by Peter Gent
Suzy looked around for something to wipe her hands on. They were greased with barbeque sauce. She settled on Taylor’s T-shirt and reached over and wiped her small hands clean, staining his shirt with red sauce.
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Suzy bent over and wiped her mouth on the shirt.
“Code of the West.”
“I see where Cyrus Chandler’s daughter married Lem Carleton III.” Suzy frowned at Taylor. “A.D. told me she was your girl.”
“A.D. was wrong.” Taylor looked down at the river. The waxed paper was still visible.
“Sure. Sorry. Why’d she get married? Pregnant?”
“How should I know?”
“The papers said she was beautiful and looked great in Mexico on their honeymoon. The wedding cost two hundred thousand dollars. They flew everybody to San Antonio for a reception in the old brewery, then on to the South Texas ranch for a catered trail-drive breakfast.”
“She’d been engaged to the guy for a long time.”
“You were just a last desperate swing before she settled into the complacency of her wealthy early twenties?” Suzy mocked. “Oh, I see now.”
“I was just a stop on her highway of life ... another town along the road.”
Suzy smiled and slowly scrutinized the shadows of Taylor’s face, trying to discern his intentions.
“What about you?” Suzy took a long swallow and finished her beer, absently crumpling the can in her strong, slender hands and tossing the metal wreckage into the river. “You want to be something when you grow up?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Suzy and Taylor Rusk ended up drinking several more beers, then climbed up in a live oak to neck and escape the ticks and chiggers. They were only partially successful. Suzy got tick bites on the insides of her thighs, and Taylor had at least fifteen chiggers burrowed into his armpits. They got the ticks off Suzy by heating Taylor’s pocketknife blade. Suzy painted over Taylor’s chigger bites with her clear nail polish, leaving them to suffocate.
“It’s a better fate than they deserve,” she decided.
About midnight the Crystal Palace Dance Hall went up for grabs when the welder hit A.D. Koster right on the point of the chin, knocking him loose of the El Río Frío counselor. A.D. sailed across the dance floor and into the band, hopelessly entangled in the drum set. Simon D’Hanis hit the welder. Bobby Hendrix dove out an open window. The two deputies and the game warden charged inside.
After that the versions of the Crystal Palace Massacre vary widely. But like the Alamo, San Jacinto and the Spindletop Oil Boom, it marked the start of an era. The Franchise had arrived.
After the dance hall had been cleared out and the band finished loading their van, Hendrix called Suzy and Taylor down out of the tree. They went in search of A.D.
Everyone else had been accounted for and were long gone on the yellow school bus. A.D. was the only MIA.
They eventually found him and the welder, both battered and bruised, sitting behind the bandstand with their arms over the other’s shoulder, drinking from the same bottle of Wild Turkey and cussing women. The counselor from El Río Frío Camp for Girls was nowhere to be seen.
A.D. called the welder a “goddam nail-eatin’, ass-kickin’, woman-fuckin’, good ol’ son of a bitch.” The welder proposed a toast to A.D.’s “noble ancestor and famous Apache, Quanah Parker.”
“Quanah Parker was a Comanche,” Suzy said, picking through the wood of a broken table. “There is a difference. It was in the way they fought and treated their women.” She hefted a three-foot-long two-by-four and hit A.D. across the shoulder blades as hard as she could. The blow knocked him face-first in the welder’s lap. She had aimed for A.D.’s spine and hoped for paralysis.
“Hey,” the welder-bull rider yelled, “that’s my pal!” He struggled to rise. Suzy drew back the yellow pine stud.
“Well, say hello to him for me.” She hit the man a sideways blow across the forehead that sounded like extra bases in a game of sixteen-inch slow-pitch. The welder-bull rider went flat on his back and joined A.D. in the ozone.
It would be another seventeen days before Red gave them a second night off. It was soon enough for some and too late for others.
TRYING OUT
THAT FIRST CAMP was a never-ending parade of bodies passing through the Franchise like grease through a goose. Every day saw new kickers, tackles, guards, ends and defensive backs. This was a world of hemorrhaging receivers and crippled running backs.
