Read Online Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler - Free Book Online

benched—his
     knee’s out. And Sammy Johnston, he’s back from that wrist surgery—first time he’s played for months. Everybody’s saying we’ll
     win by twenty…” Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait… wait… You’re saying you want me to do something to…”
    The big player couldn’t bring himself to say “throw the game,” but he wasn’t so stupid he didn’t understand Pettiway’s meaning.
     “The
Lakers
want me to do that?”
    “No, no,” Cabot said. “The team doesn’t know anythingabout it. This is something Mr. Pettiway and I’ve been working on. I told you my job is making money for people. We’ve got
     a lot of money tied up in bets on this game tonight. With Hamilton out and this being Johnston’s first game in two months,
     you’re right—the odds are real good for your team. So if the Lakers win we’re going to make a lot of money. If that happens
     then Mr. Pettiway’ll pull some strings at the Lakers and get you that contract. We can guarantee it.”
    A blank look filled the player’s face as he looked around the room. His eyes settled on the van Gogh. What was he thinking?
     Cabot wondered. Anything at all?
    Finally the player turned back to Pettiway. Washington squinted and said, “You guarantee it in
writing?
”
    Cabot looked at Pettiway and grinned. “I told you Danny knows what he’s about. Just ’cause a man talks slow doesn’t mean he
is
slow.”
    Pettiway pulled a document out of one of his briefcases and slid it toward the player, who read it slowly, his lips moving.
     He read it again. Then once more. “Some of this I can’t scope out. Maybe I should have my lawyer look it over. I get into
     trouble sometimes if I don’t do that.”
    “Um, Danny,” Pettiway said delicately, “we probably don’t want to do that, now, do we? Not with the talk of making sure your
     team loses that game tonight.”
    “Oh, right. That’d be bad.”
    “Yes, it would.”
    Washington took the pen and looked over the paper again. “I don’t know. I never done anything like this before.”
    At a glance from Cabot, Pettiway opened his second briefcase, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s a signing
     bonus, Danny. Half a million. You were saying you didn’t likepaying taxes? Well, since this’s cash, you don’t have to pay a penny in tax. It’s yours if you sign now.”
    Washington’s eyes slid to the memo from the head coach. “I gave the team everything I got and they treat me like that? Man,
     that’s low.” He gripped the pen in tight fingers.
    “Go ahead, Danny,” Cabot said.
    The big man signed the letter. Then. Pettiway did too and gave Washington a copy.
    They shook hands.
    Cabot grinned and said, “Maybe you don’t drink beer, Danny, but I’ve got some champagne in the fridge. How ’bout we celebrate?”
    But before he got halfway to the kitchen T. D. Randall pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from his pocket and shouted,
     “I need backup, now!” He leapt to his feet, drawing a pistol from the back of his waistband and training it on Cabot.
    “Jesus,” Cabot gasped, eyes wide.
    Pettiway stood up, confusion on his face. “What’re you—”
    And then the apartment door burst open and two men in suits, also brandishing guns, pushed inside. Badges hung from their
     necks.
    Cabot snapped, “What the hell’s going on?”
    Pettiway looked horrified. One of the policemen—a short, muscular man—grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t
     move.” He roughly frisked the man and cuffed him. The other did the same to Cabot, then to Washington.
    The taller of the cops said, “I’m Detective Harvey, Midtown Vice.” Then he recited, “You men are under arrest for conspiracy
     to alter the outcome of a sporting event and for wagering on the outcome of said event.”
    “You!” Cabot turned to T. D. Randall. “You’re undercover?”
    Randall’s only response was to read the men their rights. He then took a tape recorder