Play Dead
Page 47Then the two men shared a smile and a wink.
MARK Seidman showed the press pass T.C. had secured for him to the security guard. He moved past the guard and sat on the wooden benches with the other reporters. Hellenic College in Brookline, Massachusetts, was home of the Soaring Owls. Their basketball program had been dumped off the curriculum twelve years ago after yet another pitiful season. If they had drawn thirty people for a basketball game, including the players and coaches, it would have been considered a major sellout. But Mark Seidman and the handful of spectators were not there to watch the Soaring (or Wingless, as the school newspaper had labeled them) Owls. No, the gymnasium at Hellenic College was more well-known for their current guests: the Boston Celtics.
Here was where the final tryouts were held before the preseason games began. The seventeen players on the court would be trimmed down to twelve soon, leaving five crushed dreams on this wooden floor in Brookline. The Celtics were having double sessions this week. That meant two practices a day. The morning practice was an intense workout, but in the afternoon, the mood was a bit more relaxed. Members of the press with the proper credentials were encouraged to come in and watch the players for a while.
Today, Mark Seidman was one such reporter.
Celtics coach Roger Wainright ran the players through a few simple drills and then gave the players time for free shooting. It was a quiet day for the Celtics. Mark counted only eight reporters in the stands. Not even Clip Arnstein was here. Mark watched the players shooting. Earl Roberts was working on his hook shot. Johnny Dennison dribbled laps around the court. And Timmy Daniels, the press’s pick to be this year’s best outside shooter, was practicing his long-range jumper with one of the towel boys rebounding for him.
Mark could see the smile on Coach Roger Wainright’s face as he watched his young guard put shot after shot through the cylinder. Suddenly, an idea surged into Mark’s head. He sat upright, mulling the idea over in his mind. It would work—he was sure of it. There was a big risk, but after all, what did he have to lose? He felt anxious, wanting to just get it over with. But Mark knew better than to try it today. No way. He would get only one chance. If he blew it . . . Well, that was it. The end. Mark needed to get some money and wait until Clip Arnstein and the media were around. His scheme would fail without them.
Mark stood and stepped off the bleachers. He would have to wait until the team held its next press conference before putting his plan into action. The press conferences were usually the same—reporters asking about the team’s chances of winning the championship, and Clip Arnstein answering with either a joke or a sports cliché. Occasionally, the press would ask about a trade rumor or a change in personnel, but for the most part, press conferences were routine and not very exciting events.
Mark Seidman was about to change all that.
GLORIA came out of the bathroom with her checkbook in hand. She spotted Stan’s body on the floor. He lay still, too still. She managed to write a check for one hundred thousand dollars with her shaking fingers. She tore it out of the book and handed it to the bleached blond standing over Stan’s body.
B Man smiled graciously as she cringed away from him. “Thank you, lovely lady,” he said, pocketing the check. “I assume you can cover this rather considerable sum?”
She nodded.
She nodded again, her eyes stained with fear.
“Good.” The B Man looked down at Stan and shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand what you see in this deadbeat. Frankly, I think you’re being foolish.”
He smiled at her. She moved farther into the corner.
“Alas, life is full of choices,” B Man continued. “You’ve made your bed, my dear, and repulsive as it might be, you have to sleep in it.” With a small bow (a custom he had picked up in the Orient), the B Man turned toward the door. “I wish you both all the best. Good-bye for now, lovely lady.”
As soon as the door closed, Gloria raced across the room and knelt by Stan’s still form.
“Stan?”
He groaned.
“Don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.”
His hand reached out and grabbed hers. “No.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just help me up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Stan grimaced. “I’ll stand under a hot shower for a while and clean myself off.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “It looks worse than it is, believe me.” With a struggle, Gloria helped him to his feet. He looked at her solemnly. “I’m going to pay you back. Every last cent.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” she replied.
“I mean it. Every cent. I’m so sorry about all this, Gloria. I would understand if you wanted to stop seeing me.”
“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” she said.
“You don’t?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m not going to gamble anymore. I promise.”
“I do. I promise. I’ll never gamble again.”
“Good,” Gloria answered. “We’re going to need a first-aid kit. Will you be okay while I run down to the front desk and get it?”
“Sure,” he managed. “I’ll be in the shower when you get back.”
She started toward the door. “Gloria?” he called to her.
“Yes?”
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too, Stan.”
She closed the door. Stan listened to her footsteps echo down the hallway. He quickly moved toward the phone and dialed.
“Hi, it’s Stan,” he said. “Put five hundred dollars on Broadway Lew in the third race.”
MONDAY morning came to Brookline, Massachusetts. T.C. drove Mark through Brookline’s town center on the way to the college’s gymnasium. Mark had been silent for most of the trip, which was no surprise to T.C. After all, today was the big day. T.C. and Mark had spent most of the weekend going over the plan, trying to figure out a solution to every conceivable problem that could arise. T.C. thought that they had covered it all. The plan was actually very simple—and completely dependent on Mark.