The Stiff Upper Lip Read Online Free PDF

shooting hoops with it, and once that happened it was only a matter of time before somebody said: “Hey, I hear there’s a boy, over in Paris, France, of all places, name of Hadley, plays just like Jimmie Cleever used to. They say he’s tearing up the league.” At which, six thousand miles or not, the trouble would have to go take a look. In fact, according to Roscoe, the trouble had already looked. And Roscoe, or Jimmie, had gotten the word; his buddy and teammate, Odessa Grimes, had passed it on to him.
    â€œIt sounds to me like you’ve got two choices,” I told him when he was done.
    â€œYeah, me too,” he said, stroking his mustache. “But look, man, I like it over here. I’m not runnin’ no more, that’s behind me. I did my time like, all those runnin’ years. Now I’m playin’ ball again, it’s what I mean to do. The money’s good. It’ll be better once we win the league. Four, five, six more playin’ years, more if I’m lucky. Then there’s coachin’. They needs coachin’, man. Basketball’s growin ’ over here. They’re even talkin’ about a all-Europe league. ’Sides,” he added, looking at Valérie, “there’s other things keep me here.”
    Valérie looked at me, then away.
    â€œTell him to quit, Cage,” she said quietly.
    That was one of his choices, maybe not the best. In any case, he wasn’t having any part of it.
    â€œNo way,” he said, blowing smoke rings. “Let them come. I’m ready this time.” Then, at me: “I’m goin’ to fight them this time, Mister.”
    â€œYou and what army?”
    â€œOh, I got friends.”
    â€œWho, Odessa?”
    â€œYeah, Odessa for one. He’s a good ole blood, Odessa.”
    â€œThat’s not a choice,” I said, “that’s suicide. What are you going to fight them with, basketballs?”
    â€œWe can take care of ourself, man.”
    â€œSure, you can. And they’ll run you down while you’re doing it. They’ll run right over you and make it look like an accident. You’ve been away too long, Roscoe. You forget.”
    He shook his head slowly.
    â€œNo, I don’t forget.”
    â€œNeither do they.”
    There was another possibility, and the only way I figured I could be of use to him.
    â€œYou can always try negotiating,” I counseled Roscoe Hadley.
    â€œNegotiatin’? Negotiatin’ with what, man?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œI’m none too sure,” I said. “But it’s up to us to find it.”
    It was too late, though, too late for me and my bright ideas. Like I said, they don’t forget. A couple of days later, the Paris Law had one dead black basketball player on their hands and another one they couldn’t find. They found me instead. The only thing was that the dead man was Odessa Grimes, who’d been slit ear to ear, jungle-bunny style, and the one who’d disappeared was Roscoe Hadley.

3
    â€œLeast you were wrong about one thing,” said Roscoe Hadley. He ran his hands into his hair on either side and squeezed. “They didn’t make it look like no accident. They made it look like it was me .”
    â€œWhy did they kill him, Roscoe?”
    â€œ Why ? You ask me why ? How the hell do I know, man?”
    The they he was talking about wasn’t the French press, but it could have been. Less than twenty-four hours had gone by since Odessa Grimes had been found with his throat slit in the locker room of the Paris University Club, but the French press, true to form, already had the crime solved. One newspaper, to its credit, still hesitated. The caption under Roscoe’s photograph only asked the question: “Is this the assassin of the black American basketball star?” But the rest had already gone on to the motive: “Why would Roscoe Hadley have murdered his teammate?” and the