Names were written on adhesive tape and stuck on the front of the headgear so coaches and other players could identify the man. It was impossible to keep up with the faces.
Texas was the last stop on the inevitable drop out of professional football. An expansion team got to look at all the rejects, and they came in all colors, sizes, shapes, religions and states of mind. They were scarred, tattooed, crazed, addicted, broken, bashed, worn out, blown out, fucked up, fucked out, scared, mad, friendly, kind, courteous, loyal, trustworthy, brave, selfish, selfless. There were sadomasochists, homosexuals, heterosexuals, bisexuals, asexuals. They all had one thing in common: they were football players, and Texas was the last bounce.
After Texas it was the netherworld, the god-awful “out there” of the dead silent civilian world. They had all spent years and tremendous amounts of energy to avoid that inevitable, final fall from grace. This gave them a special kind of shared desperation in their lives, a fear of professional death that burst out in odd uncontrollable ways. Some extremely funny, some not so funny, some downright horrible.
An exceptional few combined all the traits with brotherhood, human love, courage, strength and a sense of justice. It was in those men Taylor glimpsed the greatness that would coalesce under Red’s obsessive genius. The Franchise would soon overflow with skilled, talented technicians. Red kept all the artists, the weirdos, the crazies, the lunatics.
This was all the result of Red Kilroy’s game plans and nose for talent and Dick Conly’s scheme to build winning into the system. Their tactics and strategies—combining short-term methods with long-term goals—created a timetable to the Super Bowl. It was a fast track and there were lots of wrecks. Players crashed and burned and needed replacing.
Red Kilroy looked at everybody that didn’t belong to anybody.
There was only one criterion: Could he play?
INVESTICO AND OTHER DIRT
“OKAY, BOYS,” MR. SMITH, the tallest of the two security men, said. “First, let’s run down the list of places the commissioner’s office has placed off limits in Texas.”
The other agent, Mr. Jones, had assembled a flip chart and stand. He held a long wooden rubber-tipped pointer in his right hand and slapped it lightly against his leg. He was wearing a dark-blue suit and brown oxford shoes with thick soles.
“Turn over to the Texas list, J. Edgar,” the tall security man said. He, too, was in a dark-blue suit, but his shoes were black wingtips with tassels. J. Edgar Jones flipped through the ring-bound cards, quickly finding the one headed “Texas.”
“Now, these are the places that known gamblers frequent,” the tall security man said. “And the commissioner expects you all to steer clear of these places year-round. You’ll each get a mimeo with the off-limits lists of all the League cities. Keep them with you when you travel and do not frequent any of the establishments listed.” The tall man looked around the room as if he expected questions or confessions from the players. A few coughed and shuffled their feet. Kimball stared blankly at the blackboard, ignoring the whole proceeding.
“Know the places in your city by heart.”
The phrase startled Taylor Rusk. “By heart?”
“And don’t frequent those places. Gamblers can use any piece of information that comes from inside the locker room to give them a little extra edge. Injuries especially, but personal things, like family trouble or who is drinking too much.... That can all help the gambler to increase his edge and we don’t want to do that.”
Taylor nodded absently and wondered who the gambler increased his edge against. And why the League sent these two particular security men to explain it to the Franchise.
“Now, tonight we’ve got a special treat for you fellows ...”
“Treat?” Taylor whispered to Hendrix. “Treat? Who the fuck are these guys?”
Hendrix hunched over to Taylor and whispered, “Investico. A private security company hired by the League. They come around to every team every year. Investico’s owned by Casino International and they specialize in gambling security. They usually hire ex-FBI and CIA men, guys who can keep things secret, covered up. They’re the ones who’ll tap your phone if you ever get out of line.”
“... one of the all-time great defensive linesmen, Leroy Weller. Ten years in the Pro Bowl....” J. Edgar Jones got his job by catching the eldest daughter of the LA franchise owner with two ounces of cocaine packed in a condom and inserted in her vagina on a return trip from Peru. J. Edgar saved her from a major bust and his reward was half of the coke and a job in League security. The commissioner personally placed him with Investico.
