Double Pass

by David Chill

  "Hi there, Chuck," I said.

  "Well, Burnside," he said with a wry smile and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. "You come for another glimpse of Noah the Great before we steal him away from Southern California?"

  "Maybe I'm here looking at Austin Bainbridge."

  "Who's that?"

  "Wide receiver. Wears number 19."

  Mantle looked down at his notes. "Oh, right, uh-huh. I remember him now. We had been looking at another receiver here, DeMetrius Hansen, but he went down with a knee injury last week in practice. I guess he slipped on a patch of wet grass. Bainbridge, yeah. Used to play quarterback before Noah got here."

  "Not as good," I said.

  "No one's as good as Noah. Yeah, Austin moved to wide receiver. Decent player, but I don't know that he has the athleticism to play at our school. Might fit in with a mid-major, Fresno State, Nevada, maybe Boise. Kid's speed is questionable, he ran a 4.7 in the 40, heck, we've got linemen who run faster than that. Doesn't have a great vertical leap. We might take him as a walk-on, you always need tackling dummies. But it sounds like he wants a real shot at starting. Can't blame him. I'd rather get on the field, even if it's at Eastern Washington. Better than sitting on the bench every Saturday."

  "Uh-huh," I said, taking this on and then feigning innocence. "And Noah? You think he's that good?"

  Mantle snorted. "Oh, yeah. Cannon for an arm. Can throw the ball seventy-five yards. Don't need to have anything more than that to pique our interest."

  "There's more to playing quarterback than just the physical aspects," I mused. "The intangibles. Quick feet, quick thinking. They're a lot harder to gauge. And if a coach misjudges a quarterback, he may be out of a job."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know all that. It's a concern with Noah. But when a kid can throw a ball that far, you can deal with the baggage."

  "What baggage?"

  "Ah, you don't want to know. But I don't think you'd want him at SC," he winked.

  "You haven't heard. I left SC when Johnny moved on."

  "No," he said, the jovial tone gone. "Didn't know that. Sorry to hear. Where'd you wind up?"

  "Nowhere."

  Mantle turned to face me. He was a guy who would never be without a job for long. He was an expert at helping kids develop the proper mechanics for throwing a football, and more importantly, on breaking them of their bad habits. From well-meaning dads to ignorant coaches in Pop Warner, and all the way through high school, players often get bad advice on how to play their position.

  "Nowhere is not a great place to be, my friend. If you're interested in moving to the best place on earth, we might be able to find a slot for you in the state of Texas. I recall you knew a thing or two about coaching defensive backs."

  I smiled. I had had that opportunity to follow Johnny to Chicago and declined. "Appreciate the thought," I told him, "but I'm already living in the best place on earth."

  Mantle snorted. "Sure. Earthquakes, smog, horrendous traffic. I don't know why anyone would want to live in L.A."

  "We manage to steal a few Texas kids away from you every year. It's not just the weather."

  "Yeah, I know. And I almost socked Johnny Cleary in the nose after one of those steals. Renaldo Smith. That one still sticks in my craw."

  I kept the smile on my face, maybe it got bigger. The Renaldo Smith story was legendary. He was considered the best high school running back in the nation a while ago, and every coach in America salivated over him. Colleges are only allowed to visit recruits in their home during certain times of the year, and on the first night, there were coaches from six different schools who showed up at the same time. They all managed to find their way to the front door of Renaldo's house on the outskirts of Midland, Texas. Each one wanted to be the last coach in that night, because it's a generally accepted truism that the last coach to speak with a recruit usually has the best opportunity to close the deal with him.

