by Peter Gent
“Know your enemy because they know you. Don’t let them use your honesty and integrity against you. Remember that twenty-three percent of the players from last season will be gone next season. You could be one of them. Rookies are cheaper for the promoters. So be prepared to strike. We are fighting a conspiracy of rich, powerful men who are beginning to control all sports, not just football.
“They own pieces of basketball teams, soccer teams and tennis circuits. They own baseball teams and cable stations and communications satellites. The promoters grow more powerful by the day. We must fight back, strike back. Hit them where it hurts—in the pocketbook. Strike, stay unified. Solidarity of commitment.” Dudley paused again. He looked slowly around the room at the simple, silly, brave, confused and frightened young men.
“Now comes the hard part,” Terry Dudley said. “Strike or die.”
The tall director of the Football Players Union turned from the microphone and walked slowly to his seat. For a moment no one made a sound; then at the back of the room a big black defensive end from Baltimore stood and began slowly clapping his giant hands together. The sound echoed through the room. Soon a white cornerback from Minnesota stood and joined in. Slowly, unsurely, throughout the room players, black and white, began standing and clapping their hands. It was a slow, rhythmic sound, like the tramping of feet. Strike.... Strike.... Strike.... Strike.... Strike.... Soon everyone in the room was on his feet, smashing his palms together in a slow, determined rhythm. It was loud and solemn and went on and on. Thump. Thump.
Taylor stood and listened, holding his package.
It gave him chills.
“Come on in, Taylor.” Terry Dudley opened the door to his hotel room. “I’m glad you could come, but I must admit I’m a little surprised.”
“I am, too, Terry.” Taylor stepped inside, the package of documents under his arm. “I always paid my dues and I never crossed a picket line. But isn’t it a little early to be yelling ‘Strike’?”
Terry closed the door and followed Taylor into the room. It was a standard Hyatt hotel room and could have been in Atlanta, Dallas or Rangoon.
“It’s never too early to organize.” Dudley had shucked his coat and tie and rolled his shirt sleeves up. Rings of sweat stained his white shirt at each armpit.
“Don’t you think you ought to discuss the issues first? The contract has another full year to run.” Taylor looked out the window at the Houston skyline. The brown-yellow petrochemical smog was held in place by an atmospheric inversion. “These guys will follow you but you should tell them where they’re going.”
“I explained my idea about residuals.” Dudley sat on his bed. “Actors get them through the Screen Actors Guild. We’ll pay through the Union a certain percentage of the gross revenue to each player. I can’t get too specific or I don’t have negotiating room.”
“You better explain it now, because if you get residuals, you’ll have fifteen hundred screaming niggers saying the Union isn’t giving them their fair share,” Taylor replied, still looking out at the yellow sky. Houston was growing at a phenomenal rate and falling apart almost as fast. “Because that’s how it is with players, you know that. Why would you want the problems? The strain could split the Union.” Taylor faced the director.
“You can be damn sure the owners hope it will,” Dudley said. “But it’s the only way to help the players help themselves. You heard those statistics, the percentages.”
“Statistics are management weapons,” Taylor argued. “The players can’t win a fight they don’t even comprehend.”
“That’s why I keep it simple,” Dudley said. “Anyway, you’re right that the contract isn’t up until next year. They’ll know the issues in plenty of time for small-arms training and to start our Take a Teamster to Lunch program!”
“A year may not be long enough.” Taylor tossed his package of documents on the bed next to Dudley. “If you scare easily, don’t read those.”
“I always went for cheap thrills.” Dudley opened the package. “I guess that’s how I got into labor law. Although I certainly expected professional athletics to be a little higher class.”
“You haven’t heard the bad news yet.” Taylor turned back to the window and the opaque Houston sky. “You know, there isn’t anything wrong with this town that a couple of real good hurricanes couldn’t fix.”
The Union director searched through the documents, scanning, watching Taylor out of the corner of his eye. He went through the package quickly. Finished, he said, “Is that all?”
