“Gotta think positive, Clarence. Lenny’s gonna turn it on second half. You wait.”
“UNLV’s holding ’em pretty good, though,” said Karras. “Seems like they got two men on the ball handler every possession. Tarkanian’s coaching a good game. And Anthony Jones is hot.”
“Jones is a Washington boy,” said Tate for the third time that day. “Out of Dunbar.”
“Bias is the key,” said Clay. “He’s keepin’ ’em in the game. Pull a chair up, Kev.”
Murphy drew a chair beside Clay. Clay looked him over.
“You lookin’ a little rough, man.”
“Drank too much last night. Was at the crime scene down the street.”
“Need to talk to you about that, just you and me, when we get a chance.”
Murphy stared at the action on the set. “Okay.”
Len Bias drove the baseline, went up against three defenders, sank the pill.
“Number Thirty-four,” whispered Clay.
“Here we go,” said Karras.
“Check out Tark,” said Tate. “Gonna bite right through that rag, man.”
“Go on and bite through it, Kojak!” said Anthony, and Clay tapped him on the head.
The Terps scored the next fourteen without an answer from the Runnin’ Rebels, bringing it to 41–33, Maryland’s way. Maryland’s players were high-fiving at midcourt.
“What’s Lefty so mad about?” said Anthony.
“Coach thinks they’re celebratin’ too early,” said Clay.
Armon Gilliam, UNLV’s big forward, and Jones began taking it to the hole. The Runnin’ Rebels went on a 17–2 run: 50–43, UNLV.
Bias cut it to three. Derrick Lewis, the other half of Maryland’s inside game, fouled out.
“Is this a game?” said Karras.
Murphy slapped Karras five.
Clay said, “Got to get it to Lenny now. He can win the game for ’em if they keep dishin’ him the rock.”
“Goddamn — sorry, Anthony — look at Jones. He’s hittin’ at will from downtown!”
“D.C. boy.”
“Out of Dunbar, Clarence. We know.”
“It’s all Bias now.”
“Number Thirty-four.”
Len Bias had scored the last thirteen of Maryland’s points. The Runnin’ Rebels missed the front ends of three one-and-ones. The Terps brought it to within one with forty seconds to go. Jones hit four foul shots. John Johnson, a Terp reserve, stepped up to the free throw line. Tark called a time-out to let the freshman shooter think about it. Johnson bricked the shot.
“Aw, no!” said Karras.
Maryland guard Jeff Baxter drove the lane.
“Dish it to Bias!” said Murphy.
“Look out,” said Clay, “man’s got position in the paint!”
Baxter was called for the charge. The buzzer sounded. Maryland lost the game.
“Damn shame,” said Clay. “Bias had thirty-one points and twelve rebounds. And they still lost.”
“Got beat by the better team,” said Karras. “Outcoached, too.”
“Can’t wait to hear what Glenn Harris got to say about it tonight on HUR,” said Clay.
“Let’s Talk Sports,” said Tate. “The man knows his ball.”
The group scattered. Anthony Taylor asked Murphy for a ride up to his place, and Murphy told him to wait out front. Clay and Murphy remained in the back room.
“Kid’s afraid to walk home,” said Clay. “He heard those gunshots last night. Was chased by some boys in a car, too.”
“He say who chased him?”
“He’s afraid to say. Even too scared to tell me. But I figure it had to be Short Man Monroe. Take it to the next level, you gotta believe it was Tyrell Cleveland and Short Man were the ones involved in those murders.”
“How you make the leap to that?”
“Had breakfast with George Dozier this morning. You know him?”
“Homicide. Good man, got a good rep in the department. Went to Cardoza, about your age. Must have come up with you.”
“Right. George told me those kids were playing dealer on Tyrell’s turf. One of those kids called himself Chief. Short Man’s job is to keep that turf free and clear.”
“Keep going.”
“I was out the other night, came up on Alan Rogers and Short Man and Clarence’s daughter, Denice, out on the street. Your partner, Tutt, he was with ’em.”
Murphy shrugged, trying to hide the empty feeling in his gut. “Some kind of shakedown, I guess.”
“Plainclothes shakedown? Tutt’s a uniformed cop.”
“Tutt’s a little aggressive.”
“Denice,” said Clay, “she said Tutt and Short Man were arguing over a kid named Chief.”
Murphy’s heart jumped in his chest. He stared at the floor.
“Tutt’s dirty,” said Clay. “You must know it.”
“He’s my partner. And that’s a serious accusation.”
“Ain’t like you haven’t suspected it yourself. I told you just now, there wasn’t a whole lot of surprise on your face. Murphy? I’m talkin’ to you, man.”
Murphy felt himself break a sweat beneath his shirt.
“Okay,” said Murphy, “ain’t gonna deny that I’ve suspected it. What’re you gonna do?”
“What are you gonna do, Kevin?”
Murphy rose from his chair. “You tell George Dozier?”
“No. Was waitin’ to talk to you.”
Murphy buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Give me the rest of the day, Marcus, that’s all I ask. I need to confront Tutt my way. Need to settle things. By tonight I’ll have this whole thing worked out. Tomorrow I’ll go to George Dozier with what I know. That sound fair to you?”
Clay looked at Murphy. “Okay. A few hours isn’t gonna make any kind of difference. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks,” said Murphy.
“Come on,” said Clay. “Sounds like you got a day ahead of you. And Anthony’s having Sunday dinner with his grandmother. He needs to be gettin’ home.”
They walked out to the showroom. Cootch had the new Prince, “Kiss,” cooking on the house stereo. Karras and Tate were behind the counter, working on some numbers.
“Anthony,” said Clay.
“Yeah, Mr. Clay.”
“You dust out those racks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You took the records out first, right? Didn’t just dust around them, did you?”
“Cleaned ’em like you said to.”
“Here.” Clay gave Anthony a ten-dollar bill. “Good job.”
“Thanks!”
“Let’s go,” said Murphy.
“Call me later,” said Clay.
Murphy said, “I will.”
Clay watched Murphy and Anthony get into the black Trans Am parked out front. He turned toward Cootch and raised his voice over the music.
“Any customers, Cootch?”
Cootch shook his head. “Not a one.”
Murphy pulled to a stop in front of Anthony Taylor’s row house.
Anthony pointed to a gauge in the dash. “What’s that?”
“Tachometer. Call it a tach. Measures the RPMs. You know, like when you rev up the engine? Like that.”
“This a nice car, Officer Murphy. I’m gonna have me a nice car like this. To go with that fleet of buses I’m gonna have, too.”
“A fleet now, huh?” Murphy chuckled. “I believe it, boy. Just remember, though, flashy cars, nice clothes, they don’t mean a thing unless you earn the money to buy them. Earn it through hard work.”
“Like Mr. Clay did. Like you.”
Murphy looked away. “Anthony?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Clay told me some boys chased you last night. Was the boy who chased you the same boy roughed you up yesterday on the street?”