“Is this going to be loud?”
“It may get… emphatic.”
Marcus kissed her cheek and got up from the bed. He threw his heavy down jacket over his shoulder and tucked his textbook under his arm. “I think I’d be better off at the library. You comin‘ tonight?”
“Do I ever miss your games?” She stroked his face. “You need money for dinner?”
“Nah, I still got pocket change from last month’s stipend. Wait.” He let his jacket fall to the floor and handed his mother his book. “I’ve got coupons.” He sorted through his wallet and took out four slips of paper. Kept one and gave the rest to his mother. “They were giving these out at practice yesterday.”
Dorothy looked at the scrips: Each was worth up to five dollars of free food. “Who gave these to you?”
“Local sponsors. They give them away to everyone at the doors. God forbid the NCAA should think we’re getting a freebie.” He shook his head. “Man, a crummy coupon is the least they could do for exploiting us. Last week’s game was a sellout. Because of Julius, of course. He’s the star. We’re just the sideshow-his own personal valets. Asshole!”
“Don’t swear.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Dorothy felt a pang of maternal defensiveness. “That boy couldn’t do nothing without the rest of you feeding him perfect shots.”
“Yeah, you try and tell the hog that b-ball is a team sport. If me or anyone else says anything to Coach, Julius gets mad and next thing I know I’m out on my ass. And there’re like three hundred homies waiting in the wings, thinking that Boston Ferris is their ticket to the NBA. Not that it’s bad to dream…” He sighed. “Shit, I dream.”
Tenderness welled inside her breast. Dorothy said, “There are dreams, Marcus, and there are pipe dreams. Like I always tell you, a good sports agent with a Harvard law degree can make lots of money without killing his back and knees and being a washout at thirty.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening, it’s just…” The young man scratched his head. “I don’t know, Ma. I fall for it the same as everyone else. I’ve got the dream. But I also know reality. I’m trying to live in both worlds, but I just can’t keep going at this pace. Something’s gonna give.”
Dorothy threw her arms around her son. “I know you love the game, Marcus. I love the game, too. And I would never be the one to want to spoil your dream, but I just want what’s best for you.”
“I know you do, Ma. And I also know the Ivy law schools just love the big black boys with good test scores and the high GPAs. I know I’d be a jerk to blow this kind of opportunity. Still, you think about things.” His eyes became distant and unfocused. “It’s all right. When the time comes, I’ll do the right thing.”
Dorothy kissed her son’s cheek. “You always do.”
“Yes, that’s true.” He paused. “Good old reliable Marcus.”
“Stop that!” Dorothy frowned. “You’ve been given gifts from the good Lord. Don’t be an ingrate.”
“Absolutely.” Marcus slipped the jacket on and tossed his backpack over his shoulder. “I know where I come from. I know where you came from, Mama. I know how hard you work. I don’t take anything for granted.”
2
Slumped in the driver’s seat of the car, drinking coffee that was too strong and too hot, Michael Anthony McCain squinted through the foggy windshield as his brain took a trip down memory lane, back to the time when he had it all. About ten years ago. When he was in his early thirties, around the time he’d been promoted to detective one. One hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle on his five-eleven frame, he’d been able to bench-press three on a good day. His hair had been thick, light brown in the winter, dirty blond in the summer. With his sparkling baby blues and his dazzling white smile made possible by thousands of dollars’ worth of dental work, he’d been a hell of a pussy magnet. Even Grace had forgiven his occasional indiscretions because he was an incredible specimen of the male species.
Now she had no tolerance at all.
If he was home a minute late, she’d get all snitty on him, giving him the cold shoulder for days even if he didn’t do nothing. Which, unfortunately, was all the time, unless he went hunting, which he wasn’t inclined to do, being too broke, too busy, and too tired.
Even then, it’s not like he went after women. They just came to him.
McCain made a sour face.
It had been a long time since someone-anything- had just come to him.
Fucking-A long time.
He turned on the defogger for the zillionth time, which blasted cold, then hot air, until the interior of the Ford was as hot and humid as a rain forest. As soon as he killed the switch, frigid air seeped through the cracks and crevices, exposing the shoddy fit and finish of the car. He shifted his weight, trying to stretch his legs as best he could, given the cramped conditions. His right toe was numb and so was his butt. Sitting too long.
He was swaddled in layers of clothing that made him too hot in some places and too cold in others. His hands were encased in leather gloves, making it hard to hold the cup, but at least when the coffee sloshed over the rim, he didn’t feel the burn against his hands. His nose was cold, but his feet were warm courtesy of a little electric foot heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter of the Escort. He’d be comfortable-relatively comfortable- until the contraption short-circuited.
Given his history with departmental gear, McCain gave it a couple of weeks.
Through the glass, Aberdeen Street was superficially cheerful. The night was still, the air electrified by blinking Christmas lights strung along the rain gutters of shabby frame houses. Snow left over from last week’s storm still dusted bushes and trees. Icicles hung like tears from the eaves of the houses that lined the block.
Not many single-family homes left anymore in this part of Somerville; most of the houses were leased out and shared. The neighborhood was no South Boston or Roxbury. Most of the residents were decent types- working-class stiffs, born and bred in and around the city. A fair share of graduate students, too, looking for cheaper housing because rentals in Cambridge were exorbitant. But the district had its share of bad guys.
The yellow house McCain was watching was filled with students, including the bad guy’s current squeeze-a pie-eyed sociology major at Tufts. Privileged girl, currently screwing Romeo Fritt, the murderous psychopath. She’d taken her parents’ protests as racism. Idiots never learned; normally, that wasn’t McCain’s problem except that Fritt was wanted for an especially brutal multiple murder in Perciville, Tennessee, and according to an anonymous tip, he was possibly bunking at the pie-eyed girl’s apartment-and that was his problem.
Underneath his parka, McCain had loosened the top button on his pants, giving him more slop-over room for his gut. Used to be he could eat whatever he wanted and a couple hours in the gym four days a week was enough to keep the almighty spread at bay.
Not no more.
About five, six years ago, he’d started running in the morning-couple of miles, then three, then four. That worked for a while. Now? Fergetit. No matter how much progress he logged up and down Commonwealth, his waist kept growing. Then, irony of ironies, around the same time he started putting on the pounds, his head hair started falling out. Then, adding insult to fucking injury, useless hair started growing in his nose and ears.
What the fuck was that all about?
He finished the last dregs of his coffee and threw the paper cup onto the backseat. The yellow house had been lifeless for the last hour. He had one more hour to go before his shift was up. Because of the cold, they were working in two-hour segments, bosses figuring it wouldn’t look good for the department to be sued for frostbite.