Last Shot (23 page)

“Fine,” Chip said. “Thanks.”

He put the key in the door and they walked inside. As
soon as the door shut, his face lit up with excitement. “Four o’clock at the Days Inn,” he said.

“Where’s that?” Stevie asked.

“Apparently it’s on Canal but up near the highway. Jurgensen got a room there so we’d be away from the crowds.”

“Did Feeley give you any idea of whether he might listen to us?” Susan Carol asked.

“No, not really. He just said Jurgensen had said, ‘Tell the kid to come on ahead and I’ll talk to him.’ That’s when I told him you guys were coming, too.”

Susan Carol sat down in one of the chairs. “Chip, I don’t like it. Why meet so late? Why at this out-of-the-way hotel? I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“I don’t like it, either, but I don’t see what choice we have,” said Chip. “If you can come up with a better plan in the next few hours, I’m all ears.”

They spent the afternoon pacing, ordering room service food they couldn’t eat, half watching TV, and coming up with impossible alternative plans. Stevie and Susan Carol called to check in with their dads, and luckily neither was in his room. They left messages saying they would be back in time to eat dinner before the game. They didn’t even bother with excuses. They decided to worry about that later.

“Lucky for me, Dad made breakfast our pregame,” Chip said, picking at the plate of pasta he had ordered.

“Why’d he do that?” Stevie asked.

“He’s superstitious. First two games of the tournament,
we played in the afternoon, so we had breakfast. When we won, he decided to keep making breakfast the pregame meal even when we were playing at night. He just told us all to eat something not too heavy before we go to the gym.”

“Gym?” Susan Carol said. “You call that Dome a gym?”

Chip laughed. “It’s got two baskets and we’re playing basketball. So, it’s a gym. A big one, but still a gym.”

“And what time do you guys leave for the gym?” Susan Carol asked.

“Six-thirty,” he said. “It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it. They need me to play, after all.”

Chip called down to the bell desk to get directions to the Days Inn. The bellman told him it would take about twenty minutes on foot or forty minutes by cab—between rush hour and the game, traffic was a mess.

He hung up the phone and smiled at Stevie and Susan Carol. “You guys still up for this?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Stevie said, wishing it was time to leave. He was fantasizing about how they were going to tell Jurgensen where he could go with his threats.

“Yes and no,” Susan Carol answered.

Stevie and Chip looked at her quizzically.

“I just think we should at least let someone know where we’re going,” she said. “Jurgensen is clearly not playing games here; he’s determined to pull this off—at just about any cost.”

“But we’ve already decided it’s too risky to bring in the FBI right now because of the NCAA …,” Stevie said.

Susan Carol waved her hand at him. “I know that,” she
said. “But let’s make sure someone knows where we are and has an idea of what’s going on in case something goes wrong over there.”

“But who?” Chip said.

“I think Stevie had the right idea earlier. Bobby Kelleher.”

“The reporter?” Chip said. “What if he takes the information and goes public with it before the game?”

“He won’t do that,” Stevie said. “You can’t do anything with a story like this without confirmation.”

“Plus, he knows about this kind of thing,” Susan Carol said. “He broke open that Brickley Shoes scandal. He’s not likely to panic in a situation like this.”

Chip was starting to come around a little. “So, what do you want to do, call him?”

Susan Carol shook her head. “No. I don’t have his cell phone number and I doubt he’s in his room. He gave me his e-mail address after the breakfast Friday. He said he checks it every few hours and if I needed anything just to send him an e-mail.” She nodded toward the computer set up on a desk across the room. “So we send him an e-mail saying we’re working with you to stop a plot to fix the championship game. He’s not to say anything to anyone unless by some chance we aren’t in the arena by seven o’clock. If we aren’t there by then, he’s to call the FBI and have Jurgensen and Whiting arrested.”

“If I’m not at the arena at seven o’clock, my dad will have the FBI, the CIA, and the entire New Orleans Police Department looking for me,” Chip said.

