by John Oakes
"Jason, you wouldn't believe how good they are," Cody said, turning to Gary. "Tell him Gary. Tell him how fine a glass of Four Roses is on the palate."
"Well, I...I haven't ever tried that particular brand. I'm a Jim Beam man myself," Gary said puffing up a bit. "But when it comes to the fancy stuff, well, I'd say the nicest whiskey I ever had was Woodford Reserve."
"Cody," Jason leaned in dramatically, "are you gonna give our guest inferior American Whiskeys? Don't get me wrong." He held up two hands to Gary Kinland. "My blood runs as red, white, and blue as any Texan. But I'm talking about the old country, fellas. Hell, a man with the name Kinland oughta know a bit about Scotch." Jason reached out and jostled Gary Kinland's substantial arm. "Even a simple guy like me knows that's the finest whiskey they make."
The table engaged in thoughtful debate on the matter until scientific method necessitated that multiple tumblers of each top shelf whiskey be brought to the table for experimentation.
By the time they admitted that Gary was right, Woodford Reserve was indeed the finest whiskey in the bar, step three was already underway. Jason had probed at Gary, subtly getting him to talk about his time at Brown State. And now Gary was excitedly reenacting with saltshaker and sugar packets the defensive line-up he'd been a part of at the Alamo Bowl in '91. Cody munched on a fried mozzarella stick, listening to a man lost on a sea of nostalgia over his gridiron days.
The boys had done enough research on Gary's career to recognize that half of what he said about his glory days was malarkey. But that was not especially shocking. During Cody and Jason's internet searches the night before, they'd found out that Gary Kinland was a middling-good football player who'd failed to be drafted by the NFL. He'd tried to walk on to the Cowboys, the Oilers and the Green Bay Packers, all to no avail. Then he had tried coaching jobs, and eventually worked his way into head coaching at Abilene State where he'd gone 5-8 his first season and 2-10 the next. His coaching career was effectively over, but through years of football, he'd found the connections and skills to shoulder rub his way up the ranks of university bureaucracy to a powerful position.
By the time Jason had him riffing on his starting in the Sun Bowl back in '92, they were three martinis in on top of the whiskeys.
It was time for step four and a change of venue.
They huddled over baskets of chicken wings at Carl's tavern, surrounded by big screens showing BSU playing a preseason basketball game against Colorado. Jason had guessed that by starting fancy and ending blue collar, they would impart an air of cordial familiarity in the afternoon's dealings. So far, Cody thought Jason's plan was going well. And it only got better when, at just the right moment, Jason introduced Cody's grandfather into the conversation.
Gary showed no surprise that Cody was a relation of Bruce Latour's, indicating that Gary had done a little research of his own, or had immediately recognized the name Latour and the wealth that went with it. Gary excitedly launched into accounts of Bruce's days as the best tight end in the conference. Cody hoped Gary wasn't telling as many whoppers about his grampa as he had about himself, since Cody was learning things he had never known.
"Your grandfather gave a lot of money to the school, you know. Hell, he basically paid for half the renovations and new construction in the '70s and '80s, but he never let them put his name on anything. Cressler Hall? Yeah, that and about three others oughta be named for your grandfather."
This was news to Cody. Gary only knew about it because he was intimate with the alumni boosters. Those types always had a target on successful BSU grads like Bruce Latour. Apparently, Bruce's passing had been felt in Waco too.
And then a new Latour had unexpectedly come knocking on their door.
"Now, you boys wanted to talk today about supporting our athletics programs?" Gary asked Cody with a twinkle in his eye.
This was clearly not going the direction Jason had envisioned. Did Jason realize the state of things?
"Yes sir," Cody said, wondering how much he was looking like a juicy steak to Gary.
"We have something real special for you," Jason said proudly.
"Well, we count on men like you to help support the athletics programs. What did you have in mind?"
"We are merely budding business men," Jason said with a sidelong glance at Cody. "We fully intend to someday have an abundance of cash that we can contribute to the university, but until then, we had a different sort of contribution in mind." Cody saw Jason coiling like a cobra, preparing for his strike.
