Good King Sauerkraut by Barbara Paul Page B

called a Powerhouse, which turned out to be orange juice, ice cream, and honey, with a little protein powder mixed in. Next he came to the Russian Tea Room. As if on automatic drive, he headed inside.
    In midafternoon the restaurant wasn’t too crowded. King was seated in a low central booth that made him feel terribly exposed. But he forgot about being conspicuous as soon as the chicken Kiev arrived. Delicious! He managed to spill his wine before he was through; a sad-eyed Polish waiter gave him a tragic look but said nothing. King left an extra-big tip.
    It wasn’t until he was pounding the sidewalk again that he began to wonder where this ravenous appetite of his had come from. He’d never eaten so much before at one time in his life. And he didn’t feel sick, or even bloated. Just one more strange thing on this strangest of days. It was the only time he’d killed, and it was the only time he’d stuffed himself like a pig. What was the connection?
    Speaking of eating … Why, look what’s here , King thought. An eatery named O’Neals—just what he needed. For the second time that afternoon he topped off a sumptuous meal with pie à la mode. Cherry pie, this time.
    King was getting up to leave when a boy of twelve or thirteen came in and sat down. Wide-eyed, the boy looked up at King’s six-foot-ten and said, “Wow, you must be a—”
    â€œNo, I’m not,” King answered shortly and turned to go.
    â€œWhy not?”
    That stopped him. In all his years of explaining that he was not now nor had never been a professional basketball player, no one had ever asked him why. He looked at the boy skeptically. “You really want to know, kid?”
    â€œYeah, I wanna know.” Defiantly.
    â€œOkay.” King sat down next to him. “In the first place, I’m too old to play now. I’m forty-five.”
    â€œBut when you were younger—”
    â€œWhen I was younger, I was nothing less than a mobile disaster-area on the court. I tried. I really did try. The basketball coach in high school saw me walking down a corridor one day and practically dragged me to the gym. But he couldn’t teach me to play. You see, I’ve always been poorly coordinated—it’s a physical problem. I kept tripping over my own feet, knocking down my teammates, fouling the other guys. Finally the coach just positioned me under the basket and told me not to move at all—just wait for the other players to feed me the ball.”
    King paused while the boy ordered something to eat. “Did it work?” the youngster wanted to know.
    â€œNo way. I couldn’t manage even that. I fouled out of every game I was in—usually in the first quarter. Finally the coach let me go. He said in time I’d grow out of it.”
    â€œDidja?”
    â€œNope. The same thing happened in college. It’s too bad, in a way. I like basketball.” It was the only sport he did like.
    â€œSo do I,” the boy said, tugging at his tie and grimacing. “That’s too bad, mister.”
    â€œMy name’s King. What’s yours?”
    â€œRicky.” He pulled at his tie again.
    â€œWhy are you so dressed up on a school day?”
    â€œAw, my mom always makes me wear a tie when we go see the lawyer. There are all these problems about settling my dad’s estate and we have to keep goin’ back alia time.”
    His dad’s estate . “I’m sorry, Ricky,” King said, meaning it. “Did your dad die recently?”
    â€œNovember.”
    â€œAnd there’s trouble with the will?”
    â€œNaw, something about the trust funds, I dunno. That’s what Mr. Liebermann says.”
    â€œLiebermann—that’s the lawyer?”
    â€œHoward J. M. Liebermann the Great.”
    â€œTwo middle initials?”
    â€œYeah, one’s not enough for him, I guess. You know what I think? I don’t think