Hangman's Game (28 page)

She places her hands on her hips and bites her lip. “You made $970,000 last year, right?”

So while I was reading about her strip club, she was looking up my salary. What a modern romance.

“You have it right,” I say. “To the dollar.”

“If I tell you something that helps you, I want money. A lot of it.”

Money, of course. It's disappointing to hear her say it, but I don't really care. Because if she has information that she thinks is worth selling, then the police have indeed arrested the wrong man.

“I'll take care of you,” I say. “If what you have to say is worth it.”

“And you have to promise you won't make me go to the police,” she says, eyes brimming with anger.

“Why no police?”

“Because I don't like the police, and I don't trust them,” she says firmly.

“But a man's life…”

“No,” she says. “No, no, no.”

She glares at me, arms folded.

“Okay, I get it,” I say. “Just tell me what you know.”

She breathes in deeply. “I don't think JC did it either.”

I feel a rush of excitement. “Who did?”

“I don't know,” she says. “But I don't think it's JC.”

“Why?” I ask quickly.

“The night Samuel was killed, early in the shift, this guy comes into the restaurant, and he's hanging around the bar,” Melody says. “He calls me over and when I try to take his order, he offers me five dollars to call him if Samuel Sault comes into the bar. I tell him it's going to cost him fifty, just to throw a number out there, try to get him to up his offer. But he agrees to fifty. I called him before I even put in your order. But he didn't come back the whole night, not even after you all left. I would bet if someone followed you from the restaurant and it wasn't JC, it was him.”

“What was his name?”

She pulls her green band from her hair and studies it, as if something is wrong with it. “He never gave it to me. He was kind of weird looking. He was older, and black. He was wearing a sports jacket, but it was frayed at the collar. If I had to bet, I would guess he was a bum that someone paid to be his front man. But whoever this bum is working for, I would bet that's the killer.”

My initial excitement dissipates. With Philadelphia's shamefully large street population, the man that Melody is describing would be impossible to find. And what she is saying, even if true, doesn't provide me with any proof. It's just a story, vague and secondhand.

“What about the night Jai was arrested?” I ask. “Did the guy ask you to call him again?”

Melody searches for a moment before answering, “No, but everyone knows when JC is coming in. He always tweets it, in exchange for a forty percent discount off his tab.”

I would have to review the bill from the night of Jai's arrest. After he and Cheat were dragged out, I ended up paying, and I don't remember seeing any discount.

“Do you have the guy's phone number?”

Melody fished around in her bag, but then stopped and shook her head.

“I have it on my phone, but I just remembered, it wouldn't do you any good,” she says. “I tried calling the night after the shooting, but the number was already dead. It must have been one of those prepaid burner phones. You know what those are?”

Yes, I did, from having watched
The Wire
. And last year a member of the league's players association, advocating for health benefits for retired players, actually made a comparison between football players and burner phones—how both are used for a while and then tossed aside—in an interview that was widely read among people who care about such things. My mother had forwarded me the story.

Now that Melody has shared her information, I am befuddled. She has confirmed my instincts and suggested an alternate theory, but she hasn't given me anything I can use—no decisive piece of evidence I can hand over to Rizotti to let him know there's another track to explore.

“Please, you have to go to the police,” I tell her. “If you have some charge hanging over your head because of the Winking Oyster, I'm sure they will let it go if you help them with this.”

“Oh, really?” she says, an eyebrow dubiously cocked. “First of all, the police have their guy. I don't think they'll be all that eager to reopen the case. Second of all, I don't think punters have the power to speak for the district attorney. And third of all, JC can afford a good lawyer. I'm not going to go to prison so I can save that loudmouth some money on attorney's fees.”

I am regretting my promise to Melody about not taking her to the police. But I said what I said, and I keep my promises. And furthermore, I cannot guarantee that her arguments are off base.

But what is interesting is that when I suggested that Melody might be avoiding the police because of what she did at the Winking Oyster, she rolled with that suggestion in a way that implies I was right. Perhaps she is a parole violator, or maybe even a felon on the run.

I pull out my wallet and hand her all the hundreds I have on me.

“Is that all I get?” she says, thumbing through the bills. I have given her about a thousand bucks, maybe a little less.

“Yup,” I say. “Be happy with that.”

We walk back to the car. Every time we pass a happy couple holding hands or giggling, we sink deeper into an uneasy silence. On the ride home, to break the quiet, I ask Melody why she lives with her uncle.

She doesn't answer for about ten seconds, but then grudgingly allows, “Vaughn's the closest thing I have to a father these days.”

“What happened to your parents?”

She folds her arms. “Really wanna know? You're not going to use it against me?”

“Yes.”

She sighs, and begins. “First, there's my mom. She skipped out when I was two. Then there's my dad. He's in prison.”

“For what?”

She hesitates.

“The thing you need to understand about my dad is,” she says, “he's the sweetest man I've ever known. He taught me guitar. When I was a little kid we'd spend our Saturday nights practicing in the den. One year we won a red ribbon at the county fair for best duet.”

She sounds genuinely warmed when she talks about this memory, but my stomach can't help but knot, waiting to hear what her doting father did to be locked up.

“One day he and I were coming home from the supermarket,” she says. “The market was only a couple miles away, so we'd walk. It gave us something to do, and we'd save on gas money. So we are walking and this kid drives by. He's talking on his cell phone, and his side mirror hits me in the elbow. I fall to the ground, groceries are everywhere, I'm screaming. And the kid gets out of the car to see if I'm okay. He still has his cell phone in his hand. And my dad snaps. He didn't get that it was just the mirror that hit me. He chops the kid in the throat. And the kid dies.”

“He dies?” I say, aghast. “From one hit?”

