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airily. “Hard to keep them all straight.”
    Marcus bristled. “So that’s how it’s going to be. You throw the ball, and I pick up the tab for it?”
    Charlie looked offended. “You know I’m good for it.”
    Marcus regarded the man stretched out on the sculpture. He was well dressed and groomed—definitely not a homeless person. This was the second time he’d appeared in the park in the middle of the afternoon, so he didn’t seem to have a day job. But some people worked odd shifts, or nights. Teachers had summers off. If a sixteen-year-old kid could afford to pay for half the car window, there was no reason to believe a grown man couldn’t pick up the other half. The question was, would he?
    â€œWell, how do I get in touch with you when the guy calls? Can I have your phone number?”
    Charlie looked amazed. “You don’t know it?”
    â€œYou never gave it to me. You took off the minute we heard the crash.”
    The man sat up, perching precariously on the angled granite. “Later. We’d better get some ice for your elbow or it’s going to swell up like a balloon.”
    Lost in his extensive résumé of aches, Marcus hadn’t really focused on the condition of his passing arm, which was turning black and blue. Now it consumed all his attention.
    Luckily, Charlie knew exactly what to do. He led Marcus out of the park and up the street to the gas station on the corner. He stepped into the mini-mart, opened the freezer, and helped himself to a bag of ice. Then, in full view of the cashier, he blithely left without paying.
    â€œOkay, let’s see that arm.”
    Marcus waited for the clerk to follow and demand payment. Instead, the woman just chuckled and waved at the shoplifter.
    â€œFriend of yours?” Marcus asked.
    Charlie seemed distracted. “What?” He manipulated the bag, forming it into a compress for the injured elbow.
    Marcus accepted it gratefully. “That feels good. I wish I could get my whole body in there.” He sat down on a bus bench and turned to his companion, who was gone. He twisted around and found that Charlie was perched atop a seven-foot chain-link fence, looking like a bird on a wire.
    â€œWhat is it with you?” Marcus blurted. “How come you can only relax in places where you can fall off and break your neck?”
    Charlie grinned at him. “If you can’t break your neck, it’s not worth sitting there.” But within thirty seconds, he was down again. “Gotta hop. See you tomorrow.”
    Marcus was taken aback. “Where? What time?”
    â€œThe usual,” he called, loping down the street with easy, powerful strides that only pointed at the contrast with Marcus, who could barely move.
    What “usual” was Charlie talking about? Both times they had met, it had been in Three Alarm Park, so that was probably the place. But the time?
    Nothing was usual about Charlie.
    Before returning to the park to reclaim his Vespa and gear, Marcus poked his head into the mini-mart. “I need to pay for the ice. My friend—uh—forgot.”
    The woman laughed. “He didn’t forget. That’s just Charlie. Don’t worry about it. It’ll get paid.”
    He remembered Charlie’s words about the broken window: You know I’m good for it . Apparently, the mini-mart thought he was good for it too.
    Who was this guy?

CHAPTER FOUR
    C oach Barker’s philosophy of keeping your mouth shut applied to players only. His own cavernous maw was in constant motion, and he seemed to have words of wisdom for every occasion, both on the field and inside the locker room.
    â€œIn football, your head is either in the game or up your butt!”
    â€œIf you think you’re too good to block, you’re not good enough to put on this uniform!”
    â€œOnly God knows more than the coach, and He’s not the one wearing the