Read Online Last Shot by John Feinstein - Free Book Online

gray suit?”
    Susan Carol pointed across the court to one of the benches. “He’s right there,” she said. “Except there are two of him.”
    Stevie looked at the end of the bench and almost choked. There were two men sitting side by side in almost identical charcoal gray suits. Both had gray hair, the other feature Stevie had been able to pick up during the brief moment when the suit and Graber hadn’t been in darkness.
    She held up what looked like a purple-and-white magazine. It was the Minnesota State media guide, which contained photos of every person connected to the Minnesota State basketball team. “I’ve looked through this thing,” she said. “There are at least six people who could be him. I’ve circled their pictures but I don’t think we’re going to figure out who it is from just looking.”
    “We need to hear the guy talk,” Stevie said.
    “Exactly—who could forget that voice? But how?” Talking to either gray suit was going to be a problem. They were sitting in the off-limits bench area.
    Stevie thought for a minute. He glanced up at the scoreboard and saw the clock had just gone under eight minutes. Minnesota State would be leaving the court and the building in under eight minutes, and they wouldn’t really have a clue as to who Graber’s blackmailer was.
    “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Come with me, quick.”
    For once she didn’t challenge him or ask any questions. The two of them walked down to the front row and toward the baseline. The number of writers, photographers, and cameramen had diminished considerably since the start of the Duke practice. Most writers were inside working on their stories, and the cameramen and photogs had the pictures they needed. Stevie and Susan Carol crossed to the bench side of the court.
    They stopped a few paces shy of the corner of the court. There was—of course—a security guard posted there to prevent anyone from walking directly behind the bench. “Okay, here’s what you’re doing,” Stevie said.
    “What
I’m
doing?” she said.
    “Yes, you,” he said. “I want you to walk over to that security guard, give him the wide-eyed-Southern-girl routine, and tell him you really need to talk to your ‘uncle’ over there on the MSU bench.”
    “Wide-eyed-Southern-girl routine—what is that supposed to mean?”
    “You know.”
    “No, I don’t know and—”
    “Yell at me later, would you?” he broke in. “We’ve got less than five minutes here. Just … be yourself. Smile.Drawl. Say, ‘Aah need to see mah uncle, kind suh.’ ”
    “Who do you think I am, Scarlett O’Hara?” she said.
    But before he could open his mouth, she had walked past him and was giving the security guard a smile that would have melted Rhett Butler. She was pointing at the gray-suit twins on the bench and looking just a bit distressed. It took less than thirty seconds for the security guard to step aside and let her pass.
    Not wanting to be caught staring, Stevie stepped back a bit, moving toward the basket. As he did, he sensed a body flying in his direction and looked up just in time to duck out of the way of Chip Graber, who was racing after a loose ball. The Purple Tide was wrapping up its practice with a brief scrimmage, mostly for the entertainment of the fans, but Stevie’s attention had been focused on the sidelines.
    “Watch yourself, kid, you’ll get hurt,” Graber said as he turned to run downcourt. He gave Stevie a friendly smile, which made Stevie feel both better about being in the way and worse about Graber’s predicament. He turned back to the bench area and saw one of the gray-suit twins pointing in the direction of the locker room as if giving Susan Carol directions. Stevie couldn’t help but smile because he knew she was getting exactly what they needed.
    She wrapped up her conversation and walked back to the baseline, pausing briefly to thank the security guard, who actually smiled at her.
    “Well?” Stevie hissed