“Good point,” Susan Carol said. “But he won’t have any idea where to start looking. We’ll make sure Kelleher does.”

“You really think Jurgensen will try to pull something crazy?” Stevie said.

“No, I don’t,” Susan Carol said. “But he’s clearly not very predictable. Why not cover ourselves?”

Chip nodded. “Okay, I’m convinced. I like the idea of some backup.” He smiled. “Boy, I never thought the day would come when I’d feel like the only people I could trust were reporters.”

He turned on his computer for Susan Carol and got her signed on, and she quickly typed a message for Kelleher, headed “Important: from writing-contest winners.”

“That should get his attention right away,” she said. Her note was relatively brief, but it outlined the plot, who the plotters were, and where the meeting was. “Okay?” she said as Chip and Stevie read over her shoulder.

“Send it,” Chip said. “And let’s get going. It’s three-thirty. I want to leave a few extra minutes to get there in case we get lost or have to fight through all the crowds on Bourbon Street.” He tugged his cap down low and put on a pair of thick glasses as they walked out the door.

“You wear glasses?” Stevie said.

“Only in big crowds,” he said.

He didn’t look at all like the floppy-haired kid Stevie had watched play on TV the last few years. “I probably ought to wear a suit and tie,” Chip added. “Then not even my dad would recognize me.”

The narrow streets were choked with fans, many of them
dueling with fight songs or cheers. It took them about fifteen minutes to get to the other side of the partying section of town. Stevie was initially relieved to be away from the crowds and the screaming but less thrilled when he noticed how seedy their surroundings had become.

“Two more blocks, then we make a left,” Chip said in what might have been an attempt to steady everyone’s nerves.

“This is the block,” Chip said, a couple of minutes later.

They didn’t see the Days Inn until they were almost on top of it, because it was hidden by a grove of trees. Stevie was beginning to think it didn’t look like such a bad place, but when they walked into the lobby, he realized they were a long way from the Windsor Court. The lobby was tiny, with two chairs and a coffee table on one side and the front desk on the other side.

“Welcome to the other side of New Orleans,” Stevie said.

“This is no different than a lot of the places we stay on the road in the Big Ten,” Chip said. “You go to West Lafayette, Indiana, or Iowa City, this is about what you get.”

He pointed at an elevator bank at the rear of the lobby. “Come on, let’s go.” They made their way to the designated room.

“Four on the dot,” Chip said as they prepared to knock on the door. “You guys ready?”

“More important,” Susan Carol said, “are you ready?”

“I hope so,” Chip answered as he knocked.

For a split second, Stevie thought no one was inside the
room. Then he heard footsteps. They looked at one another again as if to say,
This is it
.

The door opened and the three of them stood staring at the man who greeted them.

“Right on time,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all here.”

“Where’s Jurgensen?” Chip said.

“Come on in and all your questions will be answered,” said Dean Benjamin Wojenski.

AS SOON AS THEY WALKED INSIDE
, Stevie knew they were in trouble. The room was actually some sort of suite, or so he guessed, because there was no bed, just some couches and a desk. There was a door that led to what Stevie guessed was the bedroom.

Tom Whiting was seated, wearing the same sort of sickly smile that Dean Wojenski had been wearing as he ushered them into the room. And standing behind him was Stuart Feeley’s assistant, Gary, the muscle-bound flowered-shirt guy.

Chip found his voice first. “Where’s Jurgensen?” he asked.

They all laughed, clearly enjoying the confusion on their faces.

“Have a seat,” Whiting said, indicating three chairs that had been set up opposite the couch in anticipation of their arrival.

“I think I’ll stand,” Stevie said. “I may have to leave early to make a phone call.”

More laughter. Gary casually pulled a small revolver from underneath his flowered shirt. “Have a seat,” he said.

They sat.

“What the hell is going on here?” Chip asked. “We were supposed to meet Steve Jurgensen. Is he coming?”

