Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  Archer cried out in pain and threw himself at me. He clawed at my face, going after my good eye, but I stepped back and fended him off with two more blows over his ears and another bash to his nose. The blows disoriented him, but he still continued to strike out blindly in my direction. I turned aside one of his blows and drove my stiffened fingers into his ribs, twice, and then kicked his left knee out from under him. He went down in a heap and I dropped knees first onto his back. The fight went out of him like a fish giving up the ghost on dry land.

  Roughly, I pulled his hands behind his back. Moving quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a length of strong twine and used it to tie his thumbs together. I stood up and stepped back, feeling like a cowboy who had just roped a cow in a rodeo.

  Archer wasn't going anywhere, so I sprinted to where Wagstaff was still doing battle with the two other Hardbirds. On the way, I passed the first Hardbird I had taken out. He was just beginning to stir, so I kicked him hard in the stomach and he flopped out again.

  Once at Wagstaff's side, I grabbed the ponytail of the Hardbird closest to me and pulled him backwards. I swung him around and around until he fell to the floor in an uncoordinated tumble. Keeping hold of his ponytail, I yanked the youth over onto his stomach and used another piece of twine to secure his thumbs in the same fashion as Archer's. By the time I was done, Wagstaff had controlled the last of the four Hardbirds and had subjected him to the same treatment.

  Both of us were breathing hard, but we felt satisfied. Wagstaff held his hand out to me, open palm up. I slapped my own palm across it.

  "Nice work," I said.

  Wagstaff smiled. "I enjoyed it."

  Together, we walked over to the only one of the four Hardbirds who was unsecured. He had vomited from my passing kick to his stomach. We pulled him clear of his mess and trussed him up with a last piece of twine. We then took the belts off of three of the Hardbirds and used them to secure their feet. We had other plans for Archer.

  "They won't be going anywhere for a while," I said.

  "They haven't been going anywhere since they slipped out of their momma's wombs," Wagstaff said with contempt.

  I snorted and then shook out my shoulders and arm muscles. The last thing I needed was to be sore for the upcoming final with the New York Lights.

  "Let's get on with it," I said.

  We walked back to where Archer was lying. I squatted down and grabbed hold of his hair. I twisted his face to make him look up at me. Even in the poor light, I could see the hatred smoldering deep in his eyes.

  "We're going to have a little chat," I told him amiably enough. "And you're going to tell me everything I want to know. "

  Blood had run down from his nose into his mouth, and he spat a gout of it at me. It splattered disgustingly across my shirt. I bounced his head off the turf and then grabbed his hair again.

  "You don't want to make me mad, old son," I said through clenched teeth. "I've been taught how to cause pain by the best of them. If you don't tell me what I want to know I might start practicing again on you."

  "Bugger orf," he said.

  "Let me deal with this." Wagstaff’s gruff voice cut in. Bending over, he grabbed Archer's arms and started to drag him toward the end of the field closest to the player's tunnel. Archer tried to struggle, but I reached down and dug my fingers into his injured knee and effectively controlled him through the use of pain and compliance. As long as he complied, he didn't feel any extra pain.

  When we reached the boards by the entrance to the player's tunnel, Wagstaff threw Archer against them and let him sink down to a sitting position.

  "Now we will have more light to work by," Wagstaff said, since the spillover light from the player's tunnel provided more illumination in this area. He stood over Archer with a wide-legged stance, his hands on his hips.

  "I would let the Englander do this," he said in the theatrical German accent that I knew was his normal speech pattern. "But, like all of his kind, he would be too soft on you. I, however, am made of sterner stuff. We Germans can always make insects like you do whatever we want. Everybody knows about the German SS, right?" He didn't wait for a reply. "You just wait here a minute," he continued immediately. "I'll be right back."

  Without further verbiage, Wagstaff turned and moved quickly down the player's tunnel.

  "I don't know what he has in mind," I told Archer truthfully. "But I know it won't be pleasant. The part that bothers me the most is that my friend seems to be enjoying himself. A lot. I don't know how much I'm going to be able to control him."

