LIN'S MOM WAS NOT TYPICAL CHINESE PARENT, SHE PUSHED BASKETBALL

From the NY Times:


Tight-Knit Family Shares Lin’s Achievement

By SAM BORDEN and KEITH BRADSHER

PALO ALTO, Calif. — The basketball court at Palo Alto High School is unusual in that there are no floor-level seats for the fans. The grandstand is raised, like a balcony encircling the playing area, making it feel as if hundreds of people are simultaneously leaning forward to peer down at the players below. During games, the home fans sit together on one side, occasionally looking to their left to gaze at the state championship banners that hang on the wall next to the scoreboard.

This is where Shirley Lin would sit, usually in jeans and a team sweatshirt, cheering with the rest of the parents as her son, Jeremy, ran up and down the floor. At halftime, she would bounce around, talking to parents and teachers, checking in on the food and drink offerings she probably had a hand in organizing. Then, when the game resumed, she would return to her seat, peering intently at her son.

“She was not the loudest,” Mike Baskauskas, the father of one of Jeremy’s teammates, said. “But you knew she was there. She was probably the single most involved parent I’ve ever been around.”

Shirley’s husband, on the other hand, was always silent, and this was by design. Before every game, Gie-Ming Lin would traipse up the steps on the opposite side of the gym — to the point farthest from the rest of the home fans — with his video camera in hand. Sometimes, he would take along Jeremy’s younger brother, Joseph; sometimes, he would go alone. But he was always in the rafters instead of among the other parents, his camera trained on the floor.

“I guess you wouldn’t want to have your voice on the tape all the time, so that worked for him,” said Michael Lehman, who worked with Shirley at Sun Microsystems and whose son, Brad, was a teammate of Jeremy’s.

Lehman added: “But he was always there. You knew he cared and loved watching his son play.”

...“Jeremy’s life was formed by his parents,” Fu-Chang Lo, an elder at the Lin family church, said last week, and he and others who know the family maintain that in order to fully comprehend Lin’s rise from relative anonymity, his parents’ story must be understood.

...Mom in His Corner

If Gie-Ming planted the basketball seed in Jeremy and his brothers (through frequent trips to the local Y.M.C.A. and repeated viewings of old N.B.A. games he taped on his VCR), then Shirley, now 55, is the one who cultivated it. As the Lins settled in Palo Alto, she quickly became a sort of hybrid “tiger mom,” fiercely prodding her children to work tirelessly, but also advocating for them in whatever way she could.

Shirley made no illusion of her priorities; her e-mail address features, among other characters, three “J’s” — for her sons, Josh, Jeremy and Joseph — and the word “mom,” and other parents found her passion perpetual, if not infectious.

Shirley embraced the duality of her role. She was strict with Jeremy about academics, calling his coaches to warn them that a poor grade meant Jeremy would not be going to practice without improvement. But she was also willing to engage in playful bantering with Jeremy’s teammates when she drove them to practice. At the family’s church, the Chinese Church in Christ, she went with the children to the English-speaking service while Gie-Ming often worshiped at the service held in Chinese.

Shirley encouraged a balance for Jeremy, friends said; Friday nights would often involve youth gatherings at the church, and after studying with the pastor Stephen Chen, Jeremy and his brothers would frequently take Chen with them when they went to play basketball afterward.

“Sometimes, we would play until 1 a.m. and then go to Denny’s to eat,” Chen said. “Shirley would come and meet us.”

In an interview with a Taiwanese television station last summer, Shirley lamented that she did not fully understand the intricacies of the American youth basketball system when Josh began playing; choosing the right teams and finding the right opportunities for exposure can be challenging.

With Jeremy, however, Shirley was diligent; Baskauskas recalled that when Jeremy was nearing the end of elementary school, there was no elite-level program for youngsters that age to join.

“So we started one,” Baskauskas said.

With Shirley squarely in the middle of the group, a National Junior Basketball program was built in Palo Alto, which included a top-tier regional team that featured Jeremy and many other youngsters who went to play with him on Amateur Athletic Union teams and in high school.

“It filled a hole,” Baskauskas said.

While Gie-Ming’s general fascination with basketball is well known — he has an abiding love for the hook shot, and one of Jeremy’s former teammates, Brad Lehman, said, “I think that’s the only shot I’ve ever seen him take” — Shirley’s devotion to the game was driven by her children.

