by Tim Green
The steaks were thick and tender, and the beer was ice-cold, and when the meal was finished, Clay and Max sat for another hour, drinking steadily until their conversation flowed more easily. Clay talked about life after football, and of his house in the mountains. He gave Max an open invitation to visit him there. Max told his story and what he had gone through to be an NFL player.
When they pulled up to the Acapulco Club it was dark, and there was a line of people waiting to get in. A valet took the car and, spotting Max, the bouncers unhitched the felt railings and they walked right in.
Inside, the music was loud and the familiar thump thump thump of a bass set a steady rhythm for the dancers who moved amid the swirling lights that lit the dance floor. Clay felt a drunken rush of adrenaline as he took in the people and the noise and the lights. Many of the girls were clothed in revealing tight skirts or pants and high-heeled shoes. Their hair was teased wild and high on their heads. Shocking tones of lipstick outlined sensuous lips, and dark mascara highlighted enticing eyes. Many heads turned toward Clay and Max.
Max patted him on the back and said, "Relax. I can see the horns on your head, and so can every bitch in the place. Just be cool and they'll come to us. We don't want to go to them. Let me get you a drink. You want a vodka?"
"No," Clay said, conscious of the way he had gaped at the women he had seen, "I'll just have a beer. I don't drink drinks, just beer."
Max got a screwdriver for himself and a beer for Clay, and the two leaned against a section of the bar as they surveyed the club. Clay absently peeled the label from his bottle with his thumbnail.
"Knee-deep," Max said, "what'd I fuckin' tell you? Hey, tonight is a good night to get phone numbers. You know, just talk to a bitch and tell her you'd like to take her out sometime to dinner. There's enough good- looking pussy here to keep me busy for a month."
Clay said nothing. Max's nonchalance left him feeling like an adolescent at his first school dance. He guzzled some beer.
A tall and beautiful blonde suddenly appeared in front of them. She was the nurse model Max had talked about, and despite himself, as Max had predicted, Clay couldn't help staring at her. The low lights and smoke hid what minor flaws there might have been in her beauty. She was dressed in black. Her pants were shapely, but loose and light. She wore a halter top that displayed large tan breasts, hidden only by the lapels of an open silk blazer. Her long hair, thick and golden, fell straight to the middle of her back. Clay thought that if he had been Max and gotten a call earlier in the evening from this girl, he would certainly have canceled plans with his friend--in fact, done anything to please her. Max introduced her as Denise. Then, winking at Clay, Max blew her off by saying, "I gotta piss."
"Hi," Clay said, unable to think of anything else.
"Hi," she said sulkily, disappointed with Max's obvious lack of interest.
After a few moments of just standing and drinking and watching the people on the dance floor, Clay noticed Max across the bar mingling with two other girls. He was embarrassed, and wanted to prevent Denise from seeing what Max was up to. He started to talk.
"Max tells me you're a nurse, and a model too, of course," he said.
Denise perked up at the mention of modeling. "Yes," she said, "I met Max when he came into the office. I just do that to pay the bills. I try to do as much modeling as I can. The winner of this contest has a chance to go to the finals in L. A. I want to go to New York some day."
"I'm from New York," Clay said happily.
"Really? Where do you live? In Manhattan?" she asked.
"No, I'm not from New York City, I'm from upstate New York."
"Is that near the city?"
"No, I haven't even been there," Clay said, immediately regretting it, thinking that he must sound like a damn hick. "I just got here yesterday," he said, trying a different tact. "I play for the Ruffians, or I will."
"I figured that. I see a lot of you big guys here all the time. Most girls come here for that reason, but not me. I'm here for the contest. Max is the first football player I've really known. I don't really like jocks."
"Great," Clay said to himself, "this is only the hottest chick IVe ever seen, and I can't get my ass off the floor. Now, if she was as drunk as me, and we were back at Northern, she might be impressed. But here I'm just a big dumb jock who hasn't even been to New York. Max will laugh his ass off if I don't even get her number. Well, desperate need calls for desperate action . . ."