  "You can't do anything to me. It would be against the law."

  "You're a contemptuous little bastard," I said. "I don't see any policemen here. Do you? What do you want to do, dial nine-one-one? Or perhaps your shoe phone is out of order?"

  "I ain't telling you nuffin'." Archer was still defiant, but his voice had adopted a new quaver. He didn't know what to expect and it was putting him on edge.

  I heard a commotion coming from down the tunnel. It was a smashing and splintering sound, and I wondered what Wagstaff was doing. Shortly, though, the German was back with us. Over his shoulder was slung a large nylon net bag of soccer balls.

  "I don't know where they keep our supply of game balls," he complained. "But I broke into a wooden storage cabinet in the equipment room and found this bag of promotion balls." He was referring to the balls we sometimes kicked into the crowd before the start of a game. "They are cheap pieces of crap," he continued, "but they will do for what I have in mind."

  "Last chance," I said to Archer. "How about answering a few questions, then we can all have a cup of tea and call it a night?"

  "Oh, come on, don't be a spoilsport," Wagstaff said to Archer. "Hold on a bit longer and let me have some fun."

  Archer didn't speak, but his eyes didn't leave Wagstaff for a moment as the German spilled the balls out of the net and onto the turf. I bent down and picked up one of the balls. It was soft, ever so slightly underinflated. It felt like the one I had autographed for Billy in the locker room in Houston before Miles Norton had taken it away from me. It was also slightly heavier than a regulation game ball. It was like the ball was waterlogged. Wagstaff was right, the balls were cheap pieces of crap. They were put together in Mexican sweatshops and shipped across the border for a quick profit. I didn't remember the balls we kicked into the stands feeling this way, but they were the same brand.

  Gently passing one of the balls back and forth between his feet, Wagstaff backed up until he was about ten feet away from where Archer was slumped against the boards.

  "Start asking your questions," he told me.

  "All right," I said to Archer. "Let's start with an easy one. Why did you kill Pasqual Maddox?"

  "This is effin' bogus," Archer said nastily. "You can't do this to me. I gots rights you know."

  From ten yards out, Wagstaff fired off a shot that blasted into the boards by Archer's head. It hit with a noise like a cannon shot.

  Archer screamed. "Bloody effin' hell! Are you trying to kill me?"

  "Why did you kill Pasqual Maddox," I asked again in an even tone of voice.

  When there was no reply, I passed another ball back to Wagstaff. Wagstaff cocked his leg and booted the ball first time. His power and accuracy were amazing. The ball was not kicked as hard as the first one, but that was only because it was aimed at Archer's chest.

  It slammed into our captive and drove the breath out of him. He slid sideways until he was lying on the floor in agony. I walked over and hauled him back up by his hair to a sitting position.

  "We've got all night, old son. How much more of this can you take? You've proven you're a tough guy. Now tell us what we want to know. If he wants to, Wagstaff can break every bone you've got."

  Archer was gasping for breath. His face was pale and sweat was beading on his forehead. I stood up and backed away again.

  "Why did you kill Pasqual Maddox?"

  "It was an accident," Archer sputtered. "We were
only supposed to duff him up. Make it so he couldn't play for the rest of the season. We took him by surprise by ambushing him outside of the Acropolis. He'd been drinking—thought we were working for the mob and kept telling us he was paid up. He tried to fight back and busted up one of the boys. Nobody does that to the' Hardbirds, so we put the boots to him. It was his own fault."

  The logic of that argument escaped me for the moment, but there you are. It is a strange world, filled with strange people, and even stranger motives.

  "Who told you to do it?" I asked.

  Archer was slow to respond and Wagstaff fired off another cannon shot. It rebounded off the boards right beside Archer's head.

  "All right! All right! Give me a second," he screamed. "Effin' Stavoros Kronos gave us five 'undred dollars to do the deed."

  "How did he know how to contact you?"

  "Through Brisbane."

  "Which one?"

  "Terranee Brisbane. We was working for him as bodyguards when he was doing his fund-raising for the Irish. He thought it was a big laugh having an Englishman around who'd turned his back on his country. He got me to make speeches about how the British army is a bunch of fags who go to Ireland to beat up on women and babies."