“It landed in exactly the wrong place, and crushed the kid's throat,” she says. “Just plain bad luck. I'd never seen my dad hit anyone, ever. But he throws one chop and the whole world changes. It's like he is struck by lightning. It's like we all were.”

“That's unbelievable,” I say.

“The worst part was,” Melody says softly, “my dad was given a public defender who was so dumb he couldn't even beat me in checkers. My dad ended up getting fifteen years.”

“Did your mom ever hear about what happened?”

Melody looks away. “I don't know,” she says. “Wherever my mom ended up, she must have forgot to send postcards. That's okay, people say that Daddy always knew better how to handle me anyway. Although they also tell me I'm a lot like her. I don't know what that means.”

I think I do.

*   *   *

When we pull up to the house, I tell her I'm sorry.

“I'll be fine,” she says. “You take care of yourself. Eat a whoopie pie every now and then.” And she leaned forward and kisses me on the mouth, and I let the kiss hang for a while. It's an escape to an alternate reality where neither of us have the problems we have and this was just a plain old date.

Soon she pushes her tongue into my mouth, and I place my hand on her back. She raises one knee up on her seat, and then another, and she grabs on to my shoulders with both hands and leans her body into mine.

But I am wedged behind the steering wheel and we have the gear shift between us. Our mouths locked, we adjust our bodies, struggling to find a comfortable position.

And yet I do not want to move to the backseat—or, even worse, into her house, where we might have to chat with Vaughn for a few moments—because I know that in the process of separating and moving, the spell will break.

And so we twist within our confines, me working a hand underneath her shirt, forcing its way onto the lace of her bra, but with the back of my hand, so my feel is more of a flattened squish. She places her hand in the crotch of my jeans, but her arm is bent such that she can only press down. She attempts to twist her body around, looking for a more manageable angle, but her contortions push her up and over the seat, so she tumbles slow motion, headfirst, in the back of the car.

The fatal separation has happened. She rights herself in the backseat and pats the fabric, inviting me to join her. But already I can feel my buzz disappearing.

“I have to be going,” I say. “And so do you. Good luck, Melody.”

She shakes her head in disappointment, but it is an act. She knows, too. “Hope your camp goes well tomorrow, I'll be rooting for you,” she says, and then she lets herself out from the back. I watch her walk to the door of her house and I feel oddly gratified when she shuts it behind her.

As I drive home, my mood only elevates. The clock on the dashboard shows it is a shade past midnight, but I am not concerned at all about coming in weary for tomorrow's minicamp. I am ready to beat Woodward, and then to go on from there. I feel like I can save Jai. I am going to win.

 

CHAPTER 21

B
Y THE TIME
I arrive back at the Jefferson, however, my enthusiasm is subdued, because I still have no idea what that next move should be. I consider going to the police on my own, but if I talk to them, then they will want to talk to Melody. I will have led them to her doorstep, which I said I wouldn't do.

I feel like a Cub Scout with one stick. I know I can start a fire, if only I can find something to rub against.

I cannot sleep. My lack of rest will make tomorrow's camp a battle. But I've had plenty of sleepless nights before games and I've always found energy when the ball hits my hands.

It is one of my rules that if I am still awake in bed after fifteen minutes, I get up so that I do not create an association between my bed and sleeplessness. At 1:05
A.M.
I am on the sofa, watching the fourth season of
Weeds,
when I receive a text from Freddie.

You up?

I pause the show and dial his phone.

“What's going on?”

“My father called this afternoon,” Freddie says, voice slurred.

“And?”

“He's talked to Jai's defense lawyers,” Freddie mumbles. “He's arranged it so I can go to their offices tomorrow. Work with them on the case. Perry Mason, Jr., that sort of thing.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I guess he still hasn't given up on the idea of his son becoming a lawyer,” Freddie says.

I hear him breathing heavily into the telephone and hear the echo of his breath as well. The reverb is so pronounced that I wonder if he is calling me from a bathroom.

“So go to their law offices,” I say. “What's the big deal?”

He grunts and then groans. He does not sound well.

“Being an unpaid intern at thirty-three,” he mutters, “is not a good look.”

“Try it,” I say. “Just go for one day. If you hate it, don't go back. All your amusements will still be waiting for you when you get home.”

It is silent on the other end, until I hear a violent heave. Then a clatter and a crash, and the line goes dead.

*   *   *

At 4:00
A.M.
I am still pounding episodes of
Weeds
. I wish for a do-over of my conversation with Melody, a chance to persuade her to go to the police.

I need a new argument, I realize. I need to make this as beneficial to her as it is to me.

I need to find out just what is hanging over her head from the Winking Oyster.

As the dawn nears I decide to ask Aaron for help. He said he knows people in police departments all over the East Coast. And he would know the most efficient way to procure what I need.

My only hesitation is that I have never asked Aaron to help me with anything before.

But at 6:14
A.M.
I send Aaron a note.

Hello, Aaron. It's Nick. I know this is going to sound strange, but can you get me the police report from Providence, Rhode Island, for the closure of a club called the Winking Oyster about a year ago?

A minute later, my phone rings. It is Aaron, up already. Of course he can't just answer by e-mail, he has to call. Open the door a crack and he comes bursting through.

“Hey, Aaron,” I say pleasantly. “Good morning.”

“Morning, Nick,” he says. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Your mother and I are in Elmira,” he says. “After last week, she's a little jumpy about the idea of being cut off from the world.”

“Sorry to hear that, Aaron,” I say. “I know you like that cabin very much.”

“I do. I'm curious about this request you made. What's the Winking Oyster?”

“It's a strip club.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Why do you want to know about it?”

“I just need the report,” I say.

“For what?” Aaron asks, his tone businesslike.