"Alright," Gary said in a wary tone.
"We represent a group, a consortium, if you will, that assists sporting events in entertaining their fans."
Gary gave half a nod.
"We deal primarily in little people, that is, they put on the performances. Half-time shows, pep rallies and the like."
Gary's face was unmoving. Jason had better bring it home fast.
"So, what we pro—
A chime went off, and Gary picked up his phone to read the alert. "Christ on a Triscuit! I have a meeting with the Vice Provost at 3:30." He scrunched up his face in frustration.
Cody could see Jason deflate a little at this.
"Aww screw it," Gary said spitting chicken bits. He tossed his phone back onto the table. "To hell with that whiny, spick bastard, anyway. He can lick me where I pee."
Jason and Cody both recoiled and their wide eyes locked for a moment.
"Well, we don't want to get you in trouble, Gary," Jason said uneasily. "We're having a ball, but you know, we could always talk business after you finish up at work."
Gary shook his meaty head and picked up a chicken wing. "I haven't had this good a time in months!" He took a large bite. "Plus, I know where the bodies are buried," he said through a mouthful of chicken. "They can't do shit to me. I know things." He waved a chicken bone in Jason's direction and winked.
After chicken wings, Gary loaded them in his SUV. Jason had protested that they should take a cab, to which Gary had replied "I'm not giving a dime to someone who can't even speak English to drive me somewhere I can get to myself."
Jason shot Cody a significant glance from the passenger seat, and deliberately fastened his seatbelt.
Conversation in the car deteriorated further. They could not reference sports to lighten things up anymore, because every time they did, Gary's mood grew dark and angry at America's golden past that was now being stolen by the immigrants and, worst of all, the liberals who wanted to turn America into a socialist hellscape. Gary was currently in the midst of a bigoted-trifecta-rant on President Obama being Muslim and secretly gay. He had seen proof, as he called it, that Sasha and Malia Obama were not even his biological children. When he finally stopped talking, it was only because he pulled up in front of an unremarkable split-level rancher in a subdivision near an elementary school. Cody unbuckled his seatbelt, but Gary stopped him.
"You stay here. I'll just be a minute."
Cody refastened his seatbelt, leaned back and whispered to Jason, "What the hell did we get ourselves into? This guy makes me think TR deserves a medal for political correctness. We haven't even talked to him about Tiny Tacklers yet!"
"I'm trying, but you gotta be subtle about these things."
"Well, if you keep tip-toeing around it, he's gonna be too wasted to do business. I did my part. Now you gotta do yours! Think. What would your business books tell you to do?"
"There wasn't a chapter on selling midget performances to a bigoted, washed up football player!"
Gary emerged within five minutes. He didn't even bother to hide the baggy of fine white powder in his hand, but dropped it unceremoniously into a cup holder like an unwanted ketchup packet. From there, Gary headed straight to the strip club.
"It ain't a classy joint," he said with a smile. "But they don't hassle you over a little harmless grab-ass."
In between Gary's lap dances, Jason tried to bring up Tiny Tacklers more directly.
"So Gary, what we we're thinking was that we coul
d partner for an upcoming game, maybe even the Texas Tech rivalry game in Arlington. We're open-minded of course. We just really want to get out on that field and show you what we got."
"Well, what we are in the market for is more along the hundred-thousand-dollar-donation variety." Gary swayed in his swiveling leather chair under the brass bar that surrounded the dancers' stage. He waved a drink at Jason, one eye nearly closed. "For a sizable donation from the Latour family, hell, I might let you run bare ass naked on the field."
A buxom black woman came up and sat on Gary's lap with a familial ease. "Hey, Gary. Been a long time."
"I've been away on the wagon, my sweet chocolate sundae. But Gary's back now!" Gary raised his glass in celebration. Three other strippers within earshot gave a whoop of glee.
Cody's eyes were growing droopy. He reached for his drink, but a woman in her forties jammed a hip into him. Cody looked up, startled.
