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  “I doubt it. They usually text.”

  “Potential pro agent?” I said.

  “No. We haven’t decided on any of that yet.”

  “I don’t have a lot to go on here,” I said. “He could have been talking to a friend about—”

  “No,” she broke in. “He wasn’t talking to someone he liked. I could tell.” She paused. “I got cancer.”

  I figured this to be the case. “I’m sorry.”

  She waved a thin hand. “It’s not so bad. I’m doing pretty well. Got into some clinical trial a few months ago, and now my medication’s getting paid for.”

  “Great news.”

  “It is . . . except I think my son had something to do with it.”

  “Is he pre-med?”

  “No.”

  I frowned in thought. College athletes were amateurs. They could hardly get a donut from someone without being suspended for it. Open payouts were highly unlikely. There were ways to funnel money to a college athlete, however. The kind of money needed to buy cancer medication probably required something significant in return. People in position to hand cash to a basketball player probably had specific favors in mind. An idea formed in my head. “Like I said, there’s not a lot to go on here, but I can look around.”

  This got me my first smile. “Thank you.”

  “No promises, though. If it turns out this was just some college bullshit, I’m going to leave you to have a conversation with your son.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  We went over a few more details—including my client’s name, which was Denise—and then she left me to ponder the matter.

  I came up with an idea, and it wasn’t good . . . especially not for Denise Murray.

  Before I could delve too far into my idea, I heard the familiar ding of the elevator. A few other businesses shared the floor with me, but they rarely got much foot traffic. Sure enough, the footsteps headed in my direction, and I thought the cadence sounded familiar. A few seconds later, Gloria poked her head in the door.

  She smiled when she saw me behind my desk in the inner office. I spied the brown bag in her hand. A glance at my watch told me it was almost one o’clock. It appeared I’d be having lunch at my desk today. “Want some company?” Gloria said as she walked in and sat in one of my guest chairs—the same one Denise Murray occupied not long ago.

  “If it’s yours, always.”

  Gloria opened the bag and removed a few paper-wrapped sandwiches. “Shrimp salad,” she said, dropping one in front of me. It landed with a thud not unlike that of a brick. An entire school of prawns—or whatever the hell of a group of shrimp is called—gave their lives for this sandwich, and I intended to honor them.

  I unwrapped the monster meal as Gloria extracted two cups of coleslaw, a couple cheap plastic sporks, and a small stack of napkins from the bag. The sandwich featured a kaiser roll packed with more filling than its bakers intended it to hold. I inhaled the aromas of seafood, Old Bay seasoning, mayo, onion, and a few random spices. “Thanks for lunch.”

  Gloria gave me a thumbs-up with her left hand as her own hoagie dominated the right one. We each ate for a few minutes before she said, “You busy?”

  “Just met with a client not long before you walked in.” Gloria usually asked about my cases, but I couldn’t recall her asking if I were busy. Her opening smile faded to a more serious look. Some of it could be attributed to eating, but I got the feeling she wanted to tell me something. “What’s up?”

  “Davenport’s having a fundraiser soon.” Vincent Davenport, local business mogul and asshole of the first division, was the first person to work with Gloria as she began organizing charitable soirées. He’s also the father of Melinda, a former prostitute and current friend of mine, and their reunion was a hundred percent attributable to my hard work. Melinda heads up the Nightlight Foundation, trying to save other young girls from the life which derailed her for years. Normally, Gloria would be upbeat about a Davenport-helmed fundraiser.

  “Isn’t this a good thing?”

  “Usually,” she said. “He didn’t reserve me any seats this time.”

  It may have seemed like a small slight, but I knew this was unusual. Gloria has worked on a bunch of fundraisers, and she always gets offered a pair of tickets. “Why the hell not?”

  She shook her head and blew out a snort. “He says it was an oversight. The event’s sold out now, of course.”

  “Sounds like it’s one you want to attend.”

