Double Pass

by David Chill

  I headed back to Mar Vista. Marcus was home from his morning at preschool, and our nanny busied herself with cleaning up his room, which was forever strewn with toys. Marcus and I went outside to shoot baskets on his four-foot-high hoop, and I lifted him up a few times to allow for some slam dunks. We read a few stories together before Gail came home, but soon the fatigue of an early day caught up with me. I encouraged Marcus to take a nap, and when he finally went down, I sneaked in a nap, too. But my to-do list still had one more item slated. After a quick dinner, I kissed my family goodnight and headed out to Santa Monica.

  The Shutters hotel sat right at the end of Pico Boulevard, facing the beach. The small driveway area for valet parking belied a hotel whose grand and imposing structure could best be appreciated from the sand. Strolling up into the dining room for a minute, I admired the enormous bay windows that let in a flood of light. The sun was still high, and about half the tables were full. A small bar area sat off to one side, and I made a note of it in case my subjects went in here for dinner. I walked back down into the lobby, found myself a soft, comfortable seat facing the front entrance, and waited.

  There was a lot of activity, as guests were checking in, going up to the dining room, or simply heading out to the beach. I spent half an hour watching a variety of well-attired and well-coiffed guests amble about. For most of the time it was mind-numbingly boring, although I did have the good fortune to see Willie Nelson, braided ponytail and all, saunter by with a couple of nice-looking women in tow. A few people waved to him as he made his way out, but this being L.A., no one approached. Celebrities usually didn't get bothered much in places like this, as most people choose not to infringe upon their privacy. Doing so would label you an opportunist, or even worse, a tourist.

  Rebecca Linzmeier had sent me a photo of her boyfriend, and I took it out of its envelope and studied it. He had a round, handsome face, a full head of sandy blond hair, and a smooth smile. He was middle-aged and looked successful. And as I sat in the well-appointed lobby for half an hour, I saw a number of gentlemen walk in who looked surprisingly similar to, although not quite like, the man I came here to shadow. But finally he arrived.

  Doug Trueblood was dressed in a light blue shirt, open at the throat, and wore dressy beige slacks. His hair was neatly combed and he maintained a relaxed expression. In his hand was a white envelope, the type that might hold a Hallmark card. He walked in a relaxed way, but his eyes were focused straight ahead. He wasn't looking around. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, which is to say the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby. He pressed a button and waited.

  In conducting surveillance work, maintaining a hidden identity is critical. When tailing someone, the investigator never wants his presence to be revealed, and certainly doesn't want be alone with the subject, as his cover could be immediately and forever compromised. At some point, the investigator might need to tail the person again, and remaining cloaked anonymously in the background was imperative. The last thing needed was anyone's suspicions being raised.

  I turned and watched Doug enter the elevator with three other guests. No contact or acknowledgment was made. The elevator doors closed and that was that. I walked over and noticed the elevator stopped at the third floor and then the fourth floor before heading back to the lobby, empty.

  I sighed and found another chair, this one facing the elevator and not nearly as comfortable. I pulled out my phone and scanned the news, my email, and various football sites. The Chicago Bears were opening the season at home on Monday night against the Dallas Cowboys. I set the DVR to record it. I checked my email, checked the weather for the next five days, and texted Gail that I loved her. It took about 30 minutes for her to text me back with a similar sentiment. Oddly, it was a nervous 30 minutes for me. We had been married four years, and I still had to pinch myself that a girl like that would ever be with someone like me.

  After about an hour, Doug Trueblood emerged from the elevator, the same pleasant expression covering his face. His clothes were not rumpled, his hair was not mussed. That didn't mean he didn't engage in a torrid bout of nocturnal pleasure; it only meant there were no obvious signs of dishevelment. He walked out onto the curb, waited for the valet to fetch his car, and he drove off. I waited five minutes before going to get my Pathfinder. I took a final look around at the splendid lobby and noted the amount of time I had wasted this evening. I called Rebecca Linzmeier and gave her my report. She listened intently. When I was finished, she told me she needed some time to digest all of this and hung up. I looked at my phone for a long three seconds. Then I drove home and went quickly to sleep.

