Tackle Without a Team (8 page)

An eerie sensation crept over him as he saw something brown and shiny inside it. He didn’t need any further examination to
know what it was.

Unzipping the bag a few more inches, he extracted a leather wallet.

“It’s mine,” Kear said, his voice faint.

His hand shaking, Scott handed it to him “I can’t believe this,” he declared, incredulous. “How’d it get in there?”

Kear looked at him. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, no,” Scott moaned, staring at the accusing expression on Kear’s face. “You don’t think
I
stole it from you? Why would I —?” He couldn’t finish. The look in Kear’s eyes and on his face suggested that Kear didn’t
know whether to believe him or not.

Kear looked inside the wallet. A groan escaped his lips. “It’s gone,” he said, his face turning white. “The money’s gone.”

He folded the wallet, stuffed it into his rear pocket, and stormed off.

“Kear!” Scott cried, running after him. “I didn’t take it! I
swear
I didn’t! Look! You don’t think I could’ve taken it while I was in a game, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Kear exclaimed, running faster toward the gate.

“I didn’t take your wallet, Kear!” Scott repeated, his heart aching. “Believe me! For crying out loud, you’re my best friend!
Why would I do a lousy thing like that?”

Kear didn’t answer. He ran out of the gate and down the street, leaving Scott staring after him.

I can’t believe this! Scott thought, choking back tears. I just can’t! Somebody must have taken Kear’s wallet, lifted the
money, then put the wallet in my duffel bag.

Who’d do a dirty, double-crossing thing like that?

Suddenly he thought: I know who. The same person who had put the two marijuana cigarettes in it. That’s who.

Sadly, he walked home alone. He had been framed again, this time resulting in the loss of his best and closest friend.

What kind of a person would do this to him? Who could hate him so much to hurt him like that?

He went over and over all the guys he knew, including the Greyhawks players who’d been sitting in front of Kear at the game;
Monk Robertson, Elmo George, Lenny Baccus. But none of them seemed capable of pulling off not just one, but two mean, dirty
tricks on him. Not one.

He tried to avoid his parents’ eyes as he entered the house and trudged through the kitchen, heading to his room.

“From the looks of your face and your uniform, I’d say you lost a tough battle,” his father observed, gazing at him over the
evening paper. He was sitting at the kitchen table. “What was the score?”

“We lost — nineteen to fourteen,” Scott replied.

“Not bad,” his father said. “Not bad enough to match that expression on your face, anyway.”

Scott didn’t answer him. He had to cool off awhile before saying anything about Kear’s wallet — if he mentioned it at all.

He got to his room, dropped the duffel bag on the floor, stripped out of his uniform, and took a shower. Usually a good shower
not only made him feel cleaner, but it made him feel better, too.

Not this time. This time he felt just as bad after the shower as he did before it. He couldn’t wash the wallet-in-his-duffel-bag
incident out of his mind.

He still felt lousy at the supper table.

“Something’s bothering you. You haven’t
looked this bad since you were booted off the Greyhawks,” his father observed, scooping up some scalloped potatoes. “Come
on. What is it this time?”

“It …” Scott cleared his throat. He had tried to hide his feelings. Obviously he had failed.

He told them about the wallet. “Guess I’d better get rid of that duffel bag,” he said when he finished.

“No, you don’t,” his mother said, her voice firm. “Somebody’s out to frame you for some reason or other. Why? That’s the question.”

“Or maybe he’s lying again,” his father cut in quietly, but sharply. “Maybe he stole the money to buy more pot.”

Scott stared at him. His face went white. “No! That’s not true! I would never steal from Kear! Nor from anybody else!”

He looked at his mother. “I swear it, Ma. I didn’t steal Kear’s wallet.”

She looked from him to her husband. “Ed,” she said gently, “just because Eddie smoked pot in high school doesn’t mean that
Scott would do it, too.”

“Maybe not,” Mr. Kramer said. “But don’t
you think it’s quite a coincidence that grass was found in Scott’s duffel bag, and then his best friend’s wallet is stolen?”

