The Dance (6 page)

If anyone else had chased after him so long to do something he didn’t want to do, Nick Grutler thought, he probably would have punched him in the nose by now. But he respected Michael, and he learned it paid to listen to him. Michael was trying to persuade him to go out for the basketball team.

They were near the end of a one-on-one game, playing on an outside court near the girls’ baseball field. The storm the night before had left an occasional puddle for them to dodge, but the water was slowing neither of them down. School had ended about an hour earlier, and the varsity team’s official after-school practice had been canceled. The new coach had wanted the gymnasium floor waxed, and Tabb High’s most recent crop of janitors had never done it before—and probably shouldn’t be allowed to do it again; at the rate they were going, the floor wouldn’t be ready for the homecoming game.

Michael had asked Nick to hang around to help him with his jump shot. Naturally they had ended up trying to show each other up. Ii was no contest. Nick was ahead forty-four to thirty in a fifty-point game. Michael had trouble stopping Nick because Nick was able to palm the ball with equal ease with either hand, hit three-quarters of his shots anywhere within a twenty-foot radius of the basket, and—according to Michael, although Nick thought he was exaggerating—fly.

“But if this new coach you guys have is such a jerk,” Nick said, tossing the ball to Michael to take out of bounds, “Why should I put myself out for him?”

“You won’t be doing it for him,” Michael said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Nick admired Michael’s gutsy determination, especially on defense, even though he knew if he really wanted, he could score on him every time. “You’ll be playing for yourself.”

“On a team sport? Sure you don’t want to take a break?”

“I’m all right.” Michael said, dribbling slowly in bounds. “I mean you don’t know how talented you are. I bet you could average thirty points and twenty rebounds a game if the rest of us didn’t get in your way.” He paused, panting, his free hand propped on his hip. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Michael nodded, continuing to dribble at the top of the key. “You get that kind of stats over the first half of the season and you’ll have every college recruiter in the area coming to watch you play. Have you ever thought about that, going to college?”

“I never thought of graduating from high school till I met you,” Nick said, not exaggerating. It had been Michael who had gotten him into academics at Tabb. Michael had done it by forcing him to read one book, from cover to cover, each week. It had been quite a chore for Nick because initially he’d had to go over each page three or four times with a dictionary. But he had learned that Michael’s belief that the key to success in school was a strong vocabulary was absolutely true. He had found that even in math he could figure out how to work the problems now that he could follow the examples. He had also learned he enjoyed reading—he especially liked war stories—and that he wasn’t dumb. Indeed, Michael had told him not more than an hour earlier that only someone with a high IQ could quadruple his vocabulary in the space of two months.

Nick was going to look up the exact definition of IQ as soon as he got home.

“Would you like to go to college?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know what I’d do there.”

“You would go to classes as you do here. Only you’d be able to major in any subject you wanted.” Michael stopped suddenly, let fly with a fifteen-foot jump shot. Nick sprang up effortlessly, purposely swatting it back in Michael’s direction. “Nice block,” Michael muttered, catching the ball.

“Do people major in history?” Nick asked.

“Sure. You enjoy reading about the past, don’t you?”

“It’s interesting to see how people used to do stuff.” Michael appeared undecided what to do next. “Why don’t we take a break?” Nick suggested.

“Only if you’re tired?”

Nick yawned, nodded. A week after Alice McCoy’s funeral, Michael had called him with a job lead at a vitamin-packing factory. Nick had immediately ridden to the place on his bike. He had been hired on the spot. Only later had he come to understand they’d taken him on as a favor to Michael. Apparently, Michael had once helped the owner’s son—Nick didn’t know all the details. He was just thankful to have cash coming in so his dad wouldn’t throw him out. But the hours were long and there was a lot of heavy lifting. He usually worked swing—three to twelve. He couldn’t imagine taking on the extra burden of daily basketball practice. He told Michael as much as they walked to the sidelines and collected their sweats.

“You shouldn’t be working full-time,” Michael said. “You’re only in high school. Does your dad take all your money?”

“Just about.”

“That’s not fair.”

“If you ever met my dad, and he wanted your paycheck, believe me, you’d give it to him. Anyway,
you
work full-time.”

“That’s different. My mom needs the dough. And that’s beside the point. You’ve got to take the long-term perspective on this. Imagine—you go out for the team, blow everybody’s mind, get offered a college scholarship, earn a degree, land a job where you don’t have to kill yourself every day for the rest of your life, and you can see how it would be worth it to sacrifice a few hours of sleep for the next few months.”

