Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  At long last, Cobb reached the man who had called to him. “Hey, Bobby, I thought you needed some action.” It was the Cougars’ center, an amiable gentleman built like the proverbial brick house. Mercifully, he had reinserted the bridgework he went without during games.

  “This where it’s at, Spud?”

  “Shit, yeah, Bobby.” The behemoth grinned. “It’s about time, don’tcha think? I got this little fox for me and I got this one for you.”

  Cobb inspected the foxes. Spud held one under his arm. Her feet were not touching the floor. Cobb thought Spud neither knew nor cared about that fact. The other young woman Spud held around the neck. He thrust her toward Cobb. Both women had fixed smiles as if they had been cast from plaster of Paris.

  “Not tonight, Spud. Have you seen Niall?”

  “The little guy? Yeah; he’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms. But I don’t think he’s asleep yet.” Spud roared at his venture into humor. He then scrutinized both women, the one in his hand and the one under his wing. Deciding to take them both, he moved them off toward the rear of the mansion.

  Cobb hurried up the stairs, nodding at and brushing by those he encountered on the staircase. He tried two rooms before he found Murray in the third.

  The young Irishman was seated on the side of a bed, which was covered with a red satin quilt. Stretched out on the quilt was a young woman in a white slip.

  Actually, Murray was more slumped than seated. He seemed transfixed by several lines of white powder spread out on a piece of wax paper on the nightstand. He looked up momentarily when Cobb entered. “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here now?”

  As Cobb approached, the girl moved apprehensively to the far side of the bed. Murray’s concentration returned to the neatly arranged powder.

  Cobb quickly and expertly appraised the woman. Neither a con artist nor a whore. One more groupie wanting to know firsthand, as it were, if all those muscles were genuine. This one obviously was abashed at Cobb’s expression.

  “Has he had any yet?” Cobb nodded toward the powder.

  The woman shook her head. She did not blink. Nor did she remove her gaze from Cobb’s face.

  “Hey, Niall, babe, what’s happenin’?”

  “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Had a little bit to drink, have you, babe?” Cobb could smell the sweet odor of bourbon.

  “Some.”

  Cobb shoved lightly; Murray fell back on the bed. “The trouble with you Irish is your image. You’re supposed to be great drinkers, but you can’t hold your liquor.” Cobb slid Murray’s loosened tie up to his neck, closing his shirt at the collar.

  “The trouble with you coloureds,” Murray’s speech was slurred, “is your image. You’re supposed to be sex maniacs. And you are as well.”

  Cobb pulled Murray to his feet and got him into his jacket. “You don’t want to get that white stuff up your nose, Mick. With or without booze. With booze, it could kill you. Any which way, it’s gonna scramble your head. Next thing you know you won’t be able to find the goalpost and you’ll be kickin’ my balls instead of Wilson’s. Then you and me, but most importantly me, will be the laughingstock of this city. And I don’t intend for that to happen. I intend to own this city for starters.”

  It was obvious that Murray was understanding none of this. Cobb was handling him as if he were a ragdoll.

  “Who got you started on coke, anyway?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, who got you started on coke?”

  “Oh, the Hun.”

  “It figures.”

  “Huh?”

  “That bastard! He’s got a knack of corrupting everything he touches. He’d pull the rug out from under me if he got the chance. Only he ain’t gonna get it.”

  Cobb supported Murray and began walking with him. Actually, Cobb virtually carried the Irishman. They would leave the mansion as close as buddies ever get, eliciting from other guests hopeful observations on racial harmony. Cobb would deliver Murray, untouched by alien hand, to the forgiving arms of his wife.

  “Hun a bas’ard,” Murray slurred as he was inserted into Cobb’s car.

  “That’s right, little Mick. You just learned a lesson that could save your life. But it won’t do much for the bastard.”

  Everywhere he looked, there was Hank Hunsinger. That was because his three walls were mirrored, top to bottom. The fourth wall was a picture window.

  He removed his jacket, wincing as he did so. He was growingly aware of this afternoon’s slings, arrows, and pummeling fists. Football commentators are fond of stating that when receivers leave the ground to catch a pass, they are “vulnerable.” And when they’re tackled midair, they “pay the price.” Unless the commentators have undergone the experience firsthand, they would have no notion of just how high that price is.

  Hunsinger entered the large walk-in closet. Neatly displayed was an extensive wardrobe of expensive jackets, coats, and foul-weather gear. He arranged his jacket on the appropriate hanger in the section reserved for green and green coordinates. A place for everything and everything in its place. He made certain the jacket he had just hung and the ones on either side of it were hanging free of each other so that no wrinkles would be inflicted.

  He crossed the living room to the kitchen. Both rooms were outstandingly large. But then his entire apartment was several times more spacious than the average apartment. He had money and, being of sound mind, had decided to spend it.

  He opened the liquor cabinet. Everything. Well, perhaps not everything. The best of everything. He selected a Scotch and poured it generously over several ice cubes.

