Blue Star Rapture (2 page)

He took the pick out, but the flourish with which he cranked up his Boys II Men CD was a high-profile act of defiance.

By the time they reached the edge of town, T.J. found himself brainstorming the pros and cons of Gaines's offer.

Thinking about the sportswriter, he remembered the first time he ever met him, that time when workouts started last fall. Gaines had shown up at a practice wearing an olive green corduroy suit that was loose and shapeless. He had taken a seat next to T.J. while the scrimmage was in progress. He seemed to clean his glasses a lot, and T.J. tried to remember if he'd ever seen a corduroy suit before.

When the sportswriter saw the ice pack and wrap on T.J.'s left ankle, he asked the nature of the injury.

“It's nothin',” T.J. had answered. “Coach DeFreese told me to sit a while.”

“Oh, tough guy, huh?”

“No, it's nothin'.” It really
was
nothing, and certainly not the first time he'd ever faked an injury or exaggerated the seriousness of one. T.J. knew how rapid his recovery would be, how fully restored to health he'd be by suppertime. But he wasn't about to say so to this sportswriter or to anyone else.

For a few minutes they sat quietly, watching the scrimmage pound back and forth. It hadn't taken long for Gaines to focus his attention on Tyron. “What do you know about him?” the writer had asked.

T.J. could have answered,
just about everything there is to know
. But instead, he had simply replied, “He's my friend. I know him.”

“You're a transfer too, aren't you?”

“Yeah, I'm a transfer too.”

“You transfer together?”

“No. He transferred this year. I transferred last year.”

“You know a lot about him, then.” By this time, Gaines had taken out a notebook and a ballpoint. “How'd he do as a sophomore?”

“You mean back in the city?”

“Yeah, how'd he do?”

T.J. took the time to adjust his wrap, but it was only a stalling tactic. He didn't know Gaines, so what should he tell him? A sportswriter was probably someone who could hurt you or help you, so you couldn't just blurt out any information that came to mind. “Why are you so interested in Bumpy?” he finally asked.

“Bumpy?”

“I mean Tyron. That's just an old nickname from when he was a kid; forget I even said it. But why are you so interested in him?”

“Well, he's a six-nine transfer from Chicago. It's not the kind of thing that happens every day, is it? I have to check him out.”

T.J. was set to ponder these remarks, when Gaines continued. “Until he proves otherwise, I have to assume he's going to be an impact player.”

“And?”

“Well,” Gaines had said, while cleaning his glasses for the third or fourth time, “look at him.”

T.J. watched. He could see how Tyron
looked
a lot more like a good player now that so much of the baby fat was gone. He moved better too, probably for that very reason. One time down the floor, when Morgan beat his man along the baseline and jumped to try a finger roll, Tyron left his man to swat the shot off the end of the court.

Another time, on offense, getting his man on his hip posted up, he snatched a bad pass with his left hand, then turned in the lane to sink a soft jumper. “Look at that,” pointed out Gaines. “Strong hands. He catches the ball with one hand while holding his position, then shows nice balance rolling into the lane.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said T.J. He didn't know much about Gaines, but the sportswriter's evident knowledge of basketball was urging him to look at Tyron with fresh eyes.

“That's the first thing a college scout looks for,” Gaines had added.

College scout??
thought T.J., astonished.
Did he say college scout?
“Did you say something about college scouts?”

“Yeah. The first thing they look for, especially in a big man, is can he catch the ball? How are his hands? Can he post up strong and catch the ball in traffic?”

A college scout?

“Your friend's only a junior,” Gaines had reminded him. “That's what to look for, strong hands in traffic. Keep it in mind when you watch him.”

T.J. tried, but all he could keep in mind was Tyron's low IQ and even lower grades. He had to laugh, almost, it was so comical to think of Tyron and a college coach sitting down to have a meaningful conversation.

