THE GUY AT THE OTHER END wasn't interested in Angel's football career at Aramingo, and he didn't care about Angel's football career in Seattle. Something else was going on. But what?
The best thing was to take my time. I'd been on Angel's trail since August; I could give myself a few hours more. I turned my cell off. When the guy from Philly called—and I knew he'd call—his number would show up on my cell. I'd call him back when I was ready to talk to him, and not before.
I saw Kimi at lunch.
"So?" she said, her voice an excited whisper. "Tell me."
I described the phone conversation with the person at Aramingo.
"What do you mean it wasn't about football?" she asked.
"You can tell when someone is talking sports. This guy wasn't."
She looked at me, skeptical.
"You can," I insisted.
"Okay, then what was he talking?" she asked.
I didn't have an answer.
All day I fought the temptation to turn on my cell. When school ended, I did my normal run through a light rain. I now weighed 170 for the first time since I'd been a sophomore. I returned home, took a shower, and only then turned on the cell.
Two New Voice Messages, the screen read. I scrolled to the call log. Two messages, but there'd been four calls—every two hours, like clockwork, and all from the same number. This guy really wanted to talk.
I sat for a moment, preparing myself. The person at the other end didn't have to know what I suspected. I'd ask him about guys on the team two or three years ago. I'd pretend to be only mildly interested. Later, if I had to, I'd tell him more.
I took a deep breath and hit the call button.
One ring. Two rings. A third. Then a voice: "Yeah."
"This is Bob Bernstein in Seattle. I called Aramingo High—"
"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted. "I know. I know." He paused. "This guy. This Angel guy. You fax me his photo and I'll tell you if he's from here. You got a fax machine, right?"
This wasn't what I'd planned on, but it made sense. What was the point of talking if it was the wrong guy? "Yeah, I've got a fax machine."
"All right. Here's the number." He rattled off ten digits, and I had him repeat them.
"And what's your name?" I asked.
"You don't care what my name is. This is about Angel."
"I do care what your name is."
He snorted. "Okay. My name is Juan Doe." A second later the phone went dead. Everything about the guy felt wrong, but he was my only contact.
My parents were still at work, but I knew they wouldn't mind if I used the fax. I went down to the little study off the TV room, laid Kimi's photo of Angel on the tray, and punched in the numbers the guy had given me. The machine sucked in Angel's face, whirred awhile, went silent, then spit him back out.
I'd barely made it back to my bedroom when my cell rang. "Where's he live?" the voice demanded.
"What?"
"Angel. Where's he live?"
"Hold on," I said, trying to put some steel into my own voice. "I'm the one asking the questions."
Silence.
"All right. How about we trade information? You tell me something I want to know; I tell you something you want to know. Fair?"
I didn't like it, but I didn't have a choice. "Okay."
"So," the voice said, "where's he live?"
"Seattle."
"Don't play with me. That's no good. I want a street and a number. We've got some homeboys out there who are going to pay him a visit, once you give me the address."
I thought of Angel's little house at 2120 Elmore, but I didn't say the address out loud—not to this guy. "There are probably a thousand kids playing football in Seattle," I said. "I don't know the home address of a single one. I'm a reporter, not the mailman. Now, how about you tell me about his time at Aramingo?"
"Hey, Mr. Reporter. You give me an address and I'll give you some information, including his real name."
"I told you: I don't know his address."
"Call me back when you've got it, and we'll do business."