Free Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler Page B

whether it’ll be a miss or it’ll be nothing but net.
    He looked at his battered Casio. Five minutes until game time. He made one more phone call—to the men’s detention center in
     downtown New York, where Andy Cabot and T. D. Randall and those coconspirators who couldn’t post bond—which was most of them—were
     awaiting trial.
    The chief night guard snapped to attention immediately when Washington identified himself. The player and the guard chatted
     about a recent game, then Washington said, “Can you do me a favor?”
    “Sure thing, Danny, anything you want. Everybody down here, we’re all big fans of yours.”
    “Make sure the prisoners watch the game tonight.”
    “We don’t usually let ’em watch TV after six but I’ll make sure it’s on. Just for you.”
    “Thanks.”
    That night, toward the end of the game, Danny Washington found the moment he’d been waiting for. He’d just got possession
     of the ball from his center, who’d fired him a distant lob after a rebound from a missed shot by the Pistons. All alone, Washington
     jogged fast toward the net and could’ve gone in for an easy dunk but he suddenly braked to a stop outside of the arc. Turning
     toward the nearest ESPN cameraman filming him, he glanced into the lens of the camera, offered afaint smile and pointed toward his right eye. Then he sank down real slow, leapt high into the air and let fly a long trey.
     The instant the ball left his hands, he looked away from the hoop and jogged back down the court to take up his defensive
     position.

BANK SHOTS
    Sue DeNymme
    M anny swallowed the last drop of tequila and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. So his wife was going to kill him, what else was
     new? He couldn’t afford to worry about it now. He couldn’t afford much of anything after last night’s game. Besides, he didn’t
     have the energy. His drinking binge had made him ill, and the wife would be home any minute. Time to get the hell up and cover
     his ass.
    He stumbled to the toilet and heaved, then heaved again, his insides swirling like water down the drain as he sank to his
     knees in front of the bowl and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
    Then it came to him, the only way out.
    He pushed himself off the tiles and shuffled to his wife’s dressing bureau. Undergarments slipped through his fingers until
     he worked his hands to the far corner of her lingerie drawer where she’d hidden the last valuable thing in the apartment:
     a costly diamond bracelet recently inherited from her grandma’s estate.
    As he inspected the glistening band that his wife had cherished,his forehead felt damp and hot. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his palms felt clammy, but he took a deep breath and
     swiped the bracelet anyway.
    Even if Becky could forgive him for losing their nest egg on last night’s basketball game, she’d definitely kill him for this.
    He crammed the heirloom into the pocket of his jeans, slinked across the hall and slipped down the stairs of the walkup where
     they lived.
    Scanning the street for any sign of his wife, he clutched the bracelet in his jacket and headed toward the river. There was
     always a chance that he could plead for mercy and beg his way out, but that would be up to Tony the Ear.
    Every basketball season, which in New York meant whenever there wasn’t actually snow on the ground, the Ear sat courtside
     at Riverside Park, watching the talented local kids play hoops with such concentrated energy you’d think their lives depended
     on it. With a notebook and pen at the ready, he liked that spot on his favorite bench, and everyone knew where to find him.
     His tiny feet were planted on the ground, sun warming the back of his neck.
    “Tony.” Manny caught his breath. “I have to get my money back from last night’s bet.”
    Tony didn’t say a word. His eyes were fixed on the kids shooting, running, passing and banging bodies.
    He was dressed, as usual, in an old satin New York Knicks