  When the coaches began arguing about who would enter and in what order, Johnny told the group, look, he didn't care about all that. In fact, if it was all right with the others, he'd go in first, spend a few minutes with the kid and then leave. The other coaches happily agreed and continued arguing for another twenty minutes until someone noticed Johnny hadn't come out. They knocked on the door, but there was no response. Apparently Johnny had led Renaldo out the back door and they went for a long walk. They talked about the hopes and dreams a teenager has, and wound up at Renaldo's favorite burger stand. Johnny quickly tweeted it as having the best burgers in the world. By the time they got back four hours later, the other coaches had angrily departed, and Johnny was suddenly becoming the father-figure Renaldo never had. Renaldo told Johnny there was no school he'd rather play for than USC, and he committed that night. He wound up as a three-year starter for the Trojans before leaving for the NFL, as a first-round draft pick. And Johnny Cleary became a deeply hated figure in the state of Texas.

  "A lot of coaches were unhappy with Johnny about that one," I said.

  "I'll tell you, after that incident, we kept a lookout in every recruit's backyard."

  "Once burned, twice learned. Isn't that always the way?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Anyone else you're looking at here?"

  "Couple of guys. That center, Blaine Schechter. They have a linebacker, Kingston. And maybe the left tackle. Dash Farsakian."

  I laughed. "Dash? That's some name for a guy that probably weighs close to three hundred pounds."

  "Maybe more than three hundred. Name's Dashiell. Guess his parents liked mystery novels. He's got potential. We'll need to wait and see how he performs this year."

  "Good left tackles are like gold."

  "Sure. Every couch potato that watched The Blind Side knows that now," he said and then looked carefully at me. "So what brings you here if you're not coaching anymore?"

  "I'm a private investigator," I told him.

  Mantle snorted again. "You mean like Rockford?"

  "No."

  He looked at me more seriously. "You're investigating St. Dismas?"

  "That's right. Some funds have gone missing. One of the parents is ticked."

  "Uh-huh," he said, rolling this over in his mind. "You'd be surprised how much of that stuff goes on. Misappropriation. You see it everywhere. Lot of dishonesty in the world."

  "Really? Even in religious schools?"

  "Yeah. There's no boundaries anymore."

  "Sounds like you've seen a few things. Anything you could share?"

  Mantle shrugged. "Just in general. Everyone starts out real righteous, raising funds for the team. You see it more in public schools because of budget cuts, but like I say, it's everywhere. We're a pay-as-you-go society these days."

  "Is that a bad thing?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, once the money starts coming in, the big plans get changed. The new scoreboard, well, maybe that's a little too expensive. Do they actually need new tackling sleds? Maybe the field can be grass for one more year instead of yanking it up and laying out that field turf crap."

  "You're against field turf?"

  "Do you know what's underneath that field turf stuff? Ground-up tires. That's why you see those black pellets shoot up every time a kid hits the ground. Imagine breathing that in every day."

  "Okay," I said. "So plans change. What happens to the money? I mean, in general."

  Mantle gave me a look. "Think about it. Who's in charge, once the cash rolls in? Sometimes you don't have to look any further than the head coach. Usually. If not him, he knows where it's going."

  "Where might it go?"

  "Depends on the school. Might be the principal. Once in a while an employee is skimming. But this stuff typically begins and ends with the coach."

  The head coach at St. Dismas was Duke Savich. He had been coaching there for four years, and rumor had it he was looking to move on. Noah Greenland was a senior, and when a coach loses a great player, the team rarely meets expectations the following year. High school coaching
was now like coaching in college and the NFL; a bad season or two, and you're out.

  "What do you know about Savich?" I asked.

  "He's got a history."

  I gave Mantle a look. "That doesn't sound good."

  "Complicated. He's a Notre Dame guy. Thought a Trojan like you would know that."

  "I guess I didn't."

  "He grew up in South Bend, got into Notre Dame more because they give preference to local kids. Made the team as a walk-on. His nickname was Rudy, except Savich never made it onto the field. Mostly worked with the scout team."

  "So how's that complicated?"

  "Got in trouble with the local cops there. Mostly stupid stuff, the types of things an overzealous fan might think of. When the opposing team was in town, he'd go into their hotel and pull the fire alarm at 3:00 a.m. Maybe let the air out of the tires on the other team's bus. Or go into their locker room before a game and turn the thermostat up to 90 degrees."

