Payback Time Read online

  "I don't care," I said, thinking that he couldn't be that bad.

  She sighed. "All right. My address is—"

  I wrote down the number. "See you at eight twenty," I said.

  I closed my cell, amazed. Kimi wanted to work with me.

  Before heading to work that afternoon, I drove to Brown Bear car wash. I washed the car, wiped it dry, and vacuumed the seats and the floor. When I finished it looked better, but it was still a ten-year-old silver Ford Focus with a dented front passenger fender and a missing rear wheel cover.

  I woke early Tuesday morning and showered. I toweled dry, dug out my bottle of Calvin Klein Obsession, and sprayed a little on. But then I felt ridiculous—we weren't going on a date—and washed it off. For breakfast I ate a vanilla yogurt and half a cinnamon bagel—no butter. Starting now I was getting in shape.

  Five minutes later I pulled up in front of Kimi's house on Cleopatra Place. I'd driven by it before, not because I was stalking her (I'm fat and ugly, not a pervert), but because Cleopatra is a good shortcut when Eighth Avenue backs up, and I'd seen her in front of her house.

  My dad fights weeds all the time, and our yard looks good, but Kimi's yard made my dad's garden look like Kit Carson's wilderness. It was as if Mr. Yon's flowers were on steroids, while weeds knew better than to poke their ugly heads out of the ground.

  I strode up the walkway to the front door, but it swung open before I reached it. "Come in," her father said, "but no shoes." He was smiling and bowing, but his eyes were fierce. I looked around for Kimi's mother, and then I remembered hearing that Kimi's mother was dead.

  I kicked off my shoes. Kimi was perched on a snow-white sofa, her head bowed and the palms of her hands pressing against her forehead. She wore faded jeans and a U2 T-shirt. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair. "We've got to go, Dad."

  "You sit down," Mr. Yon said, ignoring her.

  I sat. "I'm Mitch True."

  "You wear seat belt?"

  "Yes. Always."

  "Dad."

  "And you drive slow."

  "Yes, sir. I drive slow."

  "You make sure Kimi wear seat belt, and you drive slow."

  "Yes, Mr. Yon. I will."

  "Dad, we've got to go," Kimi said, moving toward the door. I followed, yanking my shoes back on. She almost ran down the walkway; she was in the passenger seat before I was halfway to the car.

  "Oh my God, he is so embarrassing," Kimi said as we pulled away. "He acts like I'm going be kidnapped and forced to become a sex slave in Thailand."

  I pictured Mr. Yon sitting alone in his spotless house, worried sick. Who could blame him? Kimi was amazing, and he'd just seen me—me!—drive off with her.

  "He just cares a lot," I said, sounding like my mom.

  10

  ONCE I'D PULLED INTO an empty parking space at Gilman Park and killed the engine, I turned to Kimi. "We'll do the interview first. Then you can take photos of Horst."

  Kimi pursed her lips. "For three years it's been nothing but Horst. Everybody at Lincoln is sick of him, except for Britt Lind, and I bet she's sick of him too. Let's look for somebody new."

  I cleared my throat. How could I tell Kimi that Coach McNulty was calling the shots? She'd have stood up to him the same way she'd stood up to Mario Chalmers.

  "Sure," I said, "if there is somebody new. But if Horst is the best player—"

  "You're right. Still, we can keep our eyes open."

  We walked across the field toward the west corner where McNulty waited, clipboard in hand. Horst loomed next to him, gripping and regripping a leather football. McNulty looked at his watch as we neared. "Practice starts in seventeen minutes. Once it begins, the interview ends." And then he was gone.

  Horst was wearing shorts and a muscle shirt. He must have spent the summer at the beach and in the gym because his bulging biceps were deep bronze. He smiled, his teeth bleached weirdly white. "Hey, Kimi, you here to interview me?"

  Kimi nodded toward me. "Mitch does the interview; I take the photos."

  Horst's eyes never left Kimi. "I look best holding the ball up like this, like I'm scanning the field for a receiver." He flexed. Was there a new movie, Son of Popeye, that I hadn't heard about? Did he think he was auditioning for the lead?

