The Franchise

by Peter Gent

  “Charlie.” A.D. looked back at the harbor as they pulled away. “Charlie Stillman told me.”

  Taylor watched the harbor in the rearview mirror and marked the lights of the cruiser that A.D. had been aboard. “Terry Dudley has gone soft in the head to think he can make deals with Charlie Stillman.”

  “Stillman got a hell of a deal with the network,” A.D. said. “Big bucks, Taylor, big bucks.”

  “You always liked those big bucks, didn’t you?”

  “Look who’s talking.” A.D. laughed. “You and a college professor sucker a kid into signing a five-million-dollar SPC. You don’t call that big bucks?”

  “Well, you better be careful.” Taylor steered the Jeep along the waterfront into town. “You’re playing with the big boys now, not forging your dead grandmother’s Social Security checks.”

  “You think you’re a big shot now, Taylor?” A.D. suddenly turned angry. “You think your five million is big bucks? It’s nickels and dimes. It’s nothing. I’ll spill that much before I’m through.”

  “I’ll bet you will, A.D.” Taylor smiled. “And I bet you get it all over you.”

  They reached the center of town and the crowded streets. Young people dressed in bright colors, tanned and burned, lined the seawall and filled the shops and restaurants. The traffic had slowed to a crawl; motorcycles, scooters and bikes weaved around cars, exotic new four-wheel-drive trucks, rented Jeeps and ancient taxicabs as they crept along the boulevard.

  “That’s the hotel over there.” A.D. pointed up the street and hopped out of the slow-moving Jeep. “See you later, Taylor. I got other business. Tell Hendrix I said hello.” A.D. disappeared quickly into the crowd.

  Taylor drove the rattling, rusted Jeep up to the front of the hotel and parked next to the two VW vans that had carried them all from the airport to their hotel. A brown man in a uniform walked over with his hand out.

  Inside, Taylor quickly found the bar and, in the candlelit shadows, could make out the hulk of Terry Dudley surrounded by several smaller figures in odd native garb: the network guys. The network guys huddled around the towering figure of Terry Dudley as if they were searching for warmth and protection.

  Taylor walked up to the table and stood behind Terry until one of the network guys looked up.

  “Oh, my God.” The guy slapped himself in the forehead. Terry turned around and jumped to his feet.

  “Jesus! Taylor! How are you?” Dudley hugged him. An unusual greeting. He kept Taylor in his embrace, hugging his arms to his sides. “Goddam, Taylor, we were just trying to get up the nerve to come out there and tell you.”

  Taylor wriggled free and looked at the upturned faces of the tiny network guys.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Bobby Hendrix,” Dudley said. “He’s dead.”

  ONE MORE OVER THE MIDDLE

  BOBBY HENDRIX AND Kimball Adams rode in the Volkswagen van when they left that afternoon. As the grimy little bus ground away from the white hotel, Bobby craned his neck to catch a last glimpse of his wife and two youngest boys on the beach beyond the pool; the boys already in their underwear and running full blast into the gentle blue-green surf. He hoped Ginny was watching them and laughed at his worries. She raised and took care of all four of the boys—five, including him.

  Bobby Hendrix was often awed by the complexity, reality and mortality of his life, his wife and four boys. The Hendrix family. Six human beings bound in life and death to past and future, yet always now, making their way in the universe.

  During his childhood Bobby Hendrix learned about the myths, the fears and the broken dreams of the Great Depression in the stories that his parents carried to the dinner table. The horror of poverty. The humiliation of unemployment. The lost dream of a marketable craft.

  Tales of struggle and defeat.

  To avoid the humiliation of poverty, Bobby’s father had advised him to get “a good, steady job, even if you hate it ... hire on with the government or a big corporation with good insurance and a pension program, put in your thirty years and then get out.”

  Bobby’s parents both retired after thirty hardworking years, thirty years of fear. The Depression hovered over them the way the bomb kept Bobby’s generation at bay.

  They grew old as gracefully as one can on a pension. “So we won’t be a burden on you children,” his mother always said. They had kept their end of the long-term promise to a faceless bureaucracy.

  Bobby would never do it. His father couldn’t believe he made his living playing football.