By the time the scrimmage had entered its last five minutes, Tyron's fatigue had taken over, so he was essentially the player T.J. was familiar with. He was lazy down the court, easily discouraged by missed shots or turnovers. He was only a factor if the game was strictly in the half-court mode, and even then only a marginal one. T.J. wondered if Gaines saw those things too, or only the stuff that might make good newspaper reading. College scouts? He had to give credit where credit was due, though; without Gaines's input, he never would have appreciated Tyron's potential.

T.J. put the scrimmage memory aside and returned to the present. By the time they were south of Springfield, he began to watch for exit signs while he kept an intermittent eye on the temperature gauge. The old Toyota was hinky in half a dozen ways, but most especially in the department of overheating.

Tyron kept shifting uncomfortably in the passenger's seat, struggling to find a way to conform his huge bulk to the inadequate available space. Finally, he gave it up: “T.J., can we stop somewhere? I have to piss.”

T.J. was lighting a cigarette. “We've only got about six miles to go, once we get off the highway. Can't you wait?”

“I have to piss real bad.”

“Okay, we'll stop.”

TWO

They stopped at a roadhouse only a mile or two off the interstate. Standing at a rural crossroads, it bore the name of
HEAVEN'S GATE
in white painted letters on green shingle siding. The way the white gravel in the parking lot reflected the heat of the blazing sun, T.J. had to think a name with
hell
in it would have been more appropriate. There was nothing heavenly once you got inside, either. Heaven's Gate was a combination redneck bar, convenience store, tacky grocery store, and sit-down restaurant.

There were lop-eared girlie magazines and supermarket tabloids next to the cash register, and a homemade sign by the beer corner said,
WE CARD EVERYBODY; IF YOU WANT BREW, HAVE YOUR I
.
D
.
READY
. A narrow wing with poor lighting and restaurant-style tables wrapped around the bar. There was loud laughing from some of the men seated there drinking beer and playing cards. Some of the faces were familiar to T.J.; he recognized them as coaches, even if he couldn't recall their names. He decided they must be here to watch players at Full Court, and this would be their watering hole.

Before they left the roadhouse, Tyron bought a large bag of potato chips and a sixteen-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. T.J. drove tentatively while Tyron gobbled on his chips. The primitive blacktop road he navigated slowly was characterized by twists and turns and sudden hills. The dense timber stood so near the shoulder that any view of the huge reservoir to their right came in the form of a brief glimpse every now and then across a small clearing. T.J. had to watch the rustic directional signs closely to avoid turning down the lanes that led to boat launches or other recreational areas.

It might have been an area of pastoral beauty—in fact, probably was—but for T.J. it was too unfamiliar to be comfortable. Besides the fact he'd never been here before, it was too woodsy. There was a severe absence of pavement. This was the
forest
. T.J. had spent all but the past two years of his life on the streets of Chicago. Heaven's Gate, it seemed to him, stood at the threshold of a remote and doubtful region of daunting wilderness, much more purgatory than paradise.

These thoughts made a cloud in his brain, but then Tyron intruded: “What's in the box, T.J.?”

“What box?”

“In the backseat, that chicken box.”

“Oh. Those are pigs in a blanket. My mother made 'em.”

“What's pigs in a blanket?”

“Hot dogs. They're baked in crescent rolls.”

“Can I have one?” Tyron asked.

“You can have all you want, but they're probably not thawed yet. What about the potato chips?”

“I want somethin' else. I'm still hungry.”

“Have all you want,” T.J. said, motioning.

Tyron had four, crunching them like candy bars, all the while extolling their virtue with his mouth full.

The Full Court campers got to stay in the conference center part of the complex. It was a package of creature comforts far beyond what T.J. expected; it was even air-conditioned. They were housed three to a room, and each room had its own bathroom. Downstairs, in addition to the cafeteria, was a large conference room and a rec room with big-screen TV and several video games.

When T.J. and Tyron unpacked their stuff, T.J.'s only dilemma was where he should put his diary. It was the only thing in his possession that demanded privacy. He finally decided to take it back to the parking lot, where he could leave it in the glove box. Keep the car locked.