  "How did you hook up with Terranee Brisbane in the first place?"

  "Some of his security people caught us sneaking into the Acropolis one night and held us for him."

  That was a little hard to swallow, considering the quality of the security in the parking lot when I'd entered tonight. Of course, tonight could have been a laid-on job.

  "Instead of turning us in," Archer continued, "Brisbane hired us on because of our anti-English image. He was real quirky about it. He let us have the run of the Acropolis and do whatever we wanted. It was a big kick bashing people in the crowds and getting into pub punch-ups when Brisbane gave his fancy speeches."

  I felt like I was on a roll, but Archer was beginning to sound cocky again. We weren't in the clear yet.

  "Why did you kidnap me?" I asked.

  Archer laughed. It was high-pitched and girlish. "What a laugh that was. We took you easy," he said.

  "Why?" I insisted.

  Archer laughed again. "You still don't get it do you, you stupid sod."

  Wagstaff fired another ball from behind me. This one scraped the side of Archer's face.

  Archer screamed. "We did it for money," he yelled out. "We did everything for money! Stavoros wanted his son to get the starting position in goal. He was furious when you got called in to take over for Maddox, but Brisbane wouldn't let him do anything about it because of the screw-up with Maddox. Brisbane didn't want any more heat. But after you showed up at the Golden Harp Brisbane figured you were doing too much snooping for your own good. We were told to get you out of the way for a while."

  "Why just for a while?"

  "Brisbane had a big business deal going down. Stavoros and some of the other Raven personnel were in on it with him."

  "Nina Brisbane too?"

  "No. She didn't know nuffin' about the deal. Daddy kept her in the dark. Brisbane didn't want you killed because he didn't want another murder investigation screwing up the deal with cops swarming all over the team. When it was time to release you, Brisbane was going to pay us off, and we could fade away. The filth would never have caught up wif us. You mucked everything up by escaping." He sounded like he expected me to apologize.

  I paused to gather my thoughts. "What do you know about Liam Donovan?"

  "Who?"

  Two balls in quick succession blasted into the boards on either side of Archer.

  "I don't know Liam Donovan," he shrieked. "Keep that German bastard under control, Chapel. He's going to kill me!"

  Wagstaff might, I thought. The use of his heavy German accent and the stereotypical terms, like "Englander" and "Ve have vays of making you talk" were strictly put-ons, lines stolen from bad World War II movies. However, by the way he was firing the soccer balls at Archer, I could well imagine one of them killing him. I also remembered Wagstaff breaking my ribs with a well-placed penalty kick right before he kicked my lights out.

  If Archer didn't know about Liam Donovan, I would have to try another approach.

  "How about Pat Devlin?" I asked.

  "He's a striker for the Ravens."

  "If you don't want me to turn Wagstaff loose, you better try a little harder."

  Archer was sobbing, making it hard for him to talk. "Devlin's the son of the man who shot up Brisbane's daughter." He gasped for breath.

  I was surprised Archer was aware. "How do you know?"

  "I heard Brisbane talking about it after the punch-up at the Golden Harp. He was telling Niall Emmanon about it. Brisbane knew Devlin was one of the blokes who caused the trouble. He was furious because he had set it up for Devlin to come and play in America at the request of Devlin's father. Devlin doesn't know, of course. He thinks he's here of his own accord to do penance to Ms. Nina, the silly sod."

  Brisbane's reasoning was beyond me.

  "Why does Brisbane insist on supporting the man who disfigured his daughter?"

  "How the effin' hell should I know?" Archer complained. "He's got a screw loose or something. He can't accept the fact that he'd supported the people who were responsible for shooting up his baby girl. He'd rather live in an effin' fantasy world where the whole thing was a British plot. He maintains the IRA and Devlin's father were set up, made victims like his daughter. He keeps sending the cause money to maintain the fantasy in his mind."

  No one can reason with a fanatic, and Brisbane definitely qualified. "Where does he get the money from for the IRA?" I asked.