  *

  One plus that came with rising early was being able to take advantage of the time zone difference when calling back East. After rolling out of bed, I made a pot of coffee and took a cup into the den. I had thought Johnny Cleary would be busy most of the day with the Bears' preparation for Monday's game. Fortunately for me, he picked up on the first ring.

  "Burnside. How've you been?" he yelled into the phone.

  "Trying to stay out of trouble."

  "Well, getting into trouble was always one of your gifts."

  "Ah, you know me too well," I laughed. I was indulging in one of life's hidden treasures, the gift of being able to talk with someone you've known for decades. You can go an extraordinary amount of time without speaking with them, but when you do, the years slip away effortlessly. And with Johnny Cleary, it was as if we were hanging out once again at Heritage Hall.

  "Indeed," Johnny said. "How are you adjusting to life after USC?"

  "I was going to ask you the same thing."

  "I'll tell you. The NFL is a very different ballgame. It's still X's and O's but the guys here are at another level. At SC we had a lot of good players, but in the league, everyone is really good. They know it, and they also know they have a short shelf life to make a pile of dough. So they take it seriously. That's the good part."

  "And the bad part?" I asked.

  "They're demanding, they're pissy, and they don't shrink when a coach yells at them. In fact, they may yell back. Receivers want to know why passes aren't being thrown to them, running backs want more touches, quarterbacks complain when someone misses a block. I understand their careers are at stake. But it is hyper-competitive. I'm even looking over my shoulder at the assistant coaches. Got to make sure they've got my back."

  "Didn't have to worry about that with me," I laughed.

  "Nope, you weren't after my job," Johnny said. "The money's great here, I have to admit. A couple of years doing this, and I'll be set for life."

  "If you want to retire that is."

  "I know. It's not like I want to spend the rest of my life playing golf. I also don't have a lot of other skills. Not like you, Mr. Detective."

  "Private investigator. But yeah, I can always fall back on this. Which is part of why I'm calling."

  "Oh?" he asked.

  "I'm investigating something at St. Dismas in Pasadena. You remember Noah."

  "Sure. Noah Greenland. We'd been recruiting him for years. One of my spies saw him throw the ball in a flag football game. Couldn't have been more than twelve at the time. He was the real deal even then. But his family situation is messy, if I recall."

  "You recall right," I sighed. "His father used to coach at St. Dismas. Got canned for behavioral problems."

  "I remember," Johnny said. "The dad is the real piece of work. Has some anger issues. My guess is that's why he married a shrink, to try and work them out."

  I laughed and started wondering what the underlying psychological implications were of my marrying an attorney. When we met, Gail was also working in law enforcement, not with the LAPD, but as a campus security officer. I didn't think I was drawn to her because she wore a uniform. I thought I simply fell in love with her eyes and her smile. Maybe there was some other more powerful attraction beneath the surface, but I didn't know what. Perhaps some mysteries might be better left unsolved.

&
nbsp; "Do people who do that ever work out their issues?" I asked.

  "I don't know. In this case, probably not."

  "Johnny, let me ask you something. Rumor has it Duke Savich was actively shopping Noah, trying to leverage him into getting a college coaching gig himself. We both know of a few high school coaches who move up the ladder this way, but you rarely hear them be overly brazen. Any truth to it? Noah committed to SC and then decommitted when you left for the Bears."

  Johnny sighed. "Savich tried to pull that on us. But I wasn't about to have a guy like him on our staff. I told him flat out. And he was pissed at Noah for committing to SC. Although not as much as the kid's dad was. I knew this situation was going to be a problem down the road."

  "How so?"

  "Bob was trying to shop Noah around himself. His own kid. But he wasn't aiming for a coaching job. He wanted a quarter of a million for Noah to sign."

