True Legend (11 page)

TWENTY-ONE

D
rew felt sick.

Of all the things you could fault him on in basketball, for all the times people had a right to say he was hogging the ball—at least before he made one of his no-look, highlight-reel passes—nobody had ever once faulted him on effort.

No one had ever said he didn't give 100 percent.

I should've gone for that ball,
he thought.

I
should have been the one laying out for the ball the way the kid from Conejo Valley did.

I should never have put us in a position where the other team had the ball in the air at the end with a chance to beat us.

Drew stood there watching the players from the other team celebrating their Hollywood ending, his eyes still seeing everything at once.

He saw Callie turn away when she spotted him looking at her. She was too good a player herself not to know what she'd just seen.

Drew saw Coach D's back as he headed quickly toward the locker room.

He couldn't find his mom. If she was still at her seat, she was being hidden by the Conejo Valley Cats.

Now he started walking slowly toward the locker room, a forty-point game having turned to mud. As he did, his eyes once again took him to the top of the Gilbert Athletic Center, way up in the far corner.

Same corner as before.

Somehow he knew that Donald was up there before he even saw him.

And he was looking even more disgusted than after the Park Prep game, shaking his head slowly from side to side. When he saw Drew staring up at him, he stopped shaking his head, put his hands out in front of him like an umpire making the “safe” sign in baseball.

He was right, of course.

Drew
had
played it safe.

Never again, he told himself.

Never again.

• • •

Drew was in and out of the locker room before Coach even came out of his office to give them his post-game thoughts, always delivered with a stat sheet in his hand, one he already seemed to have memorized by the time he started talking to them, win or lose.

Drew just threw on a warm-up jacket, pulled an old Mets cap over his eyes, stuffed his phone and his wallet into his pockets, left the jeans he'd worn to the game and his Rihanna T-shirt hanging in his locker.

He didn't even take time to explain to Lee what he was doing or where he was going, just said, “I got to get out of here.
Now
.”

The way the game had ended, it was worse than if he'd choked by missing a wide-open shot or a free throw.

So Drew was on the move. Out into the parking lot, around to the front of the gym, where fans were still exiting. He pulled the Mets cap down even lower, hoping nobody would bother him as long as he just kept moving, stayed away from the crowd, most of whom were Oakley fans and wanted to get away from the gym as much as Drew did.

Like they were leaving the scene of a crime. Same as Drew.

And there, on the other side of the street, limping slightly, head down, was Donald.

Drew decided to follow him, follow him even if he was taking the two-mile walk back to town. See where he went, maybe even find out where he lived. He was going to find out who the guy
was,
once and for all, why he kept showing up, why he kept waiting to catch Drew's eye only to look disappointed.

He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry and never looked back. Drew stayed a block behind, on the other side of the street, ready to hide behind a lamppost or tree if Donald did turn around.

Right before they reached the start of downtown, the first stores, Donald took a right, toward the old train station, which had been renovated into an indoor shopping mall and food court. Lee and Drew sometimes went in there for lunch when both of them had the same free period.

As Donald went past that, Drew still hung back.

First you go looking for him in the park in the middle of the night,
Drew told himself.
Now you follow the guy all the way from school.

But Lee had been right.

Drew had put his blinders back on as soon as he saw the guy after the game.

If there was a poor side of town in Agoura Hills, they were in it now. Donald walked past check-cashing stores and a couple of bad-looking bars, then past the bus terminal. Not the Southern California you saw in TV shows.

Up ahead there was an old residence hotel that Lee had pointed out one time, the Conejo Valley Hotel, the front of it looking like something built a hundred years ago. Or more. Lee had told Drew it was the oldest building in town.

Donald walked up the steps and through the double doors.

Drew hung back, waited a few minutes, until he was sure the coast was clear, and followed him in. There was a bald white guy behind the front desk, watching television on a small set.

Drew didn't know how much of a story he needed to make up to find somebody at the Conejo Valley Hotel, so he kept it simple.

“Excuse me. I just saw a guy I thought I recognized walk into the lobby. I was wondering what room he might be in.”

“Name?”

“Donald,” Drew said.

“Donald who?”

“It's kind of funny,” Drew said, “and you gotta believe me, but I've only ever known him as Donald.” He smiled. “Long story.”

The guy didn't even open the ledger in front of him, just said to Drew, “This isn't the Four Seasons, kid. But we don't give out room information unless you got a full name. Which you ought to have, him being your friend and all.”

“We just know each other from playing ball in the park,” Drew said.

Nothing.