"You know, Denise," he began, trying not to slur his words, "we live in the greatest country in the world. I can't believe it. Two days ago, I was just an average guy out of college. Yesterday I deposited two million dollars in the bank."
He watched Denise as he spoke, and he noted the reaction in her eyes.
"Unbelievable," he said. Her internal struggle with her snotty composure was obvious. It made Clay smile.
"How did you come across two million dollars?" she asked.
"I'm sorry," Clay said, the bullshit just rolling off his tongue. "I feel silly, really. I was the first-round draft pick by the Ruffians. I must sound really obnoxious. I'm sorry. I just signed my contract yesterday, and it's been such a big thing in my life, and with the whole thing being on the news and all, I stupidly assumed . . . well, I just thought you might have seen it on TV or something."
"I think I did hear something about you. I don't really watch the news," she said. "My God. It's amazing, it's like winning the lottery."
Clay grinned and congratulated himself. "The biggest problem I got," he said with a light chuckle, "is how to spend it. I mean, I'm gonna buy a Porsche. I'm gonna buy a house in the Caribbean. I already bought a summer lake house in New York . . . and I still got a ton of it. If you get any ideas, you'll have to let me know."
They laughed together. Clay had said it lightly, but he'd made his point.
"You know," he said, furthering his cause, "Max told me all about you."
"He did?" she said suspiciously.
"Yes, he said he had this girl who was a really great friend of his who he wanted me to meet."
"He told you that?" she asked, still suspicious.
"Yes," Clay said, the alcohol and the deceitful nightclub atmosphere allowing him to lie almost naturally now. "So naturally, I asked him if you were so great how come he hadn't snatched you up. He told me that you two were just friends though, although to look at you, I find it hard to believe."
"Why is that?"
"Because you're so beautiful," Clay said, giving his best imitation of Max's smile.
"Thank you," Denise said. "Yes, Max and I are just friends. That's really the only way to be with Max. He's very irresponsible, not someone you can count on."
Clay nodded with sincere understanding and said, "So, maybe we'll go out some night? You know, for dinner or something like that?"
"Sure, I'd like that."
Denise took a napkin from the bar and wrote her number down. Clay accepted it with a grin, knowing that it would be proof to his friend of his prowess. Clay would have abandoned the girl at this point, but, he had to admit to himself, the physical attraction prompted him to continue to speak.
"So, you work as a nurse when you don't model. Do you work at a hospital?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Denise said. "I couldn't stand anything like that. I work for a podiatrist. That's how I met Max. Dr. Borne does some work on the Ruffians players."
"Dr. Borne," Clay said, "I gotta see him this Friday. He's a what?"
"Podiatrist. You know, if you have problems with your feet, a foot doctor . . . Oh, my God! It's ten-thirty. Oh, my God! I'm supposed to be in the back for the line-up."
Without another word she hurried away, leaving Clay to the smoke and noise. He thoughtfully folded the napkin she had given him and placed it in his wallet as he would any other thing of value.
"A podiatrist?" he mused. "White's nuttier than I thought. What's he got going? A secret foot insert? The guy probably hides the toothpaste from his wife s
o she won't know his brand."
"What are you doing?" Max asked, appearing beside Clay suddenly. "Don't tell me you're goo-goo over that bitch. Hell, if I'd have known it was going to incapacitate you, I never would have left you alone with her. You better get to work. I got two numbers to your one already. You did get her number, didn't you?"
"Hi, Max," Clay said, coming out of his reverie. "Hey, what did you expect?"
He was certain that had been Max's intention, but it was polite to make absolutely sure before he boasted about her obvious attraction to him. Clay knew that no one liked a guy who worked on someone else's girl, even if she was a low-maintenance toy.
"Sure," Max said after Clay asked, "otherwise I never would have left you alone with her. Most people I wouldn't have to worry about. Most people are lucky if they have either looks or money, but you're dangerous, you got both. If it's one thing a bitch likes more than a guy with good looks, it's a guy with money, and they like a guy with both more than rough sex," he said, and laughed. "And I know for a fact that bitch likes all three."
