The Red Zone

by Tim Green

  "What's up, big man?" Scotty drawled.

  Luther pulled the sandy-haired young man close, until his chin bumped against the hard plastic shell of Luther's shoulder pads.

  "Go into my locker," Luther whispered, "in my black leather shaving kit there's about four prescription bottles. One of them is real little, and the doctor's name on the label is Kauffman. Get one of those little green pills and bring it to me, but don't let anyone see you, Scotty."

  Scotty nodded without another word, looking off into the mad sea of the crowded stadium.

  "I'll be right back," Scotty said as if Luther had asked him for nothing more than a new chin strap. He turned and disappeared into the tunnel that led back to the locker room.

  Luther waited for what seemed like a long time. He was glad to see his own offense moving the ball. He wasn't entirely sold on the act of popping a bean, but he would if he had to, if he couldn't find some deeply buried source of energy to get him through this game. In the fucked-up mess that was his life, here at least, Luther was in control. Here, he was the best, and here no one had to worry about him holding anything back or letting anyone down. Luther had no moral compunction about taking pills. Pills were good. He had played entire games on amphetamines, as had many of his teammates.

  Only his own chemistry kept him from using them all the time. Luther could usually tap a source of violence that carried him through a game almost as well as any prescription drug. Also, the amphetamines let you down real hard. Luther would be sick for the next two days if he took one now.

  Scotty returned as the Marauders' punt team was taking the field. Luther was still flat. Scotty laid the pill in his gloved paw and Luther put it into his mouth, crushing it into a wickedly bitter powder between his molars before washing it down with a mouthful of lime-flavored Gatorade. Crushed, the drug would absorb into his system faster. The punter got off a monster kick, and the concrete bowl of the stadium resonated with the crowd's deafening approval. The Marauders' punt coverage team had done all it could. The Rams were pinned down so deep into their own territory that the quarterback would actually have to stand in his own end zone. As Luther jogged out onto the field, he felt the drug begin to take effect. His heart jumped in his chest and his fatigue began to melt away. His face grew tight and his eyes more alert.

  The first play came right up the middle of the formation. Luther let them know why that was a mistake by meeting the blocking fullback in the space between two linemen and hitting him with an impact that made the man's knees crumple like a paper doll's. With no place to go, the tailback was lucky to get the ball back to the line of scrimmage before Luther's teammates brought him down under a pile of sweat-stained bodies. Luther popped up off the pile and got the signal for the next play as his men huddled up.

  The call was Mac Cross Cage, a run blitz. Luther smiled at his ten exhausted teammates as he called it out. It was the right call in this situation. If it worked the right way, it would put Luther in the backfield and, with his quickness, they would have a chance to win the whole thing right there. Even though tackling the opposing ball-carrier in his own backfield would result in nothing more than a two-point safety, it was enough. In sudden death overtime, it was the first team to score that won, no matter how they did it.

  Luther broke the huddle and raised his fists to the crowd. He had the power of a conductor imploring his percussion section. The mob thundered on command. The noise made it all the more difficult for the Rams' quarterback to bark out his signals so that his offensive teammates could hear him adjust the play. This would give Luther and the Marauders a split second in their favor, and in the game of football that was enough.

  When the ball was snapped, the offensive tackle was slow off the ball, the noise having forced him to rely on peripheral vision to see the snap of the ball instead of the quarterback's count. He lunged at the defensive end to keep him from racing into the backfield. The lunge left a gap too wide for the guard to close without blocking the blitzing outside linebacker, leaving a space Luther Zorn could drive a truck through. It was a chain reaction.

  The play was going to Luther's right. He darted past the quarterback, who had handed off the ball. The runner was heading for the sideline. If he passed the outside "cage," the defensive end, he could severely damage the defense. The cage wouldn't hold him completely, but it caused him to hesitate.

  That was all Luther needed. He leapt through the air and smashed into the running backs head, bringing him down in a tangled pile of limbs in the end zone. The official behind Luther threw his hands up in the air to signal a safety just as the official in front of Luther threw a flag. The game was far from over.

