Double Pass

by David Chill

  The rest of the first half did not go much better for St. Dismas or for Noah Greenland. He completed some long throws, showing off a powerful arm, but he also misfired on a few. De La Salle was ahead 10-0 as the half neared, with less than a minute to go on the clock. St. Dismas began getting a drive going as Noah completed a number of passes and they moved the ball past midfield. But then De La Salle came with an all-out blitz, sending eight defenders charging in at Noah. He whirled around and threw the ball blindly downfield, where it was intercepted again. The defender cut back across the field and ran through what seemed like the entire St. Dismas team on his way to a touchdown. The De La Salle team was now in full celebratory mode, but missed the yellow flag that lay where Noah had released the ball, a marker that had been thrown down by the referee well after the interception.

  "Late hit," announced the referee, as he made a signal banging his forearms together. "Roughing the passer. Defense. Fifteen-yard penalty. No touchdown. The interception is nullified. First down, St. Dismas."

  As the referee turned to give the first-down signal, the De La Salle team erupted in angry protest. It was obvious Noah had been hit immediately after he released the ball, which was usually not considered a penalty. De La Salle's coaches argued vehemently, even after the ref had turned away from them, and then may have uttered the wrong word. The referee threw his yellow flag again for unsportsmanlike conduct, another fifteen yard penalty, which now put the ball inside the twenty yard line. The episode reminded me of an incident once when I was playing for USC and got flagged for pass interference. I tried to protest the call, but the referee just smiled at me and asked if I knew when a penalty was correct. It stopped me for a second and I said no. He laughed and responded that it's a penalty when he says it's a penalty. This was a lesson that stayed with me forever, and it was the last time I argued with an official. After that, I simply tried to act friendly with them.

  It took a few minutes for the referees to restore some semblance of order and for the teams to get set again. Noah lined up in the shotgun formation, standing a few yards behind the center. He took the snap and looked downfield. Finding a receiver open near the corner of the end zone, he fired a laser strike, and the ball hit Austin Bainbridge in the chest. Austin wore number 19 and the ball literally landed smack between the one and the nine. But rather than gathering it in, the ball bounced off of Austin's chest and floated up in the air. It felt like an eternity but it reality took only about a second for the football to land in the arms of a De La Salle player, for another interception, although this one did not get returned for a touchdown. An audible groan was emitted by the partisan crowd, and the St. Dismas players trudged to the sidelines as the first half ended. The teams then went off into their respective locker rooms.

  "I swear, I can't believe this," Bob Greenland fumed. "This is supposed to be Noah's moment. The game's being televised. I ought to go down into that locker room and talk to this team. They look like a sinking ship right now."

  "Bob, you can't do that," Stacy implored. "You know the agreement."

  "I just don't want Noah to blow this opportunity. Everything's going wrong. Savich is dialing up the wrong plays and the team isn't responding. This is bad. This is awful. Noah's drowning out there."

  "Look," she said, "it's not like any college is going to pull their offer. Stanford said their scholarship was solid."

  "Stanford," he hissed. "That's all I hear from you. Stanford. Yeah, sure, it's a good school, but who cares? It's not the best fit for Noah right now. And they're not offering anything beyond a scholarship. And schools can pull their offer anytime they want before Signing Day in February."

  "I just think you need to be careful. Remember what happened last time you pushed Noah too hard."

  "I know, I know. He went off and committed to USC. That's the last thing I want."

  I took in a deep breath and cleared my throat in such an affected way that people a section over might have heard me. The Greenlands turned around to see who was making the ruckus.

  "Oh," said Stacy, involuntarily wrinkling her nose. "It's you."

  "Yes, it's me. Hello to you, too."

  Her husband peered at me. "You're that USC guy."

  "You have a good memory. Sorry our offer to Noah didn't meet your requirements."

  "Uh, look," Bob said, his voice dropping. "We don't need to rehash all that. Let's leave it in the past."

  "I suppose. Of course, someone once said the past is never dead, it's not even the past."

  "You sound like my wife," he muttered. "That's what a psychologist would say."

