The Strangler Read Online Free PDF Page B

define him by what he
had been
. And she particularly did not want to define him as a jock because he wasn’t, not anymore. Anyway, Ricky never talked about it. For a long time after they’d met, Amy had had no idea the man she was dating had a glorious past, until she’d finally met his family and Margaret had shown her a book of clippings. In fact, for Amy the defining moment of Ricky’s basketball career was the way it had ended, the way he’d thrown it all away in a romantic, stupid gesture. He’d got himself pinched with a car-trunkful of Mighty Mac parkas that had “fallen off a truck,” as the saying went. That was the end of Holy Cross and basketball and Tricky Ricky Daley, and good riddance. It was all so clumsy—so un-Ricky-like—it seemed like a setup. Amy saw something heroic in the whole episode. Ricky had been true to some obscure, prickly, self-destructive impulse that no one, not Amy, probably not Ricky himself, could quite understand. He just had not felt like being Tricky Ricky anymore, so he had stopped. And yet Amy could not deny that she loved him more—at least she loved him differently, saw him differently—when she watched him play. She thought she understood in some intuitive, inarticulable way what made Ricky do the things he did. It was something about doing the opposite of what everyone else wanted him to do. My Lord, how could she not love such a beautiful, wasteful man?
    Ricky spun and tricky-dribbled and flew by his brothers. His hair flopped over his forehead, grew damp and drippy. He did not say much; his virtuosity was not news to anyone.
    But Joe grew more incensed with each basket. His feet got sluggish and he was reduced to pawing Ricky as he rushed past, or elbowing him, or hip-checking him.
    None of it mattered. Ricky scored with leaners and fades and baby hooks, and at 19–6 Joe finally exploded. He pushed Ricky hard into the chainlink fence behind the hoop.
    “Nineteen,” Ricky said as he lay on the sidewalk. “Hey, Mike, wanna switch teams?”
    “Hey, Ricky,” Joe said, “blow me.”
    “Oh, that’s good, Joe. ‘Blow me.’ That’s clever.”
    Joe gave Ricky the finger and held it there.
    “Some brother you turn out to be, Joe.” Ricky got to his feet. “First you take Conroy’s side against Michael, now this. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
    Joe took a step toward him. “You want to say that again?”
    “Oh, come on, Joe, be a good loser. You’ve had plenty of practice.” Ricky jogged out to the street and tossed the ball to Michael for the customary check.
    “You ready, Joe?” Michael asked.
    Joe growled that he was, and Michael lobbed Ricky the ball.
    Ricky eyed Joe again. He could end it by shooting from out here, over Michael, but he wanted Joe to know he was going to victimize
him
. Joe would not have the excuse that his teammate had let him down. Ricky jab-stepped left and with one of his whirling-dervish spins he put Michael behind him. He pulled up to shoot a little bunny directly in Joe’s face. Joe waved at the shot then gave Ricky a hard shove on the left side of his chest, which sent him sprawling once more on the street.
    “Jesus, Joe!” Michael shouted.
    “Just play defense, Michael. It’s like I’m the only one working out here. You play like a fuckin’ homo.”
    Michael offered Ricky a hand and pulled him up.
    “Twenty,” Ricky said.
    “I’m out,” Michael said. “This is bullshit.” He stalked back toward the house.
    “Go ahead, leave,” Joe called after him. “I’ll fuckin’ do it myself. Fuckin’ homo.”
    Ricky tossed the ball to Joe. “Check.”
    “The fuck are you laughing at?”
    “I just thought you’d want to know what I’m gonna do.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “How I’m going to win. It’s gonna be a jump shot, right from here, right over you. Just so you know.”
    Joe’s brow crumpled. Was it a trick? Or just more showing off? It would be just like Ricky to promise a jump shot then race by Joe, just