"I didn't do anything to him." Jimmy stirred, winced.
"Don't move. I'm going back to my boat and call the police. And an aid car."
"Aren't you a cop?" Jimmy pointed at the player hanging on the fence. "The handcuffs…?"
"I used to be a cop," said the older man. "I'm retired now, but I keep an eye on things, and the marina gives me a break on the slip fee. Only way I could afford a place like this."
"Are you-you Leonard Brimley?"
The older man looked surprised. "That's me. Who wants to know?"
"I'm Jimmy Gage. I came here looking for you. I'm a reporter."
Brimley scratched his head. "It's been a while since anyone wanted to talk with me."
"Hey!" shouted the player. "What about me? You're tearing my fucking arms off."
"Hush now," Brimley said without rancor. "I'll get to you presently."
Jimmy pulled himself to a sitting position. "Forget the ambulance."
"Are you sure?"
"I've been beat up worse than this."
"You're proud of that?" Brimley grinned.
"Just let me sit here for a while," said Jimmy, sounding tougher than he felt. Something about Brimley made him want to sit up straighter, not give in to the pain.
"That's always a good idea." Brimley patted him gently on the shoulder. "I'm going to put a call in to the locals. They're good boys; they know me."
Jimmy watched Brimley saunter down the sidewalk to the next gate, open it with a key, then continue down the dock. He was still impressed at the ease with which the older man had handled his attacker. Jimmy felt blood dripping from his nose. He looked over to the fence and saw the player struggling, dancing on his tiptoes. "Who are you?"
"You don't even recognize me?" The player spit at him, missed. "Perfect. Just fucking perfect."
Jimmy pulled out his shirttail, lightly wiping at the blood on his face. His right eye was swelling up, but he didn't think his nose was broken. "Tell me your name. You owe me that."
"I owe you?" The player's voice cracked. "You're the one who owes me."
"What did I do to you?" Jimmy carefully pulled himself upright, then had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees until the world stopped spinning. He hobbled closer to the fence and stared at the player. The man's arms were powerful, lumped with muscle, his face all rough edges and thick brow ridges. Jimmy squinted. "Butcher?"
The man on the fencepost kicked at Jimmy, howling as his full weight tore at his bound wrists.
Jimmy had to sit down again.
"My name is Darryl Seth Angley, you fuck," snarled the Butcher.
Jimmy's head throbbed so loudly he thought someone was dribbling another basketball. It must have been five or six months since he had written the article about the Butcher. It was no big thing, just a short piece on the regular two-on-two pick-up basketball games at Venice Beach. Napitano had held it for a few issues, printing it only last month. Jimmy had almost forgotten about it.
"You turned me into a joke," moaned the Butcher. "The ballers just laugh at me now."
Jimmy had spent the afternoon courtside, taking notes, doing a few interviews. The Butcher had owned the court, playing with a succession of partners, always winning. The Butcher played a hyper-aggressive game, even for street ball, elbows flying, bumping, and thumping, forcing even bigger players to back off. Better players too. The Butcher wasn't the best one out there, but he made up for it with a ferocious, full-contact game, even knocking aside his own team-mate going after a rebound. Jimmy had named him "the Butcher" in his notes, giving all the players nicknames: the Butcher, Stringbean, Ghettoblaster, the Phantom.
The Butcher went limp on the post, sweat rolling down his up-raised arms.
The Butcher had ruled the court all day, driving away his last partner an hour earlier, challenging the waiting players to a little one-on-one, bouncing the ball as he called them out. They stood up, one after the other, and one after the other he sent them away bleeding. No one could beat the Butcher. Until the Waiter showed up.
"What did I ever do to you?" wailed the Butcher.
Jimmy had been ready to leave when the Waiter first walked onto the court, but there was something about the new guy that made him stay. The waiter was a tall, skinny white guy wearing black trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled. A black bow tie was tucked into his shirt pocket. He wore street shoes. The Butcher tossed the ball to the Waiter, giving him a few minutes to warm up, then walked over and drank from his water bottle. One of the bikini girls who had been hanging around all day tried to speak to the Butcher, but he ignored her, his eyes on the Waiter shooting jumpers. Jimmy sensed something interesting was going to happen, and the other players must have too-they drifted over from the other courts to watch, whispering among themselves.
"You're not even a player," the Butcher said to Jimmy. "You just run down people who are."
The matchup between the Butcher and the Waiter got off to a fast start, the Waiter bringing the ball into play, hip-faking the Butcher, then blowing past him for a slam dunk. The backboard hummed with the force of it. The crowd was silent. No cheers, no jeers. Silence. The Butcher took in the ball, bullied the Waiter aside, and dove for the basket, but as he went for a lay-up, the Waiter plucked the ball from his grasp and buried it. The crowd stirred. The Butcher took the ball in again and swung an elbow at the Waiter's head, but the Waiter ducked under the blow, stole the ball again, and hit a fall-away from almost midcourt. The crowd shouted their approval, whooping it up now.
The game continued like that for the next twenty minutes, the Waiter scoring from all areas of the court, outjumping, outrebounding, outplaying the Butcher, just scorching him. In response, the Butcher became increasingly violent, tripping the Waiter when he went up to dunk, flagrantly fouling him, cursing and arguing with him. The Waiter stayed cool, even as the knees of his pants were torn; he just quietly kept making shot after shot. When he won the first game, the Butcher insisted on making it two out of three, and when he won the second game, the Butcher said he meant best of five. When the Waiter won the third game, the crowd booed the Butcher off the court, catcalling, mocking him. Jimmy had written it up just that way.
"I used to be somebody," said the Butcher. "People respected me. You took it away. It wasn't losing to that Waiter, that was a fluke, but you turned it into something important."
"I just wrote an article-"
"You and your fancy job. People listen to you, even if you get it all wrong. Well, I got a nothing job and nobody cares what I think. I clock in five minutes late, I get docked a half-hour. I got to ask permission to take a crap. That's my job." Tears rolled down the Butcher's cheeks. "You fuck. You fucking fuck. The only place people paid attention to me was on the court."
Jimmy heard whistling, turned around, and saw Leonard Brimley approaching.
"Local cops should be here soon," Brimley said. "You doing okay?"
"Yeah." Jimmy stared at the Butcher, remembering the near misses, the basketball slamming into the soft drink machine inches from his head. Most of all he remembered the indecision on the Butcher's face. He turned to Brimley. "Why don't you call the cops. Tell them we don't need them."
The Butcher's head jerked up.
Brimley rubbed his jaw. "Assault and battery. That's a serious charge."
Jimmy pulled himself up hand over hand and hung on to the fence to support himself. "Darryl and I-we were just practicing our b-ball moves. I guess we got a little out of hand."
"I saw the whole thing," said Brimley, as if he were in on the joke. "You weren't practicing for anything other than getting your brains beat out."
"Let him go, Mr. Brimley," said Jimmy. "I'll talk to the cops. Darryl and I just had a little misunderstanding, but we got it straightened out. Right, Darryl?"