  I smiled. "Actually it was William Faulkner. Maybe he studied some psychology in college."

  "Mr. ... Burnside, was it?" Stacy Greenland asked, sounding a little miffed. "Is there anything we can help you with?"

  "Nope. I'm just a guy sitting here."

  The teams returned to the field, and St. Dismas kicked off. The second half was looking a lot like the first until the middle of the 4th quarter, when seemingly out of nowhere, Noah reared back and threw a long pass to Austin, who ran under it for a touchdown. With the deficit cut to 10-7, the St. Dismas defense stiffened, and De La Salle punted the ball back to them with four minutes to go in the game. Noah stepped back onto the field and looked ready to lead his team down the field on a game-winning drive. He completed a few short passes to position the team near midfield, one yard away from a first down. Noah faked a handoff and dropped back to pass. And then it happened. The defense wasn't fooled by the fake, or at least one player wasn't. A very large, very athletic defensive lineman spun past his blocker and barreled toward Noah as he drew his arm back to throw the ball. Lowering his head, the lineman launched himself into Noah, smashing him square on the chin with the crown of his helmet. You could hear the ugly thud from the bleachers. It was an illegal hit, but the damage was done. Noah managed to hold onto the ball, but landed smack on his back and didn't get up.

  A wave of stunned silence came over the crowd. Noah lay motionless on the turf, and the coaches and trainers raced onto the field. They worked on him for a few minutes before he was able to get to his feet on his own, and walk shakily toward the sideline. The crowd sighed and gave him a round of applause, but that would be it for Noah tonight. A backup quarterback pulled on a helmet and took his place. De La Salle was penalized fifteen yards for roughing the passer again, but the new quarterback was unable to complete a pass, and St. Dismas turned the ball over on downs. De La Salle ran out the clock, and the game ended with St. Dismas on the losing end of a 10-7 score, and Noah Greenland walked unsteadily across the field toward the dark gloom of a losing locker room.

  *

  Since it wasn't my team that was defeated, I didn't suffer any special loss of sleep that night, other than from the usual parade of private jets warming up early. Marcus appears to be taking after his father as an early riser, waking up right after dawn. We played two games of hide-and-go-seek, which Marcus won handily, and then we watched an animal show together on TV. This particular episode featured a pot-bellied pig that someone had chosen to take in as a pet. It showed the happy owner proudly walking his pig on a leash in his neighborhood, garnering the attention and admiration of everyone he came into contact with.

  I thought back to when I worked vice in North Hollywood, and to a certain civilian employee of the LAPD. His daughter thought it would be cute to have a monkey for a pet, so he got her one. That experiment lasted three days, a debacle which included the monkey bringing down a chandelier which he thought was there for him to swing on. Monkeys are considered among the smartest of animals, but their actions are not easy to figure out. This one thought it was great fun to grab a bowl of mac and cheese and throw it all over the kitchen. The culmination of the experiment was when the family discovered the monkey had no qualms about treating the living room as his own personal toilet. So when Marcus began his campaign to get a pot-bellied pig as a pet, I was prepared with an answer. And at just that moment, Chewy, our littl
e black cocker spaniel, came into the living room and greeted us with a big yawn. She went over and laid down in Marcus's lap, and that seemed to be enough to quell, for the moment, any further need for an additional pet.

  This being a Saturday afternoon in September, there was a UCLA football game scheduled at the Rose Bowl. I waited until a few minutes before kickoff before climbing into my Pathfinder and making what would have surely been an arduous journey up to Pasadena had I left a few hours earlier. The worst time to arrive in Pasadena was two or three hours before the start of a football game. The fans were all over town, eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs, and clogging up street traffic to a frustrating level. Pasadena never feels smaller than when 90,000 football fans descend upon it and overrun the city. But once the visitors have made the long trek down into the Arroyo Seco basin and become ensconced in their seats, the city resumes its quiet ways.