  I let out a low whistle. There have been a myriad of instances when alumni of certain schools, working in concert with the coaches, have bribed families to claim the star athlete for their college. In some coaching circles, there was even a saying, that if you're not cheating, you're not trying. But monetizing your child was different. That a parent would take this extraordinary step was unusual, although everything about becoming a father was new to me. I drew on things I learned from teachers, coaches, and anyone who seemed to have an understanding of what being a parent meant. I thought I was doing okay so far. From the picture being painted in front of me, it was clear I could do worse.

  Johnny continued. "I didn't tell you or the other assistants about it, no sense poisoning the well for Noah. When he committed to SC, he did it on his own, probably to spite the parents, certainly to spite Savich. I think the kid has some anger issues in him, too. Least as far as I could tell. He just lets it out in a different way. Shrinks call it passive-aggressive. He fights with someone without being direct. But I'll tell you, it was nice to blow a hole in those grand plans that Duke and Bob had for themselves. At least for a while."

  "And then you departed," I said.

  "Yeah. Everything changed. Noah wasn't so keen on playing for my successor. I always told kids, same as you did, that they should commit to the school, not to the coach. Coaching is not a solid career. Things change for us. For them it should be all about the school. If they're lucky, they'll be with a coach who's good for them and it'll last four or five years. And then the experience they have can extend for a lifetime. Sometimes it happens. I hope it will for Noah. Kid deserves a better shake than what he's gotten so far."

  Chapter 7

  Kickoff was a few minutes away and Pasadena glowed in the soft orange warmth of a honeyed sunset. The stands were nearly full as I climbed to a seat in the top row of the bleachers, which enabled me to have a good view of the field but also kept me away from the college scouts. I was growing tired of having to say I was no longer in the business and being unable to offer up a satisfactory reason as to why. An assistant at a successful college football program was only in demand for so long, perhaps a season or two. Sitting up high also meant I got to avoid Mitzi and Earl Bainbridge, who took their seats right at the fifty yard line. They brought along a picnic basket, thermos, and ice chest, and showed little compunction about plopping them down directly onto a pair of seats in a prime location. One parent offered them a dirty look as he inched by, looking for a place to sit, but that was the extent of the chastening. Earl Bainbridge barely took notice.

  St. Dismas came out onto the field in their dark green jerseys and matching pants, their gold helmets shiny, if not glowing. De La Salle was decked out in white, with silver helmets and green trim. This was the opening game for both teams, and each were nationally ranked. How someone took thousands of high schools and narrowed them down to the top 25 teams in the nation was beyond me. It was hard enough to do this in college, and there are only a hundred or so schools to choose from. I noticed Duke Savich pacing the sidelines, wearing a baseball cap, a large pair of sunglasses, and a set of headphones that covered most of his face. I also noticed what looked like a bandage above his jaw. I glanced around for any uniformed cops who might be lurking nearby to pick up a certain private investigator on assault charges. Fortunately, things looked safe.

  A couple of teenage girls climbed up the bleachers and sat a few feet away from me. They were both pretty and blonde and looked surprisingly alike. The main difference I could discern was one had blue eyes and the other had green. I listened to them for a while as they chatted about school, teachers, and of course, boys. When I heard Austin Bainbridge's name mentioned, I wanted to jump in, but not being prepared with a well-rehearsed opening line that would sound casual, I feared being labeled a pervert, so I stayed quiet. Finally, the marching band appeared, the drum major directing everyone to stand as they played the national anthem. When the band finished, the momentary lull in the girls' conversation gave me an opening.

  "What year are you girls in?" I asked as we sat back down.

  "Oh, we're in 11th grade," the blue-eyed one said unenthusiastically and told me her name was Jasmine. The other introduced herself as Ivy. "Looking like the worst year of our lives."

  "How so?"

  "Nothing but schoolwork. Supposed to be overwhelming."

  I told them I felt their pain. Then I changed the subject. "You have boyfriends at the school?" I asked nosily.

  Ivy shrugged. "I've gone out with a few."

  "Any on the football team?" I asked.

  "Are you a parent?"

