by Peter Gent
“The insurance company has his blood tests showing leukemia, so they say he killed himself, and of course the policy has a suicide clause. I keep telling them that they didn’t know Bobby and that he wouldn’t kill himself over the possibility of dying, which you would think any rational person could understand as a perfectly sane response. Wouldn’t you? Of course you would.” Ginny did not slow down. The words would not stop. “Bobby knew,” Ginny machine-gunned her monologue into the telephone. “When he chose to play football, he knew that he would get hurt. ‘Uncontrollable factor,’ he called it. Like a motorcycle, or living on the river, or owning a horse. They’ll get you. He knew.”
Taylor held the phone away from his ear. He could imagine Ginny pacing that big Spanish kitchen floor, her black eyes glowing, constantly tossing her hair in fury. She howled in pain.
“Sooner or later ... no matter how hard you plan ... the son of a bitch is gonna get you! Bobby always accepted death as his companion; he wouldn’t kill himself,” she pleaded. “He couldn’t. He always figured that they’d invent something or make an exception in his case. It was that way with the Butazolidin. He knew he took a chance. He always figured they would come up with some new miracle drug. When he learned about his blood count, the first thing he said was ‘Now we’ll find out what they got that’ll fix that.’ ”
Ginny pulled at her dark straight hair. In the background was the distinctive sound of the electronic game and the two boys arguing fine points of Alien Invaders from Hyperspace.
“Look, Taylor, I can’t stand this. I don’t want to point out daily, justify daily. You’re the rep. You’ve got to help me to explain what really happened.” Ginny leaned forward, opening her free hand, thrusting it twice. “That somebody threw him out of an airplane.” Ginny hit herself on the thigh with the open free hand. “He paid dues for twenty years. That’s twenty years, Taylor. The guy says we don’t believe you and don’t believe Bobby was murdered and will recommend we fight your claim because Bobby Hendrix committed suicide because he was going to die. It’s the cost-effective thing to do. That’s what twenty years buys today. Now I know why people fear loneliness.”
Taylor thought for a moment of four freshly dug graves, two large coffins and two small ones. He heard the creaking as they were lowered forever.
“What should I do?” Ginny slowed. “What? Tell me, Taylor, please.”
Taylor washed away the thoughts of another family almost gone. He brought the phone closer to his ear. “Have you heard from Terry Dudley?”
“No.” Ginny paused. “But I don’t answer the phone very often; it’s never good news. Terry may have called a dozen times. I don’t know. It was the news about Simon that made me call.” Ginny calmed. “They published the chemical analysis of his fat tissues. It just made me mad. They just put Simon’s fat analysis in the newspaper like they were everybody’s business. The chemical level of his fat. How would you like it?” She began to anger, almost like a child who catches sight of how sad she looks in the mirror and cries.
“Ginny, be calm.” Taylor reached for her sense of outrage. “I try not to think about what they’ll do or say about me when I’m gone. I mean, they already dissected Simon years ago. Christ, Simon dissected himself. He’s probably glad they know about the chemical level in his fat. He probably always wondered himself.”
“Jesus!” Ginny was not soothed. “They publish your urine count ... your blood count ... your sperm count ...”
“My sperm can’t count.” Taylor kept at Ginny’s outrage. “They can spell and make balloon animals but they can’t count.”
“Yeah, you are still a laugh a minute.” Ginny slowed but the anger still poured out. “It happened to me. I work each day to strike that part of my mind dead, to erase it, wipe it out. I don’t want to have to think about it ever. Now this damned insurance guy wants to talk blood counts and states of mind.”
One of the two young boys won something on the electronic game and an immediate fight ensued. Ginny continued talking over the background noise.
“People are already beginning to talk about Bobby like he was crazed. And now, with Simon ...” Ginny stopped and listened to Taylor breathe at the other end.
“I’ll call Terry Dudley,” Taylor said. “I’ll get it all straight. Don’t you worry about it.”
Suddenly she asked, “Did he kill them?” She sounded like another person. She wanted the naked facts. Quickly. She almost couldn’t. It was awful.