Scott’s heart pounded so hard it felt as if it were going to jump out of his chest. Angered that his father could misjudge
him so, he got up from the table and headed straight for his room. There are times, he thought, when Dad doesn’t seem to know
who I am. This was one of those times.

He lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, and thought of Eddie. Two years had passed since Eddie had been caught smoking
marijuana. It seemed that everyone in Marlowe had heard about it. It was one of the most distressing periods of his family’s
life.

He couldn’t let them go through that again. Somehow, he had to get to the bottom of this terrible thing. He had to prove to
his father, and to everybody else, that he was innocent. He had to find the culprit.

He thought about calling Eddie. Eddie had gone through the real thing before and would know how he felt. Right now he needed
somebody
like Eddie to talk to, and Eddie would appreciate it.

He phoned Eddie later that night. He hadn’t talked with his brother in two or three weeks — not since the last time his mother
and father had called him.

“Eddie? Hi. This is Scott,” he said when he had Eddie on the line. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine. Hey, this is a nice surprise. What’s up?”

Scott told him. It was hard at first, but once he got going, he was able to tell his brother everything.

“The thief had to be somebody at the game,” Eddie assumed. “Anybody there you knew?”

“Besides Kear? Yeah. Monk Robertson, Elmo George, and Lenny Baccus. They all play for the Greyhawks.”

“I know them,” Eddie said. “Who’s taking your place on the Greyhawks?”

“Sid Seaver,” Scott answered.

“
Sid
Seaver? Rick’s brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Their father used to play semi-pro football,”
Eddie said. “I remember watching him when I was a kid. As a matter of fact, Rich — that was his name, Rich — had a brother
who used to play, too. They were on the same team and were called the Seaver Double Threat because they were so good.”

“I didn’t know that,” Scott said.

“Then the brother joined the Peace Corps in Africa,” Eddie went on. “I remember seeing him once after he got out. He was loaded
down with African mementos.”

“Where is he now?” Scott asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Dad can tell you,” Eddie said.

Maybe he could, Scott thought. But he wasn’t about to ask him now. It would have to wait until this dirty mess was cleaned
up and over with.

But this story about the Seavers definitely sparked Scott’s interest. Maybe Rick was the one behind it all, because he wanted
history to repeat itself.

He thanked Eddie for all his help, and then hung up and dialed Kear Nguyen’s number. Kear would certainly be interested in
this tidbit.

Mrs. Nguyen answered.

“This is Scott Kramer,” Scott said. “Can I talk with Kear, please?”

“Of course,” she said. “Just a minute.”

A few seconds later Kear was on the phone. “Yes?”

“Kear,” Scott said, tense, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I don’t think I want to talk to you,” Kear replied. “Ever again.”

Shortly after two o’clock the next afternoon, Scott was sitting in a booth in Dan’s Yogurt Shoppe having yogurt with Jerilea
Townsend. The temperature was cool, but a waffle cone of chocolate yogurt tasted good this time of day. And he’d had enough
money to pay for Jerilea’s, too.

“I have a sneaking suspicion of who’s framed me,” he said softly, looking across the table at her. “But I can’t say or do
anything until I have proof.”

Her fingers tightened on her purse. “Who?”

“I told you. I can’t say.”

Jerilea shrugged and took a bite of her yogurt. “Okay. Your prerogative.”
Prerogative
.
She’ll probably be an English teacher when she grows up, Scott thought.

“I did want to talk to Kear Nguyen about it, though,” he confessed.

“And?”

“He hung up on me.”

“Really? Why?”

Scott explained about Kear’s wallet being found in his duffel bag, without the five dollars in it.

“And he thinks
you
took it?” Jerilea exclaimed.

“Shhh!” Scott said, waving at her. “For crying out loud, I don’t want the whole city to know about this!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her large eyes glancing around the room before settling back on his. “But it’s terrible! You’re
his best friend!”

“It makes no difference. He still thinks I stole his money.”

