Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

and squeaking sneakers. A vague smell of stale sweat hung in the air. I climbed halfway down the bleacher stairs from above and took a seat to watch. The coach was running a half-court drill, working on the offensive schemes with the first and second strings. The plays were designed to get the ball into Teddy J.’s hands to shoot, and he was on the mark this day, sinking six of his first eight shots. Then he caught a glimpse of me taking in the practice from the bleachers, and he lost his touch, missing his next three attempts. A couple of the upperclassmen razzed him—and me in the process—for having his “girlfriend” come to watch him. Teddy sulked. Then Coach Mahoney blew his whistle and told the boys to take a knee. Several players craned their necks to look up into the stands, and the coach took notice of me for the first time. He told the team to run a lay-up drill, while he climbed the stairs to speak to me.

“Hello, Miss Stone,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’m just watching the practice,” I said. “Research for the feature I’m doing on Teddy Jurczyk.

He fidgeted and scratched his neck. “I thought we had an agreement that you would leave Teddy alone.”

“I’m just finishing my feature on him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. This practice session is closed. You’re going to have to leave.”

“But I’ve got an assignment from the paper. It’s all been approved by the principal’s office.”

“This principal’s office?” he asked.

“No, the junior high school’s,” I said. “Mr. Brossard.”

“Look,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “You’re a nice girl, and I know you don’t mean any harm. But you’re kind of a jinx to Teddy.”

“A jinx?”

“Yeah. He gets all tight when you’re around. You make him nervous. I just can’t have you upsetting him like that.”

I flushed. My mouth went dry, and I didn’t know what to say. I was being kicked out of the gym and off my story with one swing of Coach Mahoney’s leg.

“It’s not personal,” he said, but I was dumbstruck. A jinx? “Oh, there’s Mr. Brossard now,” said Mahoney. “Maybe you can talk to him.”

I made my way up the stairs, temples throbbing from the humiliation. Brossard waited for me atop the bleachers and extended a hand to shake mine. I offered it dumbly, and he asked me what was wrong.

“I’ve just been asked to leave the practice and to stay away from Teddy Jurczyk.”

“What? Why?”

“Coach says I’m a jinx. But it’s my job to do a story on him. How can I tell my editor that I can’t write it because I’m not welcome here?”

“That’s rough,” he said. “Listen, maybe I can help. I’ll have a word with the coach later on. For now, it might be better to do as he asks. Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Dean’s Coffee House had served sodas and malteds to generations of New Holland high schoolers. Just a few blocks from Walter T. Finch High, Dean’s was a friendly spot, open only till about six, when Dean and his wife, Edith, punched out for the day. Out of loyalty to Fadge, I didn’t patronize the shop. To tell the truth, he’d threatened to ban me for life if he ever caught me in there. The same went for Mack’s Confectionery up the street. Under the present circumstances, I decided to risk the wrath of Ron Fiorello.

“I wanted to have a word with you,” said Brossard once we were seated at a table near the window. “It’s about Darleen Hicks.”

“What about her?” I asked. He had my interest piqued.

“I’ve been reading the articles in the paper, and I got to thinking. I’ve come to believe that girl simply ran away with someone. To Arizona.”

Wow. What powers of deduction.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“Well, there was the receipt they found in her bedroom. The one for the bus ticket. Clearly she used the ticket and motored off to the Southwest. Didn’t she have some boyfriend in the army?”

“What about the lunch box they found near her property? Doesn’t that point to foul play?”

“I’ve been thinking that over, too,” he said, blowing on his black coffee to cool it. He took a sip then resumed. “There’s really no evidence that the lunch box is hers, is there? Didn’t you write that the sheriff merely found an average lunch box like so many others? It could belong to anybody. Or, it’s possible that she threw it away herself. Young girls behave oddly at times.”

I squinted across the table at him. A gap between two houses on the other side of the street let a fierce beam of sunlight through, and it was directly behind Brossard, rendering him a near silhouette before me. I couldn’t quite make out his expression, but not for lack of trying.

“Is something wrong with your eyes, Miss Stone?” he asked.

“The sun,” I said. “You’ve given this business a lot of thought, I see.”

“Well, when one of my girls disappears, I want to know why.”

“Naturally,” I said. Then, wondering how often this kind of thing came up, I asked him if it had ever happened before.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, shaking his head. “When I was in Hudson, a young girl disappeared. The police never found out what happened to her. It’s a sad thing, but it happens every day across the country. I’m afraid our society has lost its way. With filth like Lolita passing for literature . . .” He stopped himself and smiled sadly. “I’m a bit old fashioned, Miss Stone. I still believe in God, sin, and judgment. Just an old altar boy with very Catholic ideas. You probably think I’m very unhip.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you’re a New York City girl, after all.”

Huh? I wasn’t sure if he was insulting me or admiring my cosmopolitan attitudes. And how did he know that, anyway? “Is that why you wanted to talk to