  Luther sprang from the grass. He got within inches of the officials face demanding to know what the penalty was for.

  "Face mask," the ref barked at him. "Fifteen yards!"

  Luther knew what that meant. The penalty would move the Rams fifteen yards ahead, safely out of dangers immediate grasp. Luther screamed at the referee until two of his teammates pulled him away.

  Luther resisted wildly and one of the other refs threw his flag straight up in the air before taking another hold on Luthers arm. Fifteen more yards. Luther spun on the man, shaking his grip and picking up the official's flag. He grabbed the ref by his shirtfront and pulled him close, slamming the flag down the front of his striped shirt and screaming at him like a madman. It took three teammates and three officials to drag Luther toward the sideline. He was ejected from the game, and the officials refused even to start the action again until Luther was packed safely away in the locker room.

  Luther's hands trembled uncontrollably. He felt as if he might vomit, but he kept his head high as he was led away from the bench and toward the locker room by a teammate, two state police, and one of the assistant coaches. The mob booed as he disappeared. Luther had no idea whether they were jeering him or the official who made the call. He didn't care. After everything that had happened to him already, it didn't even matter.

  Above the fray, Martin Wilburn sat with a passive face in Evan Chase's luxury box. It was Vivian's now, but lately she seemed to have no taste for excitement. In fact, Wilburn and Rivet had recently given her permission to leave the country So now the box was filled with Wilburn's cronies and connections. More important, the three most influential members of the Memphis Citizens Sports Committee were sitting beside him, shifting nervously at the sudden change in fortune of Wilburn's team. That was what it was now, his team. No matter who owned what stock and which corporation, the Marauders were his.

  If his players won this game, Martin was almost certain the men from Memphis would lock in. If they locked in, he would be set for life. His contract with Aaron Crawford gave him forty-nine percent ownership of Carnco, the shell corporation that owned ten percent of the team, but only if he delivered the Marauders to Memphis. Wilburn knew that he was a puppet. And that Pallidan, the wolf, was working more strings than just his.

  He also knew that Crawford was pulling Pallidan's strings and ultimately everyone else's. Crawford was too smart to involve himself directly in any kind of dirty work. He was twice removed from it. If anything ever went down, Crawford would be insulated not only by lawyers, but by layers and layers of corporate veils. That certainly allowed for the possibility that Wilburn could be hung out to dry. If anything went sour, Crawford would cut him loose without thinking twice. Wilburn had seen him do it before. But Martin was so close he could smell the money.

  Ten million dollars for him personally. That was the kind of money Wilburn had dreamed of. He had lived well these past few years, but the money had never been his, and he knew if the show ever ended, so would his part in it. Before long, though, he could do whatever he wanted without having to pay homage to anyone. Ten million was "Fuck You' money. He wanted to continue to run the team, but it would be a simple diversion from his life of leisure. He'd even pay himself a handsome salary to do it.

  It was ironic that within the last few seconds he had watched
Luther Zorn almost cost him that opportunity. Luther Zorn with his temper, with his uncontrollable emotions, with his own special form of insanity. Luther was the one who had given him the opportunity to win or lose everything. Without thinking, Wilburn found his favorite matching grooves in the molars on the left side of his mouth and set his jaw.

  Without Luther, the Marauders' defense deflated. The Rams drove down to the twenty-yard line and set up to kick a field goal. Wilburn couldn't bring himself to look at the men from Memphis. There would be no sympathy from them. They would simply wait another week, to see how the race between Wilburn's team and Arizona played itself out. Fortunes changed suddenly in the NFL.

  The ball was snapped and an unexpected wave of Marauders defenders broke through the middle of the Rams' formation. They blocked the kick, and Wilburn took it as a sign when Antone Ellison scooped up the floundering ball from the turf and scrambled seventy yards for a touchdown. Wilburn jumped up and began hugging the men from Memphis. They were almost as happy as he was. They would be bringing a play-off team home to their city. A team like that would make the medicine of increased taxes, and the cuts in local programs needed to pay for a new football facility, that much more palatable. Everyone loved a winner.