  “I do. You know we don’t go to a lot of these.” I nodded. “I often decline the tickets and let the organizers sell them and raise a little more money. Davenport puts on a good show, though, and it’s not like the price of two seats is going to break him.”

  “I told you he’s an asshole,” I said.

  Gloria smiled gently. “I know you don’t like him.”

  “Not liking him is an understatement.”

  “For what happened with Melinda?”

  “Mostly. Plus, his general demeanor. If he told me the sky was blue, I’d run outside to double-check.”

  “I’m just frustrated, is all.” Gloria absently stirred her remaining slaw with the spork.

  “Try not to worry about it. I’m sure you’ll have something else coming up.” Her head bobbed as she continued to look at the small container on the desk. “The next time Davenport calls, tell him to fuck off.”

  “I could never say that to him,” she said, though the grin playing on her lips told me she’d considered it before.

  “Fine,” I said. “Pass the phone to me, and I’ll tell him.”

  “I know you would.”

  We finished eating, but Gloria didn’t go after the rest of her meal with much enthusiasm. About a quarter of her sandwich remained, which I gladly wrapped up and put in the fridge. I hoped I’d remember it before the shrimp turned green. We kissed goodbye, and Gloria left. I watched her walk down the hall, and she gave a small wave as she got on the elevator.

  This was her first taste of disappointment. I was proud of her for working with charities and using her money and connections to open doors for them which may have otherwise remained closed. Over time, she’d learn to deal with situations like this.

  After all, my job disappointed me all the time.

  John Hanson College was named for a long-dead Maryland man who served as President of the United States under the Articles of Confederation. Some local historians insist Hanson was the first president elected under the Articles, but this does not withstand scrutiny. Still, Hanson has been something of a celebrity in Maryland for his work in the late eighteenth century. We don’t get a ton of famous people, so we tend to cling to the ones we have.

  The college bearing his name—and his mascot, the Presidents—stood on a campus in Cockeysville. It sat about a mile from the state fairgrounds in Baltimore County. JHC was smaller than similar schools like Towson but enjoyed a sports resurgence in the last few years. The apex of this was recruiting Calvin Murray to play point guard. He was easily the best player in the state and the conference, and probably top five in the country.

  Being the runaway best player on an otherwise so-so team afforded Murray a great deal of control over the outcomes of games. From what I saw, JHC ran a modern offense with lots of motion, picks and rolls, and quick guards darting and cutting through opposing defenses. Lacking elite size, they often deployed a three-guard lineup and beat other schools with speed, motion, and good shooting.

  I scanned their results. The Presidents led the conference and were expected to win its tournament. They’d seen a few close games along the way, however. In December at home against Drexel, they squeaked out a three-point win. A quick search of gambling lines showed JHC favored by nine going into the game.

  One event did not a pattern make, of course. I cross-referenced JHC basketball results with posted lines. I found eight games where the Presidents were favored by eight or more points. They lost one outright and won the other seven. In
only one of those seven wins did they cover the spread, winning by an even dozen. The other six saw them eke out close wins. There were a couple other games where they were favored by four or five and lost.

  None of this constituted a smoking gun. However, it looked an awful lot like point shaving. At least one player on the team—and Calvin Murray would be the logical target—needed to be involved, playing worse than normal to influence the outcome. Officials could also be involved.

  For any of this to work, some heavy-stakes gamblers or bookies needed to pull the strings. The Colonial Athletic Association enjoyed a fair bit of local prestige, but it wasn’t a big deal nationally. This could work in the favor of whomever ran the operation. Fewer people would be sniffing around a smaller conference’s games.

  My first case saw me bust a local bookie and budding loan shark, my old friend Vinnie Serrano. He was busy making license plates somewhere. If a local person were involved, someone probably gathered up the rubble of Vinne’s empire and rebuilt.

  I didn’t like where this was headed.

