“No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and the networks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings through the roof.”
“Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She’ll know you’re coming.” He paused, his voice becoming serious. “I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have you told him?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather wait for the results of the test. I don’t want to build up his hopes if it’s just another false alarm.”
“Do you mind if I meet you there?”
“I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Harvey?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won’t say anything, but it’s really giving him some problems.”
“I’ll speak to him right away.”
GEORGE sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell’s driveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party was winding down now. Most of the guests had already left.
George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while his intended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine. The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Pérignon champagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing that in a few hours the knife in George’s hand would slit open his arteries and extinguish his life forever.
He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, it gleamed menacingly.
A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He recognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenaline coursed through his veins.
He turned the ignition key and followed.
4
IT was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them in his career, maybe thousands. He watched as the New York Knicks’ number one draft pick, a scrawny black kid from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward him with lightning speed. On Jerome’s left ran the Knicks’ second-round pick, Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a giant farmhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determination in their eyes.
Come to Papa, Michael thought.
Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them—especially the man dribbling the ball. The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stall him long enough for Michael’s teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.
Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blocking Holloway’s trail to the basket and picking up the free man, Boone. He looked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that was okay—better to shake up the rookies.
Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last moment Michael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seeking Boone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled. Once Holloway’s feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake. A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began to move his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.
Like taking candy from a baby.
Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass and head back down the court for a fast break in his favor. He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had been decided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward and extended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about to release the ball.
But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expression had been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched while Holloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, and glided toward the cylinder. The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboard vibrated from the assault.
Holloway landed and turned toward Michael. The grin was still on his face.
Out of breath, Michael managed, “I know, I know. In my face, right?”
Jerome shrugged. “You said it, old dude, not me. But I do love playing against legends.”
“This is just practice, kid. We’re on the same team.”
“Knicks to the end. By the way, nice shorts.”
“You don’t like them?”
“Pink and aqua flowers? Very hip.”
They ran up court. Sweat soaked all ten players running through the scrimmage. Their bodies glistened in the dim light. Michael felt hot, tired, and a touch out of shape. His stomach was not helping matters much.
The upcoming season would be Michael’s twelfth with the New York Knicks. He had begun, like Holloway, as a number one draft pick. Coming out of Stanford at age twenty-two, Michael had been a superstar his first year in the NBA, winning the Rookie of the Year Award and making the All-Star team. That same year the Knicks went from last place in the Eastern Conference to second place—a twenty-game swing-around. The next year Michael led them to the finals, where they lost in a seven-game showdown to the Phoenix Suns. Two years later he collected his first NBA championship ring. He had won three in his career with the Knicks, been named to the All-Star team ten times, and been the league’s leader in steals and assists for eight seasons.
Not bad for an old dude.
Michael, an all-purpose shooting guard, did it all. There were many who could score like him, a few who could rebound like him, a couple who could pass like him, but next to none who could play defense like him. Add it all up and you had the kind of player every championship team needs.
“What’s the matter, Michael? Feeling your age? Haul ass!”
Michael could hear himself suck in air. The voice belonged to the Knicks’ new head coach, Richie Crenshaw. Richie had been a second-round pick by the Boston Celtics the same year Michael was drafted by the Knicks. There had been something of a rivalry between the two during Crenshaw’s playing days, but for the most part it was an amicable rivalry. The two men always got along off the court. Now Richie Crenshaw was Michael’s coach and still his good friend.
Eat shit, Richie, Michael shouted. But only to himself.
His lungs burned in his chest; his throat was dry. He was getting older, goddamn it—even though the gods of health had smiled upon Michael for his first ten-plus NBA seasons. No injuries. He had had a boating accident a few years ago, but that took place off-season, so it didn’t count. Only two games missed in almost ten full seasons and those were the result of a minor groin pull. Remarkable, really. Unheard of. Then something must have really pissed off the gods. Michael had landed wrong in a game against the Washington Bullets, twisting his knee. To make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullets’ 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play. Michael’s foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not. It bent the wrong way—backward in fact. There was a snapping sound, and Michael’s scream filled the stadium.