  "Great training for being a coach," I said dryly.

  "He's got a screw loose, but he actually knows football really well. Funny how the marginal players sometimes become good coaches. The top players don't understand why others can't do what they did. What comes naturally to the great ones is hard for everyone else."

  There was something to what he said, but not in every case. The less talented players often studied what the stars did, trying to understand their ability to perform so well. They weren't able to emulate them because their talent didn't allow for it. But what these players learned could be very valuable in teaching others. Then I thought of Johnny Cleary, who was one of the best cornerbacks I ever saw. He also became a great coach, but he was a detail-oriented guy, always studying film, always looking for an edge.

  More players began to drift out of the locker room and onto the field. Some lay down on the grass and did stretches, others began doing drills, a few tossed a football around. The coaches came out and blew the whistle and practice began. I kept my eye out for jersey number 4, Noah Greenland. He and three other quarterbacks began throwing passes to receivers streaking down the field. The difference between Noah and the others was astonishing. The other quarterbacks' throws were lofty, high-arcing balls that drifted maybe forty or fifty yards until a receiver ran under them. Noah's balls were tight spirals that went fifteen yards further and arrived a half-second sooner. Unlike the others, Noah's passes looked like they were shot out of a gun.

  The practice lasted almost two hours. As it broke up, the dozen or so college scouts made a beeline for Noah Greenland. And to one of the St. Dismas assistant coaches. While there are supposedly measures in place to keep scouts from speaking to high school players during the season, often called the Quiet Period, these ordinances are routinely ignored, if not trampled-upon.

  In high school football, there is something called the "Bump" rule, which says college scouts can talk to players if they happen to bump into them. Or if one of the player's coaches introduces them. That a large contingent of scouts just happened upon Noah Greenland after a summer practice on his school campus was ridiculous, but when everyone breaks the rules, the rules don't really exist. And if no one from the NCAA is there to witness it, it becomes a violation that never happened.

  I walked over to Duke Savich, who was speaking with an assistant. Duke was about my size, 6'0" and 200 pounds. His assistant looked closer to 6'9" and 280, and sported a crew cut. He actually resembled a refrigerator more than a human being. Both wore green shorts and gray t-shirts with the St. Dismas logo above a drawing of a warrior carrying a gold spear.

  "Coach Savich," I said, sticking out my hand. "Name's Burnside. We met briefly last year when I was with SC. How are you?"

  "Busy," he said, with the hint of a smile. "Especially for a Trojan coach."

  "Former coach," I said. "I've left the business."

  "Well, that sounds like a good career move," the big man next to him commented, sticking out his hand. "Curly Underwood. I coach the defense."

  I shook his hand and began to bite my tongue to try and keep from laughing. It was a futile exercise. "Your real name is Curly?" I smiled.

  "What do you think?" he responded.

  "Probably not. But maybe you should consider a different nickname. That one went the way of Whitey and Red. Don't hear it much anymore."

  "My real name's Arnold," he said testily. "My dad was in the Marines. Even after he was discharged, all of us kids had to get crew cuts. The Curly name started out as a joke. Then it stuck."

  "I guess it distinguishes you."

  "Yeah. And everyone still calls me Curly. So that's what I go by."

  Savich held out his hands. "You done giving my assistant a hard time?"

  "I suppose," I said, keeping the smile pasted on my face, although noticing Curly Underwood maintained a stoic repose.

  "So what can you do for me?" Savich asked.

  "Well, I was wondering if I could get a few minutes of your time to discuss something. It relates to St. Dismas. Business"

  "Oh?"

  "It has to do with fundraising."

  "You looking to donate to a worthy cause?"

  "Not quite," I said slowly. "I'm a private investigator. Someone at the school hired me."

  He looked carefully at me, the smile evaporating from his face. It was as if he were reclassifying my status in his mind. I was no longer a college coach he could josh with, but had suddenly morphed into a person who might not have his best interests at heart.

  "It sounds like you've been talking with Mary Swain," he finally said.