Her commitment to it, though, was unusual among Asian parents and, in the Taiwanese television interview, Jeremy acknowledged his appreciation for his mother’s willingness to break from the norm.

“Growing up, some of my mom’s friends would tell her that she was wasting everyone’s time by letting me play so much basketball,” he said. “And so she would get criticized, but she let me play because she saw that basketball made me happy.”

He added: “It’s funny because once I got into Harvard, the same moms that were criticizing her were asking her questions about which sports their kids could play to go to Harvard. It was a funny reversal for me to see them support me in basketball, even though not many other Asian parents would have done the same.”

‘He Takes Care of Me’

Shirley’s involvement in Jeremy’s basketball life was often as an organizer — of travel schedules or practice times or who would be driving the players’ vans to a road game — but she did not stop there. She would often talk animatedly with Jeremy in Chinese after games — “I always wished I knew what she was saying to him because he was so good,” Brad Lehman said — and Michael Lehman, Brad’s father, recalled her once helping recruit a talented player to join their sons’ A.A.U. team. Shirley did not coach, but she also did not hesitate to question those who did about Jeremy’s playing time or strategy.

After working with Shirley to start the N.J.B. program, for example, Baskauskas was pressed into coaching duty for the team.

“Our conversations then were a little different,” he said, smiling. “She had her son’s interest at heart. Who can blame her for that?”

...

Still, humbleness remained an obvious family trait. Gie-Ming and Shirley embraced their lives at the church, with Gie-Ming occasionally teaching a Sunday school class in Chinese and Shirley acting as a formal teacher and an informal counselor. Chen said he would often see Shirley slip her arm around the shoulders of the young girls in the congregation and say, “How are you?” with a wide smile. Most of the children, Chen said, called her Aunt Shirley.

Even during a rare splurge, Jeremy’s modesty showed through. Nathan Lui, a high school friend of Jeremy’s, recalled going to an Audi dealership with Jeremy and Shirley shortly after Jeremy had signed with his hometown Golden State Warriors. After years of riding around in a Taurus, he was ready for an upgrade.

While out on a test drive, Lui said, the salesman asked Jeremy if he was a basketball player. Jeremy said, “Yes.” The salesman pressed on. “Did you play in high school? College?” he said, and Lui remembered smiling from the back seat.

“Jeremy had just been signed by an N.B.A. team that played like 10 minutes away from there,” he said. “Anyone else would have been shouting it out, telling everyone.”

But that was not how Shirley and Gie-Ming had raised their son.

“Well,” Jeremy told the salesman, “I used to play in college.”

Sam Borden reported from Palo Alto and Keith Bradsher from Taipei, Taiwan. Howard Beck, David Chen and Michael Luo contributed reporting from New York, and Mike Gruss from Norfolk, Va.


"FATHER, FORGIVE THEM FOR THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO" - Luke 23:34

I'm continually amazed at how "writers" who have not WATCHED Jeremy Lin play or studied tape, pass judgment on him as if they were experts. This excerpt comes from some wanker at Fansided Hoops Habit. It was just about the worst I've ever seen:

"If he (Scott) truly meant his words on focusing on the defensive end, he’ll have to play Jeremy Lin more than 40-year-old Steve Nash, and even start the newcomer.  That sounds a bit hysterical, considering Lin lost his starting job in Houston because he couldn’t defend a soul.  Patrick Beverley took over those duties, and Daryl Morey felt that Lin was worth trading away and limiting his point guard depth.

Hysterical? Couldn't guard a soul? What planet is this faux writer from???

And more idiocy from him: "Viewing the Rockets last season, you could tell Lin wasn’t able to stay with the quicker, stronger guards on the perimeter.  Players would blow past him, and it would place a heavy burden on Dwight Howard and Terrence Jones to defend the rim."

If I wrote that back in the day when I covered the Knicks, my editor would have at least asked me how I had come to my conclusions about Lin. But today, fan sites have no editors. All these wannabe writers just want is to see their name in print. And to go all Stephen Smith and Barkley with a rant that draws attention to THEM, not the players they pontificate about.