  Chapter 3

  A little later, I drove into Little Italy. It’s one of Baltimore’s iconic neighborhoods. While many of the old-guard Italian residents died or moved away, some still remained as did the restaurants. Today, I parked near Il Buon Cibo, which was well-known for its cuisine and little-known for being owned by the head of organized crime in the city.

  My parents had long been friends with Tony Rizzo, which meant I’d known him most of my life. We got along well, though things became a little frosty when I came back from Hong Kong and told him I was a PI. I walked into the restaurant and surveyed the lunch crowd. The dining room was filled to about two-thirds capacity.

  As usual, Tony sat at his spot near the fireplace. No other tables were positioned close to his. When the man needed to discuss business, the diners wouldn’t overhear. As I drew closer, I saw Tony lost had even more weight. Before I went overseas, he was a man of good appetite. When I came back, he looked like he’d dropped at least sixty pounds. Subtract another twenty. He looked unhealthy now, and his skin appeared thin over bones which were never more prominent.

  Tony showed a tired smile as I approached. I must have looked concerned. “I’m fine,” he said before I could ask. “Caught the flu around the holidays, then got pneumonia right after.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Health has been kicking my ass this year. I’m doing OK, all things considered.” He gestured to the chair opposite his, and I sat.

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  Tony snapped his fingers, and an eager young waitress appeared. If I were a college classmate of hers, her dark hair, Italian complexion, and beach-ready body would distract me from the subject at hand. The comely combination almost kept me from ordering, but I put in my request with minimal delay. I watched the waitress return to the kitchen and noticed Tony did the same. “Bruno’s daughter,” he said.

  Bruno was Tony’s consigliere and a prick of the highest order. “Her mother must contribute all the looks and personality,” I said.

  “He ain’t so bad.” Tony sipped water and muffled a cough. “I don’t think you came here to talk about my human resources department, though.”

  “Not exactly.” I fidgeted in my seat and paused as the waitress dropped off my unsweetened iced tea. “Is there a lot of local action on college hoops?”

  Tony frowned and regarded me for a moment. “You thinking of opening a book?”

  “I have enough problems,” I said.

  “I’m sure you do. There’s . . . some interest in college basketball, yeah. Why?”

  “A lot of interest?”

  “Enough to make me a decent chunk of change this time of year. You got something in mind?”

  I bobbed my head. “I’m not sure I have it right yet. It’s more of a guess at the moment.” I paused for a breath, hoping this idea didn’t come off as absurd. “Anyone involved in point shaving?”

  “Christ.” Tony leaned back as far as the chair would allow. “A little old-fashioned, isn’t it?” I didn’t say anything. “There was the thing in the NBA with the referee, but it was . . . what . . . fifteen years ago?”

  “Close to it.”

  “Maybe even before. I think you’re looking at something in the ‘seventies or ‘eighties.”

  “So no one’s doing it today?”

  “I’d be surprised.”

  I wouldn’t be, but I hid my opinion behind the massive plate of food set in front of me. An entire henhouse went into the massive piece of chicken parmesan. It consumed so much of the real estate I didn’t end up with as much pasta, which was fine with me. I cut some of the chicken to let it cool. Enticing aromas rose with the steam. “Old-fashioned doesn’t mean no one’s doing it,” I said. “Maybe it helps, actually. If people aren’t expecting something, it’s easier to get away with.”

  “Maybe. The law seems to be a little more favorable to gambling these days . . . online, at least.” Tony narrowed his eyes. “You know who’s running this?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s happening,” I said. “At the moment, it’s my best guess.” I didn’t elaborate. Calvin Murray and his mother didn’t need to wind up on Tony’s radar. Still, I needed some more specifics. “What about JHC?”

  “Hanson?”

  “Yeah. Any more action than usual there?”

  I ate more chicken as Tony pondered his answer. “There’s action on pretty much everything. Every July Fourth, people bet on who’ll eat more fucking hot dogs in that stupid contest. College sports have gotten more popular over the years.” Tony grinned. “I made money on your lacrosse championship.”

