by Peter Gent
Suzy and A.D. had no answers.
Suzy snatched up the pen and quickly signed the insurance form. A.D. hesitantly followed suit.
Donald Cobianco slid the papers into the drawer.
“Now, of course we’ll just fill out a simple loan statement. I’ll want the ranch and the Franchise as my collateral.”
When the paperwork was finished, A.D. and Suzy got up to leave.
“Now, remember,” Don Cobianco said, “you check with me on all fiscal matters involving the ranch and I will exercise a certain amount of day-to-day control over the Franchise.” The two people nodded.
“Let’s see if we can get to the Super Bowl this year, partners. Since it’s going to be played in the Pistol Dome, it means lots of tickets and a home-field advantage. We ought to make a killing. Give someone else a liquidity crisis.”
“How does it feel to be so liquid?” Suzy asked A.D. when the money arrived.
“We’ve made room.” A.D. finally spoke. His mood was low. “For bigger and bigger sharks.”
LAME DUCKS IN THE LINCOLN BEDROOM
“HOLD THE LINE, please, sir.” The female voice on the phone had a nasal clipped eastern sound. “The White House is calling.”
Taylor Rusk pulled the phone onto his bed and lay on his right side, the receiver wedged between his left ear and shoulder. Motionless while the phone made clicking and buzzing sounds, he wondered what time it was, but was too sore to look for the clock radio.
It was dark.
Taylor Rusk had just crawled into bed. The team plane returned late from the Los Angeles Monday Night Playoff game and the sun was up when Taylor eased his aching body onto the king-size mattress.
Los Angeles blitzed the shit out of them. The Los Angeles linebackers, halfbacks and free safety kept coming all night; Taylor took some terrific blows to the ribs and back after he had released the ball. They called some roughing-the-quarterback penalties, but that didn’t keep Taylor’s bones and muscles from bruising or his rib cartilage from tearing.
Los Angeles’s game plan was to “intimidate” the quarterback by attempting either to break Taylor’s back and ribs or rupture a major internal organ. Failing that, Los Angeles figured that the Texas quarterback would begin to hear footsteps. The constant blitzing was a personal vendetta for Dick Portus. The young Los Angeles owner wanted some retribution for the trouble his attempt to sign Taylor had caused him. Chastised and publicly embarrassed, Dick Portus exacted his revenge.
“I want you to kill him,” he had told his defense. They didn’t need much encouragement and battered Taylor all night. Speedo Smith and Screaming Danny Lewis made the correct pass-route adjustments every time, but the young offensive line missed a few blocking changes. Fortunately Taylor made up some time himself and had to eat the ball only once. Ignoring the pressure and finding the right receivers, Taylor picked the LA defense apart.
Texas beat LA 36–6 in front of a national television audience, but Dick Portus got his pound of flesh. By Taylor’s reckoning, aching in his bed, the telephone against his ear, Dick Portus got maybe three to five pounds. But it cost him the Playoff, putting the Pistols one step closer. If they got by Washington, they were in the Super Bowl. It was exactly what Red had expected Portus to do, and he designed his game plan into it. Red offered the LA players the chance of doing their jobs and stopping the play or a free shot at Taylor Rusk.
“It’s just for one game, Taylor,” Red explained when Taylor figured out the reason for naked bootlegs and fake QB draws. “This is the year. This is the only way to beat them for sure. Try and protect yourself, but don’t flinch.”
“Hello?” a familiar voice came on the line. Taylor flinched.
“I’m ready with your call to Texas,” the White House operator said.
“Taylor? Taylor, my boy?”
“Yeah?” Taylor groaned, too sore and tired to attempt to place the voice.
“It’s me, Terry Dudley. I’m calling you from the White House.”
“Good, Terry,” Taylor said weakly. He didn’t move from his side or open his eyes.
“Thought I’d call.” Dudley’s cheery voice irritated the sore, aching quarterback. “It’s beautiful Foggy Bottom on the old Potomac River. Me and the wife are up here to meet the President. Pretty hard to believe, huh?”
