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Charlie had a wife. Marcus tucked away that piece of information and hoped to be able to add to it.
    The end of a workout was just as unpredictable as the beginning. Charlie might suddenly say, “I’ve got to go,” or “See you tomorrow.” A couple of afternoons, he headed for the park exit without a single word.
    At first, Marcus wondered what triggered the impulse for his training companion to leave. It didn’t seem to be the hour. Charlie wore an expensive-looking gold watch, but he never once consulted it. Maybe the guy went by his stomach—when he got hungry, it was time to go home for dinner.
    That afternoon, though, it was Marcus who shut things down. “Listen, I’d better head home. My mom gets nuts if she thinks I’m AWOL.”
    Charlie nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, mine, too.”
    Marcus laughed. “Your wife, you mean.”
    â€œRight…,” Charlie said and walked away.
    In the parking lot, Marcus packed up his gear, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and mounted the scooter.
    â€œMarcus Jordan?”
    He wheeled to face the same cadaverous man, tall and skinny, with a long pointy nose. K.O. PEST CONTROL was embroidered on the breast pocket of his coveralls. Standing beside him, blocking the Vespa’s exit, was a uniformed cop.
    â€œHere,” Marcus said.
    â€œI told you it’s him!” the man in coveralls exclaimed. “He’s the one who vandalized my car!”
    Marcus was aghast. “It was an accident! I left a note!”
    â€œHe admits it!” crowed the exterminator. He reached into one of his many pockets and drew out a folded piece of paper. He opened it to reveal the letter Marcus had left on the dashboard of the Toyota.
    Sorry for the damage. Will pay to fix .
    Marcus Jordan 555-7385
    â€œVery funny, kid,” the needle-nosed man growled. “You know how many times I called that number? The teachers at the preschool were ready to kill me!”
    â€œI’m sorry!” Marcus was chagrined. “I messed up my number. We just moved here.”
    â€œThat’s convenient.”
    â€œIt’s the truth!”
    The officer sighed. “All right, Marcus. Looks like you’re coming with me.”
    Barbara Jordan rushed into the police station and joined her son at the officer’s desk.
    â€œThis is all a misunderstanding,” she tried to explain. “Marcus has never been in any trouble.”
    â€œHe still hasn’t,” the officer assured her. “I think we’ve got it sorted out. Broken car window, wrong number on the note. It also clears up a crank call complaint from Growing Minds Preschool. The gals over there don’t have much of a sense of humor when the phone rings during naptime.”
    â€œIt was an honest mistake,” Marcus pleaded.
    â€œSounds like it,” the cop agreed. “Just pay Mr. Oliver to fix his window and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it,” promised Mrs. Jordan. “We just moved here. We really don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”
    â€œSmart.” The officer swiveled in his chair to face Marcus’s mother. “Guess I’m not much of a welcome wagon. Mike Deluca.” He held out his hand.
    She shook it. “Barbara Jordan. I work at the Advocate . And Marcus just made the Raiders. He plays quarterback.”
    The officer smiled. “We’ve been looking for someone to back Troy up. Just keep those passes on target. Lot of car windows around town.”
    Outside the station house, Mrs. Jordan let out a long breath. “That could have been a lot worse.”
    Marcus flushed. “I feel bad about the wrong number, but that guy Oliver’s a jerk. He wanted to press charges! Thank God that cop was cool about it.”
    â€œHe’s nice,” his mother agreed. “The last thing you need is a bad reputation in a new town. I hope you’re