"Ahh, I probably won't call her. I just wanted to show you I could get her number . . . see?" Clay said, taking the number from his wallet.
"You're fucked up if you don't call her. She'll fuck you from here to New Orleans," Max said.
Clay laughed, as much at the serious expression on his face as what he'd said.
"Let me tell you," Max continued, coaching what he thought to be his young understudy, "she's the kind of bitch that thinks she's something special. Which means she's the same as the rest, only she likes to play make-believe. All that involves, with her is taking her to an expensive place for dinner, then letting her pretend like she's never fucked on the first date before."
Clay nodded and said he'd remember that, and, so as not to disappoint his new friend, he tucked the number back in his wallet. By this time, both of them were drunk enough that their teeth and lips were numb. They drank to that fact and decided to use the men's room before the swimsuit contest began.
The rest room was remarkably quiet and the lighting subdued, a sharp contrast from the blaring noise and flashing lights outside. At the sink, a tall, lawyerly-looking guy in a double-breasted suit and crocodile shoes approached Max. Clay watched them speak as he washed his hands.
"You skiing tonight, Max?" the man asked in a slightly subdued voice.
"No, thanks, Martin, I'm good." It was all Max said. His words were not unfriendly, but they were firm, and Martin disappeared without another word.
"What the hell was that about?" Clay asked.
"Just a guy selling some blow," Max said. "He's scum, but if you need some snort, he's always here."
"You do that stuff?" Clay asked.
"You never snow skied? I guess not by the look on your face. Where did you grow up, on a farm?" Max said good-naturedly.
"Nah, beer's good for me," Clay said.
He continued to do just that, drink beer. Max matched him with screwdrivers. Not surprisingly, their friendship grew and blossomed with their intoxication. They watched the models prance about on the dance floor in swimsuits and chortled and leered with the other nightclub patrons. Denise was declared the winner, and that was last Clay saw of her that night.
Chapter TEN
THE AFTERNOON SUN WAS HOT. Clay searched for the air-conditioning control. The rental car he drove was a piece of shit, but it would have to do until he could get a chance to get together with Max's Porsche dealer. He was driving to his appointment with Dr. Borne, looking forward to seeing Denise, and wondering what was in store for him.
He pulled up to a tall Birmingham office building and took an elevator to the plush seventh-floor offices of the podiatrist.
Looking for Denise, Clay peered into the reaches of the doctor's office through the reception window. A middle-aged matron made a sour face at him and told him he'd be better able to fill out the information sheet if he sat down. Clay gave her an embarrassed smile and did as he was told.
Denise appeared and led him to an examination room. She wasn't nearly as friendly as she'd been when he left her the other night, and Clay told her so.
"Did you think I was going to fall all over you?" was her haughty reply.
Clay was miffed. He sat down on the sterile exam table. The stiff paper crumpled and complained. He wanted to say that he thought she might have been glad to see him, but instead imagined how Max might respond to such an unsettling welcome. With an expression that would have made his new friend proud, Clay stared at the girl impassively and said nothing. Denise didn't face his cold look for long. She gave him a coy smile and then leaned over, pressing her lips to his ear, briefly flicking her warm tongue inside it and sucking out cold air at the same time. Just as quickly Denise stepped away from him and was on her way out the door. With one last smile she said, "I can't be too friendly at work, but that was to let you know that you make me hot."
"Damn," Clay said to himself, "I gotta have that. I don't care what it takes, her I gotta have."
He failed to notice the entrance of Dr. Kyle Borne. The doctor had stood smiling dumbly at Clay and cleared his throat. He introduced himself with a handshake.
Clay thought he was a decent enough guy.
Borne was dressed in khaki pants and a pink oxford dress shirt with a bright green tie. The doctor told Clay to call him by his first name, Kyle.
"You know, Doc," Clay said with a congenial chuckle, "I don't even know why I'm here."
Dr. Borne gave him a puzzled look.
