Small Vices Part 15

"No we don't," he said. "I need to hit for another half hour and you need to get lost."

He was looking straight at me and I realized that he was... black certainly didn't cover it. His skin color was about the same color as mine... of African heritage, or partly so, seemed to say it better. I don't think I'd have noticed if the kerchief hadn't predisposed me.

"I can wait," I said.

"I don't like anyone watching me."

"Clint," I said. "Under ordinary circ.u.mstances worrying about what you like and don't like would occupy my every waking hour. But these are desperate times. And I'll have to hang around until I can talk with you."

"Maybe I could wrap this racquet around your head," Clint said.

"No, you couldn't," I said. "I'd take it away from you and play Steamboat Willie on it."

Stapleton stood and studied me for a time, slapping the racquet gently against his leg, looking as arrogant as he was able to, making sure that I knew he feared nothing.

"What do you want?" he said finally.

There was weariness in his voice, as if he was fighting off his darker impulses, trying to be civil. I was fairly sure that if I had been a short person with small bones he would have given in to his darker impulses.

"I want you to tell me about Melissa Henderson."

"Who?"

He said it too fast, and too loudly.

"Melissa Henderson, whom you used to go out with, who was murdered."

"Oh, Melissa?"

"Yeah. Melissa. Tell me about her."

"Nothing to tell. We dated a few times. Then she got killed."

"Don't you hate when that happens," I said.

He shrugged.

"How many times?" I said.

"How many times what?"

"How many times did you date her."

"How the h.e.l.l would I know? I go out with a lot of girls. I don't keep track of every date."

"More than five times?" I said.

He shrugged again.

"Yeah, I imagine."

"More than ten?"

"For crissake," he said. "I told you I don't keep f.u.c.king track."

He rolled a yellow tennis ball up onto his racquet and began to bounce it on the racquet, studying the bounce as if it was important.

"You got a girlfriend?" I said.

"What are you, Ricki Lake? Yeah, I got a girl I'm going with."

"Who?"

"None of your G.o.dd.a.m.ned business."

"You give her your letter sweater?"

"No. What the h.e.l.l are you asking all this c.r.a.p for?"

"You gave Melissa Henderson your letter sweater."

"How the h.e.l.l do you know?"

"I am wise far beyond my years," I said.

"Yeah?" he said. "Well, bulls.h.i.+t."

I had no idea where I was going. There was something phony about him. I didn't believe a kid would give away his letter sweater to someone he dated casually. And I wanted to keep him talking and see what came out.

"So how come you gave Melissa your letter sweater?" He continued to watch the tennis ball bounce rapidly on the racquet face. Then he gave it a little sharper bounce and it went up in the air. As it started down he whanged the ball across the length of the tennis facility and watched it burrow into the netting that hung around the outside of the courts.

"I'm sick of you, pal," he said. "I got better things to do than hang around here and talk s.h.i.+t with you."

"Good for you," I said. "You know a State Police Detective named Miller?"

"Never heard of him," Stapleton said.

He zipped his racquet up in its case.

"Talk to any cops at all about this case?" I said.

"h.e.l.l, no," he said.

He put his racquet under his arm and walked away across the courts toward the exit, leaving the court area littered with yellow tennis b.a.l.l.s. I wanted to tell him that it was bad form not to pick up the b.a.l.l.s. I wanted to scuttle alongside him and ask more questions. But his legs were longer than mine and I decided to work on dignity. I'd already been compared to Ricki Lake. So I went looking for the Sports Information Office, instead, and found it in a wing attached to the field house.

"My name is Peter Parker, the photographer," I said to the young woman at the reception desk. "We're publis.h.i.+ng a photo essay on Clint Stapleton, and I need some bio."

The receptionist was clearly a student, probably a cheerleader in her other life, cuter than the Easter Bunny, but nowhere near as smart.

"Could you spell the last name, sir?"

I spelled it. She wrote it down on a piece of note paper. I could see the tip of her tongue resting tentatively on her lower lip as she wrote.

She read it aloud when she'd finished writing it down. "Stapleton, yes, sir. Now what did you want about him?"

"Biographical material," I said.

She looked a little uncertain.

I said, "A press kit maybe?"

She smiled with relief.

