Murder at the Racetrack (23 page)

The old man drained his espresso, washed the cup in the sink, and went to the coatrack by the door. His fedora and camel hair
topcoat had dried. But not today. He put on a thin raincoat that would make him shiver all day, and a fleece-lined hunter’s
cap with earmuffs.

It was bitterly cold outside. The snow had already begun to freeze. Ice had frozen to the windows of his Volkswagen. He had
to hold a lighted match to the door lock to melt the ice. He got in, started the car, put on the defroster, and then got back
out and dug out the snow around the wheels with his bare hands.

He drove slowly up and down hills that were packed down with icy snow. When he got to his nephew’s house, he saw him standing
outside the front door. He wore a hunter’s cap, too, with earmuffs, and an expensive topcoat, and he carried a leather briefcase
that contained his tuna fish sandwich and an apple. His nephew got in the car.

“Were you waiting long?” the old man asked.

“The Knicks won last night, uncle,” his nephew said. His lips peeled apart like an open wound when he spoke and his eyes were
wide and unblinking. The old man drove off. His nephew kept talking in his shrill voice.

“Latrell Sprewell made twenty-four points,” his nephew said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out his official NBA scorebook.
He traced his finger down the scorebook and began reading. “With two minutes and twenty-eight seconds gone in the first quarter,
Latrell Sprewell scored a basket on a…” He looked close to the scorebook. “… jumpshot from twelve feet away from the basket.
Then with four munites and fifty-two seconds gone in the first quarter, he was fouled by…” Again he looked close to the scorebook.
“… Alonzo Mourning. He made his first foul shot and then he missed his second. With six minutes and…”

His nephew’s droning voice lulled the old man. The endless, meaningless torrent of words let the old man slip into a reverie
of what he must do today. He tried to visualize it in his mind’s eye. The proper defeated slouch of an old man. Eyes always
averted, looking down at the hunter’s cap in his hand. The weak shrug. The equivocation. “I don’t know.” And then, “Maybe
just a few games.”

His nephew was still talking. He was in the fourth quarter now as they approached the courthouse on Main Street. The street
had been plowed at night, but the plowing only packed down the remaining snow like a sheet of ice. The old man stabbed the
brakes as they came to the courthouse and the Volkswagen began to slide in the snow. His nephew kept talking as the old man
tried to steer the Volkswagen away from a parked car. The Volkswagen began to slow as it slid into the parked car with a jolt.
His nephew had stopped talking now. He looked out his window at the crumpled fender of the Volkswagen against the crumpled
fender of the parked car.

“Uncle, you hit a car,” his nephew said with wide eyes.

“It’s nothing,” the old man said. “Are you all right?” His nephew nodded with great exaggeration. The old man said, “Hurry.
You’ll be late for work. I’ll leave a note on the windshield so the owner can call me.”

He got out of the car and went over to the parked car as his nephew climbed the courthouse steps. The old man called out to
him, “I’ll pick you up at six.” His nephew nodded and disappeared behind the big double doors of the courthouse. The old man
looked around to see if anyone had seen him. He took out a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled on it. He stuck it under
the parked car’s windshield wipers. The note read, “I hit your car. Sorry.”

The old man backed his car into the street and drove off. His dented front fender rattled a bit but didn’t scrape the tire.
He turned down a side street into the warehouse district. Old red-brick buildings long since abandoned. Their windows broken.
Rusted machinery in their parking lots. He pulled into one of the warehouses that had a hand-painted sign above the door:
SHORTY’S POOL HALL
. He parked the car alongside of an Oldsmobile Cutlass painted lime green with gold wheels.
“Melatizana,”
the old man said out loud. He sat in his car for a moment until he had calmed himself. Then he got out and went inside. He
walked down a narrow, dirty hallway to a pair of frosted glass doors with the words
POOL HALL
painted on them. He pushed open the doors and stepped inside. It was dark and it smelled of piss and cigarette smoke and
spilled beer and b.o. A tall, gaunt man whose face looked like something out of a wax museum—his chalky cheeks had a fake,
rosy tint—was sitting hunched over a desk, reading a newspaper. The old man looked around the dimly lit pool hall. All the
tables but one were deserted. A
melanzana
in his late thirties was banging the balls around the table by himself. He looked up at the old man and then back to his
table. He wore a tight, black silk T-shirt that showed off all the gold chains around his neck, and tight black pants. The
old man shuffled over to the bench along the wall behind the
melanzana,
and sat down. He watched him shoot for a few minutes. Banging the balls aimlessly with a touch like a blacksmith.