Drew decided to try something, because it couldn't hurt.

“Hey, I forgot my manners,” he said, putting out his hand. “I'm Drew Robinson. From the Oakley team.”

“Drew Robinson!” the guy said. “From Oakley!” The guy pumped his hand.

Drew tried to look embarrassed, thinking that what he was doing was taking the guy behind the desk by the hand to where Drew wanted him to go.

Then the guy behind the desk said, “Kid, I don't want to burst your bubble, but I didn't care about my high school team when
I
was in high school.” He went back to watching his show.

Drew went outside, walked down to the train station, sat down on the bench. He'd followed Donald all the way to this hotel. He knew the man was in there somewhere.

Now, how did he find him?

Did he have to find a way to look in the manager's guest book, one that was sitting right there on his desk? He could run any kind of play on the court he wanted, fake guys out of their shoes. Yet he couldn't handle some night manager at some run-down hotel?

It was getting late, and there was hardly any traffic on the streets in front of him. Drew didn't care how late it was. He was on a mission now, the blinders on, wasn't going to waste the time he'd spent following the man.

No way. He'd already lost one game tonight.

He wasn't losing another. Wasn't losing Donald.

He sat there and looked up the street at the Conejo Valley Hotel, saw the lights in most of the windows, saw one light get turned off. The man was in one of those rooms, he told himself.

Which one?

Wasn't like he could go back now to the guy behind the desk, tell him the truth, tell him he was trying to solve a mystery.

Outthink the guy,
Drew told himself.
The way you outthink people every time you play a game. At least until you don't dive for the ball . . .

Well, he would just have to find some way to dive headfirst now.

It was then that he saw the skinny young guy come out of the hotel, dressed in what looked like a cheap bellman's outfit, probably the only bellman they had in the place.

Drew was up and moving right away.

“Excuse me?” he said.

The skinny guy was startled at first. Drew's voice was as loud as a siren on the otherwise empty street.

The bellman, if that's what he was, turned around. Then it was like he was about to say one thing, but changed his mind when he got a good look at Drew's face.

“Drew Robinson?” he said.

Yes.

“That's me.”

“Dude, I've seen you play.”

He's not much older than I am,
Drew realized.

“Thanks,” Drew said. “Listen, I need a favor.” Grinned. “What's your name?”

“Josh,” he said. “I got out of Westlake Village High a couple of years ago. I go to the community college.”

“Cool,” Drew said, trying to act like he cared. “Nice to meet you, Josh.”

Think fast.

He took a deep breath and let it rip.

“Anyway,” Drew said, “it's a long story, but there's a guy staying here, older dude, I played some ball with him over at Morrison? He never told me his last name, we were just bros in the park, you know? But I saw him walk into the hotel tonight, and the guy behind the desk wasn't much help . . .”

Drew tried to look as helpless as he felt.

“Vic,” Josh said. “He wouldn't throw water on you if you were on fire.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Can you describe the guy?”

Drew did the best he could.

“I know him.” Josh said, “That's the old dude with all the books. I brought him up some coffee once. He's in 3G.”

“Fresh,” Drew said. “One more thing? Is there another way I can get up there without going through the front door? I don't want Vic to think I'm a stalker or something.”

“I can't believe I'm with Drew Robinson,” Josh said, and then took him around to the service entrance, showed him where the back stairs were.

Drew was already moving toward the staircase as Josh was saying good night. When he got to the third floor, he found 3G, heard what sounded like jazz music coming from inside.

Knocked on the door.

TWENTY-TWO

T
his time there was something in the man's eyes Drew had never seen before. If it wasn't fear Drew was looking at, it was close enough. Like what he really wanted to do was run. Shove past Drew and just escape into the night, run with whatever his old legs still had left in them.

Instead, he took a deep breath and said in a tired voice, “You followed me.”

“Followed you good.”

“And you're feelin' good 'cause you found me.”

Drew shrugged.

“Good for you. Now leave.”

“You know I can't do that. That I'm gonna stay with you now.”

“'Cause you think this is, what, some kind of game?”

“In a way, yeah. Maybe.”

“Well, it's not. To you maybe. Not to me. You don't want to get into my business.”

“Not your business. Just who you really are.”

The man shook his head.

Drew said, “You gonna let me come in, by the way?”

He thought he saw the man smile.

“It's not what I do.”

“Do what?”

“Let people in. Been doing a much better job at keeping them out. Least till now.”

“So is your name really Donald?”

“Partly.”