  “Better get a real job,” he’d say.

  “I don’t want to be a millionaire, Pop,” Bobby would say back. “I just want to live like one.”

  What his parents’ Depression folktales taught Bobby Hendrix was that people survived. No matter how greedy the corporations or foolish the government or crazed the individuals, humans survived and some carried the spark of a just life—of decency, spirit, myth and dreams—to the next generation.

  “It’s always been Ginny’s job,” Bobby spoke half aloud.

  “Huh?” Kimball was smoking a cigar and talking to the driver in Spanish. “What did you say?” The roar and rattle, the bounce and lurch, of the German van being maltreated by the Mexican driver on the rather casual road made hearing difficult. The van bounced violently and jerked from side to side, dodging, weaving.

  “I was just thinking about my family,” Hendrix said loudly. “I always assumed I would get to spend time with them later.”

  “Christ. You spend a lot of time with your family.” Kimball puffed on his cigar and yelled in Spanish at the driver. “I couldn’t spend that much time with a wife and kids,” Kimball said. “It would drive me out of my mind.”

  The driver made a hard right onto the airport road.

  “Hey, Kimball, he missed,” Hendrix said. “I thought town was straight ahead.”

  “It is.” Kimball looked at his aging, freckled, redhaired friend. “I told the driver to take us to the airport. Now, just give me a chance to explain....”

  “I’m not getting on a plane.” Hendrix wasn’t surprised by the old quarterback’s deception. It was what made Kimball Adams a good leader. Deception. He had done it before; sometimes Hendrix had gone along and sometimes he had refused.

  “You know I hate airplanes, Kimball, and I just got off one. You’re wasting gasoline, taking me to the airport.”

  “Gas don’t cost nothing down here,” Kimball said. “Government owns the oil companies. I knew I’d never get you away from the hotel if I told you where we were going.”

  “You mean the phone wasn’t even out?”

  “The phone was out,” Kimball explained. “That’s why we have to go to the airport instead of the hotel. The flight isn’t definite and I was supposed to call Charlie Stillman at his hotel and check the status. He’s the producer on this thing.”

  “Well, let’s go to the hotel first.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re losing the light.” Kimball pointed out the window at the countryside flying by. “They want to shoot some film of the ruins at Tulum.”

  “Whoa!” Bobby protested. “That’s over on the mainland. That’s the Yucatán. I don’t want to go to the Yucatán.”

  “That’s why we go to the airport. If the trip is on, the network guys’ll want to leave immediately to get over there in time to shoot some film.” Kimball paused and puffed a long time on his cigar, acting as if the matter was settled.

  “I’m not going on any plane.” Bobby shook his head.

  “It’s just a short hop.” Kimball pointed vaguely in a direction with his cigar. “You’ll love it.”

  “I’ll hate it.”

  “Please, Bobby,” Kimball pleaded. “It could be a good deal for me with the network.”

  “Geeezzz ... Kimball ...” Bobby didn’t want to fly, signaling Kimball he wanted out with his whine, but Kimball didn’t back down.

  “Look, most likely we’ll
get there and Charlie Stillman won’t; then the flight is off and we go back to your hotel.”

  “But what if Stillman is there?”

  “Then I’m asking you as a favor to me to get in the plane, fly up into the blue and take the pictures.” Kimball faced Hendrix. The old quarterback’s nose was swollen and reddened from drink; tiny blood vessels had shattered across his cheeks beneath the red-rimmed, rheumy eyes. “I need the favor, Bobby. The network guys mean a lot of money to me. They book a lot of trips and they can book through me. Charlie Stillman’s in their pockets up to his armpits and he asked me to talk you into flying there today. You’ll shoot some film flying over the ruins, spend the night and shoot fishing footage tomorrow. It’s only for one night. Charlie says they need you over there tonight with Terry Dudley. It would be a big favor to me.” Kimball concluded his heavy plea: “What are friends for?”

  Bobby exhaled loudly. “Are they already over there?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Kimball pressed, sensing Bobby’s weakening resolve. “Look, Bobby”—he kept the pressure on—“Stillman says the network guys’ll do business with me if I can perform for them, and I think this is the kind of thing they’ll remember: me delivering you on schedule to help them out of a bind. They’re all assholes, Bobby, but I can’t refuse to do business with assholes or I wouldn’t have any business at all.”

