Miracle Cure
“Mr. Silverman?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Sara Lowell. I’m a reporter for the New York Herald.”
“Oh yes,” Michael said, “I’ve read some of your work, Miss Lowell. I liked the exposé you did on the housing commissioner last month. Powerful stuf.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, what can I do for you?”
Sara was somewhat taken aback. She had been prepared for an ogre, a man more than a little wary and suspicious of the press. But this man was very polite. Gracious even. “I’d like very much to do an interview with you at your convenience.”
“I see. Have you become a sportswriter, Miss Lowell?”
“Not really.”
“Then what sort of story do you plan on doing?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just a general piece on Michael Silverman of the court. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know you a little better.”
“Sounds like pretty dull stuf.”
“I don’t think so,” Sara said. “From what I hear, you’re a fairly interesting person.”
“So,” Michael continued, “all you want to do is a light piece on how I like to go to the theater, collect rabbits, garden in my under wear, stuff like that?”
“Sort of.”
“I assume, Miss Lowell, that you already know that I do not grant interviews on my personal life.”
“I’ve heard something to that effect, yes.”
“And you won’t ask any personal questions? Nothing about my love life or my childhood?”
“You can always say, ‘No comment.’”
Michael chuckled. “You forget, Miss Lowell, I read your column. You don’t do fluff. You probe and penetrate and usually go for the kill.”
“Mr. Silverman, this article is nothing like—”
“Explain something to me,” he interrupted. “Why can’t you reporters understand that my personal life is none of anyone’s business? Why can’t you just report what happens on the basketball court and leave me alone?”
“The public wants to know more.”
“Frankly speaking, I don’t really give a shit what the public wants. How come I never see a reporter’s life story smeared across the headlines? How come I never see a story on how you lost your virginity, Miss Lowell, or about that wild college weekend where you had too much to drink?”
“No one wants to read about me, Mr. Silverman.”
“Bullshit. No one wants to read about me either unless I’m scoring baskets.”
“Not true.”
“Listen, I’m not in the mood to be this week’s tabloid story, okay? Just leave me alone. And why do you have to play all the devious head games with me? Why couldn’t you have been honest enough to admit what you were really after?”
She hesitated before answering. “Because you would have probably hung up on me.”
“Very prophetic of you. Good-bye, Miss Lowell.”
She heard him slam down the receiver. “Eat shit, Mr. Silverman.” So much for his being a nice, easygoing fellow. She stood and headed for the door.
“Where you going?” Larry Simmons called to her.
“To Silverman’s apartment.”
“He agreed to the interview?”
“No. He hung up on me.”
“So?”
“So sneaky didn’t work. Maybe bouncing my cane off his skull will prove more persuasive.”
“Before you go,” Larry said, “I think you should read his file after all.” He handed her a manila envelope.
The file was short but potent. One page to be exact. Sara skimmed the sheet. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered.
“I thought you might find it intriguing.”
She read out loud. “ ‘Born Beth Israel Hospital, Newark, New Jersey. His father, Samuel Silverman, died in a car crash when he was five. Mother, Estelle Silverman, remarried a year later to a Martin Johnson. Between the ages of six and nine Michael had eight overnight hospital stays. His injuries were rumored to have been the result of physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather and included several broken bones and three concussions. When Michael was ten, his mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the forehead. Michael found her body. He has no brothers, no sisters. Stepfather abandoned him after the suicide. Only living relative was paternal grandmother, Sadie Silverman, who raised Michael until her death when he turned nineteen.’ ” She looked up. “Jesus, Larry, you want me to go after this guy?”
“None of it has really been printed before because the details are too sketchy. Keep reading.”
Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading. “ ‘Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano.’” She paused. “The guy’s a pianist?”
Larry nodded. “That part is fairly well-known.”
“ ‘Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row . . . reputation of being a bit of a ladies’ man—’ ”
“That’s the understatement of the millennium,” Larry interjected. “The man changes women like some men change socks.” He smiled. “Hope you don’t get sucked in.”
“Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn’t sound like my type.”
“No one is your type,” Larry replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, “that you never date.”
“I’ve got too much work to do.”
“Excuses.”
“And no one interests me right now, okay.”
“Listen, Sara, I’m sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years.”
“So?”
“So you’re going to have to find someone else. I’m taken.”
She smiled. “Damn. You found me out.”
“And don’t be so quick to judge Silverman,” he added. “Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?”
She put the file on her desk. “This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism,” Sara said.
He shrugged. “Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous . . . Well, you’d have to go back to Sandy Koufax.”