Ride Around Shining by Chris Leslie-Hynan Read Free Book Online Page A

who should be doomed to smudgy, half-invisible tattoos—it would suit us better. I told myself I’d sneak away once I made out the single word that was written on his back in script, between the shoulder blades, but he would not stay still. I watched and watched the ink on his body in the dark, and when I looked away at last I saw I’d pulled the flower all to pieces.

3
    Driving out to Dunthorpe in the early morning, with the roads still clear and dew on the medians, I liked to think of the players in their houses spread out over the city. Year by year it just gets easier to see all America spread naked under the sky. If you want to see what kind of car Michael Jordan’s chauffeur is driving these days, you can just find the latest high-res satellite photograph of Highland Park and blow it up until you see the two Bentleys, black and white, sitting in his drive like pixilated Matchbox cars. I liked to think of someone finding the coordinates to Calyph’s house on a message board somewhere, like you can with MJ. As I drove past the early dog walkers and spry old men dutifully following ancient health advice, I imagined all of Portland unfolding that same way on those mornings, when the mist cleared and all our lives stood open to a glimpse from the satellites and the street views. Somehow the city was more alive to me with the team spread across it, humming with the energy of their half-hidden lives, from the glittering mistresses’ apartments in the Lloyd District to the sturdy exurban mansions of West Linn, built on rolling hills of grass seed. In satellite photographs, we were together.
    At Calyph’s, I sat at the kitchen island and looked down at the laptop I’d been instructed to bring as though it were a mixing board or a ten-key, some kind of byzantine machine.
    â€œWhat am I doing here again?” I called out.
    â€œYou know about cars,” Calyph shouted back vaguely.
    In front of me sat a fresh copy of The Oregonian and a stack of pricing guides tagged from the central library. I guess I was looking for a deal on a used car. I felt odd about being in their house again. There was no sign of Antonia, but after the previous night I preferred to be kept at a formal distance from their real lives for a little while.
    â€œLook up Lost Boys Staffing while you at it,” Calyph said, leaning against the door frame. “Gonna fill things out here with a houseman in a bit, hook him up with this old ride. There’s a brochure for ’em around here somewhere. Make y’self at home, too,” he said, tilting his head toward the living room, and went off down the stairs.
    I got up and settled down again in a deep, stiff chair. I didn’t see any brochures, but a pretty clunky-looking Web page told me Lost Boys was a charitable venture started by Joseph Jones, one of the league’s more august veterans. He’d won a championship with the Pistons, but he was in his twilight now, known as much for being a respected locker-room figure and having the league’s most dignified beard as for the workman’s rebounding and post defense, which were all he had left to give to the hardwood. Off the court he always wore spectacles and cream-colored suits, a true Georgetown warrior-scholar. According to the site, after Jones won his ring he’d replaced his staff with new servants he’d found through a company that trained resettled refugees from Sudan and the Congo. He’d later invested in the company, becoming its emissary to the league and eventually its figurehead. The site went on vaguely about its nonprofit status before boasting that all the staff were trained to drive and, later, helped to purchase cars.
    Jones’s own staff was a handsome five-person affair. Each man looked like a consummate professional, dapper and severe in his cream-colored livery, and among this proud lineup I couldn’t help note the presence of a chauffeur, distinguished by