  Bobby frowned at his long-time teammate and friend. “I can remember when you spit on Charlie Stillman.”

  “I remember when I spit on Mean Joe Greene too.” Kimball Adams grinned and rasped his raucous, evil laugh. “I never made that mistake again. I’m trying not to make this one at all. I don’t like Charlie Stillman either, but damn, man—”

  “Give it a rest, Kimball,” Bobby interrupted. “Let me think.” Thoughtfully Hendrix stared out the side window; finally his eyes cut back to Kimball and his freckled face split wide, showing good teeth and some gold. “I guess watching Mean Joe chase you all over the field that afternoon was one of the real funny things I have ever seen.” Bobby began to laugh.

  “Does that mean my old target’s come through again? You’ll go?” Kimball leaned over and took his arm.

  “I’d rather not be thought of as a target anymore,” Bobby said. “But I guess I can fly over to the Yucatán. Let’s hope Stillman fails to come through as usual. I don’t even have the right clothes.”

  “They got brand-name stuff over there to wear on camera.” Kimball reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a toothbrush and a comb and a small tube of Crest. “I brought this for you. You’ll only be there overnight. You’ll fish in the morning, then they’ll fly you back tomorrow and pick up Fresh Meat Rusk.”

  “Okay, Kimball, you call Ginny.” Bobby reluctantly stuffed the toilet items in his shirt. “If I never see Charlie Stillman, it’s too soon.”

  “He probably won’t even be there.” Kimball relaxed. “This will all be a false alarm.”

  Charlie Stillman was waiting outside the terminal. He wasn’t hard to spot in his white shirt and shorts and white straw hat, chainsmoking, pacing up and down the pavement. His skinny white legs lacked muscle tone and his walk was a controlled stumble.

  The VW pulled up and Kimball and Bobby got out.

  “Come on, boys, we’re losing the light,” Stillman said. Charlie sent a boy scampering ahead through the small terminal and out onto the runway apron, where a blue and white twin-engine plane waited. The boy yelled at the pilot, who quickly began his preflight check.

  The heavy man sitting in the shade of the wing lifted the sixteen-millimeter Arriflex camera and climbed into the plane through the huge gap left where the door had been removed.

  “Where’s the door?” Bobby slowed his pace.

  “They took it off to give the cameraman a better field of vision to shoot,” Stillman said, climbing in ahead of Bobby and taking the copilot’s seat. The thick man with the camera took the seat farthest from the opening, leaving Bobby Hendrix the seat next to the door.

  “Come on, we have to hurry,” Stillman said to Kimball, leaving it to him to prod Bobby Hendrix into the plane.

  “You sit there by the door, Bobby,” Stillman said. “That way you’ll be in the pictures of the Tulum ruins. Crank it up, Gonzolo.” Stillman made a twirling motion with his finger.

  “Damn, Bobby, I didn’t know they were gonna make you ride on the outside.” Kimball helped him into his seat by the open doorway. “Hey, Stillman, why don’t you ride here? Bobby ain’t that crazy about flying.”

  “We want him in the film, Kimball.” Stillman was curt, rude. The pilot turned over the port engine. It roared quickly to life. “The network guys want faces, famous faces, not pretty pictures of old rock buildings.” Stillman turned around and asked Bobby, “You ever see the ruins at Tulum?”

  Bobby shook his head. The starboard engine growled to life, blasting Kimball Adams with air. The plane lurched forward and Kimball was quickly left behind.

  Bobby considered jumping out of the plane, but the runway pavement was flashing by. Bobby tightened up his seat belt and looked over at the fat cameraman, who looked vaguely familiar. He wore dark glasses, baggy white pants and a red and yellow floral-print shirt.

  The frightened, arthritic, aging receiver smiled and nodded at the man behind the glasses, who was holding the big black Arriflex across his lap. The man smiled and nodded.

  “I’m Bobby Hendrix.” The slender, freckled man extended his hand. His stiff red hair whipped his face and neck as the wind ripped through it. They shook hands. Bobby was certain he had seen the man before.

