Middle Men Read Online Free Page A

conversation . . .”
    â€œDon’t,” said Weaver.
    â€œDon’t don’t me,” said his mom, as we pulled into the strip mall. She turned around and smiled. “We can have a conversation, right . . . what’s your name again?”
    â€œPat,” I said.
    She dropped us off and went to run errands. Weaver told me to go first. He sat down in the waiting area and flipped through a glossy fashion magazine. My manicurist was a short blond woman named Michelle. She wore tight jeans and her heels clicked on the linoleum floor. The second she touchedmy hand, I got an erection. She asked if I was a Michael Jordan fan, like Weaver.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean, no ?” said Weaver from across the room.
    â€œI like John Williams,” I told Michelle, but she had already drifted out of the conversation.
    â€œJohn Williams?” said Weaver.
    â€œHe played at Crenshaw,” I said. “He took LSU to the Final Four.”
    â€œWait, John Williams ,” said Weaver, putting down his magazine. “You mean the fat dude on the Clippers?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, and Weaver started cracking up. Williams, as a pro, had been a total bust. After putting on a ton of weight, he became known around the league as John “Hot Plate” Williams. I thought of my other two favorite players—Len Bias, who had died of a cocaine overdose, and Pearl Washington, who had washed out of the NBA after two seasons. Why did I care more about these guys than Michael Jordan? My erection was gone.
    While Weaver got his manicure, I looked through the glossies. All the fashion models looked rich and angry. I had brought ten dollars—two and a half hours at K-Mart—but when Weaver’s mom got back, she said it was her treat and invited me to dinner. I worried that she might want to have a “conversation” about the intricacies of their faith, but I was also sick of lasagna. They lived in a duplex on the bottom edge of Signal Hill. Weaver’s mom cooked hot links on a grill, tongs in one hand, cigarette in the other. At some point Weaver’s little cousin came by, wanting to play Madden . Lance was about ten or eleven. “Show Pat your chest,” said Weaver, poking his cousin.
    Without hesitation, Lance peeled off his T-shirt and showed me his weird concave chest. He didn’t believe I had the same thing, so I had to show him. Lance looked confused and upset. “My mama said it would go away.”
    â€œIt will,” I said, and until this moment, I actually believed it would go away; but as soon as I said it out loud, I realized it wouldn’t. Lance was quiet all through dinner. Mrs. Weaver had to work a late shift at Kaiser, but before she left she called Weaver into the kitchen. I heard them arguing in hushed voices, and then Weaver came out, with tears in his eyes, and locked himself in his bedroom. I played Madden with Lance, who kept running up the score. I think he knew some kind of secret code, because all his players were suddenly twice as fast as mine. Later, I called my mom and she picked me up. Before I went out the front door, Weaver came out of his room and handed me a pamphlet about his church.
    â€œYou can come to services with us if you want,” he said, without zeal. “But you don’t have to.”
    When I got in the minivan, my mom saw the pamphlet and freaked out.
    â€œThose people act nice,” she said, “but they just want to get their hooks in you. They’re worse than the goddamn Mormons.”
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    The week before the Ventura tournament, we managed to win a couple games. Even though I played well, I kept having nightmares about Trinity. Their guys would run past me as my feet sank into the quicksand floor, and then I would wake up.
    On Friday night, after closing out my register, thirty dollars short, I escorted Jessica to the bus stop.