  Chapter 37

  Madison sent Chris to Memphis on Monday to try to find someone who worked at Ibex during the same years Martin Wilburn had been there. She had to appear in court that afternoon with her fifteen-year-old client for a preliminary hearing that would determine whether or not he would be tried as an adult for shooting his mothers boyfriend. Madison fought hard, but lost. The wheels of justice were turning against young defendants accused of violent crimes. She viewed her client as more a victim than a perpetrator, but the laws were written to punish, and it was a rare thing for the law to distinguish between different sets of circumstances.

  When she checked in with her office, Madison learned that Luther Zorn had called three times, insisting that he needed to speak with her immediately. She tried first to reach Chris in Memphis, but got no answer. Madison then returned Luther's call. She sighed with relief when she got his answering machine. She hadn't yet figured out how she was going to handle Luther, but he was her client, and she owed him a meeting. She left a message that she would be staying at the Royal Palm that night and if he wanted he could have breakfast with her there at nine. She didn't feel uncomfortable with meeting him in the hotels restaurant for breakfast. She would certainly be safe.

  As an indulgence, Madison decided to take a late connecting flight to Palm Beach that went through Atlanta. It was a long trip, but it would enable her to steal a short evening with Jo-Jo and Cody.

  Julie Tarracola believed there was nothing she couldn't sell and nobody she couldn't sell it to. She was only thirty-five, but was already the top salesperson in North America for Mayburn Chemicals. She was exhausted after traveling all the way from a conference in Tokyo, stopping only to change planes in Los Angeles. But when an opportunity arose, she was never one to balk, because of mere physical discomfort, no matter how tired she might be. Julie was about to close a ten-million-dollar deal with a soap manufacturer in West Palm Beach. You didn't tell someone like that to wait, and you didn't close a ten-million-dollar deal from a Holiday Inn, so she took herself directly to the Royal Palm Beach Hotel. She needed rest and needed to wake up in a place that bespoke luxury and power.

  "Do you have any rooms available for this evening?" she pleasantly asked one of the men at the front desk.

  "I'm sorry, madam," the man answered in a thick German accent, "we have no vacancies tonight."

  Julie quickly summed up the situation. The young German had an air of punctiliousness that suggested a subtle approach.

  "Oh," she said, bewildered, "I'm certain I have a reservation. I didn't even think to ask. It would probably be under my company's name, Mayburn."

  The man at the desk smiled appreciatively and checked a box of file cards for reservations under the letter "M." Julie leaned over the desk and stole a glance at the first name that appeared.

  "Hmmm," the man said searching through the Ms again, "we don't seem to have anything under Mayburn. Could it have been made in your own name?"

  "It could have," Julie said hopefully. "Madison McCall? Is it there?"

  "Let me look ... I think, yes! Here it is, Ms. McCall," the man said, smiling. "How would you like to pay for that?"

  "Company credit card," she told him. The card was billed directly to her company and did not have her name on it.

  "That will be fine."

  Julie passed him her corporate card and watched as he absently ran it through for approval. When she got her key, she followed a bellman straight to her room. He hung her garment bag and placed her suitcase on a little stand inside the closet. Julie tipped him well and hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on her door as she watched him leave. She was exhausted, but her scam to get a room left her heart pumping fast. She felt as if her blood were laced with amphetamines, and she needed to slow herself down.

  She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. Just off the lobby there was a softly lit bar with padded crimson-leather stools and booths. The woodwork was a rich mahogany, and the polished silver surfaces of the light fixtures reflected muted waves of color. It was an elegant but comfortable place. Julie sat at the end of the bar, hanging her purse from the back of her high-backed bar stool. She ordered a double scotch and soda. The long plane flights had left her dehydrated and tense. Three drinks later she was relaxed, perhaps too much so. She paid her tab and rose, stumbling against a portly man in a tan suit. His indignant face was so red he looked as if he were about to explode.

