Sooley
- Автор: Гришэм Джон
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Doubleday
- ISBN: 978-0-385-54768-0
- Жанр: Современная русская и зарубежная проза
Электронная книга - «Sooley». Краткое содержание книги:
Samuel stayed away from them. He wasn’t playing at all but was still delighted just to be on the team. He watched as Mitch Rocker and Roy Tice, two of the seniors, tried to offer them encouragement. Murray was playing ten minutes a game and not happy about it, but he was still optimistic things would improve. He had said several times that Jabari and DeRell could cause trouble.
After Friday’s practice, Sooley and Murray showered and returned to their dorm room. Robin had gone home for the weekend and Murray was lost without her. He suggested they eat out and they drove to a pizza place. There was a home game tomorrow and Coach Britt had imposed a strict 10 p.m. curfew. Coach Garver had threatened to check their rooms.
While they were eating, Murray’s phone rang and he talked to Harry Greenwood, a junior forward who lived off campus. Harry’s father was a lawyer in Charlotte and the family was more affluent than most. After the pizza, they drove to Harry’s apartment where a party had materialized. The whole team was there, along with some nonathletes and a bunch of girls. The music was loud, the beer flowing, and the girls were friendly and flirting. Sooley had quickly learned that on campus the athletes were special and admired by the other students. Murray, single for the evening, soon zeroed in on a couple of coeds and introduced his roommate.
Samuel declined a beer. Where he came from, kids, as well as their parents, couldn’t afford alcohol or drugs, and he had not been exposed to the temptations. He was chatting with a pretty coed named Nicole, who seemed curious about where he was from. A friend handed her a joint, and, quite casually, she took a hit and offered it to Sooley, who declined. He was suddenly aware of the aroma in the apartment and realized that pot was everywhere. He was not that familiar with the smell but it was obvious. Several students, nonplayers, were crowded over a small table in the kitchen doing something that they preferred to keep out of view. He found a bathroom, locked himself inside, collected his thoughts, then, without a word to anyone, left the party. Central was at least an hour’s walk away.
Without the benefit of an automobile, he had not seen much of the area and was not sure where he was. The sky to his right was illuminated by the brighter lights of downtown Durham, but they were far away. He zigzagged for a while in that general direction but was soon lost. He turned along a narrow street with fancy modern condos on both sides, no doubt a white section of town. There were no sidewalks, and as he walked at the edge of the street he was aware that he was being followed by a car. It was the Durham police, inching along behind him.
It was Friday, December 4, and the air was cold. Sooley kept both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his Central pullover.
He had been in America long enough to understand the rules of engagement for young black men walking through white neighborhoods at night, and he was suddenly stricken with fear.
The car pulled beside him and a gruff voice said, “Stop right there.” Sooley stopped and waited as two policemen, both white, got out and slowly made their way over to confront him. His knees were trembling, his hands shaking.
One flashed a bright light into his face, then clicked it off. A nearby streetlamp shone enough for the three to see one another clearly. Officer Swain said, “May we ask where you’re going?” He was polite and even smiled.
“Yes sir. I’m a student at Central and I’m just trying to get back to campus.”
“Do you have a weapon? Anything in your pockets?”
“No sir. I’m a student.”
“We heard that. Please remove your hands from your pockets. Slowly.”
Sooley did as he was instructed.
Swain said, “Okay. You’re not required to show us any ID, but it might be helpful if you did.”
“Sure. My ID is in my pocket. Shall I reach for it?”
“Go ahead.”
He slowly reached into a front pocket of his jeans and handed his student ID to Swain, who studied it for a moment and asked, “What kinda name is Sooleymon?”
“African. I’m from South Sudan. I play basketball for Central.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six six.”
“You’re only eighteen?”
“Yes sir.”
Swain handed the card back and looked at Gibson, who said, “I’m not sure you’re safe in this neighborhood.”
The neighborhood was perfectly safe, but for the police who were causing trouble, but Samuel only nodded.
Swain pointed and said, “Central is to the south and you’re headed west.”
“I’m lost.”
They laughed and looked at each other. Swain said, “Okay, we’ll make you an offer. Get in the back seat and we’ll take you to the campus. It’s cold, and you’re lost, so we’ll just give you a ride, okay?”
Sooley looked at the car and glanced around, uncertain.
Swain sensed his hesitation and said, “You don’t have to. You’ve done nothing wrong and you’re not under arrest. It’s just a friendly ride. I swear.”
Sooley got in the back seat. They rode for a few minutes and Gibson, the driver, said, “You guys have lost four in a row. What’s going on?”
Sooley was gawking at the gadgets up front. A busy computer screen. Radios. Scanners. Of course, he had never been inside a police car. “Rough schedule,” he said. “We opened with some tough games, as always.”
Swain grunted and said, “Well, you got an easy one tomorrow. Bluefield State. Where the hell is that?”
“I don’t know, sir, I’m lost right now. Never heard of them. I’m a redshirt and won’t play this year.”
Gibson said, “I like Coach Britt. Great guy. Rumor is he might be moving on after this year.”
“I don’t know. Coaches, they don’t talk to us about stuff like that. I guess you guys are Duke fans.”
“Not me, can’t stand ’em. I pull for the Tar Heels. Swain here is a Wolfpacker.”
The car turned and Sooley recognized the street. They were indeed headed to the Central campus. As the front gate came into view, Swain pointed to a parking lot and said, “Pull in there.” Gibson did so and stopped the car.
Swain turned around and said, “Just so you won’t run the risk of being embarrassed, we’ll let you out right here. Okay?”
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
“Good luck with the season, Mr. Sooleymon.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 31
After three weeks on the continent, Ecko was tired and homesick and missed his family. He had scouted a tournament in Cape Town, attended conferences in Accra and Nairobi, and watched a dozen games with coaching friends in Senegal, Cameroon, and Nigeria. He’d logged 8,000 miles between countries and spent Thanksgiving Day stranded in an airport in Accra, the capital of Ghana.
But he had one more stop, one that he could not, in good conscience, blow off, though he desperately wanted to. He landed in Kampala and was met at the airport by an old friend named Nestor Kymm, a coach of the Ugandan national team. Kymm’s brother ranked high in the government and knew which strings to pull. Early the next morning they drove to Entebbe International Airport and were directed to the cargo field far away from the main terminal. There they met a smartly dressed officer named Joseph something or other. Ecko could neither pronounce nor spell the man’s last name so he simply called him “sir.” Joseph seemed to expect this.
They piled into his jeep and circled around two long, wide airstrips lined with taxiways choked with cargo planes, some waiting to take off, others landing. Surrounding the runways were endless rows of huge military tents shielding tons of crates of food. Joseph parked his jeep by an administration building and they hopped out. He glanced at his watch and said, “Your flight leaves in about an hour but nothing runs on time. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you can get on it, so don’t be disappointed if you don’t. We won’t know until the last minute. It’s all about weight and balance.” He waved at the chaos and asked, “Want a quick tour?”