Conceived Without Sin (2 page)

PART ONE

Three Friends

And it's something quite peculiar. Something shimmering and white; it leads you here, despite your destination, under the Milky Way tonight.
The Church

Man cannot be forced to accept the truth.
Pope John Paul II,
Crossing the Threshold of Hope

We should strike our enemy where and when we can hurt him the most.
General A. M. Gray, USMC,
Warfighting

The virtue of man ought
to be measured, not by his extraordinary exertions, but by his everyday conduct.
Blaise Pascal

If you can't talk your wife into it, it ain't worth putting your foot down over it.
Anonymous

Happy, and I'm smiling, walking miles to drink your water. You know I love to love you, and above you, there's no other.
Jethro Tull

Chapter One

1

A few years later, Sam had begun to win the world. It all seemed to come to him.

After college, he stayed in Chicago and got a job with IBM, which was then at the peak of its dominance. The personnel director in his department had recommended that IBM
not
hire him–his psychological profile showed too much independent thinking. But Sam's boss had pushed to hire him anyway because of
the young man's intensity and excellent grades. He was also well-spoken for his age. So IBM hired him and sent him down to Texas for the famous training session there. He returned to Chicago, and over the next two years he did quite well selling mainframes to big companies as part of a four-person sales team.

Despite his success and frequent raises, the stuffy-white-shirt corporate culture suffocated
the entrepreneur in him. IBM, despite its dominance, was beginning a tailspin that would last for a decade. Its first hiring freeze–ever–had just been implemented. Sam sent memos to upper management, diplomatically pointing out that local area networks tied into ever more powerful personal computer "servers" were the wave of the future. Memos came back, agreeing with Sam, promising action,
but nothing ever happened.

One brisk, sunny spring day, while sitting in traffic on the Kennedy with his team member, Sam opened the passenger door and got out of the car. He heard the gravel crunch beneath his feet.

"Where you goin', Slim?" John Traverse asked him, leaning across the seat.

"I don't know," Sam replied, pulling his tie out of its knot and looking toward the Sears Tower less than
a mile away. "I just can't wear the monkey suit anymore. Tell that to the old windbag you guys worship as our boss. Tell him that Sam Fisk can't wear the monkey suit anymore."

"Get back in the car, Sam. What's come over you?"

"That's just it. Nothing's come over me. It's time to cut the cord on Big Blue–" a car horn cut off his speech. Traffic had started to move.

"You're throwing away a good
career. You'll lose your severance…" John warned, glancing ahead at the growing gap between his car and the one in front of him. Sam laughed, his big teeth shining like chiclets in the sun.

"Go sell your mainframes while you can, Johnny Boy. You'll be late for the appointment with First Chicago. I got to get this white shirt off. Suits just make me look uglier than I am."

Johnny, who had always
liked the softly articulate, hard-driving Sam, finally cracked a smile. Several horns were honking by now. Johnny Traverse pulled over to the cramped shoulder, inches away from the concrete barrier.

"Networks?" Johnny asked seriously as he got out and walked over to Sam.

Sam nodded, and looked down to his shoes. That said it all. This nervous habit of looking down confirmed to Johnny that Sam
was serious.

"Then good luck, my friend. Give me a call when you need a good salesman."

"I will, John. Get going or you'll miss your appointment. Make up some excuse for me."

The two men shook hands and parted. Sam picked his way across the highway, jogged up the ramp, and left his tie behind on the macadam. He hailed a cab and went back to his apartment, fired up his Compaq, and broke out his
advanced Novell manual.

Two weeks later, he broke his lease and moved back to his hometown, Rocky River, Ohio, rented a small office on Detroit Avenue, and using his modest savings, started his own computer consulting firm.

Five months later, he hired Johnny Traverse. Sam named his company after his father: Edwards & Associates. He almost went out of business that first year, exhausted his savings,
and fell behind two months on his rent. Sam spent all his money on computers, Novell training, and chicken pot pies. But he and Johnny made decent money in their second year, and big money this past year. There were ten technician-salesmen on the payroll now. Six of the "salesmen" were women, picked for their looks and brains–engineers out of Notre Dame, Northwestern, Case Western Reserve, and
the University of Chicago.

