by Peter Gent
“I saw Patton twelve times.” Major Pat Garrett’s eyes became unfocused and he seemed serene. The dog relaxed and sat back down. It never took its eyes off Lamar’s throat.
“We do a lot of rock shows and concerts,” the Major said. It had seemed like a long silence. “So you got to have a high shit tolerance, you know what I mean?”
Lamar nodded.
“I mean the shit you got to take from these kids.” The Major looked over at Lamar. “Are you up to taking a lot of shit?”
“Yessir, been takin’ it all my life.” Lamar spoke low and tried to smile. He moved as little as possible. The dog again began a deep, rumbling growl.
“Little assholes!” the Major said. The dog was back on his feet, teeth bare. “Okay, I can use you. You got to take a pistol course and buy your own uniform. Seventy-five dollars. I supply it and take the money out of your first three paychecks. You can buy your own pistol or I’ll supply you with a weapon and take it out of your first six paychecks. You got to have a physical. You got a doctor?”
Lamar Jean Lukas sat on the edge of the stool, watching and listening to the dog. Major Pat Garrett was a distant drone, unseen, unnoticed.
Lamar Jean Lukas had his own pistol, a six-inch-barrel Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum with black rubber Pachmayr grips. It had been his choice when the time came to buy himself a pistol. Lamar preferred a revolver to an automatic because every time you pulled the trigger the hammer slammed down on a fresh cartridge. That is important to a man who understands a misfire.
His first day on the job, Lamar Jean was assigned to the Seasons Apartments. He noticed right away that Taylor Rusk was living there. The quarterback had a three-bedroom apartment all to himself.
“I’ll have to drop in on Taylor,” Lamar said to himself. “Surprise him sometime.”
FREE LUNCH
TAYLOR’S PHONE RANG. It was Kimball Adams in New York City.
“Hey, Fresh Meat,” Kimball rasped into the phone, “it’s me, the man who taught you everything worth knowing.”
“And some things I’d rather forget,” Taylor said.
“Don’t forget ’em. Fresh Meat,” the ex-quarterback growled. “Those are the most important things. The rest of it is the magic show. How are my old teammates?”
“Waiting on training camp, I guess,” Taylor replied. “Hendrix is in Houston with his father-in-law. They closed a big offshore deal with VCO. Bobby may get rich and retire.”
“Old Gus Savas?” Kimball growled. “I like that old bastard. He put me into some good oil deals when Bobby and I were in Cleveland, but then oil wasn’t bringing but three dollars a barrel.”
“Well, they have that problem solved,” Taylor said. “This VCO deal looks like a chance for Bobby and Ginny to hit big. They got a lot tied up in it.”
“I just talked to Terry Dudley. He plans to run for governor down there in four years,” Kimball said.
“A dead man can get elected if he spends enough,” Taylor replied. “What else did our seven-foot Union director say?”
“Plenty. He’s got big plans. A big network deal. How’s Simon and Ox and Speedo?”
“Speedo’s helping Hendrix and Dudley with the Union here. They’re talking about residuals now,” Taylor answered. “Which is causing plenty of trouble since nobody understands anything. The last I saw Ox, he was helping Simon up off the purple carpet in the weight room. Simon’s leg isn’t healing right. I don’t think he’s going to make it back.”
“How’s he taking it?” Kimball wanted to know.
“Not too well, and he don’t even know it yet.” Taylor sighed. “Generally everybody’s gone nuts. The shithouse to the penthouse and back. The elevator doesn’t make any stops in between. And don’t say I told you so.”
“What was it Speedo always says?” Kimball asked.
“ ‘Almost about the same,’ ” Taylor quoted Speedo Smith. “ ‘Everybody is almost about the same.’ ”
“Sounds like you all could use a vacation.”
“You mean this isn’t a vacation?”
“I mean a trip,” Kimball replied. “How about a few days in the tropical sun, all expenses paid? I got me a travel agency here in New York and I got some airline and hotel packages that are free for promotional consideration, as we say in the business. How does a Caribbean island sound to you?”