Ignored by all these wannabes is that Byron Scott plans to install a modified Princeton Offense. An offense that needs a Lin type of guard.

When I was writing for my New Jersey newspaper, I often covered Princeton's basketball games, home and on the road. The coach, Pete Carril invented the Princeton Offense. He was a genius as a coach. I saw first hand what the Princeton Offense does. It requires ball movement (no Hardens allowed!), and a really smart point guard. It was pure beauty to watch.

Here from a newspaper (with real editors and writers) is the major point to be made about Lin's future with Lakers: 

"...Scott will have the ultimate say in how the offense is ran, which will likely be a mixture of the Princeton offense along with what he deems “traditional NBA sets.” The Princeton offense is one that is predicated on quick ball movement and motion, which means it will require a point guard to run the offense.

...This offensive scheme includes multiple cuts to the rim, the use of a strong post player that is able to draw double-teams, and a reliance on outside shooting that will allow the team to effectively use kick-outs after drives to the rim. If Lin can execute Scott’s offensive game plan well, then all will fall in place accordingly as he will have the head coach’s backing to his role on the team."

Lin's high basketball IQ, and his Harvard smarts will be more than enough to pick up and execute Scott's offense.

Listen up you wannabe writers! Your day of reckoning is coming. By November, you will all be singing Lin's praises. Writers are famous for reversing their opinions, AND never acknowledging that they were wrong. 

And even then, they will not credit Lin for his talent. They will say that like in NY under D'Antoni, Lin found a coach who he was a perfect fit for. The implication being that Lin can only excel in certain systems. That's BS. In Houston, Lin did really well in what I wanted to say was McHale's System. But that would be an oxymoron. McHale had no system other than "Give the ball to Harden and let him run amok."

Here for you is a short clip showing the Princeton offense as executed by Carril's "rocket scientists" as he liked to call his players: 

Now I am done ranting for the day. More rants to come. 

Here is a promise: when Lin starts to shine for Lakers, and even carry them, I will write to all the faux writers and remind them of what they said about Jeremy. Count on it!

Have a nice day.


THE DAY THE EARTH SHOOK UP BASEBALL

Star-Ledger, The (Newark, NJ)


'RUMBLING' RECOUNTED

 NAT GOTTLIEB  
Published: October 18, 1989

One minute I was killing time in the press room waiting for the game to begin. The next moment I thought I was going to be killed.

First the table I was sitting at began to tremble and shake. Then a 10- foot-wide corrugated door attached to the press room shook as if a hundred subway trains were rumbling into Grand Central Station at once.

For 15 seconds Candlestick Park trembled on its foundation. Writers in the press room stared ashen-faced at each other and then one ran to stand underneath a concrete beam. Suddenly, everybody rushed to get under it.

Outside in the stands, it was worse. "It felt like I was riding a surfboard," said Bob Blanche, a musician from nearby Pacifica. "I was standing in a soda line when it happened."

John Moller, who flew in from Union City, N.J., for the game, tried to find his sense of humor.

"I came out here from Jersey just for the earthquake," quipped Moller, who said he sells carpets.

From all early indications, there was no panic in the stands.

In fact, hardened Californians, who made up the bulk of the 60,000-plus crowd, seemed to relish what they almost considered a pre-game ceremony.

"People let out a roar right after it, like a cheer for the Giants," said Dave Planka of Southern Hills, Calif. "This will be great for the Giants. It's an omen."

For fans in center field, it was not as amusing.

One fan who had been in the center-field bleachers, Steve Pressey of San Francisco, was walking around with a huge brick in his hands.

"The whole staircase is littered with these," Pressey said. "We thought the overhead rafter was going to fall right on us."

As Pressey talked to reporters, a fan walked by, saw the brick and quipped, "Have Mitchell sign it, it will be worth money some day," referring to San Francisco left fielder Kevin Mitchell.

The quake seemed to last about 15 seconds. Minutes later, people were seen getting in the beer lines.

The general feeling was, "Let the game begin."

Marty Gaewhiler, a construction worker from San Francisco, even blamed the earthquake on the invasion of Candlestick Park by Oakland Athletics fans.

"That's what happens when you have too many (Oakland) A's fans coming to the Stick (Candlestick)," Gaewhiler said. "The Stick reacted. It's all fun."