Sam never wore white shirts and checked IBM's steadily falling stock every day on a strange, relatively unknown new network called the Internet. For the past two and a half years, he worked an average of eighty hours a week–more in the first year when he quit to start Edwards & Associates. He had virtually no social life except for his daily visit to the courts in Rocky
River to play pick-up basketball during the summer. He never missed his hoops.

That's where he met Buzz, and really, where our story begins…

2

It was a typical day running the courts in Rocky River; the sun rushed past the few clouds to bombard the asphalt. The sky was so blue and clear that Sam felt he could wave to the passengers in the jets overhead.

He relished this game, and the peculiar
unwritten rules of pick-up basketball–called "running" by the blacks and whites alike. This was a melting pot court which seemed to attract more serious players, black, white, or any other color you could think of. Some were good high school players in their day. A few others, good college players. Others were simply out for the exercise. Sam was a respected regular, considered a good but not great
player. As with his work, he was quiet, intense, focused on unselfish play and winning above all else. He was tall–six-foot-six–strong, could jump, and had a nice, easy stroke on his shot. A lack of speed and quickness kept him off the upper tier of players.

An old guy everyone called "the Man" kept a chart by the side of the court. The Man wore the same outfit every day–blue shorts and a Notre
Dame jersey. Both would start the summer new and fade and tear by the end of the season. The Man ruled the court with a mixture of powerful tools: a deep voice, tradition, and a profound sense of fairness. In his late forties, skinny as a marathon runner, he was always the first on the court and the last to leave after the sun went down. And the Man, who happened to be black, could play. He didn't
hang with any of the other players after the games ended.

It seemed like he had made up his rules for these two courts before time was recorded, and the regulars liked the rules so much that newcomers had no prayer at getting them changed. There were two courts: the winners court and the losers court. The winners of the games on the winners court kept playing until they lost. The winner on the
losers court had the honor of challenging the winner of the winners court. New players would sign the Man's chart as they arrived, and wait their turn on the losers court. In a Darwinian way, only the best got to play the most, but even the losers would get some time in, unlike most pick-up courts around the country.

The Man had the authority to expel players for violence and cheating, but this
rarely happened. His fairness was unquestioned. The Man's real name, which nobody knew, was Hal Smith. He was a concierge at the Stouffer's Plaza Hotel in downtown Cleveland, and a graduate of the University of Notre Dame (where he had not played basketball, but football, as a defensive back during the 1960s). Hal's father had been a district judge.

This evening, Sam's team was embroiled in a
close game on the winners court. Sam was feeling good. His stroke was on, and music seemed to be playing in his head as he shot swish after swish. He knew he was going to win this game for his team now that they had the ball for game point. He could take the slow stockbroker trying to guard him. He just knew it–and so did his teammates, who had been feeding him the ball and setting picks for him.

The score was tied at eight. The Man didn't like "win by two," and the next point would win it all. Sam had been saving a move to get open for the winning shot. He ran under the basket and then back and forth along the baseline, just fast enough to wind the stockbroker, and just slow enough to lull him into thinking he could cover Sam just this once. Sam's eyes met Tommy Clemens's, the dribbler,
who then looked at Big Tim Yaztremski, who clenched his fists together down by his waist.
I'm setting the pick,
Tim was telegraphing to Sam and Tommy. All three had played against and with each other on these courts for almost two years. It was in the bag.

Sam made a quick move through the crowded paint, and faded quickly beyond the foul line as Tommy drove to his left. The startled stockbroker
fought through the crowd and ran right into Big Tim. Tommy reversed his step, and threw a quick lob back toward Sam. The ball was practically in Sam's hands as he prepared to loft his fluid jump shot. Sam could almost anticipate the sound of the ball swishing into the net…

Just before he began to stroke the ball, a dull thud blew all the air out of Sam's lungs. He released a wild shot as he looked
down at a brush of brown, sweaty hair and realized that someone's shoulder had rammed into his stomach. An almost-silent
oomph
escaped his mouth, and he was not able to call the foul (the fouled player calls the foul on the Man's courts…).

Sam slammed down onto his rear end and the fireplug-shaped opponent–a new guy–rolled over him, knocking Sam's head on the asphalt. Pain followed. Sam ignored
it and looked down the court.
Didn't anybody see the foul?!