Nick wiped his brow with his sweatshirt, slipped it over his head. “Forget about psyching me up for a minute and tell me this: am I really that good?”

“You’re better than that.”

Nick shook his head. “I can’t believe this.” In response, Michael snapped the ball toward his face. “Hey!” he shouted, catching it an inch shy of the tip of his nose. “Watch it.”

Michael nodded. “There isn’t another kid in the school who could have caught that ball. The best somebody else might have done was knock it away. You’ve got reflexes. You’ve got hands. And you’ve got a four-foot vertical jump. Trust me, you’re
that
good.”

Nick lowered his head, dribbled the ball beside his worn-out sneakers; he’d had only one pair of shoes in the past three years. “The Rock and a couple of his football buddies are on the team.” he said. “What kind of welcome are they going to give me?”

“Oh, they’ll try to make you feel like dirt. Especially when you start bouncing the ball off the top of their heads every time you slam-dunk. But I can’t believe you’d let
them
stop you?”

“It’s not just them. It’s—something else.”

“What?”

“Somebody’s out to get me, Mike.”

“Who?”

Nick grabbed hold of the ball, squeezed it tight, feeling the strength in his hands, and the anger, deeper inside, that seemed to give fuel to his strength. Except for brief moments it was as if he had been angry all his life—or alone and unwanted. It was often hard for him to tell the feelings apart. “There’s this guy who goes to school here—his name’s Randy. I don’t know his last name.”

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s ugly. He’s got dark hair, bushy red sideburns, and a beer gut. He looks older. You know who I’m talking about?”

“I’ve seen him. What’s he doing to you?”

“He’s trying to sell me drugs. I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but he keeps on me, even after I’ve told him a half-dozen times I’m not interested. I think he’s trying to set me up.”

“That serious?”

“Yeah. This afternoon, when I went to my locker, I found a Baggie sitting on top of my books, and a note that said 'On the House.’ The Baggie had a couple of grams of coke in it.”

“What did you do with it?” Michael asked.

“I gave it to Bubba.”

“What did you do that for?”

“He was with me when I found it. He wanted it.”

“But Bubba doesn’t do drugs.”

“Maybe he wanted to sell it, I don’t know.”

Michael considered a bit. “The fact that he looks older could be important. It might be possible to use the computer to check on—Hey, what is it?”

She was coming out of the girls’ shower room, her long black hair tied in a ponytail as it had been the day they first met. Although small and far away, for a second, she was all he could see. “It’s Maria,” Nick said.

Michael was not impressed. He thought Maria was a phony for dumping Nick simply because the police had detained him at the station after Alice McCoy’s death. Michael didn’t know about her overriding fear of calling attention to herself, of being found out for what she was—an illegal alien. But maybe the knowledge wouldn’t have made any difference to Michael. Often it seemed a poor excuse to Nick, too. Yet there wasn’t an hour that went by when Nick didn’t think of her.

“She must be feeling like hot stuff being elected to the homecoming court and all,” Michael said.

“Not Maria.”

Michael glanced at him, then at Maria. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Nick rolled the ball in his hands. He would pop it next; he knew he could make it explode. “It’s driving me nuts.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Talk to her. But she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Have you asked her why?”

“I’ve tried.”

“Try again. Try now.”

“No. No, I can’t.”

“You have a perfect excuse to approach her. You want to congratulate her on making the court. Here, give me the ball. I’ll wait for you.”

“Mike…”

“Go, before she’s gone.”

He went; he only needed a shove. She saw him coming and turned to wait. He took that as a positive sign.

It wasn’t.

“Hi,” he said. “How are you?”

She appeared so calm, he thought she must surely be able to see how he was trembling inside. Yet a closer look showed her calmness to be no deeper than the welcome in her expression. She had waited for him out of politeness, not because she wanted to.

“Good,” she said. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m all sweaty.” He nodded toward Michael, and the courts. “We’re playing some basketball.”

She nodded, solemn as the day they’d met. only more distant now, not nearly so comfortable. “I saw you. Say hello to Mike for me.”

“I will.” That sounded like a good-bye. “I hear you’re a school princess. That must be exciting?”

Her mood brightened, a bit. “I still don’t believe it. I didn’t think anyone knew who I was.”

“It didn’t surprise me. I voted for you.”

“You did, really?”

“Of course.”

“Who else did you vote for?” She sounded genuinely curious.

“Jessica and Sara and that girl Bubba sees—Clair.”

“That’s only four people. You could vote for five.”

“They were the only ones I wrote down.”

She seemed happy, in that moment, standing there listening to his praise, probably replaying in her mind the afternoon’s announcement. But it didn’t last. She looked at the ground. “I’ve got to go.”

The word just burst out of him. “Why?’

“Because, Nick, because—” She clasped her books to her chest, her head still down. “I have to.”

“I see.” Then he said something that had been on his mind since the cops had led him to the jail cell with Rats and Russ the night Alice McCoy had taken a bullet through the head. “Is it because I was running down the stairs after the gunshot?”

She jumped slightly. “No.”

“You think I killed her.”

She turned away. “No!”

“You’re the only one who knew I was coming down those stairs.” He stopped, and now a cold note entered his tone. “Or are you, Maria?”

Her back to him, she nodded slowly. “I’m the only one. But that doesn’t matter. None of that matters.” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark, lonely. “I have to go.”

He shrugged. “Go.”

When he returned to the court, Michael asked him how it had gone. Nick repeated everything that had been said, except the bit about his running down the stairs. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Michael, he simply felt guilty for having lied to him after the funeral when they had originally discussed the matter. Back then, after having spent a few days in the slammer, he’d been afraid to say anything even remotely incriminating.

He needed respect, not just from Michael, but from everyone in school. Then maybe Maria would see him as something other than a threat. As they walked toward the showers, he said, “I think I will go out for the team.”

Although he had been badly beaten on the court, Michael felt better for the exercise. The thought of his date that evening with Jessica wasn’t slowing him down, either. He’d had trouble falling asleep the night before thinking about it.

After saying good-bye to Nick, Michael headed for the computer-science room. He’d been meaning to have a talk with Bubba. He decided now would be a good time.

Michael had not purposely avoided his old friend after Alice’s death the way he had avoided Jessica, yet since then, he had spoken to Bubba very few times. He suspected Bubba may have been keeping his distance. Whatever the reason, it was time to clear the air between them.

On the way to Bubba, he passed a pay phone and thought of the form he’d given Polly. She hadn’t been at school that day. He decided to give her a quick call. She didn’t answer till the seventh or eighth ring.

“You barely caught me, Mike. I’m on my way out.”

“I won’t keep you then. I was wondering if I could swing by this afternoon and pick up that form I left last night?”

“What form?”

“The permission form I wanted your aunt to sign. Did she have a chance to read it over?”

Polly hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Is there a problem? If you’d like, I could explain what it’s for to your aunt.”

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Do you have any idea when I could pick it up?”

“I’ll see. I’ll get back to you, all right?”

“Sure. I’ll talk to you later.”

Putting down the phone, he knew he’d wait a long time before Polly McCoy contacted him.

He was not surprised to find Bubba seated in front of a CRT. Hardly lifting his eyes from the screen, Bubba waved him into a chair. Michael sat patiently for a few minutes before finally asking, “Should I come back later?”

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

Bubba continued to study the screen, flipping through rows and rows of figures. “Did you know Tabb High is paying to receive the latest Wall Street numbers over our modem?”

“No.”

“Neither does the administration.” Bubba pointed to the screen. “Look at Ford. Yesterday it was ninety-five and three-quarters. Now it’s down to ninety-two and a half.”

“Did you buy an option on it?”

“No. I’ve been shying away from options altogether. Too risky with the way Wall Street has been dancing since the bond market choked.” He tapped a couple of other numbers, then put his finger to his lips, thoughtful. “But when the market’s like this, it’s also the best time to make a quick killing.”

“Are you in some kind of hurry?”

“Greed always is.” He flipped off the screen, relaxed into his personal swivel chair, giving Michael his full attention.

“What’s up?”

“The usual—nothing. How about you?”

“What can I say? The world revolves around me.” He paused, giving Michael a penetrating look. Bubba was no dummy. “You want to talk about something, Mike?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“No, I’m that perceptive. Besides, we’ve known each other a long time. What’s on your mind?”

He reminds me we’re old friends. He knows I don’t trust him.

Michael did not suspect Bubba of murdering Alice McCoy. He realized, however, that Bubba did not have to be a murderer to be a liar. Nick had heard groans coming from the locked bedroom next to the room where they had found Alice. Cries of distress, Nick had thought, perhaps mistaking what had actually been cries of ecstasy.