  Up until the early 1980s, USC and UCLA football teams shared the L.A. Coliseum, but it was always more of a USC venue. Nestled practically in SC's backyard, the Coliseum was a natural home for the Trojans, but an inconvenient drive for UCLA students. Following a testy disagreement with the Coliseum Commission, UCLA moved its football games to the Rose Bowl venue, which was even more inconvenient than the Coliseum, but at least it gave the Bruins their own home, one they didn't have to share with their cross-town rivals. At USC, we were happy enough they were gone, even if they had decamped to the fabled Rose Bowl. We only wanted to play in Pasadena once a year. On New Year's Day.

  I pulled up in front of Skye Farsakian's house, a few blocks from the Bainbridge Estate. It was a nice modern home, although it didn't start out that way. Part of the house maintained the austere look of an old Pasadena Craftsman, with multiple gables sticking out here and there, but another section of the home had been updated recently. This happened all too frequently with remodeled homes in California. Many years ago, Proposition 13 froze the property value from which taxes were assessed, but if the house was torn down and a new one erected, the property value shot up to market rates. Wealthy homeowners who wanted to build a big new home on their land, but didn't want to pay big tax rates could do so by tearing down most of the structure -- except for one wall. The law stated that if at least one wall were left standing, it was not considered a new home, and the property value could not be re-assessed. Meaning taxes on the home would remain at the same low level as they had been for decades. So many of these homeowners simply left one wall of the house intact, tore down the rest, and put up a freakish-looking McMansion, one that maintained low property taxes, but effectively gave them a brand new home. Californians really aren't crazy. We just play according to an unusually designed rulebook.

  The refurbished Ford Mustang that Dash Farsakian was driving the other night was parked in the driveway, next to a not-quite-as-old Porsche Targa. In front of the house sat a dark blue BMW. It was hard to tell how old it was. That was the beauty of a BMW, the style didn't change that much over the years. Unless someone kept current with the subtle changes in the newer models, this was a car that could easily impress others.

  I knocked on the door, and a barrel-chested man wearing only a black t-shirt and a light blue bathing suit answered the door. In his hand was a can of Budweiser.

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  "Yes, I'm here to see Skye. The name's Burnside."

  "What do you want?"

  "I think I'd want to talk with Skye. Who are you?"

  "I'm her husband. Now just who the hell are you?"

  "Like I said. The name's Burnside," I told him and flashed my fake gold shield.

  "Oh," he said, the insolence leaving his voice.

  "I spoke with your wife the other day. I'm conducting an investigation regarding St. Dismas."

  "What kind of an investigation?"

  "It's about some fundraising irregularities," I said, leaving out the part that might include an association, however marginal, to the murder of a teacher. "We're not investigating your wife. But she worked on some fundraisers and I'd like to ask her some questions."

  "I don't know about this," he started.

  "We could do it here or down at the police station," I said evenly, not bothering to tell Mr. Farsakian that I had nothing to do with the Pasadena police. Or that if Hugh Turco knew, he would probably have me arrested for impersonating a police officer, not to mention interfering with an ongoing murder case.

  "All right," he sighed and opened the door. "Skye's at the pool. My son has a few friends over."

  "Thanks. Your name?"

  "I'm Wally. Wally Farsakian."

  We walked through the house and onto the patio leading to a large pool with a Jacuzzi nearby. It was a hot day and I would have loved to have jumped in. The pool was blue and inviting, and there were a half dozen very large teenagers happily engaged, either splashing each other in the water or doing cannonballs off of the diving board.

  "So I was under the impression you were getting divorced," I said pleasantly, as we walked toward the pool.

  "We're separated. Trying to work stuff out. But we're on civil terms. And I like spending time with Dash. Even if it's just watching him horseplay with his friends. Teenagers and all. They don't like hanging around with their parents at this age. Harder to see him when you're not even living at home. I'm supposed to get him every other weekend, but you know, with football, he's a busy kid."

  "I understand," I said, mentally praying I would never, ever be in that situation.

  "And I work nights in my restaurant. Valley Steakhouse. You should come by some time," he said with a restrained degree of enthusiasm. "It's a great place."