  “Just call me Tiny,” the cameraman yelled over the roar of engines and wind.

  The runway flashed beside Bobby Hendrix, then the plane lifted off. The island quickly fell away and there was nothing beside him but the sky.

  Cars, vans, trucks and Jeeps became toys and people turned to insects. Hotels looked like whitewashed alphabet blocks. They were quickly out over the spectacular blue-green Caribbean sea. The water’s tones and shades varied with the sky and the contour of the reef and coral. A giant stingray was flying through the crystal-clear water. The bottom sank from sight, the water turned a deep, dark blue and the Caribbean was a profound sapphire.

  The Yucatán peninsula loomed ahead; the ruins of the ninth-century Mayan city of Tulum stood gray and brooding at the ocean’s edge.

  The photographer spoke to the pilot in Spanish.

  Gonzolo, the pilot, put the plane into a tight turn, and Bobby could see turistas scrambling over the ancient ruins like ants. The plane swung in over the jungle and then back out over the ocean. The photographer yelled more instructions, making hand signals for the tighter, steeper turn.

  Grown over, Tulum was a good-size Mayan city, and Bobby could see where the white bones of exterior city walls stuck up farther out in the jungle, up along the coast and inland.

  The pilot began another tight turn over the ruins. The photographer held the camera to his eye and leaned toward the door.

  Bobby could feel the force of gravity pulling and sucking him toward the open door and the temple five hundred feet below. He held on tightly to his seat back and eased the strain on his seat belt. He wouldn’t depend on the belt to keep him inside the plane.

  Holding the big camera, the cameraman leaned fearlessly toward the open door, trusting his seat belt totally. The pilot turned even tighter. The engines roared and the airplane was up on its side.

  “Goddammit,” the cameraman yelled, “the son of a bitch is jammed.” He looked quickly around, then held the big heavy Arriflex out to Bobby. “Here, hold this for a second, would you please?”

  The camera thrust into his chest, Bobby automatically turned loose of the seat back and grabbed it.

  The photographer let go.

  Bobby Hendrix felt the camera’s weight pull him toward the open, sucking door. Bobby’s seat belt groaned, creaked and strained. He could not hold the big Arriflex long. It was too heavy, the angle of the airplane’s bank t
oo steep.

  Bobby strained to hand the camera back as the cameraman leaned toward him. Then the large man reached out with one hand and flipped the latch on Bobby’s seat belt, while his other hand gave Bobby a hard shove.

  The big black Arriflex sixteen-millimeter and Bobby Hendrix sailed out of the plane and into the white silence of free fall.

  It took a long time to fall.

  It took the rest of Bobby Hendrix’s life.

  A FULL FIVE HUNDRED FEET

  BOBBY HENDRIX CERTAINLY hadn’t expected to die this way. That was his first thought.

  His next thought was a simple acceptance of the end: he was soon to become ill-defined.

  He made a speed of light decision to make it a full five hundred feet of life and did not waste time on screaming or any other distracting activity.

  The quick ease of this decision was due to his knowledge of the seriousness of the blood disease discovered in his insurance physical; it would have killed him in another eighteen months to two years. So he reduced eighteen months to five hundred feet at thirty-two feet per second and found the difference a metaphysical question that was pointless to consider, since he had already been pushed out of the plane.

  He wondered why.

  Who wanted him dead?

  Kimball? Charlie Stillman? The Cobianco brothers? Had someone decided Kimball Adams had talked to him too much? Was this union trouble?

  He knew it was all of those and none of them.

  He knew it didn’t matter.

  His death was somebody’s desire for a neat solution to a complex question.

  A pretty primitive solution, Bobby thought, seeing the ancient altar of the sun rushing up to smash him to pulp.

  Then Bobby Hendrix realized it was supposed to be.

  MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH ...

  INSIDE THE HOT SPRINGS Ranch house the phone rang. Outside, Suzy and Cyrus were walking up from the hot springs. Wearing identical sandals, they both had their hair wrapped in blue towels and wore blue terry-cloth robes. They were about the same size, and to the nearsighted wetback who answered the phone they looked identical.