“Yeah. Figure I can keep him off that corner out there, give him a little busywork around the store.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Boy wants to be a bus driver when he grows up. He tell you that?”
Murphy said, “He did mention something.”
In the back room, Clay introduced Murphy to Clarence Tate, who was seated at the desk, working under a lamp and making notations into a long green book.
Tate lifted himself out of his chair as they shook hands. He had the same raw-material kind of size as Clay, but Murphy saw that Tate’s bulk had edged toward fat. Tate’s brow was set serious, too, with that pinched, strained look common to numbers men.
Murphy noticed a photograph of Len Bias taped over the desk where Tate sat. It was that one of Lenny that the Post had run, where Bias was smiling into the camera, wearing his Terps jersey, palming two basketballs with ease.
“That’s my desk,” said Clay, who had seen Murphy checking out the shot. “I guess you think it’s funny, thirty-seven-year-old man having a picture of a college kid over his desk. I just, you know, haven’t seen anything quite like that kid in a long time. Boy’s got a lot of promise.”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” said Murphy.
“Most merchants,” said Tate, “got their projections taped over their desk.”
“Clarence does half my worryin’ for me. Course, he’s got a girl he’s gonna be sendin’ off to college in a few years.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Murphy.
Clay said, “Clarence here is the father of that girl you saw walkin’ out the store when you came in.”
Murphy had recognized the girl as the one who had been with Rogers in the street the night before. He knew the girl had recognized him.
Murphy avoided Tate’s eyes. “Looked like a nice young lady.”
“Denice is her name,” said Tate proudly. “And, yeah, she’s doing very well.”
“Come on over here, Murphy,” said Clay, standing in front of the TV set, his eyes widening. “Goddamn, man, you gotta see this, you know they’re gonna show it again!”
Murphy watched the slo-mo replay, Scott Skiles charging down the court, leading a three-on-one fast break. The guard dribbled behind his back, then went across his body with an on-the-money pass to the forward, who laid it right in.
“Skiles,” said Clay.
“Looks like they’re on a run,” said Murphy.
“Got thirteen minutes left to play,” offered Tate, looking up from his paperwork.
Georgetown was down by five. One of the Hoyas signaled the ref for a time-out.
A worn-down-looking white man with prematurely gray hair entered the back room. Murphy looked him over. The guy seemed like he was up on something, dark circles contrasting his overly bright eyes.
“Gentlemen,” said the man.
“Hey,” said Clay. “Dimitri Karras, meet Kevin Murphy.”
“How you doin’?” said Murphy.
“Great,” said Karras, shaking Murphy’s hand a little too vigorously. “Really great.”
No question, thought Murphy, this Karras is up on something for sure.
Clay said, “Michigan State’s up by five, Dimitri. Looks like Skiles is gettin’ ready to light it up.”
“Thompson better slow down the pace,” said Karras.
“He just had Broadnax call time,” said Murphy.
“Any action out there?” said Clay, his eyes on the game, which had resumed.
Karras said, “Not much,” lining himself up next to Clay.
Murphy pulled a chair over and had a seat. He felt comfortable here. Out on the street, in the bars and the lunch counters around town, he always got some kind of reaction wearing his blues. None of these men had backed away or made a thing about his uniform. None of them had made him feel defensive about being a cop.
Skiles hit a bucket from just inside the perimeter, followed it on the next possession with a reverse layup driving to the hole.
“What is he, Dimitri,” said Clay, “six two?”
“Six one,” said Karras.
“Damn.”
The Spartans handled the Hoyas for the entire second half. Georgetown was eliminated from the tournament. Clay turned the sound down as Karras went into the bathroom.
“Now,” Clay said to Murphy, “you wanted to talk about something?”
“Right,” said Murphy, suddenly remembering why he had come into the shop. He pulled out his pad, the one on which he had written Anthony Taylor’s address, and a pen. “Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about that accident yesterday.”
“What about it? That was just an accident, right? I mean, if it was a homicide or somethin’ they’d be sendin’ a homicide detective around here, right?”
“It was an accident, far as we know. Procedure, though, you understand.” Murphy felt himself begin to fumble. “I need to follow up on a few things about it, that’s all.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, I need to know, was there something suspicious, anything you might have seen that was suspicious around the scene?”
Clay made a decision. Clay said, “No.”
“Nothing at all, right?”
“Not a thing.”
Murphy nodded and closed the cover of his pad. He didn’t want to pursue it. Suddenly, finding Tyrell’s money didn’t seem all that important.
“All right. Thanks. I’ll be around if you think of anything.”
“Glad to help.”
“And thanks for the hospitality, hear?”
“Ain’t no thing,” said Clay. “You come back anytime. Matter of fact, we’re gonna be watchin’ the Terps tomorrow. Why don’t you swing by, you don’t have plans.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” said Murphy. “Maybe I will.”
Clay shook Murphy’s hand.
Thirteen
There go your girl,” said Short Man Monroe. “Young as she is, damn if she don’t got some back on her, too.”
“I see her,” said Alan Rogers.
They sat parked in the Z down on 10th. Denice Tate was walking out of a market on U. She had a bottle of strawberry soda in her hand, and she was headed back in the direction of Real Right.
“I’m gonna go talk to her, man.”
“Ain’t you done talked enough?”
“Go ahead, Short.”
“’Bout time you shut your mouth and busted a nut in that bitch.”
“I’ll get up with you later,” said Rogers as he got out of the car.
Monroe shifted the toothpick in his mouth, watched his boy kick up his heels as he jogged across the street. Damn if anybody’d ever see him run after some pussy way Rogers was doing right now.
Monroe sat low in the bucket. He leaned to the right, pushed the Nike shoebox filled with cash underneath the passenger seat. When he came back up he saw Rogers sweet-talkin’ the girl, and then he saw him kind of tug on her coat, pull her back behind a solid construction fence the subway people had set up along that stretch of U.
A blue-and-white cruised toward him down 10th, pulled alongside the Z. The uniform inside rolled the window down. Monroe rolled down his. He fingered the Glock tucked tightly between his legs just for fun. He moved his eyes lazily to the cop behind the wheel.
“What’s goin’ on, Short? You takin’ a break from your busy schedule?”
“Doin’ a day’s work, Tutt. Just like you.”
Alan Rogers got in close to Denice Tate, draped his extra-large jacket around her shoulders, blanketed them both. They stood behind the fence, hidden from the street.
“Missed you, girl.”
“I missed you, too.”