“Too small.”
“Other than that?” Kimball pressed. “Lay around in the sun, do a little fishing. I got room for ten to fifteen people. The network is doing one of those sportsman shows. They asked me to handle the travel package. Terry Dudley is coming to help coordinate the players with the network. He thinks this is one way to get a better image for the Union.” Kimball shook his head. “I think he means a better image for the Union director, but what do I know? Anyway, can you make it?”
“Where?”
“Cozumel. Off the Yucatán on the Caribbean side. Most of the tourists there come from Texas. Good airline connections out of Houston. I’ll already be down there. Bring a date if you want, Fresh Meat. There’s always room for more. Talk at you later. I’m going to call the others now. Have you got Bobby’s phone number in Houston?”
“No, but it’s Gus Savas on River Oaks Boulevard. Bobby’s still living at his father-in-law’s place.”
“He ought to: the place is the size of the Astrodome.” Kimball laughed again. It was a gargling sound.
“Who else is going?”
“Who do you want?” Kimball replied. “I was thinking of Bobby and Ginny Hendrix and their kids.”
“What about Speedo?” Taylor asked.
“Fine. It’ll do them Mayans good to meet some niggers.” Kimball laughed his rusty laugh. “The network wanted a club official. The only one we could get was Lem Carleton and his wife, Wendy. She’s Cyrus Chandler’s daughter, you know.”
Wendy would be in Mexico.
SIMON ON FILM
SIMON FINISHED HIS workout and soaked his swollen sore knee in ice water for twenty minutes. His whole leg ached from the cold water. The joint was degenerating. The loss of complete range of motion would cause the quadriceps to remain underdeveloped. The whole leg would slowly deteriorate and atrophy. The resulting limp would misalign Simon’s spine and the lower discs would begin to wear. Favoring the weak leg would result in too much strain on Simon’s good leg, causing joint problems in the hip and ankle.
Then, finally, would come arthritis.
Simon could see it all in the future. He knew it was coming, inevitable. He had made a study of the science of kinesiology and his own body in particular while a physical-education major at the University. Simon D’Hanis was hurt badly, and although he knew it, he desperately refused to admit it. His mind and body lived in contradiction and it was driving him mad. He flared angrily at any innuendo that his recovery was slow, his injury not responsive. He had tried to fight with his oldest friend, Taylor Rusk, because he had misinterpreted and resented Rusk’s concern about his knee. If he wouldn’t admit it, he had to keep others from admitting or discovering that the knee was not responding, that the leg was not coming around. Simon forbade Buffy even to mention the injury or talk football around the house. He kept his pain and fear suppressed and hidden, but at weak moments it would burst forth in violence. He had attacked his quarterback in the weight room. At home he had beaten Buffy into submission. When he was home they avoided each other. She kept the children away from Simon while he rested on the couch, his knee elevated and packed in ice, reading the newspaper or watching television. They seldom talked or touched. Simon was wound so tightly that he gave off vibrations. He fulminated, pulsed with fury, desperation, despair, anger and desire. He could not learn to be a cripple.
The ice water had turned his leg into a dull aching log while the big man did forearm curls with barbells. He ground his teeth, making his head and neck hurt from exertion and unreleased tension, doing permanent damage to his teeth and jaw.
The phone rang in the trainer’s offi
ce. A few minutes later Clint, the trainer, came out. Clint was dressed in his whites and ripple-soled shoes.
“That was Red on the phone,” the short, heavyset trainer told Simon. “The line coach wants to look at some range of motion pictures of your leg to see if he can count on you for this season. Dry off and let’s go to the weight room. The video tape is already set up.”
Simon pulled his cold, reddened leg from the ice water and dried it, rubbing the knee scar gently with the towel. The joint seemed to feel better and the swelling wasn’t as bad that day. Simon would show them range of motion if that is what they wanted to see; he would move like Fred Astaire.