“Yes, he did.”
“Why did he leave the boy?”
“He figured the kid wouldn’t remember him.”
“Really?”
“That’s what I got out of the note.” Taylor changed his tone. “Look, Simon’s story isn’t going to help. I’ll contact Terry Dudley at Union headquarters and get him to take care of it. You try and forget about it,” Taylor advised slowly and thoughtfully. “Terry’ll tell me who at the Union can help and I’ll call you later.”
“In order to collect the insurance, I’m supposed to go to public court and prove my husband was not a suicide. Shit.” She was angry. “Shit. Shit. They killed him.”
Taylor thought a moment. “He scared them. Bobby was always the thinker, always ahead of his time. His moral stance didn’t make sense to them, and when documents began showing up in Tommy McNamara’s pieces about the League and the Mob, they figured Bobby was McNamara’s source. A mistake.”
The line was quiet for several moments.
“A mistake,” Ginny repeated. “I guess I could live with a mistake. Accidents, you know. Accidents happen. Like that?”
“Yes. Do it like that. I’ll get Terry and the Union moving on it.” Taylor spoke slowly. “Remember this phone is probably tapped. Let’s not give away too many secrets.”
“Well,” Ginny yelled, “if you are really listening, you made the biggest fucking mistake of your lives. You’ll pay. I mean it. You’ll pay.” She paused, listening while her screamed threats died away, as if she could tell whether she had been heard. Finally she said softly, “You’ll pay.”
“I don’t see any point in threatening the tape recorder, Ginny,” Taylor interrupted. “Whoever they are, they have made some mistakes. One day they’ll make a big mistake and the world will get yanked out from under them.”
“Promise me you’ll get even for Bobby?” Ginny asked, dropping her voice a full octave. “Please, Taylor. You won’t let them get away with killing him; you couldn’t. You were teammates.”
“We were friends, Ginny. Anybody can be teammates.” Taylor was unhappy, reluctant, but he went on. “I’ll do something someday, Ginny. Somehow. I promise. That’s as specific as I can get.”
“Thank you, Taylor. We all love you here. Be careful.” Her voice changed suddenly. “Do you really think your phone’s tapped?”
“I figure somebody is listening to everything. A wiretap is treading that fine line between paranoia and The One God.”
“Taylor, when you came and stayed with us, did you take some documents and give them to Terry Dudley?”
“That was just the kind of question I didn’t want you to ask when I told you my phone was tapped.” Taylor sighed.
“Well, A.D. called the other day, offering to help with the insurance, and he asked me to ask you. I told him I didn’t know.”
“Be glad you don’t,” Taylor said. “Now I have to go call Dudley. He believes that vibrations on magnetic tapes are evidence of something.”
Taylor called Union headquarters and left a message. The director failed to return the call until two days later, after Terry Dudley’s house and office were burglarized.
“Nothing of value was taken except the documents and they’re of limited value to us anyway,” Dudley said. “After all, they are stolen. We can’t enter them as evidence of anything at any forum.”
“The damn things aren’t even good insurance anymore,” Taylor moaned. “If the Cobianco brothers were as certain as I am that television won’t touch this shit with
Tom Snyder in a wetsuit, they would drop Tiny Walton on me like a truck.”
“Don’t think that way,” the director said. “As evidence in a murder trial, documents are powerful stuff. Now you are talking.”
“I should get killed?”
“No. Well ... wait a minute. No. I guess not you, but if you could tie the documents to the disappearance of Tommy McNamara ...”
“Tommy McNamara is with Jimmy Hoffa.” Taylor leaned against the wall. “I called about Bobby Hendrix....”
“Bobby Hendrix didn’t even know about the documents,” Terry seemed to argue.
“But A.D. and the Cobiancos thought he had them,” Taylor said. “They killed him, they were so certain. In their case it doesn’t take much evidence. Anyway, what about Hendrix’s insurance?”
“What about it?”
“Your guys on the insurance and pension board turned down the claim. His and Simon’s.”
“And?”
“And my ass.” Taylor turned angry quickly. “You can’t turn his claim down or Simon’s.”
