Stealing the Game Read online

  “I changed my mind, midget. Game hasn’t started yet.” Masterson grinned at her.

  Rain slunk off down to the other side of the court. The rest of us looked as angry as possible as we glared at them on our way to the other side. As I got close to Rain, I whispered, “Well played, midget.”

  “A variation on the Sicilian Defense in chess,” she said.

  I just stared, not knowing what she was talking about.

  “Reverse psychology,” she explained.

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  We both laughed at that.

  In pickup ball, the first few minutes of a game are the most important, because the teams don’t know each other very well, so they’re still feeling out the weaknesses and strengths. We’d played the Undertakers before, so we knew that they had a lot of strengths. But they also had the one weakness that sometimes allows the smaller team to pull an upset. Like the eighth-ranked Sixers defeating the Bulls in the 2012 play-offs. Or the 135th-ranked Steve Darcis defeating number one seed Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon in the first round in 2013.

  Overconfidence.

  Overconfidence makes players sloppy. They don’t follow their shots as quickly, they’re slower to jump into defense, they don’t hustle down the court. I remembered what Brooke had said about fast versus slow zombies. Slow zombies made people overconfident and they ended up getting chomped on.

  We had the pumped ball, we had the better court; now we needed to make them overconfident.

  So we let them score the first five points. We pretended that we were trying our best, but we let ourselves get stopped by picks that we ordinarily would have fought through. We let ourselves get “surprised” by a pump-fake we ordinarily would have anticipated. It was a gamble, but we were desperate to even the odds. We sure weren’t going to grow three inches and gain twenty pounds in the next few minutes, so we relied on our basic basketball skills—and my deviousness.

  And it all worked as planned. Missed shots rebounded a little farther off the rim. We anticipated that and hung back from the hoop, giving us more second attempts and therefore more points. The sun messed with them on defense, so we passed the ball around a lot and shot from the spots where the sun was at our backs but directly in their eyes. That made them slower to get their hands up to block. Finally, giving them the first five points allowed them to relax a little, certain that they would crush us fast and be on their way home.

  A fourth bonus was that Fauxhawk was so distracted checking his watch and searching the park for my brother that he didn’t pay attention to the game. Why should he? There was no money riding on it. But that meant he didn’t yell at his team, motivating them through fear.

  When the score was 12–12, Fauxhawk called a time-out.

  “Where the hell is your brother?” he hollered at me.

  I checked my phone. I knew he wouldn’t have texted or called, but I wanted to see how much of the fifteen minutes that he’d given me was left. Only eight minutes.

  “Nothing new from him,” I said. “But he told me he’d be here by the end of the game.”

  “I don’t care about the stupid game!” Fauxhawk shouted. Then he slid closer to me and said, so that only I could hear him, “He’d better be here soon or I’m going to take it out on you, little brother. And I won’t be as kind to you as I was to him. Ever try to shoot a basketball with a couple broken arms?”

  “There’s a lot of people around,” I said.

  He grinned. “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be today. I’m a very patient man. One day you’re riding your bike home and a van ‘accidentally’ clips you from behind. Instant tragedy.”

  I didn’t say anything, just returned to the court to get the game rolling.

  I tried not to think about his threat. I was counting on Jax. I was counting on being right about everything I’d figured out. That was a lot of counting.

  A couple minutes later we had pulled ahead 17–14, and that’s when the Undertakers got physical again. We knew they would, so we tried to avoid physical contact as much as possible. But in basketball, it’s not always possible.

  Masterson started it by charging through a pick that Tom had set for me. He rammed Tom so hard that Tom staggered into Rain, almost knocking her down.

  “Offensive foul,” I said, taking the ball to the top of the key.

  “He was moving!” Masterson said.

  “Seventeen to fourteen,” I said, ignoring him. “Ball’s in.” I passed it in.

  Danforth came down with a rebound, elbowing Roger on top of his head.

  Clement straight-armed Gee in the chest in order to snag a loose ball.