“Naw. That son of a bitch will meet with anybody.” Taylor kept the phone cradled against his ear. His lower back seemed welded tight with muscle spasm and he could feel something grinding in his rib cage with every breath.
“We’re here for a Republican governors conference.” Dudley’s voice remained bouncy, cheery. “Last night, after we watched your game, I was lying here in the Lincoln bedroom. Milly was giving me some head and I thought, I got to call old Taylor. I told Milly that only you could appreciate your union director getting a blowjob from Miss America in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House.”
“Abe might appreciate it.” Taylor’s throat clogged with phlegm.
“Still the same old kidder, hey, Taylor?”
“Laugh a minute.”
Dudley rambled gaily on. “I’m on the dais tonight and will talk about what our union can do for the Republicans.”
“Self-destruct,” Taylor mumbled. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep. A muscle spasm under his shoulder blade woke him. “How’s Milly?” Dudley had married right after the Houston Union meeting.
“She loves it.”
“I know that. You said that’s why you married her, but how does she like the White House and being the wife of the only Republican labor leader?”
“That’s what I ... what?” Dudley was confused momentarily. “Oh, yeah. She also likes the White House, the President and his wife.” Dudley laughed the harsh guffaw he had developed on the organizing trail. “These people will help us. This is a big step toward more power for the Union. We’ll be solid, organized, ready.”
“Well, give Milly my love. I don’t want to know who ‘these people’ are ...” Taylor yawned. “... unless it’s the Beverly Hills Gun Club.”
“Listen, Taylor, I need a big favor,” Dudley said. “I can collect a few IOUs for the Union if you can get me tickets to your game here next week.”
“Awwwww, noooo, you asshole. You mean that’s why you called me from the White House? For fucking tickets? I just got in bed from LA!”
“What was in LA?” Dudley seemed slightly hurt.
“A playoff game,” Taylor groaned.
“Oh? Oh! Oh, yeah!”
Taylor lay with the phone wedged against the side of his head. “You are the Union president who wants to be emperor of the Western Hemisphere and you can’t get football tickets? What about Washington players?”
“No real solidarity on that team. Terrible, isn’t it?” Dudley said. “Of course, that’s why you’ll kick their ass. I’ll need about twenty. I have lobbyists and congressmen to consider. We’re having a party afterward at the Mayflower. A.D.’s bringing the Pistolettes; they’re performing at the game.”
“And at the Mayflower?”
“They’re coming to the party with A.D., if that’s what you mean.” Dudley turned slightly defensive because Milly was in the room. “Now, can you get me the tickets?”
“Why doesn’t A.D. get them for you?”
“He says that he’s used up all his; besides, he’s bringing the Pistolettes. Come on, Taylor. I need a favor.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Taylor was exhausted. “Things have changed since Conly left. The Cobiancos seem to have a lock on the ticket office and I did Johnny’s dental work with his brand-new forty-five automatic.”
“I heard about that,” Dudley said. “Well, say that the tickets are for me. They supported labor during the campaign with lots of money.”
“Why don’t you call them if you all are such big buddies?”
“Jesus, Taylor, I can’t deal with people like the Cobiancos. I’m the Union director. Direct favors like tickets ...” Dudley let the thought trai
l off for Taylor to fill in the blank spots. “I need a real friend.”
“Okay, okay. Lemme work on it.” Taylor was sore and still sleepy. He didn’t want to talk more. “I have to pay for the tickets, so send me a check. They’re forty dollars apiece.” Taylor stopped, remembered. “Hey, you still haven’t delivered on the two promises you made at Houston. I want Hendrix’s wife to start getting the pension money that’s due, and the Union’s got to help Simon D’Hanis. They really fucked him around. Portus cut him illegally and Texas traded him illegally.”
“I’m right on top of both cases, Taylor.”
“All right, you do those things and I’ll find tickets.” Taylor was slipping again. “Forty bucks apiece. They’re not free.”
“The check’ll be in the mail today. Will you come to the party at the Mayflower after the game? Lots of senators and congressmen.”
“I’d rather hang out at the bus station. So mail me the money. I’m always getting tickets and ending up having to pay myself. Send me the money and don’t forget about Simon and Ginny Hendrix.” Taylor hung up, took two Seconal and codeine number four and went back to sleep.