They met their roommate, a player from Peoria named Obie Williams. They had played against him junior year, but they hadn't ever talked to him. Obie wasn't bashful. He asked T.J., “What color are you, anyway?”

It was a question T.J. got asked frequently. He smiled before he answered, “Sort of light brown; beige, you might say.”

“Say what?”

“Color. You know, color?”

“I'm askin' you what color are you?” Obie persisted.

“I'm tryin' to answer. My father was Italian, and my mother is Puerto Rican. Actually, she's not Puerto Rican, but her parents were. You could say she's Puerto Rican, except she's never been there. She's never been out of Illinois, I don't think.”

“That ain't no kind of answer, I'm askin' are you black or are you white?”

“It's the best answer I've got. I'm a hybrid, sort of.”

This wasn't going to satisfy the perplexed roommate either. “What's a hybrid?” Obie wanted to know.

“It's okay, you can call me bro if you want.”

“Say what?”

The high school coaches and college students who stayed in first-floor rooms were in charge of the building—they were the chaperones, more or less. There was a lot of commotion because there were more than two hundred players moved in or moving in. T.J. felt like he was the only one who didn't have a Discman.

In the cafeteria, a schedule was posted; it informed them there would be an orientation meeting at 3:30. Once he discovered the video games in the rec room, Tyron was mellowed to the max. He couldn't have been more at home even back at home. T.J., though, took off on his own. He felt the need to conduct a more personal, private orientation, one that could establish his sense of place.

He found his way to the parking lot, where he secured the diary in the car. He walked along the footpath that led in the direction of the huge footbridge in the distance. He passed six tartan-surfaced basketball courts where they would be playing their games; coaches and officials were setting up water tables between the courts, along with folding chairs. Shortly after, he passed the swimming pool, which was full of younger children squealing and hollering. He wondered briefly if Full Court campers would get to use the pool.

When he reached the footbridge, he saw how large it was, and how crude. It reached a distance of some two hundred feet or more from the bluff where he was standing to the bluff on the other side. It was put together with telephone poles and rough planks, but it looked very sturdy.

T.J. was standing on the high ground, where he could see. It felt reassuring to stand here; every army commander who ever lived, he knew from reading military history, proclaimed the advantage of the high ground. Looking back and to the right, he could see the facilities he had passed shortly before, even the conference center where they were staying. Looking across to the other side, he could see clusters of buildings in the distance, big ones and small ones. He realized there were more people and organizations here than Full Court could account for.

Reconnaissance had always been crucial to T.J. Nucci. You had to know the dimensions of the system within which you were supposed to function. You had to know the boundaries and the limits, as well as the gaps that created opportunities. In order to establish control of situations, you had to have bearings. And bearings were based on information.

Even when he was as young as twelve, he had learned the surveillance habit of sniffing out potential danger posed by his stepfather (
ex
-stepfather, actually). It wasn't unusual for Lloyd to break the terms of the judge's protection order by returning to their apartment to harass T.J.'s mother. Usually before he even turned the corner on their block, T.J. had learned to be alert for details. Was the Cougar parked along the curb near their building? If not, were there any cars he didn't recognize? Any police cars? When he got closer, he would look for beer cans or wine bottles on the stoop. If he saw any, what kind were they? If it was after dark, he looked to see which lights were on, or listened for pitched voices.

The bridge smelled strongly of the creosote used to weatherize it. T.J. lit a cigarette as he started to cross it. It was a long way down to the bottom of the gorge, where a nearly dry creek bed gurgled, barely, in some rocky shallows. With no breeze, it smelled brackish. On the other side he discovered, among other things, a group of shop and equipment buildings where maintenance workers were hanging out. Several of them were seated at a pair of picnic tables beneath a huge oak tree, drinking coffee and telling jokes. It brought back the unpleasant memory of last summer's job, when he had been on a weed-cutting crew out at the reservoir.