“Is that all? Isn’t it enough?” Taylor turned back from the window. “That’s my contribution to the next Collective Bargaining Agreement. Use them any way you want, but be careful. Bobby Hendrix died because somebody thought he had those documents. I have another set of copies in a safe-deposit box and a letter with the key in case I don’t live through next season.”
“Thanks, Taylor, but I’m not sure what we can do with these.” Terry shook his head. “Who’s gonna believe this?”
“Nobody with any sense. Maybe it is time to pick up the gun. Say,” Taylor changed direction, “any retired players show up? They could help—”
“No,” Terry interrupted. “The Union’s charter restricts voting to active players. The Player Rep Board doesn’t want them.”
“But,” Taylor said, “who’s looking after their pension fund?”
“I appoint a pension board with two retired players on it,” Terry replied. “It’s easier that way. More centralized decisionmaking.”
“Solidarity?” Taylor asked.
“Yeah, solidarity.”
“I want a favor in return,” Taylor said. “Do what you can to get the insurance and pension claims on Bobby Hendrix expedited. Ginny and the kids need the money. And check into the trade of Simon D’Hanis to LA. He’s crippled and something stinks.”
“That’s two favors,” the director said.
“Then I want two favors.”
Taylor Rusk left Terry Dudley with his mouth hanging open, studying the documents.
VISITORS
AT FOUR IN THE morning Lamar Jean Lukas limped up to the yellow Lincoln as Taylor stepped out at his apartment.
“Hidy, Taylor.” Lamar Jean’s eyes moved around, checking the shadows. “You had visitors while you was gone to Houston.”
“How do you know I went to Houston?”
“Same way I learned about the visitors. The major told me that they were friends of yours and you had gone to Houston and had forgotten some papers and they were supposed to get them. Great security, huh?” Lamar smiled sourly; his eyes never stopped moving, checking the shadows. “The two gorillas looked like feds and picked the lock on your door quicker than you could open it with a key.”
“Did you go inside with them?” They walked toward Taylor’s apartment.
“No.” Lamar kept his eyes moving. “Let’s get out of this light. I checked out the plates and registration on their car. They work for another security company called Investico. It’s headquartered in Las Vegas. They had photos of you in the glove compartment and notes on your comings and goings and who you come and go with.” Lamar lowered his voice as they reached Taylor’s apartment. “I would imagine they wired your whole place. Who are they?”
“Investico works for the commissioner’s office.” Taylor tried to remain calm. “I guess they’re trying to see if I’m involved with gamblers or selling kilos of heroin to sixth graders.”
“They were real wise guys,” Lamar said. “The kind of guys the major would really suck up to. You ain’t selling heroin to sixth graders, are you?”
“No, Lamar, I’m not. I have enough goddam trouble just playing the game.”
“I didn’t think so.” Lamar frowned. “Damned wise guys. I got me one of them spectrum analyzers; you want me to check your apartment?”
Taylor looked in amazement at Lamar. “Who are you, James Bond?”
“It ain’t me they got bugged.” Lamar turned and limped of
f into the darkness, returning in a few moments with a square box with an antenna attached.
Lamar didn’t find anything hidden in the walls or furniture, but when he took the telephones apart he found an infinity transmitter in each.
“All someone has to do with one of these”—Lamar held up the small transmitters for Taylor’s inspection—“is dial your number and blow a special tone whistle and your phones broadcast everything that is being said anywhere in the room.” Lamar dropped them in his pocket. “Well, the sons-a-bitches are out about $1,200 on these.”
“Thanks, Lamar,” Taylor said wearily. He sat on the couch. “Is there anything I can do for you? Money? Tickets? What?”