  "I don't know."

  Wagstaff shot off another ball that rebounded close to Archer's head. Archer screamed and tried to scrabble away, but his injured knee prevented his movement.

  "I swear I don't know," he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Wagstaff fired off two more balls. Hard shots capable of smashing bones. Archer screamed again and again. Tears ran down his face.

  "I don't know. I don't know," he sobbed.

  I was turning toward Wagstaff to tell him to hold his fire when he loosened off another shot. It was his hardest one yet, and it impacted directly above Archer's head. The sound it made when it hit was like the crack of a sonic boom, an explosion of sound and power. The ball, however, didn't rebound. Instead, it seemed to disintegrate as it burst its cheap seams against the boards.

  From its interior a thick white cloud of dust billowed in every direction.

  Cocaine.

  Chapter 24

  Wagstaff had been surprised and shocked by the discovery of the cocaine. I was surprised too, but not shocked. I knew about Ethan's strong suspicions that Terranee Brisbane was sending financial support to the IRA. If those suspicions were correct, then the money for that support had to be coming in from a clandestine source that Ethan and his contemporaries had not yet been able to trace. And in this day and age the largest supply of illicit, hard-to-trace money comes from drugs. When the dust had literally settled, I left Wagstaff to keep an eye on Archer and the other Hardbirds while I went back to the locker room and used the phone.

  My first call was to Sir Adam Qwale. My initial responsibility was to him, no matter how much Ethan Kelso wanted me to think I was his agent provocateur. I was not a police officer and so was not bound by their rules of professional ethics. If Sir Adam wanted to handle the situation without involving the police, it was fine by me. In the army, I'd worked for him long enough to have faith in his decisions.

  As it was, however, Sir Adam told me to notify Ethan Kelso immediately and let him handle the situation. It appeared that Sir Adam and Ethan had an understanding that went far beyond my knowledge of the situation.

  I called Ethan's pager number and punched in the number of the phone I was calling from. When Ethan had originally given me the number, I'd written it down on a piece of paper. However, after the fiasco of my naked kidnapping and escape, I decided I'd be
tter memorize it, or have it tattooed on my body in case I needed it again. I'm not much on needles, so I settled for memorization.

  Unlike Sir Adam, who, no matter what hour you phoned, always sounded like he was wide awake anticipating your call, Ethan sounded like a groggy bear coming out of hibernation.

  "I knew you were going to be a curse to my life the first time I laid eyes on you," Ethan told me wearily. "I've just finished putting in fifteen hours of fruitless surveillance on a group of domestic extremists, and I just bet you want me to come out and play again."

  I commiserated with him for a few seconds and then got to the point. "How would you like to close down Terranee Brisbane's source of money to the IRA, clear up Pasqual Maddox's murder, and nip soccer hooliganism in America in the bud all in one fell swoop?" I asked.

  Ethan instantly came alive. "You're playing my tune."

  I figured I would pique his interest. "Well, if you want to dance, why don't you meet me at the Acropolis as soon as you can?"

  "I'll be there with bells on."

  I had another thought. "Use the player's entrance when you come in and bring the security guard from the parking lot with you. We don't want him to report to Brisbane that his plans have gone astray." I smiled to myself before adding, "And, on second thought, take your time getting here."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'd rather see you arrive wearing something other than bells."

  When Ethan entered the locker room thirty minutes later, Sir Adam was also on the scene. Ethan was wearing a pair of rumpled black sweats and had brought three of his partners with him. I didn't know any of them, and Ethan didn't make any move to introduce them. They all had the same steely-eyed look of professional hard men everywhere. Their movements were smooth and economical, and they listened closely as I ran down the situation for Ethan and Sir Adam.

  I showed them the ball Wagstaff's kick had burst open. Using his pocketknife, Ethan cut open another of the promotion balls. Inside was a plastic-wrapped, quarter-kilo package of cocaine.

  Ethan used the locker room phone to talk to an on-call District Attorney. The DA, in his turn, talked to an on-call judge who called Ethan back and gave him a telephonic search warrant for the Acropolis premises.