Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (34)
* * *
The game turned out to be more interesting than he’d expected. Green Meadow had a freshman point guard—a skinny Black kid named Marcus Turner—who’d just been brought up from jayvee. It was his first varsity game, and within five minutes, everyone could see that he was a star, playing on a whole different level than the rest of his team. He was an amazing ball handler, moving up the court in sudden explosive bursts, then stopping short and changing direction, keeping the defenders on their heels. Sometimes he’d accelerate towards the hoop; other times he’d pull up and launch a sweet three-pointer. Every now and then he’d toss an alley-oop to his tallest teammate, a clumsy giant who wore a knee brace and safety goggles. After several ugly misses, the tall kid—his name was Blake Dooley—surprised everyone by sinking three in a row. He looked so shocked and delighted when the third one went in that the whole gym started cheering, even the Grover fans.
* * *
A hand thumped against Glenn’s back, hard enough to make him grunt. He whirled, instinctively covering his gun with his right hand, only to see Ralph Kingman, the former Chief of the Grover PD, looming over him with an amused grin on his face.
“Hey, Killer. Good to see you, buddy.”
Glenn forced a smile, though he hated that nickname, which hardly anyone used anymore, now that Kingman had retired to Florida. The ex-Chief had stuck patronizing labels on all the Auxiliary officers—Dumbo, Hillbilly Trevor, Little Dickie. He was that kind of guy. Glenn was Killer Keeler.
“Hey, Chief,” he said, out of old habit, despite the fact that Kingman wasn’t Chief of Jack Shit anymore. “What brings you back to town?”
“New grandkid. Number four. Pretty soon I won’t be able to keep track.”
“Congratulations.”
Kingman nodded his tepid thanks. He looked pretty much the same as always—same Mount Rushmore face, same salt-and-pepper crew cut, same barrel chest—just a little more sunburned from all those days on his fishing boat.
“Yeah, you gotta see the new grandkid, even in the middle of fucking January.” His expression darkened. “I’ll tell you, Killer. I can’t take the cold anymore. Don’t know how I survived all those goddam winters.”
They were momentarily distracted by the sight of Marcus Turner knifing through two defenders and then spinning away from a third to score on a fadeaway jumper, nothing but net.
“Damn,” said Kingman. “Kid can play. And he’s even better in football. I hear he’s the next Vito Falcone.”
Glenn felt the name in his stomach the way he always did. Vito Falcone. It made him a little sick.
Kingman glanced at him. “You went to high school with Vito, right?”
“Just for a year.” Glenn made an effort to sound matter-of-fact. “He was a senior when I was a freshman. My older brother was in his class.”
“I used to go to all those games,” Kingman said. “Vito was such a beautiful player. Best high school athlete I ever saw. Best athlete period.”
* * *
Glenn did a thorough sweep of the building during halftime. A couple of years ago, some troublemakers from Riverhaven had slipped past the No Trespassing sign and spray-painted penises and profanity all over the walls; it was a real bitch to clean. As a result, the administration had sprung for a metal folding gate that locked into place, sealing off the gym area from the rest of the school.
Even so, Glenn asked Manny to open the gate so he could take a look around. When you were an Auxiliary Officer, you had to go the extra mile. He started on the second floor, checking both bathrooms, peering into every stall. It was a relief to get away from the mob swarming around the refreshment table—the proud parents, the laughing boys, the pretty girls taking pictures of themselves. Glenn didn’t even want to look at their faces. He knew it was bad for a cop—this pissed-off feeling that came over him sometimes—but there was nothing he could do about it.
When he finished with the restrooms, Glenn checked all the classroom doors and supply closets, making sure everything was locked up tight. He shined his flashlight on the lockers and bulletin boards, illuminating the motivational posters lining the walls—We Are All Amazing; Spread The Love; You Are A Valued Member Of Our Community—and a made a small, strangled noise deep in his throat, a sound he often made when he thought of his brother.
* * *
Glenn wished he could remember Carl more clearly, but his memory had faded over the years. A few random details from their childhood had stuck in his head: Carl’s insistence on eating chicken fingers and Tater Tots for every meal. His brief but passionate interest in professional wrestling. The goofy 3D glasses he liked to wear around the house.
When Carl was thirteen, he moved out of the cramped bedroom he shared with Glenn and started sleeping in the attic. He said it was because his telescope was up there and he liked to look at the stars, but it made no sense, because the attic was dusty and unfinished—freezing in the winter, stifling in the summer—with pink insulation lining the walls and a pile of dead bees in one corner.
Don’t worry, their father said. He’ll come down when he’s good and ready.
But Carl never came down. He upgraded from a sleeping bag to an Army cot, and set up a folding table as a desk. He started bringing his meals up there too. At dinner it was just Glenn and his parents, as if he were an only child.