Sucker bet - James Swain [89]
The teams were back on the court, taking warm-ups. Reclaiming his seat, Valentine removed his binoculars and searched the court until he found the two foreign players. Both had shaved heads, making it hard to tell how old they were. As they hit basket after basket from different spots on the court, a thin smile creased his face.
42
Mr. Beauregard’s ukulele had gone silent. Hicks was driving through Miami searching for American Airlines Arena and saw the chimp rub his stomach. On average, he consumed eight pounds of food a day, and Hicks guessed he was starving.
“Hamburgers, Mr. Beauregard?”
Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands excitedly. He loved hamburgers. Downtown Miami was fast-food heaven, and soon Hicks was sitting in the drive-through at a Burger King. At the squawk box, he was greeted by a sultry Latino voice.
“Welcome to Burger King. Would you like to try today’s special?”
“What is that?”
“Two quarter-pound bacon cheeseburgers covered in special sauce for a dollar ninety-nine.”
Mr. Beauregard jumped up and down in his seat. He loved the special sauce.
“Give me ten,” Hicks said. “And a small fries.”
They ate in the car. Mr. Beauregard was not keen on bread products and tossed the buns out the window. Soon a security guard came out of the restaurant. He was a Cuban macho man and glanced menacingly at them, then pointed at the buns lying on the ground. “They teach you this at home?”
Mr. Beauregard stuck his head out the window and snarled. The guard recoiled in fear. Hicks jumped out of the car, fearful he might call the police.
“Please excuse my friend.”
“Your friend?”
“I am the owner of a carnival.”
“Is he . . . dangerous?”
“My friend, this is the world’s smartest chimpanzee. Do you like music?”
“Well . . . yeah,” the guard said.
“Mr. Beauregard, play for the gentleman.”
Mr. Beauregard took his ukulele off the floor, and the music that came out was Spanish-sounding, like calypso. “Holy shit,” the guard said.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hicks said.
“It’s my favorite song,” the guard replied.
In the fourth quarter, the game heated up.
Miami College began to play like they were possessed, and with five minutes left in the game, the score was even.
Since the half, Valentine had watched Jorge and Lupe exclusively with his binoculars. They were an unusual pair of athletes. Jorge was constantly busting up plays and stealing the ball from Duke’s forwards. He rarely shot the ball, preferring to pass to one of his teammates and let him get the glory.
Lupe, whose statistics in the program were terrible, was playing like he was possessed. He passed, he stole, he dunked, and he had more rebounds than anyone on the court. Two of Duke’s players were trying to cover him, leaving a Miami College player wide open.
With two minutes left in the game, Miami College took the lead for the first time. The crowd rose, screaming like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Valentine knew better. Miami College could have easily been ahead by ten points. Jorge and Lupe were playing below speed, a pool hustler’s term for playing just slightly better than your opponent.
They were pros.
“Your father hurt Gladys Soft Wings’s feelings,” Running Bear said.
Gerry gripped the wheel. He’d read somewhere that I-95 ran over eighteen hundred miles and that the Miami stretch, which was less than ten of those miles, was the most dangerous. When they were free of the madness, he said, “Please apologize to her for me.”
“Your father needs to do that himself,” the chief said.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Why?” the chief said. “Is your father above apologizing?”
Gerry pulled the car into a no-parking zone a hundred yards from the entrance to American Airlines Arena and threw it into park. Turning, he looked the chief in the eye.
“It’s like this. My father