Among those who were badly shaken by the event was Todd Develbiss.

"I was in the Los Angeles quake in 1933," said Develbiss, 73. "This was much worse. This quake rocked. The other one was more of a roller. I've never been so scared in my whole life."

Fans in the upper decks and skyboxes seemed the most shaken.

"We were in a skybox and the whole thing was shaking," said Kim Clanton, a bookkeeper from San Francisco. "I've lived through quakes where you had tremors that maybe break things on the shelves, but we were swaying (in the box)."

When the game was finally canceled due to lack of electricity, fans filed calmly out of the stadium.

Traffic on access roads outside the stadium was hopelessly snarled.

Many people remained in the stadium, drinking beer at the concession stands, which remained open.

Meanwhile, in downtown San Francisco, people quickly recovered from the initial shock and remained in good spirits as they waited for power to be restored.

Hundreds of people gathered in Union Square to get away from the threat of falling buildings, though there was little apparent damage in the area.

Nobody panicked after the quake, and people quickly and quietly left downtown buildings for the relative safety of the streets.

Although traffic lights were knocked out, traffic in the Union Square vicinity was moving smoothly.

The most obvious damage occurred at the I. Magnin department store on the square, which lost about half its windows from eight floors. Some passers-by were injured by the falling glass.

At the supposedly "earthquake-proof" Hilton Hotel, emergency power was on and the staff was dispensing refreshments to guests, who chatted merrily in the lobby.

Within 10 minutes of the earthquake, wags on the street were already referring to "the World Series that shook the world."

THE HURTING GAME

Chapter 1

 

Las Vegas. The Last Hurrah

 

Danny Cullen perched on the edge of the press row seat closest to Julio Babbas’ corner, clenching his pen so hard he could have snapped it. It had been a brutal war from the opening bell, and Julio was taking the worst of it. Eleventh round, felt like the fiftieth, and the clock was winding down in super slow motion. Julio’s face was all bruised and bloody, his right eye completely closed. He was fighting blind on that side and couldn’t see the brutal left hooks that were bashing in his face. The ref should have stopped the brawl in the ninth, but Julio would’ve killed him for that.

Cullen was supposed to be taking notes for his post-fight report, but he’d stopped long ago. His reporter’s objectivity was shot to shit. You don’t watch your best friend get bludgeoned by a guy with anvils for fists and scribble a few lousy notes to fatten a thousand-word column. The gut-wrenching reality was that nothing short of a last-round knockout by Julio would allow him to keep his middleweight belt.

Mercifully, the bell finally rang. The blood-thirsty crowd was still on its feet screaming and cheering as Julio walked on wobbly legs to his corner. He glanced down at Cullen and smiled. What the hell? How could he flash a grin at a time like this? Didn’t he know what all the warm bodies in the MGM Grand had already concluded? His butchered face would be down for the count as soon as the next anvil struck him. He was going to lose his title.

Cullen leaned closer so he could hear what trainer, Ryan McAlary, said.

“Helluva way to make a living, isn’t it?”

Julio nodded.

“Listen to me!” the trainer said. “Remember the first day Danny brought you to my gym and you were gassed after a few minutes of sparring with me? Then Danny yelled he’d ship your ass back to Colombia if you didn’t keep fighting, and you got so angry you found another gear and almost knocked me down. Find that gear now!”

The bell rang for the last round. Julio stood up. He almost lost his balance before grabbing the ropes to help keep him up. He glanced back at Cullen with the same crazy smile as before.

Maybe the fighter already had brain damage? Cullen didn’t know, nor did he ask later where Julio went during those final seconds in the corner, but whatever he found inside made him attack his opponent like a man possessed, connecting with enough power shots to knock down a wall. It was as savage an assault as Cullen had ever seen. Julio kept pounding his opponent until the guy plunged face down on the mat, out cold. After the ref raised Julio’s hand in victory, the exhausted victor dragged himself to the corner, pointed at Cullen, and smiled. And then winked! Cullen shook his head in disbelief. By now he was drained of feeling, unable to make sense of what he had just witnessed. The crowd was roaring. The MGM Grand shook. Hell, it seemed like all of Las Vegas had felt an earthquake as Julio raised both arms in triumph. McAlary embraced his fighter, as much hugging him as to keep him from falling. Cullen left his seat and pushed his way near Julio and McAlary, his two best friends.

