by David Chill
The Rose Parade begins at 8:00 am, but that’s just when the TV viewing kicks off. The parade itself lasts almost two hours, which means by the time the first float nears the end of the parade route, it’s almost 10:00 am. We roused a grumpy Marcus, gave him some Cheerios in the car, and drove over to pick up the Alperns at 8:30 am. Ben, his wife, Malia, and their son, Jake, climbed into the Pathfinder after we loaded the back with the necessary hardware. The drive to Pasadena took all of 25 minutes, as most of L.A. was either sleeping, watching the Rose Parade on TV, or had already gotten to Pasadena many hours ago. We found parking a few blocks away from where the parade route turned onto Sierra Madre Boulevard.
Ben and I each carried a seven-foot metal ladder and an eight-foot-long plywood shelf. When we reached Sierra Madre, we moved up against a storefront away from the street and set up the ladders six feet apart. We slid the two plywood shelves between the ladders and voila, we had seating for a pair of five-year-olds. We lifted our sons up onto the makeshift plywood benches. All of a sudden, a pair of kids who were barely three feet tall could look over the heads of all the adults and have a clear view of the parade. Our wives squeezed in with the crowds to get a closer view, but the dads stayed in the back, right next to the high benches, in the event the plywood did not hold and the kids came tumbling down. But the plywood held firm, and the kids were delighted. Periodically we would hand them juice boxes or string cheese sticks, and everyone was happy. The parade swung by a few minutes later, and we spent the next two hours watching the glorious floats glide by with their vivid colors and stunning designs, interspersed with some amazing marching bands. However beautiful a sight the parade is to watch on TV, it is even better in person.
Like Gail, the Alperns neither knew much nor cared much about football. So, after the parade, we drove over as close as we could get to the Arroyo Seco, a dry creek that cradled one of the world’s most famous stadiums in its basin. Marcus and I got out, and I handed the Pathfinder keys to Gail.
“You’re sure you’ll be able to get home easily?” she asked.
I shrugged. “We can always go by train. Take the Gold line into downtown and catch the Expo home. If we need to, we’ll call you from the Bundy station.”
Gail kissed us both goodbye, warned us not to eat too many hot dogs at the game, and said she’d make something special for dinner. I took Marcus by the hand, and we walked down the long hill leading from the parade grounds near Orange Grove Boulevard, toward the Rose Bowl Stadium at the bottom of the basin.
The walk took about half an hour, and because it was downhill, and because Marcus was thrilled to be going to the Rose Bowl game, there were no complaints about it. I began to dread the thought of leading him back up the hill at the end of the game, with darkness descending early. My guess was I would be carrying him back up the hill. We arrived at the Will Call window and found two tickets waiting for us. Once inside, we went ahead and procured hot dogs and Cokes and found our seats, with Johnny Cleary and his wife waiting for us. The seats were indeed right on the 50 yard line, about thirty rows up. They could not have been more perfect. I looked around and saw Cliff Roper about ten rows above us. He nodded at me, his face briefly revealing a quizzical expression, but soon enough he noticed Johnny and understood immediately why I had better seats than he did.
“Nice day,” Johnny said, as we took our seats. “The weather always behaves here on January 1st.”
“Yup. And everyone watching back East in zero-degree weather suddenly wants to move here.”
“It’s a nice life. We’re staying over at Shutters in Santa Monica.”
“Ah,” I said. “Nothing quite like the warmth of standing in a rich man’s sun.”
Johnny nodded. “I never thought I’d be in this position. When I played in the NFL everyone made a good income, but it was nothing like it is today. It’s like Monopoly money.”
“I can only imagine. Say, Johnny, I wonder if you might drop us off at home on your way back to Santa Monica? Gail took the Pathfinder.”
“No problem,” he said.
“I look forward to riding in the Jaguar, or whatever luxury car you rented.”
“I didn’t exactly rent a car,” Johnny smiled, “but I’ll ask the limo driver to take a detour into Mar Vista.”
I smiled back. “Your generosity is appreciated.”
“What’s the point of having money if I can’t spoil my friends? And if we get to draft Patrick next year, you’ll be part of the reason why.”
“Works for me.”
The 1st half of the game was a tepid affair, something akin to a boxing match where both teams were feeling each other out, but neither willing to go all in with any bold plays. Marcus did not act bored at all. In fact, he managed to absorb himself fully in the spectacle, with the marching band, the colors, and the pageantry. USC ended the 1st half being down 6-3, with both schools only scoring on field goals. The teams continued this conservative play until the middle of the 3rd quarter when Michigan tried to pull a reverse, but only managed to fumble the ball. USC recovered at midfield. And then the Trojan offense came onto the field and pulled a surprise of their own.
The flea flicker is a play that works, not just because of deception, but because it takes a lot of skill and timing for a team to pull it off correctly. Every football play requires teammates to perform in unison, but this is especially true with the flea flicker. Not every quarterback can do it well. Patrick O’Malley was one who could.