  “At least one of us did.”

  “Look, I don’t get involved in the actual wagers. I might know which games are big and who’s got a lot riding on them, but I ain’t digging too deep. As long as my cut is right, I don’t ask a lotta questions.”

  It made sense. Still, something tugged at me. I hoped I didn’t move JHC games—and Calvin in particular—up Tony’s priority list. He probably didn’t follow the games, but at least one person who worked for him would. “All right,” I said. “I guess I’ll poke around and see what happens.”

  “Keep me posted,” said Tony. “If somebody’s doing it and ain’t paying their share, I want to hear about it.”

  I knew what would happen if I did this. Tony treated me well because we enjoyed a pretty long history. I’d never gotten on the bad side of his ledger. I didn’t envy those who did. Tony’s men were typical enforcers, and they’d probably enjoy working over whomever hatched the point-shaving scheme before eventually killing them. Still, I couldn’t do something as stupid as to refuse the man in his own restaurant. Around a bite of pasta, I said, “Sure.”

  Tony drank some more water and chuckled. “Point shaving. Christ Almighty. I guess everything old really is new again.”

  I looked across the table at my host. Tony must’ve been seventy if not more. He’d suffered a run of bad luck with his health, but I thought he started looking thin before. I felt concerned for him. “Here’s hoping,” I said.

  After my lunch chat with Tony, I chose between going home or driving to my office. I opted for the latter. It turned out to be a wise decision when Denise Murray walked in a short while later. I summoned a smile for her, but I really hoped she wouldn’t keep dropping in on me. I didn’t like it when clients asked for frequent updates. To me, working mostly update-free came with the territory of taking my cases pro bono.

  Denise eased herself into one of my guest chairs. She cast her eyes up, and relief spread across her face. I wondered if she still underwent any treatment for the cancer. Denise thought Calvin paid for her trial and medicine. If so, he needed to be raking in a lot of money from the point-shaving scheme, and whoever organized it must’ve been collecting even more.

  “What can I do for you?” I said.

  Her hands gripped the edge of my desk as if she needed to steady them. “I was wonde
ring if you had any thoughts.”

  “My brain goes a mile a minute. I always have thoughts.”

  Denise showed a weak grin. “I mean about Calvin and what we talked about.”

  I wondered how to frame my answer. I think your son’s probably in league with a bookie or a gangster and is fixing basketball games. This would not lead to a productive conversation. After a moment of deliberation, I came up with, “Have you ever heard of point shaving?”

  She shook her head. “What is it?”

  This would be easier if she’d been even a little familiar with the idea. “You know all college basketball games see betting action, right?” Denise nodded. “As part of this, bookmakers put out a point spread for the game. You know what a point spread is?” Her head bobbed again. “Your son’s a great player, and JHC doesn’t compete in a strong conference. They’re favored to win most of their games.”

  “They’ve had a really good season,” Denise said.

  “They have. Let’s say they’re a ten-point favorite in a certain game. Some bookies or big bettors will bet big on the underdog. Then a player—or more than one—on the favored team will make a few misplays, take some bad shots . . . those sorts of things. Enough so the favorite still wins, but they only pull it out by a few points. Under ten.”

  Denise frowned in thought. “And all those people who bet on the underdog win?”

  “Against the spread, yes.”

  “Do they give money to whoever on the better team helped them?” she asked.

  “Usually, though I imagine it depends how much they made on a given day.”

  “So my son’s on the take?”

  “I don’t know this is what’s going on,” I said. “So far, it’s my best guess.” To be honest, my only guess—which made it my best by default—but Denise didn’t need to know this.

  “The money he made . . .” She trailed off and took a deep breath. I saw her eyes moisten, and I nudged a box of tissues across the desk. “I think he’s the one who paid for my cancer treatments.”