“Oh? I can’t?” Terry seemed slightly amused. “You’re right, of course. I can’t do anything.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You promised me. We have a deal.”
“There were the chemical reports on Simon and evidence that Hendrix may have killed himself. Besides, it’s the board’s decision.”
“Fuck the board, Terry. My deal is with you and I plan on collecting. Tell that to the board.”
“I’ll do that, Daddy. Anything else?”
“Yeah, you roundheaded son of a bitch. You owe me eight hundred dollars for tickets to the Washington game. If you don’t pay, I’ll come wring it all out of you, personally. Now get your ass in gear. Go to work!”
“Taylor, calm down,” Dudley said easily. “We can straighten this out. Don’t forget we are Spur; we are friends. I get the message. These things take time, but I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”
“Fuck Spur! And if you don’t get those pension and insurance claims to Ginny Hendrix and for Simon’s boy, we aren’t friends.”
“Well, being your friend hasn’t been easy,” Dudley complained.
“If we end up as enemies,” Taylor warned, “you are going to find your ass in a storm every day, all day long. And that’ll be a lot harder.”
NOTCHING EARS
SUZY BALLARD CHANDLER summoned Red Kilroy. She had taken over Cyrus’s old suite and moved A.D. into public relations. She kept the head coach waiting in Dick Conly’s vacant office, checking her makeup and clothes, letting him daydream about his possibilities of filling Conly’s shoes.
A.D. finally led the coach in to meet with the young widow. Red sat down in the low, cloth-covered chair across the desk from Suzy. He was looking up to her.
“Feel free to smoke,” she said, dismissing A.D. with manicured, fluttering fingers. The ex-defensive back shuffled out angrily.
“Mind if I chew?” Red took his pocketknife and cut a thumbsize chunk off a plug of tobacco he kept in a Baggie.
“Not if you don’t mind if I puke.”
“Puke away.” The coach popped the cud into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he watched Suzy with polite, passionless eyes.
“Well, as you know, since my husband’s death I have begun to take a more active interest in the Franchise.” Suzy smiled thinly. “The work will help keep me active and vital while mourning the loss of Cyrus. But I must also admit that for quite a while I have been thinking about certain changes in the structure of the club.”
Suzy reached to the small silver cigarette box on her desk and withdrew a long brown filter-tipped cigarette. Red made no move to light it; he just chewed and watched. The wad of tobacco swelled out the right side of his face.
Suzy lit the cigarette with a miniature revolver, the Texas Pistols official lighter. Inhaling deeply, letting the smoke slip out of her mouth and nose, she looked about to breathe fire.
“I’m thinking of replacing A.D. as general manager.” Suzy studied the whomper-jawed head coach, searching for a reaction. “Well? What do you think?”
“About replacing A.D. as general manager?” Red chewed slowly. He made certain to spit before, during and after he spoke. His lips were brown and runny, tobacco stuck between his teeth, juice sloshed around his mouth. Suzy choked back her gag reflex. Red spat again, then probed his mouth with his tongue, rearranging the chew—an extremely unattractive operation.
“Well ...” Red probed thoughtfully. Suzy held both her hands to her mouth and closed her eyes. Red watched her pretty Adam’s apple bobble. “A.D. ain’t worth a shit.” Red spat again. “But at least with A.D. we know what sort of an idiot we’re dealing with....”
Suzy kept her eyes squeezed shut and both hands clamped against her mouth. She continued nodding her head.
“But”—Red spat, purposely leaving residue on his lips—“if we get some new yo-yo in here, anything can happen.” Red licked the juice clean. “I don’t know of any good general-manager material around for hire, do you?”
Suzy shook her head violently. Red watched her and chewed slowly. Suzy opened her eyes and dropped her hands, then took several deep breaths.
“Well, now, Coach”—Suzy was wobbly but was gaining—“actually I was thinking about somebody from inside the Franchise. Somebody like you.”
Red grinned, showing his brown-stained teeth and mouth.
“I’ll want an ownership position as part of my contract,” Red demanded. “Say, five percent with options for five percent more?”
