Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler Page B

there’s plenty of work to be done.”
    “And what exactly do you do now, Mr. Jackson?” And withthat, the polite young chief sat down, took out a little notebook and opened it up on the dining room table. “You haven’t
     played for the Celtics for a very long time, right?”
    “Promise not to laugh?” he asked.
    “Sure. Promise not to laugh.”
    “Good. I give motivational speeches, that’s what I do.” He couldn’t help himself, he smiled at the chief, who was gracious
     enough to smile back. “You see, the thing is, once you’re out of basketball, what’s left? I didn’t have the voice for doing
     announcing work. I was okay in doing some advertising spots, but that kind of work didn’t last long. You see, things have
     changed since back when I was tossing the ball around. Back then, there weren’t the endorsements, the contracts, the TV work.
     Today’s guys can earn a couple of million by just showing up in the right sneakers. Wasn’t like that when I was their age.”
    “So you give speeches?”
    “Yep. About a dozen a year, on how to be better managers, better team players, work together for the same goal. That sort
     of thing. Not lots of money, but enough to make a living. Hey. Wanna hear a secret?”
    The chief smiled but there was something in those eyes that said he liked hearing secrets very much. “Sure. Go right ahead.”
    Glen said, “Truth is, most of the time, I’m just stealin’ their money. Companies get in trouble, they have morale problems,
     they tend to look outside for a solution. They don’t think about looking inside. So I come by and give ’em a nice pep talk,
     everything’s jazzed up for a week or so after I’m gone, and then the same lousy managers and overworked employees fall back
     into their ruts, while I’m waiting for their checks to clear.”
    Colter didn’t write anything down, which was fine. Glen said, “Secret’s safe with you?”
    “Sure is,” the chief said.
    Glen said, “All right, enough about me. What do you want to know about Marcus?”
    “Did he play with you on the Celtics?”
    Glen looked at that smooth face and those unblinking eyes, wondering if the guy was trying to play some sort of game. “No,
     he didn’t.”
    The chief said, “But he was a teammate of yours, right?”
    “Right. But not on the Celtics.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry. Where, then?”
    Maybe the boy was just dumb. Could it be? Glen said, “On the Olympic team, that’s where. Marcus and me and ten other guys,
     we played for the United States back in ’72.”
    “All right, then,” the chief said, making a note. “The 1972 Olympic team. Okay. Now. When did Marcus come up here?”
    “Today’s Monday. He came up here Saturday, spent the night, and I dropped him off at the bus stop yesterday morning.”
    “Was there anybody else in your house at the time?”
    “Nope.”
    “And what did the two of you do while he was here?”
    Glen shrugged. “Played some hoops for old time’s sake. Talked about the old days. Had a barbecue and some beer.”
    Colter took a careful sip from his lemonade. “Were you expecting him?”
    “Excuse me?”
    Colter said, “He’s only up here for a day and a half. He took a bus up from Queens, in New York. It seems like a lot of work
     to get up here for just a quick visit.”
    Glen said, “Yeah, I was expecting him. But he only gave me a day’s warning.”
    Colter’s eyes were now fixed on him. “So why the quick visit? Why did he come to see you, Mr. Jackson?”
    Now he knew that the young boy was pretty sharp. “Money.”
    “He had money problems?”
    “Shit, yes. Poor guy’s about to be kicked out of his apartment, he’s had maybe a half dozen jobs over the years, everything
     from selling cars to real estate… like I said earlier, Chief, things are so much different now than it was back then. You
     get a guy like him or me, in our fifties… time’s running out if you didn’t plan real serious back when you were younger