The incident gave Robbie Burden the hammer he needed to force the Marconi family to put the Los Angeles franchise on the market, eventually to be purchased by the Portus family, allies of Commissioner Burden. J. Edgar liked his work. It paid well.
“... We’re talking a class guy and Hall of Famer ...” J. Edgar was stem-winding. He loved this part of the job. “... I give you a real man of courage: Leroy Weller.” The agent led the light applause.
“Jesus, Taylor, you know what this sounds like?”
“An AA meeting. No wonder Red and Dick Conly aren’t here. What the fuck are we doing here?” Taylor put his head down.
Leroy Weller walked stiffly to the front of the old junior-college classroom with its black chalkboard and old heavy wooden chairs and desk with thirty years of grafitti.
“Hi, fellas. I’m Leroy Weller and I’m suffering from the disease of chemical dependency.”
“Jesus, this is pitiful.”
“So who gives a shit?”
“Give the poor bastard a break,” Taylor hissed. “Confessing drug and alcohol dependence is his gig now.”
“The lousy asshole,” Hendrix whispered. “He made big dollars. Anyone in the Pro Bowl ten years made big bucks.”
Weller told the whole gory story of his fall from success and wealth in pursuit of illegal marijuana and two-thousand-dollar-per-ounce cocaine, finally running afoul of the law when “a friend” informed on him. “It saved my life,” he said. “I spent ten thousand dollars a week on cocaine alone. So don’t none of you hotshot rookies think you can handle it. I couldn’t handle it and I’m a hell of a man. I spent everything I had. I ran my home, car and children’s clothes up my nose. I started free-basing, fucking white women. I was thinking I was a big-time football player. Well, I was shit!” Leroy Weller began pacing and ranting like a revivalist. J. Edgar Jones stood grinning like an approving deacon.
Leroy’s reputation as a maniac on the field, plus his pure physical size—six feet six inches, 275 pounds—plus his obvious intensity about the subject, tended to dampen any of the more vocal dissent. Kimball Adams, however, was not impressed.
“Aw, shut up, Leroy, and go on home. And take the fucking narc with you,” he growled. “We want to go get a beer.”
“I can forgive that; I can understand that,” the big black man said, his face giving the lie to his words. “You can’t admit that ...”
“I don’t want no forgiveness or understanding, Lee-roy,” Kimball mimicked angrily. “I want a fucking beer. I don’t see no coaches or management, except for dickhead over there, who took roll.” Kimball pointed to Lem Three, sunburned in his white shorts, holding the roll clipboard. “I’m going for a beer.”
“Now, wait a damn minute, Kimball. You think you’re man enough to go through this weak, God-fearing man?” Leroy slammed his huge fists into his chest. The rib cage thundered.
“Nigger, please,” Kimball said, not backing off, “you’re making an asshole of yourself.”
“I am not.”
“Come on, Leroy.” Hendrix stood up and pointed at the bewildered agent. “You are helping people like him. After years of being the rooster, you’re turning bird dog. If it wasn’t for assholes like J. Edgar Jones, cocaine would still be eight dollars an ounce. You wouldn’t have snorted your life away at eight dollars an ounce.”
“You ain’t listening, Bobby.”
“You aren’t remembering, Leroy.”
Taylor interrupted: “Speaking for low nigger on the pole, I’m leaving. I know I’m weak and Leroy’s weak and J. Edgar seems like a real turd. You guys don’t tell me how to think and feel and I’ll do the same.”
“What the fuck kind of meeting is this?” Simon D’Hanis wanted to know.
“I still ain’t seen the man that can get past me!” Leroy thumped his chest.
“Jesus, what I would give for a thirty-eight Special,” Kimball mumbled.
“Do you want ...” Ox began, but Kimball touched his arm and shook his head.
“Did this guy go to Notre Dame?” Taylor hissed to Hendrix, who nodded. “I should have known. Notre Dame, UCLA and the Big Ten. They really put weird backspin on these guys.”
“Look, turkey”—Speedo Smith gathered up his gear and started toward the door—“I don’t know what you are, but what you aren’t is gonna lay your hands on me. The law is supposed to protect us from people like you, not force us to listen to you talk. You ain’t no man—you are back to slaving nigger, slaving for owners. Everybody dies, man. So die, nigger. Don’t change sides at the end, just die.”