"Are you going to make me some inserts for my shoes or something?" Clay asked.
Borne's face beamed with an understanding and appreciation for Clay's humor, and for his discretion. "Oh yes," he said with a wink that confused Clay, "I've got just what you need. Let's get your vitals."
As Dr. Borne took his blood pressure and measured his height and weight, Clay became more and more confused. The doctor talked about football and the upcoming Ruffians season, not giving Clay the slightest indication as to the purpose of his visit.
Out of nowhere, Borne said to Clay, "Have you used injectables before?"
Clay looked around the room to see if there was someone else Borne was addressing. When Borne met his eyes, Clay, now utterly mystified, said, "What are you talking about?"
"Have you used injectable steroids or just taken a pill?"
"I-I've never used steroids at all," Clay stammered.
"Oh, no problem/' Borne said, "I can show you how in two minutes." Then, seeing Clay's distress, he added, "It's no problem, really."
Clay reeled. Borne had actually taken out a syringe and begun to wrap a length of rubber tubing around his large biceps before Clay could even open his mouth. He was appalled.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Clay heard his own voice as if it was someone else who was speaking. His arm jerked away, freeing the tube to shoot across the room. With his other hand Clay slapped the doctor's hand down hard. The needle clicked off the floor. What Borne had tried to do to Clay scared him, and that fear made him angry.
Borne looked shocked and frightened. His dumb smile drooped slightly. Clay was standing over him menacingly, fists clenched. To Clay the presence of the needle and the tube was an assault, and his instincts told him to strike out violently. Borne winced as Clay's shoulders jerked in the fight to keep his fist from smashing into the man's face.
"What are you doing? What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Clay bellowed, venting the anger verbally.
"Please," Borne whined, "you can't use this drug without a syringe, it has to be injected."
"Who the fuck says I'm using some fucking drug? I thought you were a doctor, who the fuck are you?" Clay continued to rage.
"I am a doctor. I'm helping you. I'm helping your team."
"Get the fuck out of my way," Clay said with disgust, roughly shoving Borne aside and marching out the office amid the gaping staff and patients who had heard the yelling behind the door.
"I told you never to call
me at my office," Vance White said coldly into the phone. "Remember, you and I don't know each other. We've never spoken or met."
"I'm sorry, Vance," the voice whined apologetically, "but there's a problem. A big problem."
"Go" was all White said in return.
"Vance, it's your player," Borne said, "Clay Blackwell. I don't think he wants to use this, you know . . ."
"What do you mean? How do you know?" White asked.
"He--he got upset. He stormed out of here. He pushed me. Vance, I don't know, I don't know, this isn't good. I don't want to get involved with something like this."
Vance White clucked his tongue in his cheek and stared vacantly into space. A dark cloud brewed in his eyes. "You listen to me/' he said. "You'll do what I say if you have any desire whatsoever to continue practicing medicine. First, you never, ever call me again. I don't know you, and you don't know me."
White paused to let that sink in.
"Next, you will continue to do what it is you do. If you compromise this program, believe me, you will be the first one to go down, and you'll go down so hard, you'll wonder what hit you. Am I clear with you?"
White heard the doctor clear his throat on the other end and then say yes. He hung up the phone.
"What do you mean, relax! The guy tried to stick a fuckin' needle in me!" Clay exploded into the phone.
"Clay, Clay, Clay," said Clancy calmly, "just relax. We'll get this resolved."
"How the hell are we gonna resolve something with Vance White? Do you know Vance White? Have you seen the guy? He's not going to relax, I can promise you that. You gotta get me outa here."
Clancy was silent.
"O. K.?" said Clay.
"Clay . . . they didn't pick you with the third pick of the draft to trade you. They won't do it."
"I won't do their damned program," Clay said. "That'll make 'em trade me. White won't even want me here.
"Here's what you tell them," Clay continued. "Tell them that if they don't trade me, I'll blow the whole fuckin' thing in. I will ... I can go to the papers and White'll be gone from coaching by tomorrow. You tell them that."