Earl came out of the kitchen, a Celtics apron tied around his waist. “Dinner is served.”

“Good,” Serita answered, moving toward Laura and putting her arm around her friend’s shoulder. “I’m starved.”

“Well, then sit down and prepare yourself,” Earl said. “The master chef has created a new masterpiece.”

Laura smiled and sat down. Earl was truly a Renaissance man, she thought. Locked into his lanky, seven-foot frame was a man who played pro basketball, who decorated his own penthouse like a master designer, and who cooked exotic dishes like a gourmet chef. He was even writing a book on his basketball experiences called Slam Dunk. “Smells good. What is it?” Laura asked.

“A treat from the Orient. Thailand, to be more exact.” He lifted the silver cover. “I call it Shrimp Chow Earl.”

“Mmmmm,” Serita hummed. “Let me at it.”

The three friends began to devour the dish. It was, Laura thought, a delicious meal. Light yet spicy. Perfectly seasoned.

“This is really good,” she said.

Earl beamed. “Thanks, Laura. It’s been a while since you’ve let me cook for you.”

Laura nodded, not trusting her voice right away. She and David used to eat over at Earl’s at least once a week. “I know.”

Earl smiled at her. “But David never liked my cooking.”

“That’s not true,” Laura argued. “You’re a fantastic cook.”

“True,” Earl replied, “but David had the culinary instincts of a cashier at Burger King.”

Laura chuckled. “Can’t argue with that.”

“I think it was living with T.C. and his grubby cigars and greasy hamburgers that did his taste buds in,” Earl continued. “I used to always tell David that your body is your temple. Now take this dish for example. Fresh shrimp, mushrooms, broccoli, and natural spices—none of that chemical shit. The crap some people put in their body—unbelievable.”

“What’s for dessert?” Serita asked.

“Soybean pudding.”

“Yuck. I mean, I’m all in favor of health, honey, but let’s not be extremists.”

Earl poured his two beautiful guests some Chinese beer and sat back to watch them chow down. He shook his head and smiled. “It’s like watching dobermans in front of raw meat. How do you two stay so skinny?”

“I work it off,” Serita answered.

“Nautilus machines?” he asked.

She winked. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

“Let me think about it. Meanwhile, I’d better get some more food before Laura starts scratching the plate.”

“No, really, Earl. This is enough,” Laura said.

“You sure? Chez Earl has an all-you-can-eat menu.”

“Positive. I’m stuffed.”

“Okay.”

Laura stared at the table, which a lifetime ago had seen the four of them laugh themselves silly. Now the conversation rang hollow, the words stilted and uncomfortable in the bright room. “How’s the team look?” she asked.

Earl shrugged. “Okay, I guess. We really miss David out there.”

“Any of the draft picks looking good?”

“None.”

“Free agents?”

“Just one.”

“Oh, I’ve read about him in the Globe,” Serita interjected. “You must have seen it, Laura.”

“Sorry. I don’t read the sports too much anymore.”

“It was all over the place,” Serita continued. “This guy just walked into the gym one day, put up ten grand to challenge Timmy to a shooting contest, and won. This complete unknown even broke—” She cut herself off.

“Broke what?”

“Let’s change the subject,” Earl tried.

“Broke what?” Laura repeated.

Earl glanced at Serita and then released a long breath. “He broke David’s three-point shooting record.”

“What?” Laura asked. “I remember when David set the mark. The press said it would never be broken.”

“I know,” Earl said softly.

“So who is he?”

“His name is Mark Seidman,” Earl said.

“And is he good?”

Earl nodded. “Sure, he’s a great player and all but . . .”

“But?”

“I don’t know. The whole thing is weird.”

“Where did he play in college?” Laura asked.

“That’s just it. He didn’t. No one has ever heard of this guy before.”

“No one? Are you trying to tell me the press hasn’t dug up something on him yet?”

Earl shook his head. “Not a thing. He claims he lived in Europe, that his family traveled around a lot or something.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You mentioned the press before. Well, none of them has been able to substantiate his story. And Seidman refuses to talk to reporters—and you know how Clip feels about good relations with the press. But hell, Seidman doesn’t talk to anyone. He just comes in, plays, and leaves. He’s moody and quiet, and then every once in a while, he’ll say something offhand—you know, impromptu—like he’s one of us. He gets this really pitiful look in his eyes. Like he wants to belong. Then he goes back into his shell.”

“Could be nothing,” Laura said. “Or it could be he’s hiding something.”

“Could be,” Earl ventured. “I guess I make him sound like some kind of fugitive from the law. Maybe he is. But I don’t think so. It’s just—I don’t know—so weird. I don’t like him, that’s all.”

“How good is he?” Laura asked.

“Hard to say. It’s preseason. I’ve seen a lot of guys who were All-Stars in preseason and then turned into bums.”

“But what do you think?”

Earl hesitated. He lifted his glass and took a tiny swig of beer. “Aside from David, he could be the best player I’ve ever seen.”

Laura spotted the hurt look on his face. It was not easy for Earl to admit that someone could be in the same league with the friend he had so admired. “An unknown walkon?” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s incredible,” Earl went on. “Velvet shooting touch, great passer . . . Hey, enough about Seidman. I have to talk to you about something important.”