  "I like candid shots," Kimi said. "Real life, not faked."

  He pulled the ball down. "You're the photographer." He turned to me. "Fire away."

  The night before, I'd come up with oddball questions that would make him squirm. My best was If you were a girl, what guy on the team would you want to date?

  I'd had fun dreaming up those questions, but with two hundred pounds of Horst muscle standing in front of me, I fell back on the regular stuff. What goals had he set for himself? For the team? What areas did he need to improve?

  The answers were the usual yawners. He needed to improve every part of his game. Personal goals would take care of themselves if the team did well. Blah, blah, blah.

  While Horst blathered on, Kimi wandered off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Horst nudged me. "She looks fit, doesn't she? I'd like to be part of her workout routine, if you get my meaning." He laughed, but when I didn't join in, he stopped.

  I asked a few more standard questions, and then sucked up my courage for one of my out-of-the-box questions. "What scares you, Horst? What really, really scares you?"

  His face went blank, and then he shrugged. "That's a dumb question. Why would anything scare me?"

  I looked at him. Athletic, handsome, popular, and rich. He was right: it had been a dumb question. "All right," I said. "That does it."

  As I closed my notebook, a strange thing happened. Horst reached out, rested his hand on my shoulder, and looked me in the eye. "Mitch, I want you to know, you need an interview or a quote, you call me, day or night. I'm never too busy for the press. You understand? I mean—we're friends, right?"

  "Sure we're friends."

  Then he squeezed my shoulder before jogging off to join his teammates.

  I hated myself. I mean—how weak was that? For years the guy blows me off, and then—when he needs me to get his name in the newspaper—he gives me a phony smile, and I lick his fingers like a homeless puppy.

  Kimi had gone across the field over to the children's play area. She'd taken off her shoes and was sitting on the edge of the wading pool, dangling her toes in the water. I trudged over, and she turned to me, her mouth drawn tight. "I don't know how you can stand talking to him. Just because he's got a great body, he thinks the whole world will swoon over him. We can't feature Horst, Mitch. I don't think I can get my camera to focus on him."

  I felt beads of sweat forming under my arms. "But, if he's the best—"

  "Who's that?" she said, her finger pointing toward a guy wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey. He was playing catch with some man in a Seahawks sweatshirt—an older brother or friend, probably—way off in a corner of the practice field.

  "I don't know."

  "He wasn't here last year; I'd have noticed him. He's pretty good, isn't he?"

  I've watched enough games to recognize a player with a great arm, and the kid Kimi pointed out was zinging the ball like an NFL quarterback. His passes had so much zip, I half expected to see jets of flame behind them. He had the size of an NFL quarterback, too. I'd guess six three and 220.

  I looked over to the main practice field. Horst was passing the ball to his old buddy Lenny Westwood. I watched Horst throw, and then turned back to the kid wearing the Eagles jersey. The new guy looked bigger and stronger. With that arm, he'd bring a deep threat to the offense. A tingle ran up and down my spine. Could Horst lose his starting job?

  A shrill blast on a whistle was followed by McNulty's voice through a bullhorn. "Everyone over here." The new guy threw one more frozen rope before trotting toward McNulty. Kimi turned back to me. "Let's interview him later. I bet he's got a story."

  11

  WE CLIMBED TO THE TOP of a little hill to watch practice. The players were in sh
orts with no helmets. McNulty had them running forward, backwards, sideways left, sideways right. Then they'd do push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, stretches, run through tires, run through ropes, hit tackling sleds. "Well," Kimi said after a while. "What do you think?"

  "About what?"

  "About interviewing the guy wearing the number five jersey."

  "It's a good idea, Kimi, but we can't just go talk to him."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we've got to check with McNulty first."

  "Why?"

  "Coaches control access to their players."

  She held the camera up to her face, and then handed it to me. "Mitch, look at his eyes."

  I focused the camera and then used the zoom to pull in close.

  "Do you see it?" she said.

  "See what?"

  "The haunted look. His eyes are old and sad. He's lived through more than anybody else out there."

