Laurie laughed. “Hey, my folks are having a little dinner party tonight. Would you care to come along? It would be a lot more cheerful than sitting in your plundered apartment.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Jack said. As with Terese’s actions the night before, this invitation was totally unexpected. Jack was moved.
“I would enjoy your company,” Laurie said. “What do you say?”
“You do realize that I’m not particularly social,” Jack said.
“I’m aware of that,” Laurie said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot. You don’t even have to tell me now. The dinner is at eight and you can call me a half hour before if you decide to come. Here’s my number.” She wrote it on a napkin and handed it to him.
“I’m afraid I’m not such good company at dinner parties,” Jack said.
“Well, it’s up to you,” Laurie said. “The invitation stands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got two more cases to do.”
Jack watched Laurie leave. He’d been impressed with her from the first day, but he’d always thought of her as one of his more talented colleagues, nothing more. But now suddenly he saw how strikingly attractive she was with her sculptured features, soft skin, and beautiful auburn hair.
Laurie waved before slipping out the door, and Jack waved back. Disconcertedly he stood up, discarded his trash, and headed up to his office. In the elevator he wondered what was happening to him. It had taken him years to stabilize his life, and now his well-constructed cocoon seemed to be unraveling.
Once inside his office Jack sat down at his desk. He rubbed his temples to try to calm himself. He was becoming agitated again, and he knew that when he became agitated he could be impulsive.
As soon as he felt capable of concentrating he pulled the closest folder toward him and flipped it open. Then he went to work.
By four o’clock Jack had accomplished as much paperwork as he could handle. Leaving the medical examiner’s office, he took the subway. As he sat in the bouncing rail cars with the other silent, zombielike people, he told himself he had to get another bike. Commuting underground like a mole was not going to work for him.
Arriving home, Jack lost no time. He took his stairs two at a time. Finding a drunk, homeless person asleep on the first landing didn’t faze him. He just stepped over the man and continued. With his anxiety Jack needed exercise, and the sooner he got out on the basketball court the happier he’d be.
Jack hesitated briefly at his door. It seemed to be in the same shape as he’d left it. He unlocked it and peered into the apartment. It, too, seemed undisturbed. Somewhat superstitiously Jack walked over to the kitchen and looked in. He was relieved to see that no one was there.
In the bedroom Jack pulled out his basketball gear: oversized sweatpants, a turtleneck, and a sweater. He quickly changed. After lacing up his hightops, he grabbed a headband, a basketball, and was back out the door.
Saturday afternoon was always a big day at the playground, provided the weather cooperated. Usually twenty to thirty people showed up ready to run, and this particular Saturday was no exception. The morning rain had long since stopped. As Jack approached the court he counted fourteen people waiting to play. That meant he’d probably have to wait through two more games beyond the present match before he could hope to join.
Jack nodded subdued greetings to some of the people he recognized. The etiquette required that no emotion be shown. After he’d stood on the sidelines for the appropriate amount of time he asked who had winners. He was told that David had winners. Jack was acquainted with David.
Careful to suppress the eagerness he felt, Jack sidled up to David.
“You got winners?” Jack asked, pretending to be uninterested.
“Yeah, I got winners,” David said. He went through some minor ducking and weaving that Jack had learned to recognize as posturing. Jack had also learned by sore experience not to imitate it.
“You got five?” Jack asked.
David already had his team lined up so Jack had to go through the same process with the next fellow who had winners. That was Spit, whose nickname was based on one of his less endearing mannerisms. Luckily for Jack, Spit only had four players and since he knew Jack’s outside shooting ability, he agreed to add Jack to his roster.
With his entrance into the game now assured, Jack took his ball to one of the unused side baskets and began warming up. He had a mild headache and his jaw ached, but otherwise he felt better than he’d expected. He’d been more concerned about his stomach once he started running around, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest.
While Jack was busy shooting foul shots Warren showed up. After he’d gone through the same process that Jack had done in order to get into the game, he wandered over to where Jack was practicing.
“Hey, Doc, what’s happening?” Warren asked. He snatched the ball from Jack’s hands and quickly tossed in a shot that hit nothing but net. Warren’s movements were uncannily fast.
“Not much,” Jack said, which was the correct reply. Warren’s question was really a greeting in disguise.
They shot for a while in a ritual fashion. First Warren would shoot until he missed, which wasn’t often. Then Jack would do the same. While one was shooting the other rebounded.
“Warren, let me ask you a question,” Jack said during one of his turns shooting. “You ever hear of a gang by the name of the Black Kings?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Warren said. He fed Jack the ball after Jack had put in one of his patented long-distance jump shots. “I think they’re a bunch of losers from down near the Bowery. How come you’re asking?”
“Just curious,” Jack said. He sank another long jump shot. He was feeling good.
Warren snatched the ball out of the air as it came through the basket. But he didn’t pass it back to Jack. Instead he walked it to Jack.
“What do you mean, ‘curious’?” Warren asked. He drilled Jack with his gun-barrel eyes. “You ain’t been curious about any gangs before.”
One of the other things that Jack knew about Warren was that he was keenly intelligent. Had he had the opportunity, Jack was sure he’d be a doctor or a lawyer or some other professional.
“I happened to see it tattooed on a guy’s forearm,” Jack said.
“The guy dead?” Warren asked. He was aware of what Jack did for a living.
“Not yet,” Jack said. He rarely risked sarcasm with his playground acquaintances, but on this occasion it had just slipped out.
Warren regarded him warily and continued to hold the ball. “You pulling my chain, or what?”
“Hell no,” Jack said. “I may be white, but I ain’t stupid.”
Warren smiled. “How come you got banged up on your jaw?”
Warren didn’t miss a trick. “Just caught an elbow,” Jack said. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Warren handed over the ball. “Let’s warm up with a little one-on-one,” he said. “Hit-or-miss for the ball.”
Warren got in the game before Jack, but Jack eventually played, and played well. Spit’s players seemed unbeatable, to the chagrin of Warren, who had to play against them on several occasions. By six o’clock Jack was exhausted and soaked to the skin.
Jack was perfectly happy to leave when everyone else departed en masse for dinner and their usual Saturday-night revelry. The basketball court would be empty until the following afternoon.
A long, hot postgame shower was a distinct pleasure for Jack. When he was finished he dressed in clean clothes and looked into his refrigerator. It was a sad scene. All his beer had been drunk by the Black Kings. As far as food was concerned he was limited to an old wedge of cheddar cheese and two eggs of dubious age. Jack closed the refrigerator. He wasn’t all that hungry anyway.
In the living room Jack sat on his threadbare couch and picked up one of his medical journals. His usual evening routine was to read until nine-thirty or ten and then fall asleep. But tonight he was still restless despite the exercise, and he found he couldn’t concentrate.