"Like you said before, it's time to let the world know."
Harvey nodded.
"Okay then. Do it." He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it. His face fought to look cheerful.
"Now let's change subjects for a while. How are you doing?" "Actually," Sara said with a hint of a smile, "I need a small favor."
"Name it."
"I need you to find me a good obstetrician."
Now it was Harvey's turn to look surprised.
"Jesus, Sara, are you...?
She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn much to say yes, to see Michael's face after a positive test result came back.
"Right now, I'm just late."
"Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?"
"No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and the networks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings through the roof."
"Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?"
"Yes."
"Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She'll know you're coming." He paused, his voice becoming serious.
"I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have you told him?"
She shook her head.
"I'd rather wait for the results of the test.
I don't want to build up his hopes if it's just another false alarm."
"Do you mind if I meet you there?"
"I'd like that."
"Great.
"I'll see you then."
"Harvey?"
"Yes?"
"Don't forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won't say anything, but it's really giving him some problems."
"I'll speak to him right away."
George sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell's driveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party was winding down now. Most of the guests had already left.
George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while his intended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine.
The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Perignon champagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing that in a few hours the knife in George's hand would slit open his arteries and extinguish his life forever.
He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, it gleamed menacingly.
A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He recognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenalin coursed through his veins.
He turned the ignition key and followed.
Chapter 4
It was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them in his career, maybe thousands.
He watched as the New York Knickv number one draft pick, a scrawny black kid from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward him with lightning speed. On Jerome's left ran the Knick's second round pick, Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a giant farmhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determination in their eyes.
Come to Papa, Michael thought.
Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them especially the man dribbling the ball.
The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stall him long enough for Michael's teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.
Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blocking Holloway's trail to the basket and picking up the free man Boone. He looked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that was okay better to shake up the rookies.
Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last moment Michael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seeking Boone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled.
Once Holloway's feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake.
A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began to move his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.
Like taking candy from a baby.
Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass and head back down the court for a fast break in his favor.
He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had been decided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward and extended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about to release the ball.
But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expression had been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched while Holloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, and glided toward the cylinder.
The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboard vibrated from the assault.