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“So there’s no chance that her son Clay…”
“Was mine?” Greg shook his head. “Wow. All kinds of weird karma stuff going around here, isn’t there? No, Myron. There’s no chance Clay was mine.”
Myron sat back. “They found your DNA at the scene.”
“That’s what they say.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I wasn’t there. I didn’t kill her. I haven’t seen Cecelia Callister in thirty years. So when my lawyer told me that they had my DNA under her fingernails or something—I assumed that it had to be a mistake. I know the science doesn’t lie. But sometimes humans do. Or labs mess up. There had to be something wrong. That’s what I thought.”
“Thought,” Myron repeated. “As in past tense.”
“Yes.”
“So now you think…?”
“My lawyer had his own expert redo the DNA test from scratch. Took my DNA, compared it to the lab sample. It’s definitely my DNA under the fingernails. It’s too crazy. Do you want to know where my mind went at first?”
Myron nodded for him to tell him.
“I wondered whether I had a twin brother or something. Then I wondered whether, I don’t know, I gave blood somewhere. Like years ago. Like maybe I gave a donation to the Red Cross and someone stole it.”
“Twins don’t have the same DNA profile, and they can’t use stored blood—”
“Yeah, I know all that now. I didn’t really believe any of it either. I’m just trying to show you how crazy my mind started to go.”
“So what then?”
“I kept thinking someone has to be setting me up.”
“Who?”
“Cecelia Callister was murdered on September fourteenth.”
“Okay,” Myron said.
“So look, I’ve been keeping a low profile for a long time. The beard. The hair. It’s all a disguise. I’ve been careful. But there are things I still miss. About my old life.” Greg inched a little closer. “Tell me your favorite basketball memory. Not a big shot or a championship. Tell me when you enjoyed just playing the most.”
Myron was going to mention the one time he got to suit up in a Boston Celtics uniform, his one and only preseason game, the game where Big Burt Wesson, paid off by Greg Downing to avenge his wife’s infidelity, slammed into Myron and ended his career. But now was not the time. It wasn’t water under the bridge, but it was water best not to navigate through right now.
When Myron didn’t reply, Greg said, “What I remember most, what I loved about the game, were those pickup games in the off-season. Remember?”
“At the JCC,” Myron said.
“Right. Nowadays the kids play competitive ball all year around. AAU. All these leagues, all these scheduled games. They’re a nice moneymaker for someone, but it hurts the game. And the kids. My favorite part of basketball? The part I missed? Old-school pickup games. A gym that smelled like old socks. Guys choosing sides. Shirts and skins. Calling winners.”
“Yeah, Greg, I know what pickup basketball is.”
But it was hard not to agree. Myron loved pickup. He still played it occasionally, when his knee could handle the strain.
“Okay,” Myron said. “So you started playing in pickup games.”
“I was careful about keeping a low profile. A different court every time. I found a church league game one week. I found some guys who played at a local Y the next. I dialed my game down, so, you know, I wouldn’t dominate.”
He wasn’t bragging. Myron did the same. Guys think they are good. But they aren’t pros.
“I’d even play lefty,” Greg said.