The trainer had the camera set up and the VTR on when Simon got to the weight room.
“Just get up on the friction table, Simon,” Clint said. “I have the dial at zero. We don’t care what you can lift yet, we just want to see if you can get full extension and what sort of endurance you have. If you can get it straight and do ten repetitions, I’ll be satisfied.”
Simon tied his foot into the friction machine and sat on the padded bench with the machine arm paralleling his leg from knee to strapped-in foot. While the trainer fooled with the movie camera on the tripod, Simon switched the controls on the machine so that it would provide reverse resistance to knee movement. The machine would then assist in straightening the leg while Simon would only have to force it back to a ninety-degree angle. The machine would be forcing his knee to full extension, making it appear that Simon had full flexion and extension of the knee joint. The machine would actually pull his leg straight those last ten degrees. The most important ten degrees.
“Okay, Simon.” The trainer flipped a switch and the VTR began to whir. “Start straightening that leg. Don’t worry about speed, it’s range of motion we want to see here.”
Simon began to work, appearing to force the machine and his leg straight out, flexing his knee to full extension. The weight of the machine was actually pulling the knee straight, but the trainer didn’t know and Simon made it appear as if he were straining and pushing the friction arm. The joint pain was searing, making D’Hanis nauseous. He ground his teeth and his jaw popped.
“Goddam, Simon, that is great!” Clint said from behind the camera. “You got full extension that time, full range of motion. That’s the first time I have seen you do that.”
“It’s been doing a lot better the last couple of days, Clint,” Simon lied through gritted teeth, letting the machine pull the screaming knee to full extension. Simon would force the friction arm back down, then let it pull his leg straight out again through the knee’s full range of motion.
Ten times.
“That is great, Simon.” The trainer flicked off the camera and removed the small spool of tape. “Red’ll be glad to see this. Come on, let’s go get a shower.” Clint started out of the room.
“In a minute.” Simon knew he could not stand up; the pain was too great. “I want to sit and do a few more.”
“Okay, but don’t overdo it,” the trainer said as he left the room. “Red will love this tape.”
Tears trickled out of Simon’s eyes; the pain throbbed the length of his leg. It was another twenty minutes before he could limp out of the room, using weight machines, the wall, doors and lockers to assist himself.
That night the knee swelled so large that it ripped the seam in his trousers. Simon spent the entire night on the couch, crying, with ice packs and wet towels packed around the tormented joint.
The trainer was right. Red loved the tape, showing it to the Los Angeles scout before they finalized the deal for Simon D’Hanis. Then the film went into the Pistols’ files in case Simon came back at them with an injury grievance. It was an unnecessary precaution; by then Simon was too crazy to even comprehend the injury grievance process.
THE LOS ANGELES SPC
TAYLOR DROVE OUT to Doc Webster’s ranch. He built a fire in the cold stone fireplace. It was late and Doc was asleep in the south bedroom. The flames soon blazed in colors as the mesquite burned hot.
Thoughts raged through his mind like the fire.
It seemed like the few years since he’d left college had been a complete lifetime.
Someone else’s lifetime.
He had become a great professional football player, the centerpiece of a team that had the ability to reach the Super Bowl.
He knew it was management, systems built by Red and Dick Conly, that kept continuity and created teams with the ability to win championships. But it took great players making great plays on one specific day to win the Super Bowl. Taylor never doubted his ability to perform, to make those plays and inspire his teammates to the same efforts. Texas would get to the Super Bowl and win.
But now Taylor wondered if he cared. Everything had changed.
It seemed like a hundred years ago but hurt like yesterday. Wendy was married to Lem Three and Taylor’s child belonged to someone else. A.D. Koster was gone to the front office and Simon D’Hanis was going steadily crazy.