  " 'Scuse me," she mumbled, aware from her slurred words that she was completely drunk. Embarrassed, she tucked her head and hurried as best she could for her room, forgetting her purse.

  At her door, she took the room key from her pocket and fumbled with it a moment before letting herself in. She opened her suitcase and took out a sleeping mask, which she strapped around her forehead. Then Julie found a bottle of pills in her briefcase. She struggled to remove a Halcion from the childproof bottle, then changed her mind and took two, washing them down with half a bottle of Perrier from the minibar. She pulled on her pajamas, got into bed, pushed the mask down over her eyes, and lay back to wait for the pills to knock her out for the night.

  Chris Pelo followed Kevin Pallidan home. Pallidan had refused to meet with Chris when he showed up at the Ibex offices just after lunch. Two hard-looking men had escorted him quickly and quietly out of the lobby and into the parking lot, where they waited for him to drive off. Ibex's operations were located in a suburban office building surrounded by dark green Scotch pines. The brick and smoked-glass building didn't hint at the nature of the business conducted there. The cars in the parking lot were unexceptional. When Chris had entered the reception lobby, he was greeted with the suspicious stare of a receptionist who was clearly unused to visitors. His next contact was with the two heavies who came spilling out of a black-lacquered door only a few short minutes after he asked to speak with Kevin Pallidan.

  This reaction piqued Chris's interest like nothing else could have. From the appearance of things, it would have surprised Chris if Ibex was anything more than a two-million-dollar-a-year company. The offices weren't shabby, but in an area where space was cheap they were small. That Chris was seen to the door by two thugs was odd, too.

  Chris had observed that the parking spot closest to the entrance was marked with a small sign bearing Pallidans name. A new black full-sized Mercedes sedan filled the space. After his ejection Chris waited in the parking lot of a small strip center on a low rise of land that anyone leaving Ibex had to pass. It wasn't until after dusk at six-thirty when the black sedan pulled out onto the street. Pallidan sat in the passenger's seat next to one of the men Chris had seen earlier in the day.

  Chris's surveillance experience from his days in CID made it easy, even in the dark, to follow Pallidan to an affluent neighborhood
about twenty minutes away from Ibex. The Mercedes disappeared into a stark contemporary home set back from the wide street and lit by soft yellow lights hidden in the well-groomed shrubs. The home was nothing Chris Pelo would ever want to live in, but its striking angles reminded him of something from the pages of an architectural magazine. He pulled his own car around the corner and parked on the street. He took a small army-green backpack from the trunk and walked to the yard opposite Pallidans house, where he tucked himself into a small cluster of evergreens.

  Chris waited, hoping that the man who had driven Pallidan would leave. After about ten minutes, he did. The fourth of four garage doors yawned open and the security guard emerged behind the wheel of a dark blue Ford Explorer. After ten more minutes, Chris took a deep breath and started across the street. The phone box was easy enough to find: the two-and-a-half-foot metal stub protruded from the ground behind a bank of shrubs that concealed the electric transformer. The shrubs provided Chris with a nice cover.

  He held a small red penlight in his teeth so he could see as he opened the transformer and began cutting and splicing the wires that led into the house. He hadn't run a phone tap in over six years, so he rechecked his connections three times. The unit he'd borrowed from his partner was state of the art;

  not only compact but with a voice-activated recorder with a tape that would allow him to hear an hour and a half of Pallidans phone conversations. The only drawback to it was that he would have to retrieve the unit in order to hear what had been said. He tucked the wiring and the unit back into the box and closed it.

  Chris looked around nervously and tried to think of a way out of what he now had to do, but there was none. If he wanted to guarantee some action, he'd have to stir things up with Pallidan. He would have much preferred to fade away into the shadows. That was something he was comfortable and familiar with. On the other hand, he knew exactly what Madison would do, so when he emerged from the bushes he marched right up the walk and rang the bell. It was some time before the intercom beside the door squawked and Pallidan asked who was there.