by Tim Green
"OK," Hunter said, "so I won. Where's my money?"
"Hey, I said I'm buying, didn't I?"
Hunter laughed. "You kill me Metz, you really do."
After Hunter ordered some hash and eggs, Metz said, "You know, I've been keeping track. You're up fourteen hundred on the season."
"Not bad, huh?" Hunter replied. "I guess Hunter knows football."
Metz leaned over the table as far as his gut would allow and spoke in a whisper, "You know, if you ever decided to drop some really big numbers, we could make a killing. For this season you called it right 65.4 percent of the time. Did you know that?"
Hunter thought about it for a minute. "Ahhh, maybe if my contract is super-huge, I'll drop a little more down. Just to keep it exciting."
Although Hunter had been a quarterback in the NFL for many years, this was the first season in which he'd experienced any kind of notoriety. People had known him before, yes, but only the immediate circle of fans of his teams. Now everyone knew him as the world championship quarterback. Part of that newfound fame was an opportunity to make millions of dollars in product endorsements. Bernie Yugotnick, a longtime friend of Rachel's family, also happened to be a powerful figure on Madison Avenue. Bernie had brokered a series of lucrative endorsements beginning the very day after Hunter won the big game. What that meant to Hunter was a series of commercial shoots, photo sessions, and glad-handing with the elite of the advertising world.
For the most part, the whole circus was an annoyance, and Hunter quickly requested that Bernie limit his endorsements to the few highest-paying jobs. The best of these opportunities was with Nike. They put together a five-year, five-million-dollar contract that required Hunter to shoot only one thirty-second commercial each year. That was it. It was a single day's work once a year and the use of his image for five million dollars.
The Nike people wrote a commercial in which Hunter played the role of a sheriff in the Wild West. The horses wore, of course, Nike high-top sneakers. Black Bert and his band of horseshoe thieves were plaguing the town of OK, and it was up to Hunter to shoot it out with the bad guys. Hunter was to appear in a cowboy hat, duster, and a pair of Nike turf shoes to face down Black Bert. Instead of a gun, he was to wear a football on his hip.
The whole thing seemed ludicrous but fun, and Hunter had the leverage to insist that Bert Meyer be allowed to play the role of Black Bert.
"All he has to do is look mean and grunt, and that's what he does best. He doesn't even have to change his name," Hunter Said excitedly to Bernie, who pitched the idea to Nike.
Nike agreed. Bernie picked up Hunter in a long black limousine. The big car appeared in the early morning mist, cruising up the Logans' driveway like a ghost ship. Rachel and Sara were still sleeping. Hunter skipped downstairs like a kid at Christmas. He climbed into the car wearing a foolish grin on his face and shook hands with Bernie. They stopped at Bert's house and then headed to a sound-stage in Queens.
Five other members of the Titans team had also been picked to play supporting roles of good and bad sneaker-wearing cowboys. Hunter had chosen his two favorite linemen, Murphy and his left tackle, who everyone knew as "House"; his backup Bob Dunham; and his two favorite receivers, Brown and Weaver, to play the parts. Each of them was thrilled, not only because they had a chance to be in a national commercial, but because each of them would be getting ten thousand dollars to boot.
On the way to the studio, Bernie asked for the copies of the Nike contracts he had sent to Hunter.
"Nothing like waiting until the last moment," Hunter said, taking the contracts from the briefcase he'd brought along. "You got a pen?" Bernie rolled his eyes and took a pen from his inside jacket pocket. "You didn't sign them yet?"
"Nah," Hunter said, taking the pen from Bernie's hand. "I didn't get a chance."
Hunter immediately went to the final page of the first contract and scrawled his signature.
"Aren't you going to at least look them over?" Bernie asked.
Hunter looked up from the papers and said, "Why? I trust you."
"Well, it's not that," Bernie said. "You should be looking at these contracts I've been sending to make sure everything is as you want it to be."
"Is there something wrong?" Hunter asked, raising his eyebrows suspiciously.
"No," Bernie said, "everything's fine. But it's just a good idea.
"OK," Hunter said, and began flipping through the first few pages of the contract he had already signed.
"OK, here's something," he said. "What's this? Morality clause, what's that all about?"
"Read it," Bernie said.
"Come on, Bernie," Hunter said. "Just tell me what the gist of it is. I'm not going through all this junk. All these "whereases" and "wherebys," it'd take me a damn day to figure all this shit out. That's what I've got you for. I trust you, remember?"
Bernie pursed his lips. "Well, the morality clause is nothing really. It just protects Nike's investment in you should you become involved in something that would compromise their image because of their association with you. Say, for instance, that you're picked up on a drunk-driving charge and it winds up on 'Hard Copy.'"
"Yeah, so what happens? Not like that would happen or anything," Hunter added quickly. "I just mean something freaky, like I get caught cheating on my income taxes or something."