Taylor stared into the flames. He wasn’t aware he was crying until he felt the tears drop on the back of his hand. He cried without ever making a sound or moving. The flames blurred as the tears filled his eyes, poured down his face and soaked his shirt front. When the fire began to die down, Taylor got up and added more wood. He was cold and lonely. The tears stopped, but he felt no release, no easing of the conflict that clutched his soul. All his life he had sought control of situations. He played quarterback so he could call the plays, control the game. He limited his friendships so they could be kept on track and understood, controlled. Performance and grace under pressure, never losing one’s grip on a situation no matter how difficult, frightening or painful—Taylor Rusk had always kept control; he yearned for control, he struggled for it, but it was only now that he began to realize he had never been in control of anything. It had always been someone else’s world. He had learned to react instantly to someone else’s needs and desires and had convinced himself that it was control when it was all merely reflex honed to a razor’s edge. And he walked the razor’s edge better than anyone. What he had taken for control in his life was merely excellent reflexes combined with robust health, physical size and skills in a business where those assets were highly prized by certain people for various reasons. The most important reasons being “economic rents and profit maximization,” as Doc Webster said the next morning when he walked out of the bedroom with the LA Standard Player’s Contract to find Taylor staring into a dead fire.
“Your skills provide a surplus of economic rents, which go to the owner instead of the athlete because of congressional antitrust exemptions and the structure of the League, namely the commissioner’s compensation and the option-year clause.” Doc Webster waved the contract around. “Well, I convinced my boy, Portus, that you deserve your fair share of the rents. That boy was always a good student.”
“Then he’ll make a lousy owner,” Taylor said. His eyes felt gritty from a night of staring into the fire and trying to come to some sort of understanding about his own life.
“They shouldn’t let kids be owners,” Doc agreed. He waved the contract again. “But it’s already signed.”
“The commissioner will never let it happen,” Taylor said. “They merged the leagues just to stop this sort of bidding for players. The free agent system is a standing joke. Nobody moves unless the owners want them to move. Robbie Burden will invoke the compensation rule.”
“Who cares? That’s a problem between Burden and Cyrus Chandler and the LA Franchise,” Doc Webster laughed. “And of course A.D. Koster.”
“A.D.?” Taylor frowned at the professor’s grin. “What’s A.D. got to do with this?”
“Cyrus Chandler made him general manager. Dick Conly quit. It was on the radio yesterday.”
“A.D. is general manager?” Taylor scoffed. “That’s insane.”
“There you go, making a psychiatric diagnosis when we are merely trying to test economic theory.” Doc grinned. “Now, let
me tell you what I think and then you go check with your friend Dudley and see what the Union thinks. I don’t expect the League will let you move either. I imagine they’ll do just about anything to stop this, but there are certain laws in this country. I think that Chandler and the commissioner will force my boy to withdraw the five-million-dollar offer either by the compensation clause with threats of taking all his number-one draft choices until the twenty-first century and all his active players over 150 pounds or by having his daddy give him a good spanking.” Doc laughed at his hyperbole. Taylor Rusk stared at him. “But that doesn’t matter because with this contract we can show in a court of law that the League has illegally conspired to reduce your salary from five million dollars. We’ll let somebody else settle the free agent movement question. Our antitrust argument is that LA, Texas and the commissioner’s office illegally conspired to deprive you of five million dollars.”
“And I spend the next ten years in court,” Taylor said.
“Maybe but not likely, even less likely now that Conly is gone. The timing couldn’t be better. I don’t think anybody in the League wants to risk this in court and have the courts setting antitrust precedents while the League is lobbying Congress for complete exemption.”
“They’ll settle?”
Doc nodded. “You’ll stay in Texas, but they’ll have to pay you five million dollars over the next five years. Nothing deferred, no big insurance policies, just plain old inflated American dollars. A million of them a year. I imagine the commissioner will make the LA franchise pay part of the cost and they’ll pay it.” He held up the SPC.
Taylor took the contract and studied it. It provided for a base salary of one million dollars beginning in May of the next year. At the end of the contract, just above the twenty-two-year-old boy’s flourishing signature, was a “Special Provision”: