“Thank you.”
“Where did you learn to play like that?”
Mark shrugged. “Nowhere special. Around.”
“Well, you play like no rookie I’ve ever seen.” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “You look very familiar to me, Mr. Seidman. Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Funny, I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” she continued. “Were you ever on the campus of Colgate University?”
“No.”
“Maybe I knew your mother. Yes, that’s it. Seidman, Seidman. Even the name rings a bell.”
“My mother died a good number of years ago.”
Once again, Judy studied his face. She had seen his reaction to Laura’s conversing with Stan Baskin, but this time, his expression remained composed. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you excuse me, ma’am?”
Judy simply stared at him, saying nothing. Her eyes did not wander off his face as he smiled weakly, nodded, and moved toward the exit.
It can’t be, she told herself. Just calm yourself down. Mark Seidman is just another amazing sports story. That’s all. Stop making something out of nothing.
But she knew it was not true.
STAN stumbled down the empty hallway at the Boston Garden and into the abandoned men’s room on the top floor. He had been drunk plenty of times before, plenty, but man, did he feel out of control and sick tonight. His head spun like a seventy-eight on an old Victrola. His mouth felt like someone had poured sand down his throat. And his stomach, his goddamn stomach felt like a training ground for grenade launchers.
He looked at himself in the mirror, fear clutching his neck and throat. There was more than just booze working on his head, his mouth, his stomach. He had never been so terrified in all of his life, and yet an opportunity had sprung forward that exhilarated him. Money. All he wanted. All he needed. It was right in front of him now. He would ask for one hundred grand right off the bat and then cash in new installments whenever he deemed it necessary. He could have everything he ever wanted . . . if he would only shake hands with the devil.
Stan staggered away from the mirror. Sometimes he was such an idiot, especially when it came to Laura. When was he going to learn to keep his big mouth under control? Christ, he was drunk. Maybe he should apologize for what he said, but no, that would do no good. Laura would just spit on him. Why did he always do things like that? Why did he always slide backward into his darkened, vile pit whenever he was one step away from getting out of it for good? He had drunk too much, seen Laura, and wham, his lust for vengeance on David rose up in him. Why? The poor guy was dead now. Why in the face of Laura’s awesome beauty did his old hatred always emerge anew?
He unzipped his fly in front of the urinal. The truth was he did not want to leave quite yet. He could have the money and keep Gloria—though it could get a little messy. After all, the source of his money supply was a member of her family.
Yes, blackmail was on his mind, plain and simple. But this was no ordinary blackmail scheme. He was not planning on blackmailing an ordinary wrongdoer.
He was going to blackmail his father’s murderer.
Stan grabbed onto the sides of the urinal and steadied himself. Sweat made his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. After all these years he had finally seen his father’s killer again. Most sons would cry for blood against such a demon. They would demand biblical justice, an eye for an eye, death. But not Stan. Too many years had passed to play vengeful gunslinger, and frankly, Stan was gutless in the ways of violence, always had been. He could report it to the police, but who would believe him? Who would trust the word of a man who had waited thirty years to let anyone know that he had witnessed his father’s murder? And with his police record? No way. Forget it.
No, Stan decided, he would have to wreak his own type of vengeance against the killer of his happy childhood. He would let the murderer live in constant fear of being discovered—and make a nice profit for himself in the process.
A rush of nausea swept through him. Sure as God made green apples, he was going to vomit. No doubt about it. He hated throwing up, but then, who likes it? It had to be done. Best to get it over with. Besides, maybe he’d feel better after sacrificing a few of those Molotov cocktails to the porcelain gods.
He wove toward the stall, his right shoulder ramming against the metallic side. If he were sober, Stan undoubtedly would have noticed the throbbing pain in his shoulder blade. Fortunately, the alcohol snuffed it out. Stan dropped to his knees, clutched the cold toilet on either side and waited.
That was when he felt someone grab him by the hair.
“What the—?”
The rest of his words were lost in the icy water. Whoever had grabbed him was strong. Stan’s face lunged forward into the toilet bowl, crashing into the bottom. He could no longer breathe. Panicked, he shook his head back and forth violently, but he could not get free from the viselike grip, could not find an air pocket so that he could gather even one more breath into his heaving chest.
“You son of a bitch!”
Stan could barely make out the words being shouted at him, the toilet water splashing against his ears. I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to drown in a fuckin’ toilet.
His lungs were ready to burst. Water seeped down his throat. He felt himself choke. His eyes bulged. Thoughts flew out of his mind, replaced by primitive instinct. One primitive instinct. The instinct of survival. He became like any other mammal trapped underwater and unable to breathe. He jerked and bucked and kicked out, but the hand on his head held him down. The assailant shoved Stan’s face farther into the water, crushing his nose against the hard bottom of the bowl. Stan saw his own blood flow past him.
His throat burned. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Death. Drowning. Like David. Is this what it was like, little brother? Is this . . . ?
The powerful grip pulled Stan’s head out of the water and dropped it like an inanimate object. His skull bounced off the porcelain seat and crashed onto the tile floor, but Stan did not notice or care. He gasped and wretched uncontrollably, his hand wrapped around his throat in some bizarre attempt to lessen the pain. He rolled on the floor, desperately trying to put some oxygen back into his sore lungs.
Then he felt the hand clutch his hair again.
“Oh God, please,” he managed.
The hand roughly jerked his head back toward the rim of the bowl. It began to push his face downward, stopping less than an inch above the water. Stan’s chest still heaved spasmodically.