“Don’t know where that came from,” Julio said.

“That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” McAlary replied.

 

***

 

After the fight, Julio insisted against all logic that they go dancing at Raven, his wife Cassandra’s favorite club. Cullen suggested that a hospital for a brain scan would be a better destination, but Julio didn’t lose arguments any more than he did fights. The music at the club was blasting at ear-shattering levels. Smoke machines were pumping enough white stuff to make it seem like they were dancing in a burning building. Out on the floor, Cullen felt like a pinball as Ecstasy-fueled dancers bumped him around. It was worse than being back at the Grand. At least in the arena, you were given a minute break between rounds to gather your senses.

 

On the ride to Julio’s house, the fighter put on a Colombian alternative rock group, turned up the volume to the max, and sang along. This fight Cullen won. He popped out the CD and threatened to throw it out the window. Julio relented and drove his Mercedes SL the rest of the way to his Spanish-style split-level without speaking.

They pulled up in the driveway just as a thunderstorm with bad intentions split the sky with a dazzling bolt of lightning. Raindrops the size of quarters pelted the windshield. The majesty of the rare desert storm seemed to Cullen a perfect welcome home to the still-reigning king of the middleweight division. Cassandra stepped out of the car and opened a large umbrella, then motioned for them to get under it. Cullen did, but Julio just stood there in the rain. Then he raised his arms and face skyward and let the water pound him about the same way his opponent had been hitting him in the ring.

“Come under the umbrella!” Cassandra shouted.

“I want to feel the rain.”

“Well, have a good time. I’m going inside.”

Cullen wasn’t big on getting drenched, but he stayed there with Julio while Cassandra hustled over to the house and went inside. “So you survive twelve rounds of a near massacre,” he said, “and now you’re going to die of pneumonia? Come on, Perro. Let’s get out of the rain.”

Julio lowered his arms, looked at Cullen, and flashed that same enigmatic smile he had before the last round. “You know why I grinned at you in the corner?”

“Not a clue.”

“I saw in your face you thought I was gonna lose. After all we’ve been through, you lost faith. That made me determined to let you know don’t ever count Julio Babbas out. Truth is, Carnal, I had my doubts, too, but seeing that fear in your eyes gave me a shot of adrenalin. No way in hell was you gonna be right and me wrong. That just wasn’t gonna happen.”

“Tu es mas loco in todo el mundo,” Cullen said.

“Si, mon.”

“Okay, now that I believe in you again—can we get our butts inside?”

“Why? Don’t you like the rain? Rain is a good thing. It makes the grass grow, the flowers bloom and—”

“And it creates floods that drown idiots like us.”

Julio laughed as they trotted over to the house and hurried inside.

“Take those wet shoes and socks off!” Cassandra called from the kitchen.

She was rinsing plates and silverware and putting them in the dishwasher when they walked in looking like two drenched, shaggy dogs. When Julio walked over and hugged her from behind, she pushed him away.

“You’re getting me wet,” she said. “Get out of those clothes before you hug me.”

Julio took two bottles of Tecate from the refrigerator and handed one to Cullen. Then he turned to Cassandra. “Did you enjoy the fight, querida?”

Cassandra gave him a sour look. “What sane person would enjoy watching something like that?”

“The fans did.”

“That’s because they’re animals like you. The more blood, the more they cheer.”

“What I want to know,” Cullen said, “is after the beating you took, how you had the energy to dance at the club.”

“I popped a tab of Ecstasy.”

“Since when do you do drugs?” Cullen said.

The fighter laughed. “Just kidding. Who needs Ecstasy when you’re the Latino Spider-Man?”

“Okay, Spider-Man,” Cassandra butted in, “I want you and Danny to get out of my hair while I finish up. Go into the den after you change clothes. I’ll join you when I’m done.”

 

They went to Julio’s workout room first, where he dug up a couple clean sweat suits and pairs of white socks. They stripped off their soggy clothes, hung them across the Nautilus machines and slipped on the dry ones. Still shivering, they went into the den, where Julio fired up the gas fireplace and they stood there drinking in the warmth of the flames. When the chill had left their bones, they plopped onto the leather couch, put their stocking feet up on the coffee table, and sipped their beers. Cullen glanced at the black drapes pulled closed over a sliding glass door leading to the backyard. The drapes belonged in a funeral home, but no matter how hard Cullen and Cassandra had lobbied for a warmer color, Julio had a thing for black, and that was that.