“All right, I did want to talk to you about some-thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Were you having sex with Clair in the bedroom next to the one where Alice died?”

Bubba chuckled. “Wow, now that’s a fine question.”

Michael smiled. “Were you?”

“What did I tell the police?”

“That you were outside in the front with Clair, stargazing.”

“Then the answer must be no.”

Michael leaned forward. “Come on, Bubba, it had to be you. It couldn’t have been anybody else.”

“How does this tie in with what happened to Al-ice?”

“If I knew for a fact you were in there with Clair, it would allow me to cross that room out of the whole equation.”

“Are you still talking to the police?”

“The police think it was a suicide,” Michael said. “I keep in contact with the detective that was in charge of the case. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“I’m not going to go to them with this information if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t in the bedroom. I would tell you if I was. Why don’t you believe me?”

Michael knew from experience what a phenomenal liar Bubba was. Yet he didn’t understand why Bubba would lie to him now. Surely he couldn’t be trying to protect Clair’s reputation, not after bragging about how many condoms he had gone through with her. On the other hand, the question remained—who could it have been?

Could Bubba have been in the room with Clair and Alice?
Michael sat back in his seat. “I hope Clair enjoyed the astronomy lesson. Did you show her the Little Dipper?”

Bubba grinned. “Hey, that sounds like a personal insult. But I’ll forgive you this time. How’s the telescope? Discovered any comets?”

No one could change a subject as smoothly as Bubba. Michael decided he would wait and broach the topic later. “I’m still looking,” he said. “It’s a big sky.” He had made a vow to himself not to discuss his find with anyone until it was definite. He nodded to the computer screen. “I need a favor.”

“What?”

“Use those codes you swiped from Miss Fenway and call up the files on that Randy guy who’s been hassling Nick to buy drugs.”

“On Randy Messer?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yeah. I already have. He’s a narc.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t be absolutely sure, but he came out of nowhere. He has no transcripts. He has no home address. I think he was planted here by the police. They’re doing that these days.”

“Why do you think he went after Nick?”

“Because he’s black.”

“What did you do with the cocaine you got out of Nick’s locker?”

“Spiked a Pepsi with it and gave it to Randy.”

Michael laughed. “Did he drink it?”

“Yeah. He was bouncing off the walls in creative writing. The teacher had to send him down to the office.” Bubba yawned. “I’ll spread the word about him. He won’t last.”

Michael thought of Polly and the permission form. “I’d like you to do me another favor. I want a look at the report on Alice’s autopsy. I’m having trouble going through official channels. I was wondering if you could tap into the police files and—”

“Forget it,” Bubba interrupted.

“Why?”

“The police department deals with highly sensitive information. It’s not like the school district. They have experts protect those files. I won’t be able to touch them.”

Michael had suspected that would be the case. “The coroner who did the autopsy isn’t a full-time employee of the county, but a consultant. His name is Dr. Gin Kuwait. I checked around at lunch. He has an office downtown.” Michael pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, gave it to Bubba. “That’s his business address. You can see he belongs to the ARC Medical Group. They’re fairly large. They must be computerized.”

Bubba fingered the slip. “Even if I’m able to break into the group’s files, who’s to say the good doctor will have a copy of a report he did for the city in with his private records?”

“There’s no way of telling without looking. Can you do it?”

“It all depends on how their system’s set up. It may be that I’d have to go down there at night and use one of their terminals.”

“You mean break into the office?”

“Yeah. Or I might be able to do it from here.” Bubba set the paper aside. “I’ll look into it.”

“I really appreciate it.” Michael shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose you think I’m nuts for keeping up the investigation?”

Bubba turned away, snapping his screen back on. “I understand how much she meant to you, Mike. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Thanks.”

The door burst open. It was Clair Hilrey. Michael got to his feet, went to congratulate her on her nomination to the homecoming court. The words caught in his throat. Her usually bright blue eyes were bloodshot, and she hadn’t been out drinking and celebrating. She had been crying. She smiled politely when she saw him, though, wiping a hand across her cheek. “Hi, Mike. Am I interrupting something?”

Bubba had stood up, too, and knocked over his chair doing so. Bubba jumped for a girl about as often as he went to Sunday Mass. Michael took the hint. “I was just leaving,” he said.

“He was just leaving,” Bubba repeated, catching Clair’s eye. She lowered her head. Michael hurried toward the door.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said.

Obviously he wasn’t the only one with a lot on his mind.