“You're partly named Donald? Give it up, okay? If I partly found out about you, I can find out the rest now.”

And just like that, he did seem to give up, like he was quitting a game of one-on-one. Or a fight. He leaned himself against the door frame, almost like he needed it to hold himself up. Then he said, “Urban Donald Sellers. Least before the world changed my middle name to Legend.”

TWENTY-THREE

S
o it was true.

“You're him.”

“Used to be him. Past tense. Back when that was my biggest problem. Me being me. Never got the hang of that, not till it was too late, anyway.”

Drew knew how dumb it was going to sound, but said what he wanted to say anyway.

“You're supposed to be dead. It was one of the headlines after that fire: ‘Death of a Playground Legend.'”

“Trust me,” Urban Sellers said, “that Legend had been dead a long time before that shelter went up in flames.”

They were still facing each other in the doorway, Legend just inside the room, Drew in the hall.

“That Legend,” he continued, “died a long time ago. Of natural causes. Starting with the natural cause of stupidity. And he's gonna stay dead, with or without your help.”

“Ask you again,” Drew said. “You gonna let me in, or we gonna stand out here all night?”

“Might as well,” he said. “Maybe then you'll leave me be.”

“You mean like you've let
me
be?” Drew said.

Legend motioned him into the room.

• • •

The inside was nothing like Drew expected.

Starting with how clean it was, like it shouldn't even have been part of this old run-down hotel. It didn't fit, the way the run-down hotel didn't seem to fit the town.

The bed was made up nice, no wrinkles showing. No clothes or towels on the floor. Nothing at all, then, like Drew's room at home, no matter how many times Darlene Robinson marched him back in there and told him to clean up, that she wasn't his maid and God hadn't put her on this earth to pick up after him.

No TV in this room.

No laptop that Drew could see anywhere.

Just a small CD player on the table next to the bed, discs stacked neatly in their cases beside it. Drew was close enough to read the top one:
Kind of Blue,
by Miles Davis.

Drew knew his mom liked Miles Davis, recognized the sound of the man's trumpet because he'd heard it so much growing up.

But it wasn't the familiar music that struck him, the neatness and order of the place.

It was the books.

Books everywhere.

They were piled on top of an old green footlocker that Urban Sellers had shoved against a wall next to the bathroom. In other places, they were just stacked against the walls, going nearly all the way to the ceiling. On either side of the one window in the room, they were in shelves that Drew wondered if the man might have built himself. On the desk were more books, and some of those old-fashioned Mead Square Deal black-and-white tablets, the kind Drew remembered from grade school, with a place for your class schedule on the inside cover.

There was barely enough room in one corner for an old recliner chair, fake leather, Drew could tell, black tape holding it together in some places, a reading lamp next to it.

The only other chair in the room was a swivel chair pushed up to the desk. Urban Sellers motioned now for Drew to sit himself there. He got on the bed, grimacing as he forgot to put the weight on his right knee.

“You like to read,” Drew said.

“Do now.”

“You didn't when you were my age?”

“Didn't think I had to,” he said. “Thought there was others supposed to take care of that the way they took care of everything else except playing ball.”

Drew had so many questions he didn't know where to begin, but Urban Sellers asked one first.

“Why'd you have to know so bad?”

Drew shrugged. “When I get fixed on something . . .” He shrugged again. All he had.

“Got to have what you got to have,” Urban Sellers said.

“'Cause I'm so spoiled?” Drew said. “We on our way back to that?”

“You
are
spoiled,” Sellers said. “But spoiled doesn't have anything to do with this. It's about who you are. One of the things that's gonna at least give you the chance to be great. That thing I had once before I lost it. The thing on the court that makes you sure nothing or nobody is gonna get in your way. Even when you mess up like you did tonight. When you
give
up.”

“I know what I did. Or didn't do.”

“Everybody makes mistakes,” Legend said. “You just gotta stay away from the big ones.”

They sat there eyeballing each other.

“Does anybody else know you're alive?”

“Hardly anybody,” he said. “And that's the way it has to stay, provided I can trust you.”

“You can.”

“Because if I can't trust you . . .” Legend stopped right there, tired all of a sudden. Like he'd lost his place. “If I can't, it won't matter you found me, 'cause I'll be gone.”

“I didn't come here to run you off.”

“But you got the power to do that now, boy. Like you got the power to name your future.”

Drew looked around the room, at the books, like he was looking at Urban Sellers's world.

“I read about you,” he said. “You had the same kind of power once. You weren't supposed to end up like this.”