Cullen took his cell phone out of the fresh sweat pants and looked for messages. Finding none of any importance, he left the cell on a table next to the couch.

Julio suddenly seemed subdued, face troubled.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen said.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be telling me nothing, Perro. You just won a big fight, made a ton of money. Remind me again where I discovered you.”

“In a shitty club fight at a hotel ballroom in Venezuela.”

“And who was it who saw something special in you and brought you back to Vegas to train with McAlary?”

“You, Carnal.”

“So have you forgotten where you came from?”

“Not a day goes by when I don’t think about that. If you hadn’t brought me to America to train with Ryan, I’d still be on the streets of Colombia. Or dead or in jail.”

“So then why aren’t you happy? What’s going on?”

“Just tired, I guess.”

Cullen frowned. Julio always told him everything. “What are you hiding from me?”

“I have some things on my mind, that’s all.”

“Like what?”

Julio said nothing, just stared off at the drapes.

It happened fast. A man holding a gun stepped out from behind the drapes. He was dressed head to toe in black, and a ski mask covered his face. The gun made a spitting sound; then a hole appeared in Julio’s forehead. Cullen opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out. The gunman slid the door aside and disappeared into the night. Julio slumped over onto Cullen’s lap, eyes open, not seeing.

Cullen’s heart was beating out of control, mind racing. This can’t be happening. Gotta get help. Maybe chase the guy. No, can’t leave Julio like this. So much blood. He couldn’t stand seeing it, so he pressed the palm of his hand hard against Julio’s forehead to try and hold back the flow.

“Don’t die on me, Perro! Hang in there!”

He grabbed his cell phone with his free hand just as Cassandra walked in carrying a bottle of beer.

“What’s wrong with Julio?”

“Shot! Gotta get help!”

“Shot? What do you mean?”

He removed his hand to let her see.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”

The beer dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor. She rushed over and knelt by Julio. The room filled with a wailing sound. Cullen’s hand shook as he punched in 911.

Las Vegas Nine-One-One, what's your emergency?

“My friend just got shot! He’s bleeding badly! Send an ambulance!”

What’s the exact location of your emergency?

“What?”

Where are you located?

“Julio Babbas’ house. Hurry!”

I need your address.

“Spring Mountain Road.”

What’s the house number?

“I don’t fucking know! I just come here all the time!”

Is there someone with you who can tell me?

He looked at Cassandra. She was still screaming. “What’s your house number, Cassandra?”

She didn’t respond. Cullen removed his bloody hand from the forehead and shoved it into Julio’s back pocket. He took out Julio’s wallet and found his driver’s license.

“One eighty-six! Hurry before he dies!”

The nightmare had begun.

 

***

 

Cullen sat on the couch in his apartment drinking a can of beer. The lights were off. It felt better in the dark. A bunch of crushed cans littered the coffee table. His sweatshirt was still damp with blood. More of it was caked on his hands. He should change the shirt and wash his hands, but the blood was all that was left of Julio.

He had stayed at the house until the last detective finished questioning him. Then he and Cassandra hugged for a long time, just standing there, holding on for dear life…lost life. Cassandra’s sister finally took her away as the cops brought in a body bag. Cullen had shuddered, seeing it. Two cops had lifted Julio and started to place him in the bag, but the one holding the blood-soaked head lost his grip and Julio’s head banged on the floor. Remembering, Cullen winced. The cop muttered something and picked Julio up again, and this time they succeeded in placing him in the bag. Cullen had stared at his friend’s face until the zipper closed over it. They took away the bag. Alone in the den, he looked at the open sliding door and could still see the gunman dashing off into the night. The black drapes trembled now in the breeze.

Rain had started riding the wind into the den, so Cullen got up, closed the door, and made sure it was locked. As if it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Julio was dead. A cop walked in and told him it was time to seal off the house. It felt like his legs were made of wood as he let the cop escort him to the front door. There he stopped and looked back at the living room. This place would never be the same. Neither would his life. Not without Julio.