“Grab his slack, Speedo,” Margene Brinkley said.
“I’m with you, Speedo.” Taylor followed the small, belligerent wide receiver’s lead. “I have the horrible feeling that these guys’ salaries are just added on to my phone bill. Let’s get out of here.”
Speedo pushed by Leroy Weller, but Weller stood between Taylor and the door.
“I don’t know what Speedo has planned in this event,” Taylor said, “but I plan a very large lawsuit.”
Weller stood his ground. “Oh, yeah, man?”
Taylor glared into the big man’s small eyes, “You fucking touch me and I’ll sue you, Mr. Smith, J. Edgar, Robbie Burden, the League and Investico.”
At the sound of his own name J. Edgar bolted into action. He grabbed Leroy’s arms. “Well, fellas, why don’t we break it on up now. Okay?”
Ox Wood walked up to J. Edgar and Mr. Smith and Leroy Weller. “If I see you guys around my house, I’ll kill your kids.”
J. Edgar and Smith turned white.
“I can dig where you’re coming from,” Leroy Weller said.
Dick Conly looked stupid on purpose to aggravate representatives of the League Owners Council, Boyton Kink and Don Jackson, attorneys-at-law.
“If you have any specific questions ... ?” Kink asked.
“How much is this costing and do I have a choice?”
“The money is already paid as your franchise’s share of each assessment.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Besides house counsel, the League Owners Council keeps a Washington, DC, law firm of antitrust lawyers.” Jackson sold like it was Electrolux.
“The lawyers are working with the commissioner on their latest antitrust laws. We plan to move first on the Senate side, attaching a rider to a black-lung bill,” Kink continued his update. “The US Senate allows ‘non-germane’ amendments. Senator Thompson is to carry the ball for us—”
“Well,” Conly interrupted, “Bailey Thompson is about as non-germane as possible, and with all three of you working on it, I expect you will all shortly disappear up your own assholes.”
The two East Coast lawyers smiled thinly and continued their spiel, laying out the schemes agreed to in the latest Council meeting.
Conly slid his eyes around the room. Lem Carleton III was li
stening raptly, his mouth ajar. Lem was slightly drunk. Alcohol insulated him from the monstrous violence of the Franchise and the League.
Red Kilroy’s grin caught the general manager’s eye. Red had invited himself to the meeting and was also drunk. Dick liked his head coach, a man who dealt in real politics with no illusions about the League, which was why he let him attend. Red would do whatever was necessary to win. He was a gutter fighter and didn’t quit, and Conly found it hard to oppose him in order to protect Cyrus Chandler’s interests. Conly winked at Red and the head coach blew him a kiss. It was right in the middle of an explanation of the latest IRS ruling on whipsawing, the practice of declaring different tax values on the same transaction so that both the buyer and seller show big tax losses. It was particularly tempting in sports-franchise bookkeeping. The head coach blowing a kiss to the general manager startled the handsome young lawyer, Jackson. He lost his place, blushed and stammered, his eyes cutting from Red to Dick.
“You were talking about whipsawing the value of player contracts and franchise fees,” Conly said sternly, enjoying the ambitious man’s discomfort. “We know all that. Tell us about how the commissioner fucked up by asking for complete antitrust exemption like baseball on the grounds it wasn’t interstate commerce.”
“Right. Right.” Donald Jackson, Harvard Law, collected himself. “On antitrust we’re going to have to settle for a piecemeal approach,” the lawyer said. “You have to remember we need the Union on this on the Hill. We need organized labor support for antitrust exemption. This guy Charlie Stillman is valuable.”
“Union? Organized labor?” Red Kilroy roared. “We don’t need no union or no lawyers. You’re a staid little shit. Get some real dirt under your fingernails and blood, not rhetorical blood, not flesh in the abstract, but the real gore,” Red said. “You’re getting a big fee that I could use to buy several good running backs. You want to whipsaw your intangible? I’ll goddam whipsaw your intangible, you little puny chinless Harvard fart!”