“Take care, man.”
“Yeah. You, too.”
Clay watched Karras leave the room. He turned to the corkboard over his desk, stared at the Washington Post photo of Len Bias smiling into the camera, palming two basketballs.
Clay’s eyes moved to the photograph pinned to the right of Len’s: a grinning, happy Anthony Taylor, holding up a catfish he had hooked from a Georgia creek, his sisters on either side of him, his mom behind him, her hand resting on his bare, wet shoulder.
Marcus Clay leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and smiled.
Clay parked his car on Takoma Avenue, along the railroad tracks in Takoma Park. He locked the car, stopping to admire it before he crossed the street to Jequie Park.
Kids played on brightly colored equipment while parents sat on nearby benches reading paperbacks. In the open field a dozen shirtless El Salvadorians were engaged in a game of soccer, while at the adjacent roughed-out baseball diamond a father pitched a whiffle ball to his young son. A freight train passed, its click-clack muting the children’s squeals and laughter and the bird sounds coming from the tall trees at the edge of the park.
Clay went to the half-court square of asphalt set near a sheltered picnic area, where a man dribbled and shot, laying the ball up off the painted wooden backboard and getting ragged net.
“Marcus.”
“How you doin’, man?”
“Workin’ on it.”
“You up for a game?”
“You ain’t gonna play me soft, are you?”
“Wouldn’t do that.”
Kevin Murphy bounced the pill to Clay. “Go ahead and shoot for ball.”
They played to eleven, Clay coming out on top by four. The second game was more even, with Murphy tying it up, ten-ten.
“Gotta win by two, right, Marcus?”
Clay nodded. “Your ball.”
Murphy won the game on a shot from the top of the key.
“You gave me that one.”
“No, I didn’t.”
But Clay was lying; he was playing Murphy soft, avoiding contact with the man’s left side. It bothered Clay, seeing Kevin like that, knowing that this was Murphy now, and it was him forever.
Murphy’s game, though, it was improving fast. He’d spent the last month dribbling, getting his balance back, driving to his left, learning how to move in a different way.
“Rubber match?” said Murphy.
“Right.”
They sweated through their T’s, going full out in the best of three. Murphy made a good effort, but he lost his wind halfway into the game, and Clay turned it on. He rejected the ball when Murphy drove left and tried to lay it up. Clay sank the next bucket, a shot that bounced straight up off the rim, came down, and went right through.
“Got some forgiving buckets here,” Clay said, shaking Murphy’s hand. “You almost had me.”
“Never could go to my left. Told you that.”
Clay and Murphy had a seat on a grassy slope by the street.
“So how’s it goin’?” said Clay, lifting his T-shirt and wiping the sweat from his face.
“It’s okay. Workin’ this summer youth program down in Ward Eight. Got plenty of young brothers I’m tryin’ to guide. Funny how quick I got attached to ’em.” Murphy looked out across the park. “Almost like havin’ sons of my own.”
“Thanks for that picture of Anthony,” said Clay.
“Thought you’d like it,” said Murphy. “Lula Taylor sent me an extra.”
Clay spit to the side. “They payin’ you down at that program?”
Murphy shook his head. “It’s volunteer work. I don’t need the money. Got my pension, and the disability payment alone’s gonna carry me for a long time. You lose a limb, man, it’s more valuable than if you lose your life.”
“Sweet how the department took care of you.”
“Had to. Oh, they knew somethin’ was off about me and Tutt. Couldn’t prove it, but they knew. Course, you went and tore up that note. Another thing I need to thank you for, besides sending the troops in like you did. Them gettin’ there so quick, it saved my life.”
“Good thing you passed out.”
“Yeah, IAD never did have a chance to talk to me alone. When I woke up in the recovery room, Elaine was right by my side, holdin’ my hand, tellin’ me to keep my mouth shut. She and that other lawyer—”
“Williamson?”
“Yeah, him. One who looks like El DeBarge? He did a helluva job for me.”
Clay laughed. “Man does look like DeBarge. But he’s a damn good lawyer.”
“And Elaine, don’t forget her. None better than your wife.”
“She is somethin’.”
Murphy stroked his mustache, salted now with gray. “In the end, I guess the department figured it was easier to give us medals than it was to prosecute. Considering what’s goin’ on out there now, they thought it was better for the public’s morale, too. Made heroes of me and Tutt. You believe that?”
You are a hero, thought Clay.
Murphy pulled grass from the ground and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure. Tutt would have loved that fancy procession they gave him, all those officers cryin’ over him and shit.”
“‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ Heard that in this Western I saw one time, down at the Keith’s.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Hell, man, I don’t know.”
Clay and Murphy smiled.
“How’s Wanda doin’, Kevin?”
“She’s got her days. They’re tryin’ to treat her with pills now, so we’ll see. I’m not givin’ up, Marcus. No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.”
“There it is.”
“Come on, man. Got to fix Wanda dinner. Need to be gettin’ home.”
“Yeah, I need to be gettin’ home, too. You got wheels?”
“Not anymore. I walked over from Whittier.”
“I’ll drop you, man. My short’s right across the street.”
“It’s all the same to you, I’ll walk home. But I would like to check out that ride.”
They crossed the street and stood by the trunk of the car, the boat-tail rear waxed and beautiful in the golden-time light.
“Damn,” said Murphy. “That’s a pretty-ass Riviera. Seventy-three?”
“Seventy-two. Elaine bought it for me. It ain’t exactly like the one I owned. But it’s close enough.”
“Tell you somethin’. You got a woman like that, you don’t ever want to let her go.”
“I know it, brother. Believe me, I know.”
“See you next week?” said Murphy.
Clay said, “Bet.”
Kevin Murphy turned and walked east along the railroad fence, the atrophied stub of meat dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Clay watched him go, then drove away.
Marcus Clay slipped the sound track to Claudine into his tape deck and headed down to Mount Pleasant. Gladys singin’ Curtis, nothin’ could be better than that. He bought a couple of Boston creams — Elaine’s favorite — at Heller’s Bakery and then stopped at Sportsman’s Liquors, where he picked up a bottle of cabernet on the recommendation of Tasso and Leo, the genial brothers who owned the store. He drove over to Brown and parked his car.
Elaine sat on the stoop out front while Marcus Jr. ran around the rectangle of worn front yard, a small burgundy-and-gold football tucked under his arm. Clay took the concrete steps, waving to Pepe, his neighbor, who was working on a bottle of beer out on his porch.
“Daddy!” said Marcus Jr.