“Ignorance,” Jerilea snorted. “Just plain ignorance.” Then she jumped slightly in her seat. “Oh, I almost forgot about this.”
She opened her purse and took out a tiny tape recorder.

“Was that on the whole time?” Scott asked, dumbfounded.

She nodded. “Listen,” she said, flicking a button on the machine. There was a whirring sound, then a click. A voice began
to speak: “I don’t know about you, but I’d take yogurt over ice cream any day.”

“You would? Nah! I’d like a change.”

Scott laughed. That was Jerilea and he talking. Then he heard their conversation about Kear’s wallet, and he grew sober. He
reached over to press the off button.

“What were you trying to do, get a confession out of me?”

“Of course not,” Jerilea insisted. “I’m just fooling around with this thing. It used to be my dad’s. He gave it to me after
he decided he needed a more sophisticated model.”

“He’s a neurosurgeon, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Anytime you need a brain transplant, I’m sure he’d oblige.”

“I’ll remember that.” Scott laughed.

Her gaze darted past him as he heard the yogurt shop’s door open and close. The change
of expression on her face suggested that she recognized someone.

“Guess who just walked in,” she said.

He frowned. “Kear?”

“No. Monk and Elmo.”

She smiled and waved to them. Moving slowly, she picked up the tape recorder and pushed it into her small white purse.

“Well, hi, guys!” Monk greeted them as he stopped by their booth. “Filling up on yogy, I see. Hey,” he went on, slapping Scott
on the back, “those Cougars are really gung ho. You should’ve won.”

Scott shrugged. “We should’ve. But we didn’t.”

“You played a good game, though, Scott,” Elmo broke in. “I hope your coach noticed that.”

Scott shrugged again. He hoped so, too.

His mind quickly reverted to his latest problem.

“Hey, guys,” he said, “did any of you see anybody near my duffel bag the day I found those marijuana cigarettes in it?”

“I don’t hang around the locker room any longer than I have to,” Monk said gruffly.

“But did you see anybody —?”

“No,” Monk cut him off short. “I didn’t see anybody near your duffel bag. You should have a lock on it, anyway. You can’t
trust anybody these days.”

“I do what I have to do and get out of there,” Elmo replied. “If there was anybody near your duffel bag, I wouldn’t know.”

“How about the kid in a pith helmet and sunglasses sitting behind Kear Nguyen at the game?” Scott asked. “Know who he was?”

“Sure. Rick Seaver,” Monk said. “Hey, man, what is this? The third degree?” He tapped Elmo’s arm and started to head down
the aisle. “Let’s go. I’m thirsty. See you guys.”

“Yeah,” Scott said.

After the boys were gone, Scott looked at Jerilea and said absently, “Rick. Rick and Sid. It adds up.”

Jerilea’s eyes widened. “You think Rick stole Kear’s wallet?”

“He could have. He was sitting behind Kear, and a guy could get so wrapped up in a game he’d never know somebody was picking
his pocket.” He watched her remove the tape recorder from her purse. “You had it on?”

She nodded, smiling, and pressed a button. There was a whirring sound as the tape rewound. Then she pressed another button,
and a moment later they heard the conversation among Monk, Elmo, and Scott.

“He’s so arrogant I wouldn’t be surprised if he had pulled off that dirty trick himself,” Jerilea said caustically.

Scott shrugged. “Monk? Maybe. But why would he do it? I’ve never done anything to him.”

“But you’ve never done anything to
anybody
, Scott,” Jerilea said, reaching out and taking his hand. “You’re considerate. A lot of kids aren’t.” She smiled. “That’s
why I like you.”

“Hey, I’m no saint.”

“No. But you’re far from being a devil.”

“I wish more people felt that way about me. Like my father,” Scott said with a sigh. Then he squeezed her hand. “I’ve been
thinking.”

“I thought I smelled rubber burning.” She laughed.

“I’m going to ask Coach Zacks if he can schedule a practice game with the Greyhawks.”