  Masterson pushed me toward the basket, using his butt. But I kept darting back and forth, swatting at the ball. I knocked it away once. He retrieved it, but he had to start pushing me all over again. I knew he was frustrated, and I could tell by the tension in his body that he was about to do another shoulder fake, followed by a head smack in my face. Just as his head came backward, I ducked around his right side and stole the ball.

  Masterson chased me downcourt like a hunting dog after a rabbit. But I was faster and managed a soft layup before he made it to the free throw line. I stopped and turned in time to see Masterson plow right into me, knocking me into the hoop pole. Fortunately, the pole had a thick green pad around it, but the impact knocked all the air out of me and I slumped to the ground, gasping.

  My team ran over to help me up.

  When Roger saw that I was okay and breathing normally, he spun with his fist up. “I’m gonna punch a hole in his face!”

  I grabbed Roger’s shoulder. “Let’s just finish the game.” I knew we were running out of time.

  When I looked over at Masterson, I saw his team gathered around him arguing. Clearly, Lambert and Bendleton felt Masterson had gone too far. “Not cool, Phil,” Lambert told Masterson. Bendleton nodded agreement. Masterson didn’t seem to care, but I could see Danforth and Clement shift uncomfortably at the disagreement.

  “Fine,” Masterson said. “Let’s just beat these little turds senseless and head down to Huntington Beach to check out the sand bunnies.”

  Disagreement over. They all liked that idea.

  “Our ball,” Masterson said, snapping his fingers at Rain, who’d snatched it up after my collision with the pole. She scowled fiercely at Masterson, gripping the ball as if she were about to hurl it into his face.

  “C’mon, team,” I said brightly to show I was okay, “let’s finish this.”

  Both teams squared off to continue the game. Some of the Undertakers might have disagreed with cheap shots, but the determined looks on their faces showed that they still wanted to win.

  My teammates also had the grim glares of warriors who want to win.

  Nobody was giving an inch.

  So, you probably want to know who won.

  Did Good (us) defeat Evil (them)?

  Did the Underdogs (us) beat the Top Dogs (them)?

  Or was Coach right about the big guys almost always beating the smaller guys with the same skills?

  But this isn’t one of those slow-motion, final-shot-at-the-buzzer-to-win stories. We didn’t try to make a philosophical or moral point. We didn’t try to inspire anyone.

  We just played basketball.

  When it was over, nothing had changed. Masterson was still a jerk. Roger was still a hothead. We didn’t hug, not even the customary hand slaps. The world wasn’t a better, kinder, gentler place. No lessons were learned.

  We just played basketball.

  A bunch of kids being kids, playing a game that had no consequences for the future. It wouldn’t be recorded anywhere.

  Who won? What color is an orange? Who cares? We didn’t play to entertain the spectators watching from the sidelines who shouted or clapped or winced at every play. We didn’t even play for you, who are reading about the game. You know by now that I’m not one of those winning-doesn’t-matter-it’s-how-you-play-the-game guys.
I want to win. But who won this particular game is a matter only for those who actually played it. Because we weren’t thinking about any world except the world on that seventy-four-by-forty-two-foot greentop court. A constantly moving world in which everything was happening at once—and everything was at once both predictable and surprising.

  We just played basketball.

  And it was awesome.

  Two minutes after the game was over, Jax arrived.

  I was the only one not surprised by what happened next.

  WHO IS THE REAL CRIMINAL MASTERMIND?

  MOM yanked open the door after the first knock. “I’m so sorry for the short notice, Hannah,” she said anxiously. “Chris only just told us that he has an algebra test tomorrow.” She lowered her voice, but I could still hear it from the kitchen. “I think he’s starting to panic a little.”

  I was spying on them through the kitchen door.

  Hannah smiled. “Not a problem, Mrs. Richards. But I only have half an hour before I have to meet another student. Why didn’t he say something last night?”