Suzy nodded, kept her eyes down and gulped great quantities of air, choking back the urge to vomit.
“What’s the kicker?” Red chewed slowly, swallowing some of the juice. “What do I have to do?”
Suzy again took deep breaths; she was in a nauseous sweat. Finally she could speak. “You make certain we lose or at least don’t win by more than the spread against Denver.”
“What spread?” Red chewed calmly, betraying no emotion. “The Vegas line or the one in the Sunday paper?”
“The spread.” Suzy belched. “You go by the biggest spread.”
“I have been around football for most of my life, and I have seen and done some really incredible stuff, but believe it or not, this ...” Red spat. “... this is the first time I have ever been asked to take a dive.”
“Well? Will you do it?”
“Do I end up as GM and head coach with five percent of the Franchise and an option for five percent more?”
“You got my word on it,” Suzy said. “We’ll draw up the papers and make the announcement right after the game.”
“I have your word on it?” Red asked again.
“May God strike me dead. What do you say?” Suzy stuck her small hand out. Red gripped it hard and grinned brown.
“I say we got a deal or God may strike you dead.” Red pumped Suzy’s delicate hand. “You got Red Kilroy’s word.”
Red went back to his office and sat, thinking about what had just transpired.
Red had always known Suzy would squeeze out A.D. sooner or later, but Red had never figured himself as the replacement. He was disturbed by her quick, almost desperate agreement to his demand for a percentage of ownership. Suzy Chandler knew that ownership was something that Red had wanted for years.
An owner. Not an employee but an owner.
Red Kilroy ached with desire to accept Suzy Chandler’s offer, but of course the deal was worthless. Suzy’s word was no good. For that matter, neither was Red’s. The head coach decided to agree to Suzy’ s scheme because he knew that A.D.’ s efforts would switch from attempts to steal and to thwart Red’s Super Bowl game plan to A.D.’s own scramble for survival. Red was right. A.D. dropped out of sight quickly. Suzy emerged as the Franchise management. For the remainder of time left to prepare for the Super Bowl, Suzy paraded in front of the media and the team was left alone.
Red planned to win. To win big.
He knew, compared to the handshake and w
ord of an ex-roller-skating carhop, a chance to win a Super Bowl was money in the bank.
TAKING SCALPS
“HOW MANY TICKETS do we get? Total?” Don Cobianco was asking A.D. Koster. “I mean the full total.” They were riding around in the backseat of the black four-door Cadillac. In the usual way Roger Cobianco, the middle brother, was in the front passenger seat and Johnny, the youngest, was driving.
Johnny had lost his looks, along with his teeth and his brand-new Colt Commander, when Taylor hammered him with the .45 in A.D.’s office. Johnny’s young face was now permanently pale, scarred and sunken. The false teeth were mismatched with the real ones and showed gold at the gum line.
But more had happened to Johnny Cobianco than losing a four-hundred-dollar gun and some teeth. He had been truly scared for the first time. He hadn’t just lost, he’d quit. He had gotten whipped and realized his mortality with a terrifying, demoralizing clarity. It opened a tiny hole at his very center that never stopped growing until he was totally empty. Johnny C. had never felt so completely vulnerable, he had never lost so quickly and completely. He wondered if killing Taylor would blot out the constant dread that haunted him. His brothers thought he should take revenge, but Johnny refused to discuss it.
Johnny Cobianco was in a state of constant alarm, almost paralyzed by fear. It was killing him. His brothers saw his usual ebullient mood change to one of grim, sullen frowns, grunts and nods. The brothers noticed his skin color seemed bad, but if anyone had told Don and Roger Cobianco that their brother, Johnny, was being slowly scared to death, they wouldn’t have believed it.
“A.D., I asked you a question.” Don Cobianco’s voice was soft in the backseat. “What’s taking so long to figure? How many tickets do we control for the Super Bowl?”
“Including season ticket holders?” A.D. asked.
“Including everybody’s, even yours,” Don said. “Come on, give.”
“We can’t take all the season ticket holders’ tickets,” A.D. argued. “We’ve got some big corporate clients on that list.”