"You want a dance?" she asked with a voice as gruff and deep as the lines in her face.
"No ma'am," he muttered, as politely as he could, trying not to look at the grisly six-inch scar that ran under her ribcage.
She huffed and stalked off toward her next potential client, a scrawny man with a patchy beard and a ponytail.
Jason tried again to introduce the idea of Gary hiring the Tiny Tacklers on their own merits, but every time he did, Gary got distracted by some other topic, a dancer he knew, or having to go "powder his nose" as he put it. He was like a 280 lb, drunken, coked-up puppy. He seemed to be having a ball of a time, but with no way to sensibly talk about business anymore, this did Cody and Jason no good.
When Gary went for his fifth lap dance, Cody and Jason accepted defeat. After hours of schmoozing and making no headway, they disappeared into the night and called a cab.
Back at the hotel, they each flopped down on their respective queen beds. Jason was careful to first strip the multi-colored comforter off the top. "You know they don't wash them things. They got all sorts of jizz and cooties on them. I saw a News 12 special on it."
Cody lay motionless, sprawled diagonally on his bed, still in his clothes that stunk of perfume and sadness. Jason got up and began his pre-bedtime ritual: removing contacts, performing ablutions and doing his visualization meditation.
Cody managed to kick off his shoes.
He stared silently at the wall for a half an hour, breathing in hotel bed cooties until sleep took him.
They woke up the next morning and made their preparations to leave Waco. Jason was in the shower when the phone rang in the room. It was Gary asking to meet them in the lobby. Cody slipped on his shoes and headed downstairs alone.
Gary stood near a counter picking poppy seeds from a bagel he had taken from the continental breakfast spread. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and looked as haggard as a stray that survived a hurricane. He pulled Cody aside and began speaking in hushed tones.
"Listen. Things got a little out of hand last night." He looked from side to side suspiciously and lowered his tone.
Cody raised an eyebrow.
"I did some things that, if my wife were to find out about them...well, she did, sort of. Listen, I'm on my second marriage. And this one's barely hanging on. I came home last night, and well, I clearly wasn't in a good way. I went full-tilt boogie and I'm supposed to be on the wagon. I got a bit of a problem you could call it."
"You mean those strippers don't know everybody in Waco by name?" Cody was angry and felt no sympathy for the man who had seen him as just another rich mark, completely ignoring his honest proposal.
"So, I need a major favor from you." Gary held up both index fingers like field goal posts. "You gotta tell my wife that the drugs were yours and that you enticed me, pushed them on me."
"What? You gotta be kidding me. I'm not gonna cop to that! You should be doing me favors! I almost got lap-danced by one of those cautionary tales."
"If you don't tell my wife that you slipped me the coke, then my marriage is over. I got two little girls man. I'm trying to be a better dad. If not for me, do it for them."
"You're gonna put all that on me? You got some nerve, man."
"Listen, it ain't the damn Gestapo, just my wife. Isn't gonna cost you nothing to tell her."
Generally, Cody liked to think of himself as a charitable sort, but he found it hard to justify doing any favors for Gary Kinland. Cody wondered if he should wait for Jason to come down and sort this out. Or maybe he could call Grampa, he always knew what to do.
For a moment, Cody had forgotten that his grampa was dead.
Grampa. What would Grampa do?
Gary took a big bite of his, rather the hotel's, bagel and began gnashing it furiously in his mouth.
"So are you gonna help a guy out?" Bits of crust and seed sailed from Gary's mouth.
Cody narrowed his eyes, took a slow breath and then clapped Gary on the shoulder. He began walking him back to the entrance.
"Tell me Gary. You ever seen the movie, Any Given Sunday?"
Chapter Seventeen
Success
The Tech rivalry game was a huge success, not only for the Brown State Buffalos, who would beat Texas Tech, but also for the Tiny Tacklers. Once again, Cody's worries faded away in the face of the positive crowd reaction and the beaming pride he had in his cohort. Winton's bit where two guys in a buffalo costume chased a miniature Texas Tech Raider around the sidelines had been possibly the biggest hit of the whole affair. So often, Cody was learning, the little touches made all the difference.