The play began as an ordinary run up the middle, with Patrick handing the ball off to the tailback who looked as if he were going to plow straight ahead into the heart of the defense. The receivers feigned as if they were going to halfheartedly throw a block, instead quietly slipping downfield. Patrick took a few steps back and watched. As expected, the defense converged on the tailback, and the safeties inched toward the line. But all of a sudden, the tailback stopped and pitched the football back to Patrick. In that brief moment, the defense froze, stopping to process what was happening.
Running a proper flea flicker requires the quarterback to catch the ball from the tailback, a toss which may or may not be accurate. And unlike taking a snap from center, when the ball is placed squarely in the quarterback’s hands with the laces facing up, the grip will often be wrong. The quarterback needed to adjust the football in his hand, to spin it where his fingers were directly on the laces. Next, he then had to find one of his receivers racing downfield behind the secondary. He would set his feet correctly and fling the ball a good fifty yards, where the receiver could catch it without breaking stride. And the QB has about two to three seconds to do all of this, and to do it properly.
With deception being a big part of the flea flicker, USC’s offensive line pretended to be run-blocking, pushing the defense back so the tailback could gain yards. But when the tailback stopped to pitch the ball back to Patrick, a number of defensive linemen had no blockers in front of them, and they had a clear path to Patrick. So in addition to executing the play, Patrick also had to take note of a few 280-pound defensive ends who were roaring toward him.
Patrick grabbed the football as he backpedaled. He spun it in his hand, set his body and scanned the field for an open receiver. He found one and heaved the football toward him, and indeed, Patrick got knocked down just as he released the pass. Downfield, the receiver had raced ten yards behind the safeties, who were desperately sprinting to catch up. But Patrick put enough mustard on the pass so the receiver caught the football just as he was crossing the goal line for a touchdown. The crowd on the USC side of the Rose Bowl leaped up in unison and roared. The band began to play “Fight On” and everyone on the Trojan sideline began jumping up and down. On the other side of the field, a dispirited Michigan team walked slowly and dejectedly to the bench.
The Trojans scored two more touchdowns in the second half and held Michigan scoreless the rest of the way, winning the Rose Bowl game 24-6. As the clock ran out, Johnny rose and motioned for us to follow him. We walked
down the steps and onto the field. A security guard in a bright yellow windbreaker ran over to stop us, but he was soon standing in the shadow of a 350 pound lineman who placed a giant hand on his shoulder and told him we were okay. Fili Snuka said we were family.
The End
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Flea Flicker is the 9th book in the Burnside Mystery series. My other Burnside novels, Post Pattern, Fade Route, Bubble Screen, Safety Valve, Corner Blitz, Nickel Package, Double Pass and Tampa Two are also available on Amazon.com.
Additionally, I have written one non-Burnside book, a political suspense novel called Curse Of The Afflicted, which details the journey of a political operative, who, having reached the pinnacle of his career, is drawn into an assassination plot at the same time he is diagnosed with a deadly disease.
If you'd like to read an excerpt of Curse Of The Afflicted, I've attached the first two chapters here. Read on!
Thanks again.
David
Curse of the Afflicted
Chapter 1
The Assassin entered the glass office tower at precisely four o'clock. He strode quickly through the lobby, absently flashing an I.D. badge at the sleepy security guards. They would not look twice at someone who knew where he was going. He did catch the attention of a pair of serious men in cheap suits, their earpieces identifying them as Secret Service. They directed him through a hastily set up metal detector, and then gave a quick once-over with the magnetometer wand before waving him through. He knew they would. The Assassin looked like any other office worker, nondescript and unremarkable. White shirt, bland tie, jacket slung over a shoulder. He pretended he was distracted, another sure-fire sign of an everyday Joe. The Assassin was pleased with his persona, and was convinced he embodied his role very well. But this was Los Angeles. Everyone was an actor.
He rode the elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor, stroking his black beard to make sure it remained in place. Removing his black-framed glasses, ones that had clear lenses, he folded them and put them inside his jacket. Once the doors opened, he moved briskly off the elevator and past the gilded logo of a law firm with an elongated name listing half a dozen partners. Walking straight into the men's room, he checked the stalls to make sure he was alone before removing the ceiling tiles. He pulled down the nylon gym bag he had stored there last week and smiled. For the moment, everything was going exactly as planned.
Replacing the tiles perfectly, the Assassin strode down the hallway and entered the quiet stairwell. The gym bag was heavier than he had remembered. Suddenly, an unsteady feeling came over him and he became light-headed. He knew he needed to slow down. So unlike him. He grabbed the banister to maintain his equilibrium, silently cursing to himself. It took a few seconds, but the wobbly feeling finally went away. He descended carefully down the single flight of stairs, taking extra measures to not make any noise. When he reached the next landing, he swiveled his body and used his hips to push against the horizontal security bar, opening the emergency exit door. He had arrived. This was where he would take care of business.