  Dad (worried): “He’s been so distracted lately. He didn’t even know about the test until he got home and opened his student planner. That really isn’t like him.”

  Mom: “It’s worth a fourth of his final grade.”

  Dad: “He begged us to call you. And he’s not a kid who usually asks for help.”

  Hannah: “Then we’d better not waste a second. Kitchen?”

  Mom: “Yes.”

  I tiptoed quickly back to my chair and sat. My algebra book was open and I pretended to be studying it.

  The three of them came through the door, led by Hannah. “Look at you, Chris, so studious,” she said with a smile.

  “I try,” I said, smiling back.

  That’s when Jax came up behind Mom and Dad, draping his arms over their shoulders like the three of them were singing oldies songs at a party. “Hello, parental units,” he said brightly. “Ready to be surprised?”

  Oh, before we get to Jax’s surprise, you probably want to know what went down at the park after Jax arrived. Here’s what happened:

  Jax strolled across the manicured grass carrying a cheap black backpack with some big-eyed Japanese anime boy on it. I guessed the stolen jewelry was inside.

  As soon as Fauxhawk saw Jax, he ran over to meet him. At first he barked all kinds of curse words at Jax, asking him why he was late and so on. But he shut up when Jax handed him the backpack.

  They were about twenty feet from the basketball court. Our game was over, so we all stood around, wiping sweat from our faces with the bottoms of our shirts, or drinking from our water bottles. I was the only one watching Jax and Fauxhawk, though I pretended not to be. I knew what was coming, so it was hard for me to act calm.

  Fauxhawk unzipped the bag and rummaged inside without taking anything out. He bent down to study the contents more closely. Finally, he smiled wolfishly, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and shook Jax’s hand.

  “We’re even,” Fauxhawk said.

  “Not quite,” Jax said.

  Fauxhawk looked confused for a second. During that moment, my brother grabbed Fauxhawk by the wrist, twisted it behind his back, forced him to the ground, knelt on his back with one knee, and slapped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists. It all seemed to happen in one swift motion, like a perfectly executed pick-and-roll.

  Fauxhawk’s loud curses drew all our attention. A few parents at the playground grabbed their toddlers and carried them to their cars.

  “What the—?” Roger said, his mouth hanging open in shock.

  “Coach!” Masterson called, and he and the rest of the team started running toward Fauxhawk.

  I didn’t know what they were planning to do, so I started running, too.

  It wasn’t necessary. A bald guy in his twenties who’d been shooting free throws dropped his ball and ran toward my brother. As he moved, he pulled out a badge from his shorts and waved it. “Tustin PD!”

  A bulky woman in a pink sweatsuit who’d been walking a black Lab also ran over, waving a badge and shouting, “Tustin PD!” The dog trotted obediently beside her.

  When we all congregated around my brother; he was pulling Fauxhawk to his feet, saying, “…the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one…”

  He had his badge out, too. It was attached to a leather wallet, one flap of which was tucked into his shirt pocket so the shiny gold badge hung down in plain view. But it didn’t look like the oval Tustin PD badges, which had a big gold scroll across the top that said POLICE OFFICER and in the middle two more scrolls that said TUSTIN POLICE.

  Jax’s badge was a seven-pointed star. In the middle was the image of a woman clutching a spear and wearing a gladiator helmet. The word EUREKA was embossed above her. Encircling that picture were the words CALIFORNIA HIGHWAY PATROL.

  Roger, Rain, Tom, and Gee stood behind me watching.

  Roger poked me hard in the back. “Dude, since when is your brother a cop?”

  After Fauxhawk was driven off in a Tustin PD patrol car (was it one of the same ones we’d hidden under last night?), pick-up arrangements had to be made for the Gold Coasters. The woman cop with the dog drove Fauxhawk’s van to the police station. Two uniformed officers awaited the arrival of the Gold Coasters’ parents, who would probably be hysterical with worry.

  Jax nodded for me to follow him to the parking lot. “I’ve got to head down to the station, bro, but I’ll give you a ride home.”