The rebound had gone to the opponents, and a fast break started the other way, leading to an easy lay-up and a loss for Sam's team. Rage filled his mind as he looked at the thick, overweight tree-stump who had tackled him. Actually, the guy was quite tall–he was just
shaped
more like a linebacker than a hoop player. And he was laughing
at Sam!

From all fours, Sam lunged at the newcomer, incensed. For the first time ever on a basketball court, he threw a punch at another man. The other man
appeared
sluggish, with his ample paunch and lazy, half-closed eyelids.

But the other man surprised Sam by jumping quickly to his feet and slipping the punch with ease. Sam fell flat on his face. This enraged Sam even more, who was not accustomed
to losing his temper. The other man laughed harder, actually bringing a finger to one eye to wipe away a tear.

Now Sam scrambled up to his feet, and the other players were coming up the court to watch the developing fight. Sam yelled out as he lowered his shoulder to tackle the big slob, but found only air as the guy niftily–almost magically–moved sideways just before Sam reached him. Sam fell
to the grass next to the court. Now other players joined the heavyset man in laughter.

"We're laughing at you, Fisk, not with you!" one joker teased between gasping guffaws.

What's so freakin' funny?

Still on the ground, red-faced, grass in his mouth, Sam turned and looked at the crowd. He looked at his nemesis, who now had his arm around the Man's shoulder. The Man had been playing on the other
court during Sam's game.

What? The Man knows this jackass?

"Take it easy, Fisk," the Man's deep voice cut through the laughter.

"Sorry man, I was hustling to run by you, and I slipped," the heavyset man said, trying to add a serious line to his smile. "That cute little surprised sound you made when I rammed into you," the guy laughed again. "It just killed me, man. It was so pathetic. I shoulda
called a foul for you."

Sam's tormentor stuck out his hand. A gesture of peace.

The anger had already drained out of Sam. He looked at the Man, but didn't take the overweight fireplug's hand.

"Who the heck is this guy?" Sam asked the Man.

"An old-timer, Sam. He used to come here during his college days. Haven't seen him in years, though. He can run."

This last comment got a few nods from the other
players. If the Man said a guy could run, then the guy could play basketball quite well, and more importantly, the guy was welcome on the Man's courts.

Sam looked around, feeling slightly foolish. He grabbed the hand, which was still extended toward him. The grip was amazingly strong, even for a court filled with strong men. The other man lifted Sam up to his feet effortlessly, a faint smile in
his eyes.

"My name is Buzz," he said with understated joy. "Buzz Woodward. Let's go get a drink or something." His smile was winning.

The Man snorted at both of them, shook his head, and turned to walk away. Most of the other players drifted off. In the peculiar way of pick-up games, everyone knew the running was over.

Sam looked at Buzz intensely, knowing in a far off kind of way that some kind
of bridge was being crossed. He couldn't stay mad at this guy any more than he could land a punch on him.

"Sure. Sure, no problem. Where to, Buzz?"

+  +  +

They ended up at Applebees. During the fifteen minute walk over, Sam discovered that Buzz was a UPS driver who had just transferred to Cleveland from New Jersey. They hadn't talked much during the walk–small talk. What they did for a living,
where they lived. Sam made the mistake of thinking that Buzz didn't like to talk.

"Can I buy you a beer?" Sam asked as they sat down at their table.

"No. I'm an alcoholic," Buzz answered nonchalantly, looking Sam right in the eye. Sam immediately looked down at his fork and knife wrapped in a napkin. "I'll have a Pepsi. Nothing else is a Pepsi."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled.

"About what? Are you a Coca-Cola
guy?" Buzz asked seriously.

"No. I mean, I don't drink cola. I mean, about the, you know…" he barely mumbled the words, trailing off.

"Oh yeah. Look, I was teasing. I've been a drunk since I was in college. It's just that I haven't had a drink in years. You know, AA and all that. No big deal."

Sam squinted at the heavyset man seated across the table, confused, and beginning to become mildly annoyed.
Who does this guy think he is?

Buzz picked up on his irritation.

"Hey, Sammy Boy, don't be so serious. I have a bad habit of coming on strong. My shrink told me that it's my way of sizing people up, that is, until I dumped the shrink. What a way to make a living. 'Your dad was a jerk, that'll be a hundred bucks–see you next week.' What a waste of time. Anyway, I've decided that you're going to
be my best friend in Cleveland, so I figured that I'd get the alcoholism thing out of the way, right up front."