Play Dead

Clip’s face was still red. “You mind if I count the money, big mouth?”

“Not at all,” Mark replied. “You can even hold it while we shoot.”

Mark walked down the bleachers and handed the money to Clip. He looked at the older man’s angry eyes. If looks could kill. Whispers came from the others: “What do you figure?” “Some wealthy punk with money to burn.” “He’s no reporter.” “Rich bastard.” “Yeah.” “Timmy will teach him a lesson.” “Weirdo.”

Clip counted the money and then sighed. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

A coin was tossed. Mark won and chose to shoot second. A ball boy quickly set up the balls in various positions more than twenty feet away from the basket, where only the finest shooters dare roam. Mike Logan watched with interest. He had covered the previous year’s three-point contest before the All-Star Game in Dallas. David Baskin had won, shattering his own record by hitting twenty-two shots in the one-minute time period. Twenty-two. It had been truly incredible. Timmy Daniels had placed second with twenty; Reggie Cooper of the Chicago Bulls was third with nineteen.

Timmy Daniels approached the first cart of basketballs on the left side of the basket, his eyes concentrating on nothing but the rim of the basket. He crouched and waited for the timer.

“One minute of shooting. Ready, go!”

Tim started shooting. He moved from the left side of the basket to the middle, his rainbowlike shots heading toward the cylinder. Swish, swish, swish. Timmy shot as well as he had ever shot before.

“Thirty seconds!”

“He already has twelve!” someone shouted. “He’s heading for a record!”

Mark closed his eyes and hoped Tim would miss more often. But Timmy continued to shoot exceptionally well. His hands moved with precision, the same fast move- ment every time he shot.

“Time!”

The counter looked up. “Holy shit! Twenty-three! A new record! He shattered White Lightning’s record!”

Applause and cheers filled the small gymnasium. Timmy’s teammates, including Earl Roberts, went over and congratulated their shooting champion. Clip patted him on the back. Reporters took notes. Even Timmy seemed somewhat taken aback by what he had done.

Clip reached into his pocket and took out a victory cigar. The small crowd went wild.

“Not so fast, Mr. Arnstein.”

Clip looked past the front of his cigar at Mark. “Son, you might as well just head on home now.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“Not yet,” Mark replied calmly. But he was worried. Timmy Daniels had indeed shot brilliantly. “I still get my turn.”

“Why waste our time, son?”

“The name is Mark Seidman, Mr. Arnstein, and this contest is not yet over.”

Clip lit his cigar. Everyone laughed. “Well, let’s get a move on, Mr. Mark Seidman. There’s a team practice being held up because of you.”

The ball boys quickly retrieved the balls and set them up for Mark’s turn. He walked over to the left side of the basket and turned back toward Clip.

“Extra wager?” Mark asked.

“What? You crazy, son?”

“Extra wager or not?”

Clip smiled. “Name it.”

“If I win, you give me a tryout with the team. If I lose, your charity gets another ten grand.”

Again the laughter echoed through the warm building. “Done,” Clip shouted.

Mark nodded and waited; his muscles tensed. Everyone was watching him with mocking eyes. He could hear his heart pounding.

“Ready, go!”

Mark grabbed a ball off the rack and quickly launched his first shot. Too quickly. The ball banged off the rim. The crowd laughed. The next shot found its mark. So did the next, and the next . . .

“Not bad. He may even hit fifteen.”

“No way.”

... the next, the next . . .

“The kid can shoot.”

“He’ll never even hit sixteen.”

. . . a miss, a make, a make, a make . . .

“Funny way of shooting, huh?”

“Yeah. Quick release. Reminds me a little of Baskin.”

“Hey, Clip, what do you think?”

Clip Arnstein said nothing. He watched the awkward yet graceful shooting. Mark’s hands were a blur.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Christ, the kid has ten!”

Everyone watched now as Mark moved toward another rack of basketballs. He was still behind Timmy Daniels and no one gave any serious consideration to the blond’s chances of beating him, but only seven professional players had broken the eighteen-basket mark and the heckler had a real chance of hitting that milestone. Mark continued to shoot, ignoring his score, lost in the bliss of basketball. His shooting motion was fluid; the ball had perfect backspin as it dropped through the net.

“Time!”

Stunned silence. The counter looked up. “Twenty-four,” he said softly. “The kid just broke the record.”

Eyes swiveled as Clip Arnstein slowly strode toward the blond stranger named Mark Seidman. No one spoke. Clip approached Mark and handed him back his money. Mark said nothing, his expression solemn.

“Impressive shooting, son.”

Mark did not respond.

“But there’s a hell of a lot more to this game than shooting.”

The blond nodded his agreement.

Clip eyed him. The kid had just beaten the NBA’s best shooter and broken an NBA record. He should have been celebrating. Instead, the kid stood there like he was attending a funeral. Clip shrugged, turning away from the bleak, haunted look in Mark’s blue eyes. “A bet is a bet,” he said after some time. “Get on your practice gear.”

Mark jogged past the ugly, suspicious stares of his potential teammates, past the reporters. Mike Logan watched. The reporter could not believe what he had just seen. An amateur had just broken the three-point shooting record. And the weird style of his shot. Just like . . .

Logan took out his pad and wrote down a nickname just in case the kid made it.

White Lightning II.

13

May 30, 1960

ONCE again, it was time to kill. Victim Number Two.

Tears filled the killer’s eyes. I don’t want to kill this one. I really don’t want to. He was an innocent victim in all this.

But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was to blame. And maybe his death could finally lead to peace. Maybe his death would be a good thing in the long run. The innocent die all the time. Sacrifices must be made. Occasionally, the ends do justify the means. That was just the way of the world.