Maravich was rapt at the story. He nodded thoughtfully. “And you think this Barry Fields is the same guy, this Artie Burns? Why?”
“Like I said. It’s the eyes. Mostly he looked different from this guy. His hair was different, he had no eyeglasses, and he had, like, this bushy mustache but otherwise he was clean-shaven. But the eyes, they were the same. I was sitting across the table from him. The conversation wasn’t all that long. He didn’t talk much. But he would stare at us. Cold. Sizing us up every second, figuring his angle. We call it bad intent. Kind of unsettling, like a snake looking at a bird? When the guy you call Fields looked at me in the gift shop, I flashed on that stare, that look. It took me a while to place it, to put the circumstances and the name to it.”
“You were sure