“Just one thing, Taylor. I bought my five-thousand-dollar bond, I got my ticket on the forty-two, I bought my bus pass, I’m ready for the Pistols’ first season in the Dome. I want the Pistols to go all the way to the Super Bowl. They promised us the same seats for the Super Bowl. If you want to do me a favor, take the Pistols to the Super Bowl this year. It’ll probably be the only one I ever get a chance to see.”
“Deal,” Taylor said. “And thanks, Lamar.”
“Just doing my job as I see it.” Lamar turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, here.” He dug inside his Security Services uniform jacket and pulled out a letter. “It came special delivery three different times, and I knew the goddam postman was either going to throw it away or send it back, so I kept it.”
Lamar handed Taylor the envelope. It was stamped Special Delivery and postmarked Santa Fe.
THE PISTOLETTES
IT WAS A.D.’S IDEA to have cheerleader tryouts as the first event in the new Pistol Dome in Clyde, Texas.
There was still construction work to be finished. The decorators were just starting on the luxury skyboxes that leased for $150,000 a season. A hundred fifty thousand dollars for bare concrete floor and walls and the rights to buy twelve season tickets and twelve Insider’s parking passes.
The majority of the construction was finished ahead of schedule, thanks partly to the cooperation of the Cobianco brothers and their ability to avoid labor trouble. The only work delay was a two-hour break on site to elect a new business manager for the Laborers Union after Lennie the Leech disappeared.
At first A.D. wanted to charge admission and have spectators watch the tryouts, but when they got four thousand applicants for the twenty spots, A.D. decided instead to just charge the applicants a twenty-dollar cash registration fee each. A.D. oversaw the registration fee collection himself. The Texas Pistols general manager accepted no checks and paid the Franchise secretaries with Franchise funds to work overtime on Saturday and Sunday to assist.
A.D. pocketed the eighty thousand dollars in registration fees and personally interviewed the forty semifinalists in private.
It took place in early April.
Even A.D. Koster was overwhelmed by the number of beautiful, talented, desperate, upwardly-mobile girls that showed up at the Pistol Dome that rainy weekend. Mobile. Hostile. Agile.
A.D.’s personal interviews of the semi-finalists took place in his luxury skybox suite. Some refused his sexual advances, others submitted reluctantly, a few cried later. A.D. picked the twenty most enthusiastic and chose another sixteen to be “alternates.”
“It’s a long season,” the exhausted general manager said to the thirty-six assembled girls who had remained in the cavernous dome until the early Monday morning hours. “And just like the football team we need a certain amount of depth on the cheerleading roster. The alternates will participate in all Pistolette activities except those on the field during game day, unless one of the regulars is unable to perform up to snuff.”
A.D. looked over the thirty-six women admiringly, though his tone was threatening.
“Your jobs will be just as demanding as those of the men on the football team, and anyone who thinks their personal life is more important than being a Pistolette better say so now, because you will be expected to do what you’re told, when and where you’re told.” A.D. smiled disarmingly. “You are the best out of over four thousand applicants, but getting to this stage was the easy part. Now comes the hard work and selfless dedication that will help carry the Texas Pistols to the Super Bowl and make the Texas Pistolettes America’s cheerleaders. You will be the best, the champions, numero uno. Purple and white pride.”
“Purple and white pride!” All the girls squealed with delight, and even the reluctant alternates caught the enthusiasm, vowing silently to do better. “Purple and white pride!” Thirty-six tiny fists shot up in a power salute. “Purple and white pride!”
“Now”—A.D. held up his hands—“it’s late and we’re all tired. You will get a list of rules and regulations in the mail in the next few days. But there is one rule to keep from now on.” A.D. glared at them. “Don’t ever talk to, go near, wave at or even smile at any of the football players. That is an unbendable rule. No fraternization with the players. Understood?”
The thirty-six pretty little heads nodded up and down in unison.
“Great!” A.D. clapped his hands together. “You’ll be hearing from us about practice schedules, dress codes and the rest. That’s all. Good night, girls.”