Taylor arranged for Dudley’s tickets. They cost the quarterback eight hundred dollars. He didn’t see the Union director in Washington.
He never saw the check for the tickets.
LAME DUCKS INSIDE/OUTSIDE THE WHITE LINES
IN A SLOW, COLD rain, on a fourth-quarter split route, Speedo Smith put the Texas Pistols in the Super Bowl. The Washington free safety was running step for step with the Pistols’ split end when Taylor launched the pass under pressure. He overthrew, Taylor thought, but Speedo put on a burst of speed that was unbelievable, blowing past the safety and running under the ball.
Speedo turned around and danced the last ten yards to the end zone backward, holding the ball over his head for the crowd to see. The gesture was met with a chorus of boos and howls; the more deranged fans threw bottles and seat cushions. A whiskey bottle sailed from the upper deck, knocking a fourteen-year-old black peanut vendor into a four-day coma and permanent brain damage.
A Grapette bottle shattered against the side of Taylor Rusk’s headgear.
The commissioner, Robbie Burden, fined Speedo Smith five hundred dollars for behavior damaging to the League’s integrity. “Inciting the fans” was the official charge.
The gun ending the game was fired directly behind Speedo, scaring him so badly he was still shaking, his voice quivering in the locker room.
“That’s the third Grapette bottle thrown at me since college.” Taylor showed him the dent in his headgear. “Maniacs, fucking maniacs, all shot up on Grapette. Say, Speedo, where did that burn come from on that split? I didn’t think you could get there.”
“Taylor, my leader turkey”—Speedo was still wired, his eyes sparkled black—“I hope this will finally put away overthrow. I call that move ‘getting rubber in overdrive.’ As you walk out there at QB on Super Sunday in the Pistol Dome, remember what you saw today. Your split end can’t be overthrown or outrun. You got The Fastest Nigger Ever.”
“Why did you wait till now?” Taylor was amazed. “There’s fast and there’s fast.”
“We didn’t need it before,” Speedo said. “Now we need. A little advantage only you and I understand. Nobody’s going to believe Washington’s safety.”
At the Mayflower Hotel, Terry Dudley took great delight in the victory, making certain that every legislator that had placed a bet with him paid publicly, enduring the kind of ritual humiliation that can only be inflicted by a seven-foot winner.
The Texas Pistolettes performed as A.D. had promised, although A.D. was upset with the attention lavished on Monique by the majority leader from Pennsylvania. A.D. had even taken Don Cobianco’s advice and brought some alternates for the party, which fragmented rather than ended.
Participants ended up in various parts of town, in altered states of mind, performing a variety of acts.
It required the Secret Service and the DC police chief to disengage without charges the Vice-President of the United States from the Chinese puzzle of naked male and female flesh that tumbled out of the elevator into the lobby and lay pulsing and throbbing at the feet of a trade delegation from the USSR.
The night manager, desk clerk and bellboys ran, while the Russians politely excused themselves and tiptoed through the tangle of naked bodies onto the elevator. The cheerleaders, congressmen, an undersecretary of state, a microcomputer contractor with CINCPAC, a CIA general and two hookers—along with the vice-president, who was the focal point—seemed to be inextricably tangled in a multidimensional carnality that reached new heights of bureaucratic obscenity.
The inability of the first arriving policemen to describe the realpolitik of the sexual act was the key in keeping the whole episode quiet.
That the Red Chinese found out so quickly was considered indication that the Sino-Soviet split had ended.
In China several wall posters with intricate drawings explained the naked dialectical struggle, reminding the one billion or so Chinese that the fellow in the middle wearing only a cowboy hat was obviously the victor and only “a heartbeat away from being president of the United States of America.” Thereafter the Chinese always held the vice-president in higher esteem. This veneration led to the vice-president’s many trips to China.
Terry Dudley used the Washington trip to test the political water and float a trial balloon for his candidacy as governor of Texas. He billed himself as a conservative Republican with solid credentials from organized labor. Nobody even thought it strange. The Pistols were in the Super Bowl. That was strange.
