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black metal mailbox anchored in the brick by his door and searched through the envelopes for checks from Fidelity Casualty. Disappointed, he unlocked the front door and went through the hallway into the office. He dropped into the swivel chair and slipped a cassette into the tape player. While the Ellington orchestra softly played “Prelude to a Kiss,” Dorsey played the answering machine tape, hoping for better results than he had gotten from the mail.
    â€œI get through tonight at eleven,” a young female voice said. “It’s been a bad one today, so I know I’ll want outfast. Please: at eleven, not twenty after. See ya.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Dorsey muttered. “I’m always there. Most times.” The next voice was also female, older and much more self-assured.
    â€œCarroll, your father asked me to call.” It was Irene Boyle, his father’s personal secretary: Ironbox Boyle, the only woman Dorsey ever remembered working for his father. Hard and cold, as Dorsey remembered from his youth; that box has to be iron. Dorsey hit the stop button, hoping to kill the woman, but only silenced the voice temporarily. “. . . this evening. He would like you to come by this evening. Dinner’s out. I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible. He’s got this affair, a gathering for a judge or a candidate for judge, I forget which. Be here around eight-thirty. He’d really like to see you.”
    He had planned a quiet evening of typing reports and listening to Ellington, with a little comforting companionship later on, but this message was a well-worded summons. Dorsey had not said no to Mrs. Boyle in all his thirty-eight years, not since she had partially filled the void when his mother died when he was twelve. Strong on discipline but without maternal love, she gave directions and never made requests. Dorsey smiled at the smooth manner in which Mrs. Boyle had avoided the possibility of dinner. Dorsey had not eaten at his father’s table since the day in 1970 he’d dropped out of Duquesne Law School, the day before he enlisted in the army.
    His mother had died when he was in the sixth grade, his first year of organized basketball, the type of milestone an old jock uses to mark the passage of time. At times Dorsey had thought that if she had to die it was best she had done it then, when he was tall and awkwardly uncoordinated, an embarrassment on the court. Dorsey had figured his performances to be humiliations; after all, his father never came to watch. His father’s failure to attend his games became more of an issue than his mother’s passing. Two more reasons to hate the old man.
    Dorsey’s prowess on the court increased in spurts. By eighth grade he had an unreliable jump shot, but his strong rebounding kept him off the bench. It was his junior year at Central Catholic when it all came together, when the hook shot was perfected, not only from a low post setup but also on the run, sweeping through the key, arching the ball over the defender’s reach to end in a sweet glide through the net. After a forty-two-point effort against Bishop Serra, he came to the attention of Columnist Phil Musick, who referred to Dorsey as the best possible combination of Bill Sharman and Dave DeBusschere.
    With fame came his father’s interest. Throughout his senior year Dorsey watched his father, just before the game, shaking hands with innumerable priests as he strolled through the gym. When the team fell two victories short of the state finals, the local papers carried a photo of Martin Dorsey with his arm around his son’s bare shoulders, whispering words of condolence in his ear.
    At Duquesne—his father and the clergy at Central Catholic had insisted he attend a Catholic university—Dorsey continued to gather press clippings. Twice he led the team into the NCAA tournament and once to the NIT. For two years straight he beat crosstown