  I said good-bye to my teammates and promised to fill them in tomorrow at school.

  In the car I asked to see Jax’s badge. He plucked it from his pocket and handed it to me. “This is cool,” I said, rubbing my fingers across the surface.

  “Each point on the star stands for something important to being a Highway Patrol officer: Character, Integrity, Knowledge, Judgment, Honor, Loyalty, and Courtesy.” He looked over at me. “You have any questions, Chris?”

  “I thought the Highway Patrol just did traffic stuff. You know, like wrote speeding tickets on freeways and stuff. Stared at people behind those big hats and dark sunglasses.”

  “We do have awesome sunglasses.”

  “Can you get me a pair?”

  He laughed. “I’ll look into it.”

  “So what’s the Highway Patrol doing taking down Fauxhawk?”

  “Fauxhawk?”

  “Rand.”

  “Nice,” he said, chuckling. “The CHP has the power to enforce any state law anywhere in the state. Sometimes we help local cops with investigations by providing outside personnel for undercover work. Because I was familiar with the neighborhoods and the people, I was assigned to this case.”

  “As the loser who dropped out of Stanford? That was your cover?”

  “Pretty much. I was supposed to have dropped out because I had a gambling problem.”

  “So you could make a big bet with Rand and deliberately lose.”

  “Yup. I needed to owe him enough money that once he accepted stolen goods as payment, we’d have a slam-dunk case on him.”

  “Yeah, but everything depended on us losing that first game. What would you have done if we’d have won?”

  “You did have me worried,” he said. “You’ve gotten a lot better since the last time I saw you.”

  “You looked pretty worried, but I thought it was because you were scared that we’d lose.”

  “My brilliant acting, bro,” he said. “I’d done everything to stack it against you. I told you about the game late so it would be hard for you to get the best players. I didn’t tell you that they were older and bigger, so you couldn’t prepare. But you still almost took them down.” He grinned proudly at me. “Anyway, if you’d have won, I would have just made another bet on something else. But that would have delayed the whole operation a few more days.”

  “A few more days of lying to Mom and Dad. And me.”

  Jax sighed heavily. “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry, man. I had to pretend to drink so Mom
and Dad would react normally. This was my first undercover gig, Chris. I had to do it by the book. I wouldn’t have done it this way if we’d had other options.”

  “You did have other options. You could have just told us the truth.”

  He gave me a skeptical look. “Really? You think Mom and Dad were ready to hear that I’d decided to ditch law school to become a cop?”

  He had a good point. “But you could have told me,” I said.

  “If I’d told you, you would’ve had to keep it a secret from Mom and Dad. You’re not built that way, bro. Look how much keeping your comic book stuff from them is eating you up.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. I had to think about it.

  “Anyway, the thing is, we knew from CIs that—”

  “CIs?”

  “Confidential informants. Snitches.”

  “Right.”

  Jax continued: “We knew that Rand had received the stolen goods from those garage burglaries and was selling them. But we didn’t have enough proof. Now we do.”

  I thought about that for a moment, then said, “So our burglary last night wasn’t just about getting the stolen goods, because you could have gotten them from your own department.”

  “We had to make sure Rand thought the stolen jewelry was really stolen.”

  “That’s why you deliberately triggered the alarm. You wanted it to be in the newspapers and on the news so Rand would know about it. You wanted the cops to have your photo so Rand would know it was you.”

  “You caught that, huh? Very good.”

  “I’ve seen you dribble through an entire team’s defense. I’ve seen you toss a touchdown pass a split second before getting mauled by three offensive players. You don’t rattle and you don’t trip.”

  “I am good, aren’t I?”

  “Not that good, or I wouldn’t have figured it out.”

  He laughed. “Touché, SP.”

  “Were the local cops in on it when they showed up at Angelo’s last night?”

  He looked over at me, surprised. “Of course. Do you think there’s any way I’d put you in any real danger? Even Angelo helped us with the sting.”