“Not anytime soon,” Dean Wojenski said, sitting on the empty couch against the wall. “But we won’t be needing him. His work is done.”

“Done?” Chip said. “What do you mean, done?”

“Just done,” Wojenski said. “Listen, Chip, we haven’t got that long to talk, because we have to get you back to the hotel by … what time, Tom?”

“Six-thirty,” Whiting said.

“We need to leave before then,” Susan Carol said. “If we’re not back at our hotel by six o’clock, our dads will worry. They’ll probably call the police.”

“I doubt it,” Dean Wojenski said. “I’ve already called and left them messages on your behalf saying I’m the editor you are working for tonight and I asked you to leave early for the arena to do a pregame story on the scene over there. But don’t worry. You kids aren’t in any danger. All Chip has to do is be a good boy tonight and do what he’s supposed to do.”

“Do what I’m supposed to do? Dean, you’re not with …”

“Them?” Wojenski said, hooking a thumb toward Whiting and the flower shirt. “More accurately, they’re with me.”

“But how?” Chip asked. “You helped us identify Jurgensen.”

“Yes, I did,” Wojenski said. “Once I realized that you weren’t going to do the smart thing, I decided to give you a rabbit to chase around while I devised a better plan to ensure your cooperation.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to cooperate now?” Chip said.

“Because when you leave for the game in a little while, your friends here are going to stay behind. Gary”—he nodded at the flower shirt—“will stay with them. If all goes well, he’ll release them as soon as the game’s over. If not …”

“You’re
crazy
,” Chip said. “This is now officially
crazy
. Even if I throw the game tonight, I’ll tell the truth tomorrow and nail you guys.”

“Oh, I don’t think you will. Because then your transcript will be released and the whole litany of unfortunate events will begin. ‘I was blackmailed’ will sound like a rather creative excuse to cover your failings as both an athlete and a student. No one will believe you.

“No, Chip, you can either lose quietly or lose with a scandal. But you
will
lose.”

Stevie was sweating profusely. He looked at Susan Carol, who looked surprisingly calm.

Chip took a deep breath. “Why?” he asked. “You at least owe me that.”

Dean Wojenski nodded. “All right. We’ve got a little time. Gary, get them all drinks. You see? I can be very gracious when I get what I want.”

Gary walked into the other room and came back with three cans of Coke. Given how dry Stevie’s mouth was, he didn’t turn it down.

“I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out. It’s about money, of course,” Dean Wojenski said, glancing at his watch as he began speaking. “I can’t take credit for coming up with the idea to blackmail you, Chip, but when the idea was brought to me, I thought it was brilliant.”

“Whose idea was it?” Chip said, his voice filled with anger.

“Someone who knew I was once your dean and that I was short on cash. Tom could change your grade in his class, but an earlier failure would give us an unbeatable hand.”

“You’re a gambler, aren’t you?” Susan Carol said.

“Not tonight, my dear,” the dean answered.

“And Professor Whiting, why did you get involved?” Chip said. “You’d throw over your school and people who trusted you for a big-money hit?”

“Something like that,” Whiting said.

“And you, Gary?” Chip asked.

“Gary’s here because someone has to watch your two friends when we leave,” Wojenski answered for him. “I must say, the one move you kids made that caught us a little off guard was taking your tale of woe to Stuart. We thought you would go looking for Jurgensen. Fortunately, we were able to turn that to our advantage and here you are.”

The three of them looked at one another. They had messed up—big time. They’d gone to Feeley for help and he’d been behind the whole thing. The mastermind was Feeley, or Wojenski, or both.

“I have a question,” Susan Carol said.

“What is it, my dear?”

“How much money have you all bet on this game tonight?”

“We’ve all bet different amounts,” Wojenski said. “Each of us bet in different places, and even individually we spread our bets out so no one would get suspicious about a large amount of money coming in on Duke. Tom’s work on that gambling commission turned out to be very useful.