  He returned to the living room and stood by the window, swirling the Scotch gently

  The Detroit River, vital artery of the Great Lakes. And Belle Isle, jewel-caressed on either of its shores by the river that separated Canada from the United States. Hunsinger never tired of the sight. Few did.

  He sipped the Scotch. Cold to the taste, it spread warmth through his body. His memory broke free and returned to the antithesis of all this-his youth.

  Growing up in Detroit’s southwest side. Poor. Although he hadn’t known they were poor. They always had food. Not top grade, but enough.

  He remembered 1954. He had been just seven years old when his father died. From then on, it was just Hank and his mother. She had gotten a job as housekeeper in the extensive convent that housed the nuns who taught at Holy Redeemer parochial school. Tagging around after his mother, he had become somewhat of a pet to the childless nuns-which largely accounted for the sufficiency of average food at his disposal. The nuns could not afford top-grade food, but with what they had, they pampered this growing boy.

  Oddly, he had attended public, not parochial, school. His mother told the nuns this was in accord with the wishes of his late Protestant father. She then confessed her lie to the priest, but could not bring herself to tell the nuns the truth: that with the little they paid her, she could not afford even the modest tuition at Holy Redeemer. What did the nuns know about it, in any case? Shielded by their vows of poverty, the trifle they were paid went to their religious order, not to them individually.

  All in all, it was a pleasant enough life. The first time Hunsinger realized they had been poor was when as a young man he saw pictures in the newspaper of poor homes, and recognized them as being identical to that of his old neighborhood. The houses of the poor were easily relatable to the home in which he’d grown up.

  He had liked the nuns. Through and because of them, he had stayed at least nominally close to his Catholic faith. And his mother’s place of employment gave her the opportunity to become a fanatical Catholic, attending several daily Masses, novena devotions, taking communion daily, and going to confession weekly.

  As for Hunsinger, outside of his close and uncluttered relationship with a lot of doting nuns, he became a creature of the streets. He grew quickly into a very big boy, and kept growing. His personal maxim-Do unto others
, then split-was a drastic paraphrasing of the gospel admonition. He was conscious of that. Very early, long before it became a popular credo, he had become primarily, indeed exclusively, concerned about Number One.

  He perceived early on that excellence in athletics could lead to a life in the fast lane not only for poor black kids, but for big white kids too. So he applied himself. He won all-state honors in basketball, baseball, and football at Western High. He was awarded a full scholarship at the University of Michigan. Drafted in the first round by the Cougars in 1969, this was his sixteenth season with the club. He was well past his playing prime. Each year it became increasingly tempting to hang ’em up. But each year the contracts got sweeter and more irresistible.

  However, the end could not be far off. Another season or two at the most. Even now, he had lasted longer than any other tight end in the history of professional football. He survived now mostly through a host of illegal, dirty tactics that he had mastered over the years.

  He was hated. He didn’t care. He would not now compete, nor had he ever competed, for Mr. Congeniality. Even members of his own organization hated him. Well, that was a concomitant when one was exclusively concerned with taking care of Number One. It didn’t matter. After all these years, he was quite good at taking care of himself and protecting his rear.

  Thinking of the care and feeding of Number One, he glanced at his watch and returned with a start to the present. It was nearly time for Jan to get here. She was becoming an expert in the care of Hank Hunsinger. He must prepare himself for her arrival.

  He set his glass, empty save for the remains of the ice cubes, on a nearby table. He had not been aware of having finished the Scotch. He noted that he was a bit lightheaded. It had been a long time since he had eaten. No matter; it might even add a dimension to the upcoming wrestling match with Jan. Booze had helped him in the past.

  He turned on the television and, after making a few adjustments, slammed a cassette into the Betamax. It was a movie featuring two, then many more evidently consenting adults, engaged in explicit sexual activity. It had no redeeming social value whatever. The Hun had been delighted to discover that Jan seemed to find voyeurism stimulating. Hunsinger certainly did. He turned down the volume; they could provide their own moans and groans live.

  He moved to the bedroom. Again mirrors-wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and ceiling as well. Lest there be some lingering doubt as to what was intended as the focal point of the room, the large circular bed was mounted on a platform.

  Hunsinger removed his clothing, placing each item precisely in its appointed place, making certain that when trousers and shirt were hung, adjacent garments would not be wrinkled.

  He stood naked in the center of his bedroom examining the multiple images of himself. The muscles were not as sharply defined as they once had been. But they were still evident. His six-foot-four, 232-pound body still resembled an ancient sculpture of an Olympian. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper brush cut. Almost no one wore his hair in a brush cut any longer. Hunsinger did it for the sole purpose of extending the image of a Hun that he carefully and profitably nurtured.

  Life was good. And in a little while it would get better.

  He removed his contact lenses and placed them in the Bausch amp; Lomb disinfecting unit, switching it on. He could still see, but fuzzily. A combination of nearsightedness and astigmatism blurred his vision.

