by David Chill
I looked at him and sympathized. He was a kid in his early 20s, suddenly propelled into the national limelight, and being asked to make a life-altering decision for which he had limited knowledge. People from USC wanted him to stay in school because that would mean another banner season next year. People like Cliff Roper, who stood to profit enormously if Patrick signed with his agency and entered the NFL draft, had their own financial interests at heart. I had no good answer for him. But I at least had a suggestion.
“Have you thought of calling Coach Cleary?” I asked. “He knows the NFL and he knows you. He’s still part of the Trojan family, even though he only coached you for one year.”
“No, I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, the light bulb practically lighting up above his head. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Let me ask you something else. What does your heart tell you? Is the NFL something you really want to pursue right now?”
Patrick shrugged, which gave me part of the answer I was looking for. Going into pro football required a full commitment. It was a grown man’s game, and it did not tolerate players who weren’t all in.
“Rumor has it,” I continued, “that you have an interest in the winter Olympics. True or false?”
“Dang!” Patrick laughed. “Fili was right. You really are a detective.”
“I just listen and piece things together. You serious about trying out for the halfpipe?”
“Don’t really know. I have fun snowboarding, been doing it my whole life. It’s a blast. I’ve tried some moves and I’m pretty good at them. I don’t know about qualifying for the Olympics, that’s really big-time. But the feeling I get when I land a trick is unlike anything else. Even throwing a touchdown in front of 90,000 screaming people. And trust me, that is really cool, too.”
I processed this and thought about how best to respond to Patrick. That the risks he would be taking with Olympic snowboarding, attempting the dangerous aerial maneuvers that Olympians do, would be enough to scare any football coach half to death. An NFL team would think long and hard about investing a ton of money into a player who could tear up his body trying to land a double-McTwist 1260. Lloyd’s of London was reportedly open to insuring almost anything, and they were well known for underwriting college football players against career-ending injuries before turning pro. But I think even they would have some pause about covering the future earnings of an athlete in a sport that was only slightly safer than doing loop-de-loops with a snowmobile.
“Okay,” I said. “Can I give you my two cents?”
“Sure. Everyone else has.”
“If you want to play football, play football. If you want to be an Olympian, try out for the Olympics. You might be able to do both, but probably not. If you pick football, you won’t have time to do what Olympians need to do, which is practice like crazy. If you pick the Olympics, no pro football team will make you a high draft pick. They may not want to touch you at all. So you decide. There’s no right or wrong answer. It just comes down to what you really want to do. Money’s going to be a part of that decision, you can’t ignore it, and you shouldn’t ignore it. But it also comes down to what your heart tells you. What you really want to do. And I don’t think you can do both.”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching a two-day-old beard. “I think I get it. That’s cool. But even if I pick football, I still have the problem of whether I should leave school. I don’t have a lot of time. The NFL says I have to declare in a couple of weeks if I want to go pro next season.”
“It’s still the same kind of decision. What do you really want to do. Stay in school or leave. That’s all it comes down to. I’m not trivializing this, because once you make a decision, you’re right, there’s a deadline, that’s it for next season. No turning back. But just don’t make it too complicated, either.”
“Okay. Cool, thanks. But hey, you didn’t come down here to talk to me about this. I doubt you were just in the neighborhood.”
I smiled and didn’t tell him I actually was nearby. “Did Fili tell you about our talk?”
“Yeah. That sounded weird, what happened to that guy who broke in, huh?”
I stared at him. “You weren’t a part of it?”
“Nah. I was up at Big Bear for the day, snowboarding. Coaches would have killed me if they found out. They’ve told me I can’t do any of that during the season. But hey, the powder’s great right now, I figured I could sneak out once in a while.”
“You didn’t show up at practice that day?”
“Nah. The guys covered for me with the coaches, said I had the flu. But then this burglary happens here. I guess the thief almost made off with some of our stuff, my high school ring and all. The guys went a little overboard on him. Too bad the whole thing got into the papers. I figured I’d say I was here, because the coaches warned me at the start of the season, that they’d suspend me if I went off snowboarding. I wouldn’t get to play in the Rose Bowl.”
“And you had to tell a lie about being part of the assault, in order to cover yourself for the first lie of skipping practice to go snowboarding.”
“Kind of weird, but yeah.”
I shook my head. Leave it to a twenty-one–year-old to think that being accused of a felony was the lesser issue when compared to incurring the wrath of his coaches. I didn’t tell him that few coaches in their right minds would suspend their star player for the biggest game of the year, just for a rule infraction. A few would, but most would not. I had seen Johnny look the other way once when our star linebacker got into a bar fight in Phoenix and punched out three guys the night before a game against Arizona State. We punished him by making him do extra calisthenics, and by keeping him out of the starting lineup, which meant he missed exactly one play before trotting onto the field.
“Then Fili was covering for you?”
“Pretty much. But someone at SC managed to shut the media report down. We’re all good.”
I shook my head. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The burglar is ticked.”