"Yes, sir. I'll get you a press kit on Mr. Stapleton, sir."

She stood and started to turn toward the file cabinet on the opposite wall. Then she caught herself and turned back to me.

"Would you like to be seated, sir? I'll only be a moment."

I said, "Thanks."

She hurried across the room to a big metal file cabinet and began rummaging through the file drawers. I didn't want to sit. But I didn't want to offend her, so I compromised by leaning on the wall while she rummaged. She was dressed in the calculated slovenliness that was au courant. Doc Marten shoes, baggy jeans, and an oversized white s.h.i.+rt under a herringbone-patterned sweater that was also too big. The white s.h.i.+rt tail hung well below the bottom of the sweater, and the white s.h.i.+rt cuffs were turned back over the sweater cuffs. The sleeves of the sweater s.h.i.+rt combination left only her fingers visible. The bottoms of the jeans bagged over the Doc Martens so that she stepped on them when she walked. I s.h.i.+fted my other shoulder onto the wall. It was slow going at the file drawers, for Ms. Grunge. I wanted to say, "After R and before T." But I feared she would find it patronizing, so I held back. And as it turned out, she didn't need my help. After five or six more minutes she came back from the file cabinet and handed me a blue folder with the Taft logo on the front and the name Clint Stapleton hand lettered in black ink on the tab.

"May I keep this?" I said.

"Oh, certainly, sir. We have them available just for that."

"Thank you," I said.

"Oh, you're very welcome, sir." I smiled.

She smiled.

I left.

Chapter 22.

I SAT IN my office with my feet up, and the window open to let some air in, and thumbed through the press kit on Clint Stapleton. Mostly it was puffery. It did say that Clint was twenty-two, and a senior at Taft. That he had grown up in New York City, and attended Phillips Andover Academy, where he'd been captain of the tennis team.

I put the folder down for a moment. At twenty-two he was five years younger than Hunt McMartin, the guy who'd ID'd Ellis Alves. And the same age as McMartin's wife, who had also gone to Andover. This smacked of clue, but it had been so long since I'd found one that I remained cautious. The rest of the stuff was about how Clint was likely to be an all-American this year, and how Iie was planning to join the pro tour after graduation. His won-and-lost record was there, some xeroxed clippings, all laudatory, a head shot, and several action shots of Clint. He was wearing his kerchief in all of the action shots.

I sat for a bit and thought about the Andover connection and listened to the sounds of city traffic below my window. While I was thinking, Hawk came in with lunch.

"Nantucket Bay scallops are in," Hawk said. "Thought we ought to have some."

"What made you think I'd be hungry?" I said.

Hawk snorted and didn't bother to answer. He took out a bottle of dry Riesling, some plastic cutlery, two containers of broiled scallops, and a pint of coleslaw. I dug a corkscrew out of my desk drawer and, while Hawk opened the wine, I rinsed out two water gla.s.ses in the sink.

"Wine for lunch makes me sleepy," I said.

"Don't have to drink none," Hawk said.

He poured some in one of the water gla.s.ses and looked at me.

"I don't wish to offend you," I said.

Hawk grinned.

"'Course you don't," he said and poured some wine into the second gla.s.s.

We were quiet for a time while we sipped a little wine and sampled a couple of the bay scallops. The pint of coleslaw was communal. We took turns at it.

"Take a look at this," I said and handed the sports info folder to Hawk. "This is the guy that gave Melissa Henderson his letter sweater."

Hawk read through it. When he came to the pictures he stopped and studied the head shot.

"A brother," Hawk said.

"Sort of," I said.

"Suppose he met Melissa's parents?" Hawk said.

"Don't know."

"If he did," Hawk said, "you suppose he was wearing the do rag?"

"Looks like a trademark to me," I said.

"He tell you anything useful?" Hawk said.

"Started out pretending he didn't know Melissa," I said.

"Okay, so we know he ain't smart," Hawk said.

"He's not friendly either," I said. "He also says he never talked to the cops, but his coach says a detective who sounds like Miller, the State cop that busted Ellis, talked with him, the coach, not long after the murder and asked about Stapleton."

"So somebody knew about him right after she died," Hawk said.

"But either Stapleton's lying, or n.o.body talked to him."

"You talk to the cop?"