  I shook my head. "No. Who's that?"

  "My best friend," he said caustically. "So who hired you?"

  "Can't say just yet. But I'm wondering if we could go talk."

  "I'm tied up with the players right now," he said and then pointed to a few people loitering nearby. "Fundraising. That's Mrs. Farsakian's department. One of the team parents. Her first name's Skye. She's over there by the locker room. Blonde, big hair, big boobs. Can't miss 'em. I mean her."

  Savich then gave a quick laugh at his own humor. I rolled my eyes and didn't bother to smile. I looked over and noticed Curly Underwood wasn't smiling either, he was shaking his head softly and looking down at the ground.

  "Okay, Coach," I said. "But I'd still like to talk with you. I'd like to get your take on things."

  Savich continued to peer at me carefully, seemingly trying to come up with something from the dark recesses of his memory bank. He finally succeeded. "Burnside. You're the one who used to be a cop once, right?"

  "Yeah. LAPD for 13 years."

  "I remember. Your story was all over the news. We should probably keep you away from kids."

  I took a deep breath and restrained myself from unleashing a nasty response. The story he was referring to happened many years ago, the most painful chapter in my life. I was falsely accused of a horrendous crime, and even though charges were dropped, my name remained sullied. While many people had forgotten that chapter, there were still a few pissants around who thought they had the right to goad me.

  "It was nothing like what you read in the papers," I said stiffly. "And right now, I want to talk to you, not the kids."

  "Uh-huh. Well, like I said, this isn't the best time. I'm usually free in the mornings. Stop by tomorrow. Show me you used to be a good cop. Bring some doughnuts."

  I nodded, more to conclude the conversation amicably rather than agreeing to deliver a mid-morning snack to a snarky guy, especially one who went to my alma mater's rival, Notre Dame. As Savich and his assistant walked away, I noticed that my right hand was balled into a fist and starting to ache. I relaxed my hand, but the irritation remained.

  Chapter 3

  Skye Farsakian was indeed very blonde and had very large breasts. Looking like she was in her early forties, she stood chatting casually with a few people, probably other parents. She had likely been beautiful as a young woman, she still was in a way, although the looks had faded as they inevitably do with many peop
le. She wore a top that was a size too small, so her ample breasts stood out surreptitiously. As Coach Savich pointed out, they could not be missed.

  "Mrs. Farsakian?" I asked.

  "Why, yes," she said, smiling brightly with both sets of teeth. Her voice had a dreamy quality to it, a little too high-pitched, and having a decidedly coquettish tinge.

  "My name's Burnside. May I have a word with you?"

  "Of course," she said and excused herself from the group. We walked about twenty feet before I spoke.

  "I understand you're in charge of fundraising for the team."

  "I am indeed," she gushed. "We have all sorts of fundraising for the foundation."

  "Bake sales?" I smiled.

  "Oh, we tried that, but they don't bring in as much as the fireworks stand before the 4th of July."

  "That's interesting," I mused. "I thought fireworks were illegal in Pasadena."

  "Oh, they are," she smiled and winked. "We had to go down the road to Temple City. Don't want to break the law, you know."

  I nodded. Fireworks were indeed illegal in Pasadena, as well as in much of California, but there were a few cities where they were allowed. What this did was undermine every other community's efforts to outlaw them, and rendered their laws ineffective. Personally, I never liked fireworks. When I was growing up, a ten year old in my neighborhood, Victor Figueroa, severely burned part of his hand when he lit a cherry bomb and then failed to toss it away in time. Fireworks displays were fine when they were run by people who knew what they were doing. All too often, that wasn't the case.

  "Are you looking to donate?" she asked with a big smile.

  "I don't know," I said as diplomatically as I could. "What other options are there?"

  "Oh, we have the usual," she said, almost starting to giggle. "There's the Hoop-A-Thon on the basketball court, the Powder Puff Football Game between the cheerleaders. We started a rumor that the girls would play the game wearing bikinis this year. Not true of course, but boy did that help sell tickets!"