“So what? It’s not like he’s going to sue us. Sounds like he got what he deserved.”
“I don’t disagree. But two things are happening here. One is that this guy is gang-affiliated. Which means he’s planning to come back and settle the score. You see that graffiti on your front wall?”
“Yeah, that’s weird. But hey, we got four big football players here. Not like we’re scared of any street hoodlums.”
“I get that. But they play by a different set of rules, and they’re smart enough to not come in and start throwing punches. If they come back, they’ll be packing something. The other thing is Fili is thinking of going into the NFL next year, too.”
“Yeah, his family needs the money.”
“That won’t happen if the NFL starts poking around in this. They take a really dim view these days of players getting into trouble with the law.”
“Wow. That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, none of it does.”
Patrick sank into his chair. “I feel bad for Fili. Can we do anything?”
I smiled. “Is Fili here?”
“Yeah, he’s asleep. You want me to go wake him?”
“Go wake him. I think I can hatch a plan that might work.”
*
At one time, the bulk of L.A. traffic converged mostly on downtown, the Mecca that included corporate headquarters for banks, oil companies, and various city agencies. Plenty of traffic still flowed into downtown, but the birth of Silicon Beach, the oddly named and largely despised area of startup tech companies that dotted Venice and Santa Monica, had ensured the traffic logjam would also ensnare those heading to the beach each morning. The drizzle had stopped, but the long slog to the Westside still took the better part of an hour. I stopped at the Starbucks near my office for some personal refueling, went up to my office, and felt better after a few sips of French roast. But I had barely put my feet up on my desk before my phone star
ted buzzing.
“Burnside,” came the familiar voice. “You’ve been up early.”
“Johnny,” I said. “Been a while. Has the snow been piling up in Chicago?”
“Mild winter so far,” he said. “It’s fifty-five degrees today. If this is what climate change means, I’m all for it.”
“Hold that thought for a few years,” I said. “And I think it actually may be colder in L.A. this morning.”
“Good thing I moved.”
“Good thing I didn’t.”
Johnny chuckled, and I thought back to when my friend left USC to be the head coach of the Chicago Bears. He wanted me to join him, made me an offer that was more than generous, and Gail and I actually considered it. But it was a life for which you had to have a calling, and I didn’t have it. I still didn’t see enough of Gail and Marcus, but I saw more of them now than I ever would continuing as a football coach.
“I guess you probably know I got a call a little while ago from a couple of the guys,” Johnny said.
“Yeah. I’m trying to do some career counseling. Figured maybe you could do some pro bono work on that score, too.”
“I told them what I knew,” he said. “Patrick would be a top three draft pick if he came out this year. Everyone wants him. But he’d still be a top three if he waited a year.”
“Any sense in him waiting then?”
“Yeah. But Fili’s the one who really should move on. The funny thing is, Fili’s never going to be a first round pick. He doesn’t have quick feet, and he can’t seem to jump two inches. But he’s a block of granite when it comes to trying to move him out of the way. And he’s got a good motor, never quits on a play. He’s one of those guys that doesn’t seem like he’d be that great, but he often manages to be in the right place at the right time. Kind of uncanny. When someone strips a ball carrier, there’s Fili right there to pick up the rock. He can’t jump, but he manages to know when a QB is about to release the ball and where his passing lane is. Incredibly, he can sometimes get his paws up in time to knock the ball down.”
“Fili also has some money issues.”
“I know. But money shouldn’t be the deciding factor. One factor, certainly. But college guys who come out just because of the money are often disappointed. The NFL’s a grind and it’s a tough grind. Very different from going to school, and I let Fili know that. He’ll probably go in the 3rd or 4th round but he’s the type of guy who can end up playing in the league for ten seasons. He’ll get paid nicely at first, but the real money will come a few years later. Just have to be patient.”
I nodded. “I think I sent them to the right guy. Thanks for stepping in.”
“My pleasure. Funny how when you coach a kid well, even if it’s just for one season, you’re still their coach years later.”
“Reminds me of the Bulldog,” I said, thinking of our old head coach, Bulldog Martin, who we played for at USC, many years ago. “When the Bulldog would call me, I swear I would leap to my feet and shout ‘yes sir’ into the phone.”
“I know. It’s different in the pros. Much less of a connection with the players. They come and go. Some are with you for years, but most aren’t. It’s harder to build that bridge with them.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And speaking of coaches, you heard about Tyler Briggs?”
“It’s been all over the news. Tragic. The arrest was bizarre, I mean, the killing of a city councilman was off-the-charts crazy, but this? Truly incredible. I coached against him last year, when we came out to play the Chargers. That was late in the season, and you could tell the stress was eating him up. What do you make of it? News reports said it was initially being ruled a suicide, but they were investigating possible foul play.”
“I’m pretty sure he was murdered. The suicide angle doesn’t make sense, and the police are pretty sure it was a homicide. They think his body was dumped right at the 405 underpass.”
“You involved with this case?” Johnny asked.
