“Nice togs, Thomas,” Harvard Crew said.
“Thank you, Landon,” said Galvin.
“Very sharp. Are you playing in the US Open?”
Galvin smiled mirthlessly. He gave Danny a knowing look. Danny was familiar with that kind of faux-friendly rich-guy backstab. He heard it at Lyman, too. Two minutes later the guys would be privately mocking Galvin for his nouveau riche attire. For trying too hard.
Galvin slammed his locker door and turned the key to lock it.
The BlackBerry inside.
29
Galvin placed his stuff-his zippered racquet case, his locker key, a new can of balls, a towel-on the ledge outside the glass wall at the back of a court. Danny dropped his racquet case and towel right next to them and kept his locker key in his pocket.
Their warm-up was bumpy. Danny couldn’t settle on a grip. He kept mis-hitting the ball, either wildly high or too low. From the next court over, indecent grunts and moans echoed, like in some porn flick.
Danny was convinced you could tell a lot about someone by how he or she played sports. Was she a ball hog or a team player? Was he a mild-mannered guy who turned into a psycho on the court or the field? Spontaneous, or analytical?
Tom Galvin was deadly serious about his game. That easy wit, that contrarian sense of humor-it was all gone. He was a ferocious player. Not just that he was skilled, which he was-he had a pro’s sense of strategy-but he just didn’t give up a point. In his goggles, Galvin even looked like some kind of evil insect, a praying mantis.
Granted, Danny didn’t put up much in the way of competition, at least not at first. Once he’d been a decent player, at Columbia, but that was too many years ago. He was hardly in peak condition anymore. He was slow. He didn’t maintain control of the T. His serves were too easy.
Whereas Galvin’s serve was killer. He lobbed it in a perfect high arc: a lethal parabola that plopped down in the back corner far behind Danny, hit the nick, and died a nasty little death. Danny lost the first two games in short order before he began to figure out how to answer such a powerhouse serve.
In the third game, Danny finally pulled even with Galvin. Eight all. Then one of Galvin’s shots bounced twice, no doubt about it at all, which gave the serve to Danny and maybe even the winning point. To Danny’s surprise, Galvin picked up the ball and marched to the service box with no discussion.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure that was a double bounce,” Danny said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Galvin said flatly.
“Actually-”
“Ready?” Galvin moved into position to deliver another one of his killer serves. Danny almost persisted, almost said, “I saw it,” but decided it wasn’t worth it. Galvin knew damned well the ball had bounced twice. No point in arguing. His club, his ball, his rules.
It occurred to him that, with two guys as competitive as they were, playing squash wasn’t exactly a formula for camaraderie.
On the next point, Danny somehow managed to hit a soft drop shot from the forehand side, in the front right corner. Galvin, a half second late, came crashing into Danny’s left shoulder a split second after the ball hit the nick. He was obviously too late to have retrieved the ball anyway.
“Let,” he said.
Danny laughed. “No way you would have got that.”
“Dude. I called a let. You were in the way.”
His club, his ball, his rules. Danny let it slide.
After Galvin won the third game in a row, he said, “Best of seven?”
“Sure,” Danny said. “But how about a water break first?” He was dripping with sweat. The grip on his racquet was slippery.
“You’re trying to break my rhythm, aren’t you?” Galvin said. Twin rivulets of sweat coursed down either side of his face. “I think you’re trying to mess with my momentum.”
“Hey, whatever it takes.”
Galvin smiled and pushed open the glass door. The air outside the court was chilly, and it felt good against Danny’s face. Galvin grabbed his towel, jingling the locker key, and blotted his face with the towel. He gestured with a floppy wave toward the drinking fountain and headed over there himself.
“Actually,” Danny said, setting his racquet on the floor, “I’ll grab us a couple of cold water bottles, if you don’t mind.”
Galvin waggled a hand without looking back.
Danny stooped down, picked up Galvin’s locker key in what he hoped was one fluid gesture-an innocent mistake, he could claim-and went into the locker room.
He didn’t hear or see anyone else there.
He tried locker number 809 and found it locked.
Maybe that’s why they’re called lockers.
The locker room was still. In the silence he became aware of ambient noise from distant machinery: the wheezing and clattering of an industrial washer and dryer, maybe in a utility room nearby. The rush of water through the ancient sclerotic pipes. The muted whoosh of the ventilation system. A showerhead dripping, plinking, into a puddle on the tiled shower floor.
And over it all, his heart thudding. Faster than normal, but steady. He’d rehearsed this whole thing, had gone through it mentally over and over again, considering every angle he could think of, every possible hitch.
He turned the key and pulled it open, a sense of queasy dread coming over him. Galvin’s locker was orderly. His splendid chalk-stripe charcoal suit hung neatly on a hanger, which had been placed on a hook. On the top shelf was the spare can of Wilson yellow-dots and two neatly folded T-shirts, both new-looking. A very nice pair of cordovan cap-toe brogues, buffed to a mirror shine, had been carefully placed on the locker floor, both toe-in. Inscribed on the tan insole was a signature, John Lobb, probably the shoemaker.
The BlackBerry was in the left inside breast pocket of the suit.
Still no one around.
He couldn’t resist peeking at the label sewn on the inside pocket:
MADE IN ENGLAND BY
ANDERSON & SHEPPARD LTD
SAVILE ROW TAILORS
32, OLD BURLINGTON STREET, LONDON
Then there were some kind of numbers that looked typewritten, and a date: 22/08/11. Danny didn’t know much about the sort of clothes rich people wore, but he knew enough to recognize that a Savile Row tailor was a big deal, and those numbers and that date meant the suit was custom tailored.
Danny slid the BlackBerry out of Galvin’s suit jacket. It was on, but the display said DEVICE IS LOCKED. Meaning it was password-protected.
But he’d expected that.
Yeager had assured him that the MobilXtract was able to circumvent passcodes. He glanced at the time. Only two minutes had gone by, which wasn’t bad. Grabbing a couple of water bottles from the cooler in the locker room lounge would be a matter of a minute, a minute and a half. But add in a quick potty break, and four minutes wouldn’t provoke Galvin’s suspicions. Much longer than that, and Galvin would wonder what had happened and might amble back to the locker room to look for him.
So far, so good.
Then he was startled by a sudden blast of music.
The “Sweet Home Alabama” ringtone seemed louder than before. No doubt because it had pierced the stillness. He didn’t remember how to silence the ringer. He didn’t want to answer the call, just wanted it to stop playing Lynyrd Skynyrd. It keep blaring while he grabbed the phone wildly, hitting every button he could find on the sides and on top. Finally the music stopped.
When he heard the voice, he jumped.
José the attendant stood no more than ten feet away. He was a quiet one.
“Can I help you, sir?” he said.
30
Galvin’s BlackBerry felt warm in his grip.