“Good night, Mr. Koster.” Thirty-six lovely voices echoed through the empty dome, giving A.D. delicious chills while the exhausted, elated, violated, confused, compromised girls began to pack away their dancing gear and wander toward the exits.
“Monique! Monique!” A.D. called to a statuesque brunette with clouds of dark hair piled on her head and raining down over her creamy shoulders. “Come here, Monique.”
“Yes, Mr. Koster.” Her exquisite body covered by purple Danskins, a sweater and thick leg warmers, the tall brunette stalked smoothly to the general manager’s side.
“I want to talk to you about being the captain of the Pistolettes.” A.D. put his arm around her shoulders and led her back toward the private elevator and up to his skybox suite.
Monique had developed an exceptional technique involving ice cubes, toothpaste and a string of large fake pearls. A.D. later described the experience to Don Cobianco.
“It was like a covey of quail flying out my asshole.”
Monique got to be captain of the Texas Pistolettes.
THE CADILLAC RANCH
TAYLOR RUSK TOOK I-40 west at Shamrock, after taking 83 north from I-20 at Junction. He was on the llano estacado.
It was a bright blue high-plains spring day as Taylor passed Stanley Marsh’s Cadillac Ranch rusting outside Amarillo. Good old boy, Stanley. Years before, Stanley had buried seven Cadillacs nose down about windshield deep in the high-plains dirt. It was a fine view to cruise past on a spring afternoon, the Interstate shimmering ahead and behind for miles. The Cadillacs were slowly deteriorating in solitary splendor, two rows of elegant, delightfully expensive, useless metal fins pointing skyward.
Taylor Rusk gazed at the Cadillac Ranch jutting out of the red plains. The full Texas moon was rising round and red, climbing over the tailfins. The rising moon grew big, turning to yellow as it crawled high in the east. The Interstate was a black glistening snake growing out of the side mirror, winding backward across the high plains toward the cutting edge of horizon, the bright full moon, the dark blue sky.
Ahead, the sun sank quickly into New Mexico.
Taylor was heading for the Pecos Mountains and Dick Conly.
The last game Conly knew was fixed was the third Super Bowl after the second merger. It was done to give the public the impression that the new leagues were evenly matched, thus maintaining national television interest in the Super Bowl. The newspapers and television handicappers made one fair football team twelve-point favorites over another fair football team. The underdog team then proceeded to play like they had been sitting in the favorite-team meetings all week. Which somebody had been doing. The losing owner bet huge sums against his franchise. He made a fortune to soothe his injured pride.
For his plan to work, Dick Conly needed the Texas Pisto
ls in the Super Bowl that year. He wasn’t sure he would live another year. It had to be that year.
Dick pushed a button on his armchair console and his seat back hummed to an upright position. Picking up the phone, he placed the receiver in his Datotek DV 505 Analog Voice Scrambler and began placing telephone calls.
It took him most of the day to reach the people necessary to guarantee that everyone could deliver. The Man in New Orleans promised to convince the Cobianco brothers to take the pressure off A.D. Koster during the regular season and allow the Texas Pistols, Red Kilroy and Taylor Rusk a chance to reach the Super Bowl.
“Tell them the big killing will be on the Super Bowl game,” Dick Conly said into the Voice Scrambler while he made himself a bologna sandwich. “It’ll be a big killing.”
A big killing.
The Texas Pistols in the Super Bowl to climax the Franchise’s first year in the Pistol Dome. It just had to be.
The Pecos River raged below with spring melt.
Taylor had to drive four miles up the winding private road after Gonzolo Martinez, the pistolero, let the Lincoln through Conly’s main gate. As he drove the switchback road through the ponderosa pines and high mountain forest, Taylor never saw another person, but they saw him. That was the important part for Dick Conly.
“I want the Super Bowl before I die,” Dick said when he opened the door.
Taylor stepped from the car and looked around the rock and cedar house hanging on the mountainside. “I always wanted a pony and a groom and an exercise girl.”