  "Yes, but not here."

  "Oh," she said, a little confused. "Are you a college scout or something?"

  "Yeah," I said with a vague smile. "Something,"

  "I went out with Kirk Rucker a few times," Ivy said. "He's one of the linebackers. Number 53."

  "How about Austin Bainbridge? I heard his name mentioned."

  The two looked at each other and giggled. Jasmine spoke. "Austin's the shit."

  Having spent the past three years immersed in the lexicon of college students, I knew this phrase indicated something good. Being "the shit" was something to aspire to. Being shit was not. Without my three years as a college coach, my uninitiated middle-aged brain would still be struggling to figure out what on earth she was talking about.

  "You ever go out with him?" I asked.

  "Austin's working his way through our class," Jasmine giggled. "I'm ignoring him for now. It piques guys' interest when you don't pay attention to them. I'll let him get to me eventually. Maybe around prom time."

  I smiled. "Smart. What about Dash Farsakian? Is he going out with anyone?"

  "He used to go out with our friend Vicki. But they broke up. He's got mommy issues," she said dismissively.

  "His parents are getting divorced," Ivy added. "I kind of feel sorry for him."

  "I'm not hearing Noah's name. I guess you know every college in the country wants him."

  They nodded in unison, looked at each other and spoke at the same time. "He's just got issues."

  A whistle blew and we turned our attention to the field. The teams had lined up for the opening kickoff, with St. Dismas set to receive. They returned the kick to the twenty-two yard line and the special teams trotted off, replaced by the starting units. Both teams looked like they had at least fifty players milling about on the sidelines. A dozen cheerleaders went into an elaborate routine that ended in a cry of "Go Warriors!"

  St. Dismas lined up quickly and Noah Greenland surveyed the defense as he stood over center. He took a deep breath and bent down to bark signals. The first two plays were handoffs to the running backs which went nowhere. On third down, Noah took the snap and faded back into the pocket to throw a pass. But the blocking quickly broke down and one of the defensive linemen charged straight at him. Making a nifty move, Noah eluded the defender and scrambled to his right. But no receiver was open downfield, and the lineman regained his head of steam. He crashed into Noah just as he was moving his arm forward. Showing a surprising am
ount of strength, Noah held the lineman off with a stiff left arm and flung the ball downfield. It traveled about thirty yards down the far sideline, but there was no St. Dismas receiver nearby and the football dropped right in the hands of a De La Salle safety. The defender intercepted the pass, made sure he came down with one foot in bounds, and then began jumping up and down as the De La Salle bench erupted in celebration.

  Noah and his teammates walked dejectedly off the field. Noah's head was down and Duke Savich went over and pointed a finger at his quarterback and began to berate him. I wasn't sure Noah was listening. Players who make this type of error sometimes need a little space to clear their head. They knew all too well they had made a mistake. Noah listened, said nothing, and then walked dejectedly over to the bench to sit down by himself. A few players came by to slap his helmet lightly in an encouraging way.

  The De La Salle fans were up and cheering, but on the St. Dismas side of the bleachers, it was mostly silent. One middle-aged man a few rows below me stood up and began yelling down at the field. The man was tall and bulky, sporting a shaved head and a deep tan. The top of his skull was red and ruddy and shiny. He had the look of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. The woman next to him was Stacy Greenland, so it didn't take much to figure out who the boisterous figure was.

  "Don't try to force it, Noah!" he yelled. "Take a damn sack if you have to!"

  Stacy Greenland tugged on her husband's wrist and implored him to take his seat and keep it down. Instead, he kept up a steady banter. I decided he'd be more interesting to listen to than a pair of teenage girls, so I climbed down a few rows and sat behind them.

  "I can't believe what I just saw. First pass of the season, cripes. I told him he needs to keep his picks down this year."

  "Bob, please. I'm sure he feels bad enough."

  "That idiot coach sent the tailback out on a wheel route. No one was there to pick up the blitz," he sneered as he finally sat down. "What a moron. That Savich has turned into a disaster."