Cody decided to move down from the executive box to watch the last quarter of the game with the performers whose duties were now all but done. Cody finished his whiskey and handed it to the young waitress who served the other suits and VIPs. He gave a nod to Gary Kinland on his way out. Gary had been curt in all their interactions leading up to the game, but now he gave Cody the slightest of smiles.
Cody entered the stadium seating and spotted the rows where his group was located. As he was descending the concrete steps, he bumped into a Hispanic man with a large, dark mustache walking up the stairs.
"Excusa me," the man said. Cody made his own excuses and stepped by. The man's aftershave caught Cody though. It mingled with the smell of fresh air and beer and football, and Cody thought he could actually smell his grampa. He had missed his face and his voice and his stories and fishing. But his smell? Apparently Cody had missed it. He missed everything about his grampa, of course. The scent was gone already, but the place it had triggered in his heart was so upset it almost knocked him on his ass. Cody clutched at the railing, wondering if he might burst into tears. Thankfully, a very small accountant chose that moment to punch him as hard as he could in the ass.
Cody jumped and turned to see Kevin, who must have been walking down the steps behind him.
"Like punching a bag of cottage cheese! You need to do P-90x with me some time."
Before Cody could protest, Kevin grabbed his hand and pulled him down into a one-armed bro hug. This was made easier by the fact that Kevin was on a step higher.
"This was a fun day." Kevin said. "You're alright, man. I only signed up 'cause I never turn down easy money, especially when I'm saving up for a boat. But you're all right, Cody Latour."
"Thanks for coming Kev. You guys did awesome."
They finished their descent to the Tiny Tacklers' seating. Cody knew pretty much everyone by name now. There was Kevin, of course. And there was Tanya and Trisha, the two athletic girls who had shown up for the first event at Carter Greenfield. Cody had begun to wonder during rehearsals if Tanya and Trisha were more than just friends. But the wondering was over. They were holding hands and Trisha was rubbing Tanya's back to keep her warm.
Glen was still the referee of the mock game, and Ace was there too. In Cody's few visits to Darla's, Ace was one of the only people other than Winton he had seen bring a taller person in, a knockout Filipina. Cody made a mental note to buy Winton and Ace a beer sometime and make them divulge their
secrets to dating.
At the end of the game, but before the crew began making their way up the stands to the nearest exit, a thunderous voice whooped behind Cody. He wouldn't have noticed it among the general din if a meaty hand hadn't clapped him on the back. Cody spun around and found himself staring into a big white cowboy hat. The large man underneath it was nearly eye-to-eye with Cody, who didn't recognize the broad ruddy face that stared back at him. Nevertheless, the large man flashed a big smile as if he were running into an old friend.
"Put 'er there," he said extending a huge hand. "Are you the one they call Lafleur?"
"Umm...Latour? Yes sir."
The big man shook Cody's hand vigorously. "And you're runnin' this here midget show?" The large man wore a light blue blazer, a bolo tie, and a belt buckle the size of a small plate.
Cody managed to get his hand back.
"Well...I'm part of—
"Great! We need to talk then." He clapped his hands together.
"First off, though, I got this passel of Jap buggers that wanna take pictures with your little buggers." Without waiting for Cody's ok, the giant man turned and waved at a group of Japanese men. They came bustling up and over the stands to where a group of Tiny Tacklers was still conversing near their seats. They were all men, thirty to sixty years old, Cody guessed, and most had large cameras around their necks. But as they streamed past, he noticed an array of other odds and ends adorning their persons, everything from giant foam fingers to beaded necklaces, and every other sort of cheap football souvenir one could imagine.
All the performers seemed to take the interest of the Japanese men as a compliment. The only tension arose when one of them tried to pick Trisha up as if she were an oversized house cat. She kicked him in the shins when he made to grab her under the arms. The other men laughed at him, shot thumbs up at Trisha and took more pictures.
The big man turned back to Cody. "I ain't seen 'em this happy since I introduced them to big, white stripper titties."