  I peered through the camera. I tried to see a haunted look, but I don't know what haunted looks like. He did look old, though. I'd have guessed he was twenty-two or twenty-three if I hadn't known he was in high school. I handed back the camera. "Sometime I'll ask McNulty if we can interview him," I said.

  "Ask him now, Mitch."

  "I can't interrupt practice," I protested.

  As if on cue, McNulty blew his whistle. "Water break. Ten minutes." Then he climbed down from his makeshift coaching tower and walked toward his assistant coaches.

  "Come on," Kimi said, and before I could answer, she broke into a jog to intercept him. But a jog for her is a sprint for me. For the millionth time, I told myself that I had to lose weight.

  "Coach," she yelled when we got within ten feet of McNulty.

  He stopped and turned around. "What?"

  I was panting so hard I couldn't speak. Kimi saw me gasping. "Mitch wants to interview the guy wearing the number five jersey."

  McNulty looked at me. "Why?"

  I'd caught my breath a little. "He was throwing off to the side," I panted. "And he's got an NFL arm. He throws harder than Horst."

  McNulty stared at me as if I were from outer space. "Harder than Horst? Like an NFL quarterback?"

  I felt like a foolish five-year-old, but I plunged on. "Have him throw for you. You'll see."

  McNulty looked up at the sky, disgust on his face. "One hour and the kid knows more than I do about my own team."

  I didn't back down. "Just—"

  "You, the guy wearing the Philly jersey" McNulty's voice boomed out, interrupting me. "Come over here. Coby Eliot, you come too."

  The two players trotted over to where we were standing. McNulty looked toward Kimi and me. My face and neck flashed hot and red, which always happens when I get excited.

  "What's your name, son?" McNulty asked Number Five.

  "Angel Marichal," came the whispered answer. Up close, he seemed even bigger.

  "Where you from, Angel?"

  "Houston."

  "You play football last year?"

  "I got cut. It was a big school."

  McNulty shot me a look, then turned back to Marichal.

  "What's your position, Marichal?"

  "Linebacker."

  "Ever play quarterback?"

  He shook his head. "No, sir."

  McNulty nodded toward me. "This guy thinks you throw the ball like a professional quarterback."

  Angel shook his head. "I'm not a quarterback," he repeated.

  "Throw a few for me anyway," McNulty said.

  Angel shrugged, and then stepped off to the side to play catch with Coby Eliot. I looked at Kimi, and her dark eyes glittered with excitement. Maybe Angel didn't know how good he was, but we did. Soon McNulty would know, too.

  Coby Eliot stood about twenty-five yards from Angel Marichal. Angel cocked his arm, and I waited for the ball to sizzle through the summer air, waited for McNulty's eyebrows to go up, waited for him to look at Kimi and me with respect.

  Only the ball didn't sizzle. It looped, high in the air. It wobbled off to the right. Eliot ran under it, caught it, and flung it back. Again Marichal threw. Again a pathetic moon-ball drifted in the general direction of Eliot. A third pass, a fourth, a fifth. All moon shots.

  "That's enough," McNulty said. "Go on, get back with the other guys."

  Eliot and Marichal trotted off; McNulty wheeled on me. "Like an NFL pro?"

  "He threw a hundred times better before," I mumbled, feeling ridiculous. "A thousand times."

  McNulty scowled. "The next time you discover the second coming of Joe Montana, call ESPN. Don't bother me again. Understand?"

  "We still want to interview him," Kimi insisted. "He's a fresh face."

  "Well, you're not interviewing him," McNulty barked.

  "Why not?" Kimi persisted.

  "Because I've got twenty-two seniors on this team who've busted their butts for Lincoln for three years. Angel, or whatever the hell his name is, hasn't finished his first practice. You write about those guys and then talk to me about a new guy." With that, McNulty spun around and headed back to his assistants.

  I turned to Kimi. "You want to go?"

  "I haven't taken pictures of Horst yet," she said, her voice trembling.

  We returned to our spot on the grassy hill and sat looking down at the practice field as McNulty and his assistants ran the players through more drills. Kimi trained her camera on Horst and snapped photo after photo, but I kept my eyes glued on Angel Marichal.