The cops had offered to drive him home, but he’d wanted to be alone, away from all the questions he didn’t want to answer because there were no answers. He called a taxi. On the drive back to his apartment the rain was still driving hard. His eyes were as wet as the cab’s windshield. He had no idea how he got home or up the stairs into his place.

Now, guzzling down the beer, Cullen crushed the can and tossed it on the pile. He couldn’t stop seeing the hole in Julio’s forehead. It made no sense. Everybody liked him. There had to be an explanation. Was Julio in some kind of trouble? If he was, why hadn’t he told him?

Cullen closed his eyes. He tried in vain to shut everything out, but could still see the masked man with the gun, hear that awful spitting sound again and again. One second the guy was there, the next gone, almost like it never happened. Who would do this? He desperately wanted to know…needed to know.

Then Cullen understood what had to be done. The hole in Julio’s forehead was now in his own soul. No surgeon or priest could remove it, only getting justice for Julio could. He would let the cops look for the killer, but if they failed him and the system broke down, somehow he would find the guy on his own, no matter what it took.


Chapter 2

Las Vegas. Eight months later

 

Detective Lew Gholston was leaning against an unmarked police car in an abandoned Flying J gas station on a remote stretch of Route 93. A Chevy Malibu with a lot of dust and miles pulled off the road and parked near him. Out of the car rolled a tall man in his mid-forties, about six-foot five and with the kind of ordinary face you’d expect to find behind a Home Depot counter or working at the post office. The only thing distinctive about him was the intense steel-blue eyes that Gholston knew from experience never missed a thing.

“I see you picked a scenic spot for our first meeting in three years,” the man said. “I should’ve brought my camera.”

They didn’t shake hands.

“I can’t be seen with you, Boff,” Gholston said.

“Why? We’re old friends.”

“We were never friends.”

“Don’t you believe in bonds forged in combat?”

“Not when I lose,” Gholston said. “I’ll get to the point. I want to make this as quick and painless as possible. I have someone who’s looking for a private investigator. I recommended you.”

“What’d the mutt do? A murder involving a sex scandal would be great. I haven’t crushed a juicy homicide case in a while.”

“The person didn’t commit a crime.”

“It’s a civil suit?” Boff said.

“No.”

“Look, I really enjoy playing Twenty Questions with you, but I didn’t bring sunscreen and I burn easily. What’s the case?”

“The person wants you to find a killer.”

Boff looked surprised. “Is there a punch line coming?”

“A friend of this person was shot eight months ago, one bullet to the forehead. It was a hit.”

Boff spread his arms and stepped forward. “Look at me, Gholston. Who do you see? Frank Boff. I don’t find killers. I help defend them when they get caught.”

“You put a lot of drug dealers in jail when you were in the DEA.”

“Ancient history.”

“It’ll come back, like riding a bicycle.”

Boff shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong man for this. Even if I found the killer, my first impulse would be to ask for a retainer.”

Gholston said nothing.

“Did you have a brain fart when you picked me for this job? You had to know I’d turn you down.”

Gholston said nothing.

“Well, it was certainly nice seeing you. Let’s do it again in another three years.” Boff turned to go.

“I’m calling in a favor.”

That stopped Boff in his tracks. He turned around frowning. “Don’t do this to me, Lew. I was just hired by a rich mope accused of running an interstate Ponzi scheme allegedly preying on elderly women. The case could go on for months. I could pay off my mortgage with the money. How could you ask me to drop it?”

Gholston said nothing.

“Aw, hell, who’s the stiff?”

 


Greetings from A FAN'S NOTES

What you will get on A FAN'S NOTES:

I will analyze and critique what I saw in Lakers' games and add other notes from around the NBA.

Since I live on the East Coast, the games end late, so I will probably write a little stuff at halftime, a bit more after the game, and then the next day go into more depth.

Lin/Kobe Haters are not welcome on my site.

If you comment, no profanity, please. A fan doesn't have to be a maniac like Charles Barkley or Stephen A. Smith. Just state your feelings, your insights, and of course, feel free to ask questions.

Now I'm going to make my usual Lakers/NBA rounds and will get back to you later. 

If you want to tweet to me: https://twitter.com/zukovka