SIMON HITS THE WALL
TAYLOR RUSK STAYED in his seat until the charter plane was completely emptied and the crowd of fans had followed the team down the concourse to the lobby. Taylor left the plane when the maintenance crew came aboard to vacuum up the chewing tobacco, cigarette butts, snuff and vomit and gather the blood-soaked bandages, empty bottles and crumpled beer cans.
At the turn in the jetway Wendy Chandler was waiting for him.
“I wasn’t sure if I had missed you.” She leaned up on her tiptoes as he bent down to kiss her. Their lips parted.
“How’s Randall?” Taylor’s back was stiff and hurt.
“Sleeping.” She watched his slow, careful movement. “Bob’s with him back at the house. Toby’s got the car right here.”
Wendy opened the door out of the jetway onto the apron. The airport hit them like a blast of wind: jet engines, propellers, tow trucks, baggage tractors, roars and howls, catering wagons rattling food from plane to plane, tankers dodging around with high-explosive jet fuel. The smell was almost as painful as the noise.
At the stair bottom the white Ford idled. Toby held the back door open. Taylor and Wendy slipped inside and Toby slammed the door, shutting out the cyclone. The car interior was warm and quiet. The tape deck was playing softly. Taylor slumped back against the seat and closed his eyes; the airport disappeared.
Wendy gently kissed his hand, seeing the flesh gone off three knuckles to the bone. He had knocked the divots in his fingers hitting a Washington lineman’s headgear after releasing the ball to Speedo for the final touchdown.
“Too much follow-through,” he said softly as Wendy pressed her lips against the wounds. The tape deck played:
... It isn’t for the money
and it’s only for a while
You stalk about the rooms
You roll away the miles ...
Toby, a trained escape driver, put a red flasher on the dashboard and quickly took them out of the airfield into the city traffic. The car moved rapidly, easily.
When they passed his apartment, Taylor wondered what Lamar Jean Lukas had seen in his absence? What had Investico done?
“We going to Doc’s?” Taylor asked.
“No,” Wendy said. “Do you mind running a little errand?”
“As long as I don’t have to stand up.” Taylor kept his eyes closed. Wendy he
ld his skinned and bandaged hand to her cheek.
“You know the way, Toby. I guess we better hurry.” The Ford leaped forward, eating the pavement.
Taylor felt his sore hand throb. He could still see the ball arcing in the gray DC sky. He had put too much behind the throw; Speedo couldn’t get to the pass. The Pistol wide receiver had seemed to break stride, almost stumble. Taylor had thought he was falling.
“Where we going?” Taylor didn’t open his eyes or lift his head. Sore and exhausted, he really didn’t care.
Each game, even though they kept winning, his beatings were worse, while the roughing calls were fewer, farther between. In DC, Taylor had been speared twice, long after he released the ball.
“That’s twice,” he yelled at the back judge.
“Maybe this business is too tough for you,” the official replied as Taylor picked himself up.
“Go fuck yourself,” Taylor shot back. “But first open your eyes.” That cost fifteen yards. Red Kilroy went berserk, starting out onto the field after the official. Taylor had to cut off the coach and explain or they would have gotten fifteen more.
Taylor sat in the fast-moving car, Wendy holding his battered hand.
“This has to be the Super Bowl year,” he said. “I couldn’t last another season. Red was right, this team is now or never. We’d never last two years at this pace.”
“Buffy called.”
Taylor nodded slightly, noticing that his neck hurt.
Since Simon returned to Texas, Taylor’s attempts to contact the big lineman had been unsuccessful. Buffy hadn’t talked to Wendy since stalking out of their lunch, leaving two salads and the check.
The last time Taylor called, Simon’s phone had been disconnected.
Simon had tried other clubs, but the word of his attempt to throw Dick Portus out the twenty-second-story window of the Los Angeles offices went around the League at the speed of light.
Simon D’Hanis’s football career was over.
Taylor wondered what Simon would do. He hadn’t even come close to getting his degree, spending his University time on the football field or their apartment couch, memorizing the names of obscure old movie actors.