildered friend, Lorn Smales, a skinny druggie living in a walk-up in the East Village. They found no sign of the missing five million. Getz came to the conclusion that Cabot and Grimsby together had probably skimmed the money and hidden it someplace.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Washington,” the detective said. “We’ll do what we can but if we can’t recover the money… well, you better prepare yourself for that. You have insurance?”
The player said miserably, “Only fifty thousand or something like that-you know, enough to replace my stereo and TV and watch and stuff if my apartment got broke into. I never thought I’d get robbed this much-five million.”
“We’ll do everything possible, Danny.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
The cop started to leave, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Danny, one thing… I hate to ask at a time like this… but…”
Washington ’s face broke into a wan smile. “You want an autograph?”
“For my kid, you understand.”
“Sure. What’s his name?”
A week later Danny Washington was getting ready for a game against the Detroit Pistons. The two-guard had limbered up with a run and plenty of stretches and had just donned his uniform when one of the assistant coaches called him over to the phone.
He took the receiver.
“Danny?” the man’s voice asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Detective Getz. I just wanted you to know. That last lead about the cash didn’t pay off.”
“Oh, man,” Washington muttered.
“It’s still an open case but the way it usually works is that if we don’t find stolen cash by now, it’s probably gone for good. I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s nobody’s fault but my own,” the player said, sighing. “I shouldn’t ever’ve listened to somebody like Andy Cabot. That was stupid. And I’m paying for it now.”
“Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching the game.”
“I shoot a couple of treys for you, Detective.”
After they’d hung up, Washington leaned his head against the locker room wall for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again and placed a call. This one was to his accountant at the man’s home in Manhasset, Long Island.
“Jerry? It’s Danny Washington.”
“Danny, how you doing?”
“Gotta go play some hoops in a minute but I got a question for you. Had this thing happen to me last week.” He explained about the scam and the money.
“Oh, Danny, that’s terrible. They got five million?”
“Yeah, it hurt,” the player said. “Anyway, you know I’ve been working on my degree in business during the off-season.”
“I remember.”
“Now if I read the tax code right it looks to me like, on my Schedule A, I can take a theft-loss deduction in the amount of the money stolen. Well, less that exclusion-ten percent of adjusted gross income, of course.”
“That’s absolutely right.”
“Okay, my question is-since the loss is five million and I’ll only have three million income this year, can I carry the other two million loss forward and offset most of next year’s income too?”
“I’ll have to check. But I’m pretty sure you can.”
“So basically,” Washington summarized, “I’ll hardly be paying the IRS any tax for two years.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, now, that’s good to hear.”
The accountant said, “It’s still a bummer you had to lose all that money to get out of paying taxes, though.”
“A damn shame, Jerry,” said the ballplayer, and hung up, thinking: Well, it would be a shame except that the five million, which he’d hidden in a second locker at the gym before he gave the duffel bag to Grimsby, was currently earning sweet interest in an offshore banking account he’d opened years ago in his and his mother’s names.
Of course he’d known from the minute that little weasel Andy Cabot approached him in the gym more or less what the scam artist had in mind. The two-guard had foreseen the plan unfold as clearly as he could anticipate a 1-3-1 offensive alignment against a 2-3 zone defense.
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.
He looked at his battered Casio. Five minutes until game time. He made one more phone call-to the men’s detention center in downtown New York, where Andy Cabot and T. D. Randall and those coconspirators who couldn’t post bond-which was most of them-were awaiting trial.
The chief night guard snapped to attention immediately when Washington identified himself. The player and the guard chatted about a recent game, then Washington said, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure thing, Danny, anything you want. Everybody down here, we’re all big fans of yours.”
“Make sure the prisoners watch the game tonight.”
“We don’t usually let ’ em watch TV after six but I’ll make sure it’s on. Just for you.”
“Thanks.”
That night, toward the end of the game, Danny Washington found the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d just got possession of the ball from his center, who’d fired him a distant lob after a rebound from a missed shot by the Pistons. All alone, Washington jogged fast toward the net and could’ve gone in for an easy dunk but he suddenly braked to a stop outside of the arc. Turning toward the nearest ESPN cameraman filming him, he glanced into the lens of the camera, offered a faint smile and pointed toward his right eye. Then he sank down real slow, leapt high into the air and let fly a long trey. The instant the ball left his hands, he looked away from the hoop and jogged back down the court to take up his defensive position.
BANK SHOTS by Sue DeNymme
Manny swallowed the last drop of tequila and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. So his wife was going to kill him, what else was new? He couldn’t afford to worry about it now. He couldn’t afford much of anything after last night’s game. Besides, he didn’t have the energy. His drinking binge had made him ill, and the wife would be home any minute. Time to get the hell up and cover his ass.