Stars of the Shoemaker

  * * * * *

  The man I'm looking for is right where I expect him to be. Tarence Nelson, the purest shooter I've ever known, spends his days at Koniak's Tavern, sweeping floors in the morning with a broomstick held together with duct-tape and drinking beer drafts at a corner stool through his afternoons. I doubt his schedule has changed much in the twenty years since Tarence dropped the game-winning, three-point field goal for the state championship. Beer and frozen pizzas have ruined his once lithe and athletic body. Tarence's skin has paled in the tavern's shadows, and I notice him wince in the sunlight that streams into the barroom as I open the front door.

  "Surprise. Surprise." Tarence tosses the broomstick behind the bar and pounds my back in excitement. "Start lining up the cold ones. Blake Tuttle's returned to Koniak's."

  "Sounds good, Tarence, but I'm here for business, not for drinks."

  Confusion and disappointment wrinkle Tarence's face. As he fidgets, I notice the scuffed and dirty pair of green and gold sneakers on his feet.

  "Here?" Tarence asks. "I like to think I remain a little in touch with sports in these parts, Blake. But I can't think of any player for miles around that's worth your attention."

  "There's still one." Tarence follows me to the bar. "You might want to enjoy a few cold ones while you still can. I've come back here for you."

  Tarence's jaw drops. His hands stray to his swollen stomach. His shoulders sag.

  "You're cruel to come all this way to play a trick like that on me."

  I shake my head. "I find it as hard to believe as you do, but I'm serious. My client needs a shooter. A pure shooter. Nothing less. Nothing more."

  Tarence chuckles. "You drumming up talent for a circus? Maybe a carnival?"

  "The Shoemaker's my client." I raise a finger at the underage girl working the bar and am awarded with a pair of chilled draft beers. "The Shoemaker wants a shooter. He made it very clear he's not looking for any young and quick player. He doesn't care if you dribble. Doesn't care if you play defense. He only wants a shooter, and I've got a feeling you've never stopped shooting those basketballs."

  "You come all this way to ask me if I can still shoot?"

  Tarence stands back from the bar without touching his beer glass. I follow him past stacked beer cases and out of Koniak's rear door. The sun shines on a narrow, concrete shipping driveway. An old telephone pole rises at a side, and my gaze follows it upward to find a netless, chainless hoop positioned ten feet above the ground.

  "You don't even have a backboard?"

  "I don't need any backboard."

  Tarence grabs a cheap, plastic basketball off of the grass and spins it on his finger. "You just stand under that hoop and pay attention. I don't want you missing any I make because there's no net dancing along the rim every time I drop one through."

  I've had the fortune to witness the greatest athletes of our age compete. I've represented hall-of-famers. I've enjoyed front row seats at the greatest of sporting exhibits. Still, I smile as watch Tarence shoot that plastic basketball through the hoop. His shooting form hasn't changed since those years we ran up and down those high school basketball courts. He doesn't miss a single shot out of those three dozen he arcs at the rim. There's no spot on that driveway where Tarence can't make a shot. Taking those shots make him look silly, with his swollen stomach, with his sneakers hardly lifting off of the ground during his jumpshot. Though I doubt he can make it up and down the court, bust open off of a screen, or defend any baseline, I know Tarence Nelson remains the same pure shooter he was twenty years ago.

  I don't toss the basketball back. "You're my man."

  Tarence smirks. I doubt he believes me. "So when do I play?"

  "You're on the court this weekend."

  I take a folded contract from my pocket and hand it to Tarence. His hands shake as he accepts it. Even here, people do not question my contracts.

  "I think you'll find those terms to your liking," I smile. "You're about to earn a very prestigious pair of green and gold sneakers."

  Fortune has indeed graced me. My luck continues as Tarence's heart withstands the shock flooding through his body as he tries to accept the truth of what the Shoemaker offers him on the flight back. Tarence empties the bar before our plane can touch back down.