  He entered the bathroom. There were neither shower doors nor curtains. Not even a stall. The shower was an adjunct of the enormous sunken tub. He turned the powerful jet of water on and waited until it became very hot, then slipped into it. It beat against his head, back, trunk, buttocks and legs. He moved slowly back, forth and around in the spray. So much better than the shower at the stadium. There it was crowded, hurried, and invariably followed by further perspiration as one dressed while others were showering. The steam kept pouring into the locker room. Then there were those damn television lights that further heated the area.

  This was nice. He could feel tight muscles loosen and relax under the relentless beat of the waterjet. He was in no hurry. Jan could join him in the shower when she arrived. It had been too long since they had started an evening by showering together.

  He reached for the shampoo, second container from the left on the shelf beneath the shower head. He could not read the label, but it didn’t matter. It was the correct shape, and besides, he always kept the shampoo second from the left on the shelf.

  He unscrewed the cap of the plastic bottle, poured a generous measure of shampoo into his left hand, and replaced the open bottle on the shelf-second from the left.

  He let some of the shampoo flow from his left to his right hand, and then began to rub it vigorously into his hair and scalp. With his brush cut, he was able to get the liquid to his scalp quickly.

  Something was wrong.

  He pulled both hands from his head and pressed them tightly to his chest. There was a terrible constriction there. It felt as if someone had placed a steel band around him and was tightening it rapidly. A heart attack? The very thought induced a further sense of panic. He was alone. No one would come to his aid.

  Suddenly, his entire body began to shudder. The shuddering intensified. He shook as if he were a ragdoll being battered about by a malevolent child.

  He tried, but could not control the violent shuddering. It became a spasm. Now his body was completely out of control. His hands shot to his neck, which had stiffened so he could not draw a breath.

  It was not so much that he fell as that he was thrown to the floor of the tub. His legs shot out stiffly, straight and rigid. He tried to breathe, but could not. He could feel his respiratory muscles tighten. His skin was turning from bluish to a purple discoloration.

  Suddenly his body arched, then balanced on his head and heels. It stayed in that taut position for long seconds.

  Then, as unexpectedly as it began, it ended. His body relaxed, and gave one more massive shudder. He was dead.

  The shower played unimpeded against the far wall. It ran down and formed a small pool where the body of Hank Hunsinger partially blocked the drain.

  Not much later Jan Taylor let herself into the apartment.

  “Hun?”

  No answer.

  She noticed the television was on. She also noted the images on the screen. She shrugged. So it was going to be one of those nights. Plenty of kinky sex. She loathed it, but would never let on to Hunsinger. He might be an animal in bed, but he did keep her well.

  She removed her coat and carefully hung it on the hook inside the closet door. The Hun had appointed that specific hook for her hanger and apprised her of the importance of always, without exception, using that hook for her coat. Left to her own devices, she would have thrown it over a chair.

  She could hear the shower running. She toyed with the option of waiting till he finished before announcing her presence as if she had just entered. It would spare her the unnecessary repetition of getting wet again. She had showered before leaving her apartment. And it would save her the indignities of Hunsinger’s shower routines. A far greater consideration.

  On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was waiting for her to join him. In which case, her absence would infuriate him. And the last thing she needed was a furious Hun.

  She shrugged and entered the bedroom. The sound of the shower was much clearer now. The lack of any sound but that of the water beating against a wall seemed somehow ominous, although she did not focus on any specific reason for her apprehension.

  While she removed her clothing, hanging each item on the designated hangers, she noticed the small red light indicating that his “cooker” was working and that his contact lenses were being cleaned. All the better to see you with, my dear.

  Naked, she entered the bathroom. Although she had been girding herself for the worst, she certainly had no way of anticipating this.

  She screamed. Over and over. Then she ran from the bathroom.

  Li
eutenant Ned Harris was in Hank Hunsinger’s bathroom. It was the scene of the crime and he was being careful not to miss a single detail. Very soon, investigative specialists would be swarming over the apartment, each performing his or her task. Before that happened, Harris had the rare opportunity to commune with the place where death had occurred, where, probably, murder had been committed. He would never again in this case have this perfect opportunity to be in this specific location where vital clues and silent testimony told no lies. As he studied the apartment, he allowed the everyday inanimate objects to talk to him wordlessly.

  Harris was an inch and a half to two inches more than six feet tall. His build was slender but powerful. Aquiline features and a receding hairline set off his deep black skin. He had been a part of the homicide division for most of his professional career. He loved it.

  His partner on this case, Sergeant Ray Ewing, was interviewing the witness, Jan Taylor, in the living room.

  Ewing, at five-feet-eleven, with a stocky physique, somewhat resembled singer Steve Lawrence. He also had Lawrence’s pleasant voice and engaging smile.

  Harris and Ewing had been the sole occupants of their squad’s office at police headquarters on that otherwise slow Sunday evening when they got the call from the uniformed officers who had responded to Jan Taylor’s 911 call.

  “Would you mind going over that one more time, Miss Taylor?” Ewing continued to scribble notes on his pad. “Why would Mr. Hunsinger take another shower when he got back here after the game? He would have taken one before leaving the stadium, wouldn’t he?”