“Yup. Tyler’s wife called me last Saturday and said he’d gone missing. I found him two days later. Started off drinking, and finished by shooting up. Somewhere along the way he picked up some woman and they ended up in a motel room. Still looking for her, I think she holds the key to all this, but the trail may have gone cold.”
Johnny let out a breath. “I met Tyler’s wife once. Coaches’ meeting last year. Can’t say they were the happiest looking couple, but hey, this profession breeds a lot of divorces.“
“From what I can gather, both of them were having affairs. Doesn’t explain how Tyler would get arrested or wind up in a body bag.”
“If it were last year, I might have suspected Riddleman.”
My ears perked up. “The Charger assistant coach? The two of them had been friends for years.”
“Hey look, I’m not suggesting anything. And a year’s passed, so I would imagine the heat’s died down. But Riddleman and Tyler were having personality conflicts. Riddleman was ticked at Tyler’s insistence on calling plays during the game, especially plays that weren’t working. Felt Tyler was meddling in the QB coaching, and he turned their season into a disaster. I heard they nearly came to blows a few times. But like I said, none of that adds up to murder.”
“Nope,” I agreed, but filed this away in the back of my mind. “But I must say you hear a lot of interesting gossip. I don’t recall that being on ESPN.”
“Some people call it gossip, I call it survival,” Johnny said. “In the NFL you do whatever you can to win. If you learn something about an opponent, you use it. The other team’s QB is having marital problems, well, you tell your defensive linemen, and one of them is bound to taunt him at some point.”
“You work with some wonderful people,” I remarked.
“It’s a battle out there. Everything in The Art of War applies to pro football. But I get paid a ridiculous amount of money to do this, and the only way I keep my job is to win. There you have it.”
“Not for me anymore.”
“Understood,” Johnny said. “Hey listen, I’ll be out in Pasadena on New Year’s Day for the Rose Bowl game. We should get together.”
“Sure. Be even better if you can help out with a couple of tickets. I kind of want to take Marcus.”
Johnny chuckled again. “Burnside, the family man. Never thought I’d live to see the day. Let me figure something out about the game.”
“Appreciate it. Nice to see you fly out here to support Old ‘SC.”
“Well, it’s partly business.”
“Oh?” I said.
“I want to take a good look at Patrick. Up close during game conditions. See how he performs in a high profile contest. Doesn’t get much bigger than the Rose Bowl, national title games notwithstanding.”
I shook my head. “Johnny, the Bears don’t have a top three pick this year, you guys are having a decent season. And the only way you’re going to get a top three pick next year is if you tank. The worst teams pick first, and if the Bears are one of those teams, you may get fired. How are you ever going to get a shot at Patrick?”
“We have the Browns’ first round pick for next season,” Johnny told me. “Traded for it a couple of years ago.”
“Ah,” I said, and things became clear. The Browns were normally terrible, and they were likely to be one of the first teams to select players in the draft. And if Patrick didn’t declare for the NFL this year, he likely would next year. And Johnny Cleary and the Bears would be waiting for him.
“You understand now,” Johnny said.
“Oh yeah,” I said slowly. “Your advice to Patrick was to stay in school another year. So you’d be able to grab him when he became available. Very clever.”
“And I have you to thank for it.”
“Indeed,” I said, feeling a slight twinge of guilt about sending Patrick to speak with Johnny, although sensing I’d get it over soon. “And those Rose Bowl seats better be really good.”
“I’ll arrange for the best seats in the house.”
Chapter 13
Since Room 21 at the Snuggle Inn was not visible from the street, I pulled into the motel’s parking lot at 4:00 pm on a Friday afternoon that was growing colder by the hour. And I sat in my Pathfinder and waited. This was the untold reality of being a private investigator, the burst of action and the scintillating conversations being far offset by the long, empty stretches of time where we do little but watch and wait. I wiled away the time thinking about how I would tell Cliff Roper that the QB he wanted to sign would most likely not be signing with him this year. I thought of whether I would approach Hannah Briggs again, be it to express condolences or to request payment for my services, even though the only results that emanated from my efforts were a homicide arrest, and then a few days later, a trip to the morgue. I wondered whether Johnny Cleary would actually get us fifty yard line seats. But I mostly sat and stared at the white door of Room 21 for a little over an hour, waiting for something interesting to happen. Finally it did.
The woman who approached the room had just climbed out of a late-model silver Lexus, shiny and pristine from what was most likely a very recent visit to the car wash. The woman herself looked to be in her early forties; dark hair, attractive, and slender. She was dressed in dark slacks, a teal sweater, a thin gold necklace, and a black leather waist coat. She gave off the casual feel of old wealth, confident and relaxed, walking toward a tryst, an event which was most likely no different than going to get her nails done. I exited my car and walked toward her.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have a moment?”
The woman looked me up and down, the bemused look turning into a smile. “I suppose,” she said, in a honeyed voice that struck me as professionally trained. “What can I do for you?”
I flashed my fake badge. She looked at it and her bemusement seemed to turn to boredom. “Did I forget to pay a parking ticket?”