The
melanzana
was hunched over the table, sighting a shot, when he glanced over his shoulder at the old man watching him. He smiled, flashing
his gold teeth. He had processed hair, shimmering with pomade, curling down his cheeks in ringlets.

“You taking a picture, old man, or what?”

The old man looked down at the hunter’s hat in his hands, and said softly, “I’m sorry. I was just watching.”

“You got nuthin’ better to do with your time?” The old man said nothing. The black man said, “No, I guess you don’t. An old
man with too much time and nuthin’ to do, huh?” The black man turned back to his shot, rammed the cue ball hard into a rack
of balls, scattering them across the table. He straightened up and turned toward the old man.

“It’ll cost you to watch, old man,” he said. “I ain’t puttin’ on a show for free for some old white dude got nuthin’ to do
but wait to die.”

The old man felt his face get hot. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and stood up. “I won’t bother you anymore.”

He began to walk away. The
melanzana
called after him. “Hey, old man. Come on back here. Grab you a stick and we’ll play a coupla games.”

The old man turned and said, “I don’t know. I haven’t played in years.”

“So what? You’re here, ain’t you? We’ll shoot a coupla games a nine ball for fun. Maybe a dollar or two just to keep score.”

The old man looked down at his soft, pink hands fingering his cap. “I don’t know,” he said again.

“Come on, old man. What else you got to do? I ain’t about to hustle no poor old man in some sorry-ass clothes.”

“Well…” The old man began to take off his raincoat. “Just a few games.”

They shot nine ball for hours. The old man won a few games when they shot for a dollar, but then his stroke became erratic,
jerky, when they began to shoot for ten dollars a game. He hit short straight-in shots too hard, and long shots too easily.
He blinked repeatedly as he sighted a long shot. The object ball far down the table looked fuzzy, like a tennis ball. He jabbed
his stick at the cue ball and rattled the object ball around the table. After each game, he dug into his pants pocket and
paid the black man. When he had lost all the money he had won shooting craps he went over to the rack against the wall and
hung up his cue stick.

“I have to go now,” the old man said.

“What? You got an important date? An old man with nuthin’ but time on his hands.”

“I have to pick up my nephew from work.”

“The good uncle, huh?” The old man put on his raincoat and cap. He felt tired, but good. A good tiredness. Physical, not mental.
The black man said, “I’ll tell you what, old man. I’ll give you a chance to win your money back tomorrow.”

The old man shook his head, no. “You’re too good for me.”

The black man grimaced. “Aw, I was lucky today. You shoot a pretty good stick for an old man. Maybe tomorrow will be your
day.” The old man shook his head, no. The black man said, “I’ll give you a spot tomorrow. How’s that? The eight and nine.
You pocket the seven you win. I gotta go all the way to the nine.”

The old man looked up at his smiling black face and his gold teeth. “Well,” he said. “If you say so. Tomorrow at the same
time.”

His nephew was waiting for him on the steps of the courthouse. He got in the Volkswagen and they drove off.

“How was work today?” the old man said. His nephew did not respond. The old man looked across at him. He was sitting with
his briefcase on his lap, digging at the briefcase with a fingernail. “You’re gonna scratch the leather,” the old man said.
His nephew ignored him and continued scratching at the leather with a brooding concentration. The old man sighed and concentrated
on the road.

They drove in silence until they were only a mile from his nephew’s house. Finally, the old man said, “Nephew, I’ve been thinking.
It would help me and your aunt if you could pay me one fifty a week instead of one hundred. I’ve been driving you for five
years now.” He looked over at his nephew. He was still digging at his briefcase. He had scraped away a spot of dark, shiny
leather to reveal the white hide underneath.

