The opening horns of Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” blared tinnily from somewhere out of sight. This, I assumed, would be George Maloof’s grand entrance. He appeared on horseback, wearing shorts and a half-buttoned shirt, holding his phone high to broadcast the song. Gavin and Joe cheered.
I’d chosen not to work the investigation after the Malice at the Palace. I didn’t want any part of that hangover. Still, I ended up Detroit anyway, training police detectives and legal investigators to become basketball P.I.s for a particularly competitive lawyers’ league. Not my favorite assignment, but a basketball P.I. can’t live on love of the game alone.
The afternoon symphony of car horns below my hotel window didn’t make for much of a lullaby, but then, this hadn’t been much of an assignment. I’d come to Brooklyn as a favor, to help a rookie basketball P.I. investigate a CYO point-shaving operation, which turned out to be just one kid with an anxiety problem and another who thought it was un-Christian to blow a team out.