The whistle blows. “Run it again.”
“Utah! Utah!” Howie calls the play at half court, then brushes Andre shoulder to shoulder on the screen, then hits him with a pocket pass as he rolls to the rim. Andre throws it down with a little extra swag, swinging his legs and slapping the backboard, because practice is almost over.
I’m standing on the sideline with the rest of the reserves, replaying my conversation with Lang in my head. Possibly, possibly, we’re talking about an experienced killer. The timer on the clock hits zero and the buzzer sounds.
I stand in the shower with my forehead against the tiles, letting the water cascade off my shoulders and down my body, flicking the handle back and forth between almost too hot and way too cold. I want to take a breath without feeling pain, to claw free of the thick envelope of my shock, to hear a piercing, clear voice in my mind that tells me what to do. But I don’t know how to mourn. After Mom died, Dad never cried. He never talked about her. He took us out to fancy restaurants on her birthday and told us that she would want us to enjoy what we still had rather than dwell on what we’d lost.
But now I’m not sure what I still have. I don’t have the willpower to help myself, to help my sister, to win basketball games. I want to find those yellow legal pads because they’re a thread that I can follow back into the past. I’m not interested in the future. I want to wrap my mouth around that Walther PPQ and wake up in an alternate universe, or not wake up at all.
But I know that Dad left it for me for another reason, and if I can manage to want anything at all, I want to know what that reason is.
I’m getting dressed when our head coach, Francis Vaughn, wanders into the vicinity of my locker, looking at the ground, a sheet of paper in his hands. He scrunches up his face and rubs his temple with his forefinger.
“Hey. Victor. The coaches and I, we’re glad to have you back,” he says. “I was really sorry to hear about your dad. He was a terrific guy.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, silently praying for him not to attempt to console me.
“And we all know we can count on you to give every last bit of effort.”
I can tell there’s more coming, so I just look at him. He hands me the sheet of paper.
“This is our scouting report on Jason Maxwell. You’re going to put in some minutes on him tomorrow night. He’s a tough cover, likes to attack the basket. I don’t want you to try to beat him with your strength. You’re gonna have to be crafty, feel his rhythm and disrupt it. You can’t be a cannonball at all times. Sometimes you need to be a jellyfish. Or whatever. Are you getting me, son?”
A shimmer of resentment tightens my jaw. So he doesn’t know I’ve already read the notes on Maxwell half a dozen times—that for four years I’ve been getting the scouting reports for every player on every team we play from the assistant coaches.
“Oh, and Victor? One last thing.”
“Yes, Coach?”
“Take it easy on the sauce, okay, son?” He’s squinting at me like Lang did—like he’s talking to a recent amputee. “I mean, you’re a senior, you can do what you want. But don’t be too proud to hand over those keys.”
I grit my teeth, close my eyes for a second, compose myself. “Like I told you, Coach, it won’t happen again. I don’t have my license back yet, anyway.”
“Great, Victor. I have complete faith in you.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“See ya tomorrow.”
Andre’s talking through the game plan for tomorrow as we walk across the vast parking lot outside the arena, and I’m in my head, asking myself where I would be if I were a yellow legal pad. The wide sky is still lit blue by the remnants of the day’s sun, and after the humidity and closeness of the locker room, the cooling air feels exquisite on my soap-cleaned skin.
I’m climbing into Andre’s truck when I catch a glimpse of purple and gold floating past the end of the row of cars.
Muttering obscenities to myself, I shut Andre’s door and crouch-run as quietly as I can to the last row of the parking lot. When I get to the end, I poke my head out, and there he is: the guy in black clothes and a Lakers cap, walking right toward me, his thumbs tucked into the straps of his black backpack.
I take a deep breath, set my jaw, and step out in front of him. I don’t say anything. I just block his way and show him with my expression that he’s not going anywhere before he explains himself.
The guy comes to a stop with a surprised smile on his face. “Ò! Nǐ shì Lǐ Xiàozhōu, duì ba?—Oh! You are Li Xiaozhou, right? I am Sun Jianshui.” He starts to bow, then changes his mind and sticks out his hand.
My hands remain at my sides, clenched into fists. “How do you know my name?” I ask the man in Mandarin.
He looks at his hand, shrugs, and sticks it into his pocket. “I worked for your father, Li Renyan. I just arrived from China.”
Andre jogs up and comes to a stop beside me. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”
“What do you know about my father? Why have you been watching me?”
The man’s eyes dance rapidly back and forth between me and Andre. Then he looks away and puts a hand on the side of his head. “I am here to help you. But maybe it’s better if we can talk somewhere else,” he suggests.
“Help me with what?” I ask in Mandarin.
“Help you with your father’s work.”
“Victor, who is this person?”
I translate for Andre, tell him I have no idea what to do with this guy, and we confer in whispered English as Sun Jianshui grows increasingly agitated. Finally, he fishes under his collar with both hands and pulls out a thin leather cord.
“He tell me, I can give you a look at this,” he blurts out in English.
On the cord there’s an iron monkey figurine. Just like the one that was on the cord with the Chateau Happiness keycard. Andre and I look at each other.
“You speak English?” Andre says, loud and slow.
The guy bobs his head. “English.”
“Cool. I am Andre.” He puts one huge hand on his chest and sticks out the other for Sun Jianshui to shake. “You eat tacos?”