  Skye Farsakian was seated at a white plastic patio table that was shaded by a green and gold umbrella. She sipped a tall red drink through a straw. Skye wore large sunglasses and had on a sheer pool dress that had the thickness of a dragonfly's wing. It was designed to not hide anything, and it clearly succeeded. The skimpy white bikini she wore was in full, glorious view. I had to look twice to make sure it was a swimsuit and not lingerie. I also had to remind myself that staring was impolite.

  "Hello there," I managed.

  "Oh, hi. I remember you."

  "Skylar, this man says he's conducting an investigation."

  "I actually am conducting an Investigation," I told him. "Just for the record."

  "Yes," she said. "We met this week at practice. You were looking into something regarding fundraising. Did you find out anything?"

  "Not yet. But I'm also looking into what happened the other day. Jason Fowler."

  "Oh, my."

  "I was one of the last people to have seen him," I said. "I went to talk with Mary Swain that evening, like you suggested, but she was gone. So I spoke with Mr. Fowler for a while."

  "I see," she said and turned to her husband, or perhaps, soon-to-be ex-husband. "Wally, would you mind bringing our guest something cold to drink?"

  Wally looked suspiciously at her. "Why?"

  "Because he's a guest and it's rude not to," she said. "What would you like? Beer? A Coke?"

  "A Coke would be fine," I said, and Wally walked off unenthusiastically.

  Once Wally was out of earshot, Skye Farsakian removed the sunglasses and looked at me. Her bright blue eyes were big and strikingly beautiful, and the last time I saw eyes this pretty, they belonged to Judy Atkin. I was taken aback for a second, but Skye quickly got me to refocus.

  "So how do I fit into all this?" she asked coolly, her voice not nearly as coquettish as the other day.

  "I'm not sure you do," I said, trying to reassure her, or at least get her to drop her guard for a moment. "But from what I can gather, Mr. Fowler was very friendly around the girls."

  "Oh?" she said, feigning surprise in a way that bad actors are prone to do. "Do you mean he was involved with one of them?"

  "I'm thinking so, yes. And I'm thinking that had something to do with his being murdered."

  Skye put a hand over her mouth. "Good heavens. Who do you
think it was?"

  "I'm not sure. Does the name Vicki ring a bell?"

  "Yes, Vicki Sailor, of course. Dash went out with her for a while. But she was such a sweetheart. Could she have had anything to do with this? I guess people always surprise you."

  "Maybe, maybe not. Any other girls who might have had an involvement with Mr. Fowler? Even a harmless flirtation? Something that could have been misconstrued?"

  "No, I wouldn't have any idea."

  "All right. Would you happen to have Vicki's contact information? Maybe she didn't have anything to do with this, but I'd like to talk with her."

  "Well ... I suppose it would be all right. Don't tell her parents I gave it to you. People can be a little protective of their kids. Maybe a little too much so," she said, scanning through her phone and writing something down on a piece of paper.

  "It's nice to have all that information at your fingertips," I mused.

  "As a fundraiser, I have a big Rolodex," she said, as she handed the paper to me. "Oh, silly me. We don't use Rolodexes any more. Funny how you can get into a habit, isn't it?"

  I smiled and pocketed the paper. Wally Farsakian returned and placed an icy can of 7 Up in front of me. I wondered if they were out of Coke, or, like the police, he wanted to show me who was in charge around here. Or maybe he just didn't know how to listen.

  "So," Wally said, "you figure out who bumped off Jason Fowler?"

  "Wally!" Skye exclaimed. "That's a horrible way to put it!"

  I looked at him and shook my head. "You have any ideas?"

  Looking out over the pool, Wally Farsakian thought about the question. Then he took a swig of beer. The teenagers were busy tossing a football, throwing it so the others would have to jump high out of the water to snare it. Most of the time they didn't, and they gave off a loud groan, followed by some raucous laughter.

  "I wonder," he said, "if it wasn't one of the football coaches."

  "Wally, that's outrageous. You're drunk. Mr. Burnside, don't listen to him."