"Excuse me?"

"They're not being 'put to death," George continued.

"They're being murdered." "Do you eat here every day?" Sara asked.

"No," Eric Blake replied. They both slid their trays along the hospital cafeteria girders. The room was packed with doctors, nurses, lab technicians everyone dressed in white coats or blue hospital scrubs with the words

"Property of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center Removal From Premises Prohibited" emblazoned across the chest. Everyone looked exhausted, the men unshaven, the women baggy-eyed. Working 40-hour shifts can do that to a person.

Sara looked down at the hospital pizza and frowned.

"Eric?"

"Yes?"

"Is mozzarella cheese supposed to be green?"

"It's one of the better items on the menu."

"I think I'll pass."

"I can order in Chinese, if you'd like."

She shook her head.

"Michael would kill me. He hasn't eaten Chinese in two days and he's already suffering withdrawal pains."

"He always did love Chinese food."

They found a table toward the back where the room was relatively quiet.

"How's Michael feeling?" Eric asked.

"I haven't had a chance to check in on him today."

"About the same," Sara replied.

"He's taking a nap right now.

I don't know, Eric... he just doesn't look right to me."

"He'll be fine." Eric carefully opened his container of milk.

While everyone around them drank directly from the carton, Eric poured the milk into a glass and then lifted it to his lips.

"It's kind of spooky seeing Michael here though. Like a bad deja vu."

"What do you mean?"

"It reminds me of when we were kids," he said.

"Of when Michael's stepfather beat him."

Sara winced.

"He doesn't talk about it much."

"I know. I don't blame him. It was a bad time, Sara, best forgotten."

She nodded slowly, picturing Michael as a helpless child in a hospital bed. A flush of anguish and anger rose in her. Her mind traveled back five years to the first time she had learned about Michael's past, a few hours before she met him for the first time.

"I want you to interview Michael Silverman," Larry Simmons, managing editor of the New York Herald, told her.

"The basketball player?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Why? Basketball is hardly my area of expertise."

"I don't want a story about basketball. I want a story about Michael Silverman, the man. Look, the NBA finals are on now and everyone is applauding Silverman's skill on the court. But where did he come from? What made this Jewish kid from New Jersey become such a fantastic athlete?"

"Hasn't this story been done before?"

"Others have tried. Others have even dug up some of Silverman's tragic past."

"Tragic past?"

"It's all in the fik. But I don't want you to look at it right away.

I want you to start by going directly to Silverman."

"So why hasn't the story been done before?"

"Because Silverman won't talk to the press about his personal life.

Ask him about a jump shot or a quick move to the basket and he'll be as poetic as Proust. But ask him about his pre-college years and forget it."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Get him to talk. Find out what he's all about. Be honest and open with him. If that doesn't work, be sneaky."

She laughed.

"And if all else fails, I'll hit him over the head with my cane."

"Now you're talking."

A half hour later she called Michael's apartment in the city.

"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 expose you did on the housing commissioner last month.

Powerful stuff."

"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 off the court. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know you a little better."

"Sounds like pretty dull stuff." "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 underwear, 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.

"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 have you 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, easy-going 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."