The renovation of the thirty-third floor was almost complete. The drywall was up, and the contractors only needed to install carpet and overhead lighting. The Assassin entered what would soon be someone's corner office and he closed the door. Placing a number of cement blocks against the door would prevent a nosy security guard from gaining access. If they even bothered to patrol here. Most likely, he would be alone for the next six hours. He wished he had the peace of mind that came with carrying that little handgun he normally kept in his pocket. The Ruger thirty-eight special was always a source of comfort to him. He regretted not packing it in the gym bag, but what was done was done.
Noticing the soft glow of a single naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, he reached into his pocket and put on a pair of latex gloves. Picking up a long iron rod that was amidst the debris strewn on the concrete floor, the Assassin gave a quick upward swing and smashed the bulb to pieces, then carefully placed the rod silently back down on the ground. No one should be able to see him here. The white-hot glare of the media would be shining on this spot soon enough. Darkness would be his friend tonight.
* * *
My back was killing me, and the pain was coming at just the wrong time.
Driving down the shady streets of Brentwood, I steered around potholes and fiddled with the lumbar support switch on my driver's seat. It wasn't helping. My doctor appointment would be at noon, a lunchtime accommodation from an old college friend. I'd just need to suffer through the agony of a painful client meeting. Next time I'd remember to bring along some Advil.
June gloom was in full swing. The morning air was cool and damp, and the marine layer trapped a canopy of gray clouds hanging over the region. But June also meant the Jacaranda trees were blooming, an annual emergence of gorgeous flowers falling gracefully from long branches, dusting the lawns with lavender petals. In Los Angeles, this is the closest we get to snow; the accumulation not of frosty white flakes, but of soft purple blossoms.
Blair had arrived early to the meeting, as good salespeople are taught to do. I sat down next to him, feeling small inside the soaring atrium of the Garter Vitamin Company's lobby. There was an odd plaque near the entrance, a sign boasting that Garter was now a wholly owned subsidiary of another wholly owned subsidiary. At the bottom of the plaque, it was noted their corporate headquarters were now in Ireland. What was not revealed was that Irish tax rates were far more attractive to wealthy companies.
The lobby walls featured colorful photos of capsules and drinks, popular Garter products from around the globe. Many had names I couldn't pronounce, much less understand. But that was why we were here. Garter had an exciting new supplement and they needed an outside research company to help them. They needed to formulate a better marketing plan to launch the product. We were hired because we had been successful as pollsters, and corporations often sought out consultants who were successful in other fields, hoping that whatever magic we created for politicians would somehow rub off on them. Promoting political candidates was not unlike promoting any other consumer product. We did this type of corporate work to generate revenue between political campaigns. But Blair was in the midst of crafting something far bigger for us, a venture that would be much more lucrative, and could propel us into the upper echelon of our narrow world.
"The vice president is supposed to call any day now," he said. "Sudeau needs a different approach if he's going to convince the public that he's really presidential material. The Phelan crew is out; they just couldn't figure out how to do polling for a national campaign. I just know we're in line for this gig, and it's going to be a massive payday. This is the Super Bowl. If Sudeau picks us and we get him the nomination, we can both retire. Become talking heads on CNN every other day. Work if we want, play golf if we don't."
"What are our odds?" I asked.
"Good," he responded. "Real good. After we unseated Governor Palmer last year, I thought we'd be in for sure. I can't believe Sudeau hasn't tapped us yet. Ned, I've been sucking up to the vice president's staff for months now. I swear if Randy Greece's ass ever snaps shut, it's going to break my nose."
I looked across the r
oom at a small statue, a bronze work of art depicting an asklepian. This was the snake-hugging rod named after Asclepius, the Greek god associated with medicine and healing. It reminded me of our partnership, a study in contrasts. Blair was tall, olive-complexioned, and strikingly handsome, in a way that could make some women swoon. I actually heard one of our clients refer to Blair's good looks as knee-buckling. I was none of those things; rather, my appearance could best be summed up as short, stocky and mildly blemished. Fortunately, I didn't need to get by on looks. Blair liked to refer to himself as Mr. Outside, the rainmaker who was a magnet for clients and to me as Mr. Inside, the nerdy grunt who manufactured the actual work. But the reality is rarely that clear cut.
Blair Lipschitz was a master talker, a man who could ingratiate himself with complete strangers, allowing them to feel as if they were old friends within minutes. He was well spoken, but he also spoke very frequently. I used to view his act with no small amount of disdain, as phony and transparent as a huckster's money-back guarantee. But there was one fact, undeniable, which was simply that he attracted paying clients. And no matter how good my work was, and it was generally very good, without clients there would be no partnership, no money, no business. We were a matched pair, I thought, as I continued to gaze at the bronze statue across the room. The steady rod wrapped with an entwined serpent.
"Gentlemen," boomed a voice from across the lobby. It was John Quinn, a portly man wearing a gray suit, finely tailored to hide much of his girth. He ambled over to us, a big man with a big smile. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."