“Now, that's where you're wrong. I figure this is exactly how I was supposed to end up.”

Drew said, “Why'd you let everybody think you died?
How
did you?”

Legend leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“There was somebody had crashed in the room I'd been living in. Somebody who showed up that day, needing a bed. Big guy, about my size. A brother. Burned up as bad as everybody else, the place went up that easy. In the papers the next day, it said they thought it was me, and I let them. Nobody was gonna turn it into one of those
CSI
shows.” He still had his eyes closed, telling it. “I just let Urban Legend die once and for all, 'cause I knew nobody was gonna miss him. 'Specially me.”

Drew got up. It was a way of filling the silence that was in the room now, the silence between him and the end of the man's story. He made himself seem busy looking at the titles of the books all around him.

Even some school-type textbooks, the kind Drew only opened up as some kind of last resort these days. And there was a copy of
The City Game,
by Mr. Pete Axthelm, on top of one of the stacks. Drew picked it up.

“You read this?” he said.

“I did. You?”

“Yeah.”

Urban Sellers said, “You read outside of school? On your own?” Sounding surprised.

“If it's something I think might be fresh. My friend Lee gave it to me.”

Not wanting to tell Legend that it was the only book he'd ever read outside of school.

“Recognize anybody in it?”

Drew felt himself sag. “I'm not like them, if that's what you mean.”

“You mean the crash-and-burn guys like
me
?” Urban Sellers said.

“I'm not gonna end up in a room like this, if that's where you're going with this.”

He was sorry as soon as the words were out of his mouth, falling out of the air between them like some forced shot. It was then that he noticed the old basketball Urban Sellers had been using behind the recliner. Seeing it there, knowing what the man could do with it, only made Drew feel worse.

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“No, son, it did not come out wrong. It came out exactly the way you meant. And don't worry about hurting my feelings, because I don't have those anymore.”

With that, he got off the bed, forgetting again to put his weight on his right knee, pulled another face.

“Time for you to go,” he said.

“But I just got here.”

“And now you're out of here,” he said. “You got school in the morning, if you're still bothering to go to school. And I got work.”

“You've got a job?” Drew knew he sounded as surprised as Urban Sellers had when Drew told him he read books.

“I do.”

Sellers walked past him, opened the door.

“I'm gonna say this again, straight up,” he said. “If you tell anybody about me, where I live, who I
am,
you'll never see me again.”

“What about Lee? My friend? Can I tell him?”

“Nobody.”

“I'd trust Lee with my life.”

“Doesn't mean I have to trust him with mine,” Legend said. “Anybody shows up here asking questions, looking for me, I'm gone. And this time, nobody will ever find me again.”

“You're serious.”

“If I'm lyin',” he said, “I'm dyin'. All over again.”

“Okay,” Drew said.

“Your word really count for something?”

Drew couldn't remember anybody ever asking him that question before.

“Yes, sir, it does,” he said. Hoping it did.

Urban Legend Sellers put out his big right hand, one that Drew knew by now could make a basketball look as small as a baseball.

Drew shook it.

Sellers didn't let go right away.

“Your word, Drew Robinson,” he said.

“I give you my word,” Drew said, like he was swearing on a Bible.

Then he added, “What do I call you? I can't think of you as anything except Legend.”

“I told you,” the man said, his voice soft, like the jazz music behind him. “That Legend died a long time ago. The only legend on me is the one about how I threw it all away.” He looked hard at Drew and said, “Don't you do the same.”

When Drew finally left the little room, the door closed so quickly it nearly hit him in the back on his way out.

• • •

Drew walked to the train station, got himself a cab, quietly let himself in the front door at home so as not to wake his mom.

It seemed as if that night's game had been played a week ago, because of what had happened after it. Following Urban Legend to his room, to where his life had taken him after he'd played all his ball for Coach Fred Holman.

But there was something about the man that made it impossible for Drew to feel sorry for him. A sort of pride. Living with his books in that little room, the whole world thinking he was dead, having forgotten him a long time ago.

David Thompson, the one they once called the Skywalker, who'd had his own fall, he was still around, Drew knew that, having checked him out on Google. He was off somewhere living his Christian life. Trying to help young players not make the same mistakes he'd made. Thirty years after he had played his last game at North Carolina State, he even went back there and got a degree in sociology.

What did Urban Sellers have? An old ball and those books and some memories?

And that pride. The one thing he'd managed to hold on to, along with his ability to play himself some
mad
ball.

Maybe that's what I'll find out someday,
Drew thought.

Maybe the swagger is the last thing to go.