“What do you think, nephew?” the old man said.

His nephew just stared at his finger gouging at the leather, but said nothing. The old man shook his head. He turned the corner
that led to his nephew’s house. When he reached the house, he parked in front and turned to his nephew to ask him again. He
had stopped digging at his briefcase now, but he was still staring at it. Finally, his nephew said, “I don’t want you to drive
me anymore, uncle.” He stared at his briefcase as he spoke.

The old man looked at him. “What? But why?”

“You’re too old. You got in an accident today. I’m afraid.”

“That? That was nothing. The car just skidded on the ice. It could happen to anyone.”

“I don’t want you to drive me anymore, uncle. You’re too old. You got in an accident today. I’m afraid.”

Before the old man could respond, his nephew opened the door and got out. He turned his back on his uncle and began walking
with quick, prissy steps toward the front door.

The old man called out after him. “Are you sure?” His nephew did not turn around. He just opened the front door, went inside,
and shut the door behind him.

•    •    •

The old man and his wife ate their dinner in silence. Finally, his wife said, “What will we do?”

The old man, looking down at his food, said, “I’ll do what I’ve always done. I’ll find a way.”

“What if he’s not there tomorrow?”

“He’ll be there. He’s a greedy
melanzana
”

“But you don’t have any money to play with.”

“I won’t need any. I’ll tell him we’ll pay up at the end of the day, not after each game.”

“Are you sure you can beat him?”

The old man looked up at her. His face was flushed. “That fucking
melanzana
Laughing at me. It was all I could do not to let him know I was setting him up for a score. I could beat him with one hand.”

“Oh no,” she said. “That’s too dangerous. You can’t play him jack up. If you win, he’ll know.”

The old man smiled at his wife. “Don’t worry, honey. All these years, I’m not going to make a mistake. He’ll never know what
happened. I’ll walk out with his money and he’ll think he won.”

She nodded, but she did not smile.

That night, asleep in bed, the old man dreamed. He tossed and turned and woke up in the middle of the night. His face was
flushed with anger. He said, out loud, “Fired by a fucking retard!” His wife groaned in the bed beside him. He whispered to
her, “Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

•    •    •

The
melanzana
was waiting for him. He smiled at the old man as he took off his raincoat. The gaunt man with the waxlike face was sitting
at his desk, reading a newspaper. All the tables were deserted. The old man noticed another
melanzana,
only younger, leaning against the wall next to a table. He wore a purple satin jogging suit and those fancy
melanzana
sneakers. He had a shaved head and a big earring like a pirate’s. He stared at the old man through dark sunglasses.

“I was afraid you wasn’t gonna show, old man,” the older
melanzana
said.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” the old man said. He took a breath and forced himself to smile. “I had to go to the bank to get money.”

“Money, eh?” the
melanzana
said. “I don’t think you’ll be needin’ no money today, old man. Today’s your lucky day.” He smiled and looked over at the
younger man. “Ain’t that right, brother Reeshaad?” The younger black man gave him a thin smile, but said nothing.

The older
melanzana
racked the balls at the table near the other one while the old man took a cue stick off the rack. He reminded himself not
to roll the stick over the green felt tablecloth to make sure it was straight. The older
melanzana
opened a black leather case, took out two pieces of an elaborately carved cue stick, and screwed them together.

“You break ’em first, old man,” the older
melanzana
said. “Age before beauty.” He laughed.

The old man bent over the table and sighted the cue ball toward the rack of nine balls he would have to pocket in order to
the seven, the money ball. The older
melanzana
stood at the other end of the table, grinning. “What say we shoot for twenty a game, old man? Give you a chance to win back
your money real quick.”

“Make it fifty,” the old man said as he rifled the cue ball into the rack, scattering the object balls, and sinking the five.
He looked up to see the
melanzana
standing at the end of the table, staring at him. He was not grinning now.

“You ain’t hustlin’ me, is you, old man?”

The old man said nothing. He studied the layout of balls. He had easy shots on the one and two, and a long straight-in shot
on the three. From there on to the seven, it was an easy run.