next two hours involuntarily trying to lip-read everything the characters are saying. Unfortunately, the movie is Dr. Dolittle 2, and my mouse-lipreading skills are not that well developed.
Willie, for his part, uses the time to refine his casting choices. On further reflection he now considers Denzel too old and is leaning toward Will Smith or Ben Affleck, though he has some doubts that Ben could effectively play a black guy. I suggest that as soon as he gets home he call Greg and Eric to discuss it.
Moments after we touch the ground, a flight attendant comes over and leans down to speak with me. “Mr. Carpenter?” she asks.
I get a brief flash of worry. Has something happened while we were in the air? “Yes?”
“There will be someone waiting at the gate to meet you. You have an urgent phone call.”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. But I’m sure everything is fine.”
I would take more comfort from her assurances if she knew what the call was about. I fluctuate between intense worry and panic the entire time we taxi to the gate, which seems to take about four hours.
As soon as the plane comes to a halt, Willie and I jump out of our seats and are the first people off the plane. Somebody who works for airline security is there to meet us, and he leads us to one of those motorized carts. We all jump on and are whisked away.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.
The security guy shrugs slightly. “I’m not sure. I think it’s about that football player.”
Before I have a chance to ask what the hell he could possibly be talking about, we arrive at an airport security office. I’m ushered inside, telling the officers that it’s okay for Willie to come in with me. We’re led into a back office, where another security guy stands holding a telephone, which he hands to me.
“Hello?” I say into the phone, dreading what I might hear on the other end.
“It took you long enough.” The voice is that of Lieutenant Pete Stanton, my closest and only friend in the Paterson Police Department.
I’m somewhat relieved already; Pete wouldn’t have started the conversation that way if he had something terrible to tell me. “What the hell is going on?” I ask.
“Kenny Schilling wants to talk to you. And only you. So you’d better get your ass out here.”
If possible, my level of confusion goes up a notch. Kenny Schilling is a running back for the Giants, a third-round pick a few years ago who is just blossoming into a star. I’ve never met the man, though I know Willie counts him as one of his four or five million social friends. “Kenny Schilling?” I ask. “Why would he want to talk to me?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Pete asks.
Annoyance is overtaking my worry; there is simply nothing concerning Kenny Schilling that could represent a disaster in my own life. “I’ve been on a plane, Pete. I just flew in from Fantasyland. Now, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“It looks like Schilling killed Troy Preston. Right now he’s holed up in his house with enough firepower to supply the 3rd Infantry, and every cop in New Jersey outside waiting to blow his head off. Except me. I’m on the phone, ’cause I made the mistake of saying I knew you.”
“Why does he want me?” I ask. “How would he even know my name?”
“He didn’t. He asked for the hot-shit lawyer that’s friends with Willie Miller.”
An airport security car is waiting to take us to Upper Saddle River, which is where they tell us Kenny Schilling lives, and they assure us that our bags will be taken care of. “My bag’s the one you can lift,” I say.
Once in the car, I turn on the radio to learn more about the situation, and discover that it is all anyone is talking about.
Troy Preston, a wide receiver for the Jets, did not show up for scheduled rehab on an injured knee yesterday and did not call in an explanation to the team. This was apparently uncharacteristic, and when he could not be found or contacted, the police were called in. Somehow Kenny Schilling was soon identified as a person who might have knowledge concerning the disappearance, and the police went out to his house to talk to him.
The unconfirmed report is that Schilling brandished a gun, fired a shot (which missed), and turned his house