  In every drill, Angel was mediocre, which made no sense. There was no way Kimi and I had imagined those bullet passes or the natural athleticism. I leaned back on my elbows and chewed on a blade of grass.

  Something was missing. Mr. Dewey always told us to look for just this situation. He said that a reporter's job is to find that missing piece. This wasn't a big, earthshaking, terrorist story like Melissa Watts had had her hands on. But it was a story.

  "What's wrong?" Kimi said, pulling the camera away from her face.

  I nodded toward the field. "Angel. He's not really trying."

  McNulty had the players doing shuttle runs, checking their quickness. Angel was constantly adjusting his speed, making sure he stayed near the middle of the pack. Kimi watched, and then turned to me. "You're right. And he's not very good at faking." She paused. "Why would you try out for a team and then not try?"

  "I don't know, but he's got a story. And before the season is over, we're going to get it."

  As soon as I finished my little speech, I felt dumb. Who did I think I was—some big-time CNN reporter? I peeked at Kimi. I was afraid she'd be laughing at me, but she wasn't, and I liked her even more.

  12

  KIMI TOOK PHOTOS for another ten minutes, and then put the lens cap on her camera. "You have time to go to Peet's?" Peet's is a coffee shop in Fremont, the trendiest neighborhood in Seattle. I gaped, speechless. She wanted to go to Peet's with me? "Or do you have stuff to do?"

  "I work, but not until the afternoon. Peet's sounds great."

  Ten minutes later Kimi was ordering Chai tea. I wanted a large mocha with whipped cream, but I ordered tea. I nodded toward the chocolate biscotti in the glass jar on the counter. "You want one?"

  She shook her head. "I just ate breakfast."

  Just ate breakfast! I thought. That was two hours ago.

  What I said was "I'm not hungry either."

  From an upstairs counter, we looked out the window and watched people strolling along Fremont Avenue, some stopping to browse in the music shop or one of the vintage clothes shops. Most were in their twenties, and none seemed as if they were headed to work or school. Seeing them drifting about in the late morning would have driven my dad crazy. Delivery drivers were always quitting on him. I could almost hear him: "Young people just don't know the meaning of work."

  Kimi stirred one packet of sugar into her tea. "I want to help out with the Angel story. You'll need photos, won't you?"

  "Yeah. If there really is a story."

  She sipped her tea. "He
's got a story. I can see it in his eyes. He's gone through something." She put her cup down. "Where do we begin?"

  "The way to do this," I said, feeling my way as I spoke, "is to brainstorm. Get all our ideas out and then sort the good from the bad."

  She nodded. "Okay. Let's start with what we know. First, we know Angel is new to Seattle. Second, we know he's from Houston. And third, we know he got cut from his school's football team last year."

  "I don't buy the last one. I don't care how big his high school was. With his size, he'd make the team."

  Kimi considered. "Maybe he made the team but got kicked off for drugs or alcohol. Maybe he's pretending to be mediocre so McNulty won't check on his past."

  "That's possible, but there's another possibility, too."

  "What?"

  "He could be cheating."

  "Cheating? How?"

  "You heard about that kid in the Little League World Series?"

  "No. Tell me."

  "Danny something. It happened years ago. He claimed he was twelve but he was really sixteen. He was a pitcher, and he struck out everybody. When he got caught, his team had to forfeit their title. Maybe Angel Marichal screwed up somewhere and now he's trying to sneak in one more year of high school football even though he's not eligible. "

  "But if that's Angel's story, wouldn't he want to be a star? He wouldn't come back, play poorly at practice, and end up sitting on the bench, would he?"

  "Probably not," I admitted.

  We fell silent. Kimi finished her tea; I let the bottom inch of mine go cold.

  "Okay, we're done brainstorming. What's next?" she asked.

  "Now we start investigating. I'll Google him, then follow up whatever I get."

  13

  SPENDING TIME WITH KIMI, having a story to investigate—all of that was good. What wasn't good was the way I'd huffed and puffed to keep up with her as she'd chased down McNulty.

  Lots of times I'd come up with a plan for getting into shape—diet or exercise or both—but after a week or so, I'd stop. I'd tell myself that I'd start up again in a month, but that now just wasn't the right time.