"Hunter," Bernie said in a quiet and serious voice, "have you done something crazy?"
"No," Hunter huffed, "I'm squeaky clean when it comes to that stuff, don't worry. I'm just saying what if?"
"Because I have some very good attorneys who can straighten things like that out before they become a problem."
"Bernie! Come on," Hunter said. "I told you. I haven't done anything of the sort. I'm just supposing."
"All right," Bernie said, "you almost gave me a heart attack, but yes, something like that would end your contract. They'd also get remuneration for all monies paid out to you until that time."
Hunter nodded without saying anything, then he looked up. "Well, that's not a problem, so there's no sense even thinking about it. You see? I'm better off just signing these things," he said brightly.
The shoot itself was an all-day affair. Most of the players' time was spent playing cards in a trailer that had been set up for Hunter in the alley behind the studio. There were more than ten different shots for the commercial, and each one had to be set up with meticulous care. There was an actor who had approximately the same build as Hunter who wore a replica of his costume and "stood in" on the set while director and crew got the lighting just right for each shot. Hunter's teammates kidded him about his becoming such a big shot.
During these times the players were expected to keep themselves busy. There was an elaborate buffet and a catering van that changed the fare throughout the day, but the Titans could eat only so much. Bert was the one who broke out the cards, and before they knew it, they were gambling away the ten thousand dollars they were earning for a day of fun.
The shots with the animals took the longest. The crew would get the horses just right, and then one of them would shit on the set and they'd have to clean it and start all over again. It was seven-thirty before they were ready to shoot the final scene. Hunter couldn't believe it took the entire day to shoot a thirty-second commercial, and to cap it off, the last scene took longer than any other. Hunter had to end it by rifling a football at a dummy that looked exactly like Black Bert. The dummy's head would spin wildly in the dust after each direct hit. Hunter missed the first three shots completely. His teammates doubled over with laughter.
"Some quarterback!" they howled.
Hunter eventually got his arm warmed up and was knocking off the dummy's head with every throw. Still, nothing went right and the players had to go through it again and again. It was nine-thirty when the director was finally satisfied and called it a wrap. Bernie had wisely left the set hours earlier. Hunter thanked the director and his teammates, then waved good-bye to everyone else on the set. The limousine was
waiting for him and Bert in the now dark alley. Hunter could smell the East River in the night breeze, and the unnatural stillness of the soundstage was replaced with the hum of traffic from the nearby Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Hunter and Bert climbed into the limo, ignoring the slurs against their manhood that House was bellowing as he climbed into his own car.
"You pussies!" House cried. "Come drink with us."
"You want to?" Bert asked Hunter as they flopped onto the cushioned seats.
"The hell with those guys," Hunter replied, pulling the door shut. "In the first place, they're crazy. In the second place, they're single."
Bert nodded and said to the driver, "Let's go ... to Hewlett Harbor."
The two friends said very little during the ride back to Hunter's home. They were both tired. The excitement that had carried them through the day left them drained. Hunter's shoulder was sore from throwing the ball so hard without properly warming up, and his body was stiff from all the standing around on the concrete surface of the studio floor. Finally the car pulled into the drive and up to Hunter's front steps.
"Hey," Bert said, extending his hand before his friend could open the door, "thanks."
"For what?"
"Just for including us."
"Aw, what the hell," Hunter said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
"No," Bert said, "I mean it. You're big time, Hunt. It was nice of you to bring us along with you. Bernie told me about how you made them put me in as Black Bert. It was nice. It really was."
"No problem, buddy," Hunter said, clasping his friend's hand.
"It was fun, wasn't it?" Bert said.
"Yeah, it was fun," Hunter replied, opening the door, "but I'm glad to be back home. I couldn't do that shit every day."
"No ..." Bert said. "Golf tomorrow after lifting?"
"I can play a quick nine if we're in and out of there," Hunter said.
"You got it, Hunt," Bert said with a broad smile. Hunter watched as the car drove away. He climbed the steps in his costume, smiling at the silly sound of the spurs against the stone and at the amount of money he had made for a day of fun.
Tony Rizzo hated mass. He tuned out the priest and thought about last night. He felt himself getting hard as he remembered the way the girl had moaned and writhed on top of him, the way his hands felt as they stroked her belly and breasts and then wrapped neatly around her smooth, thin neck. He had choked her, not to really hurt her, but to scare her, and watch her eyes bulge and feel her pussy tighten with fear. She had writhed and clawed at his hands and tried to scream.
Tony shifted uneasily in the pew. He glanced right and left at his aunt and his teenage cousin Maria. They would surely see the bulge that protruded from his crotch. He quickly unbuttoned his jacket and folded it on his lap.
It was only to please his uncle that Tony was at church at all. He would have much rather just rolled out of bed around noon like every other Sunday, and shown up for dinner later in the day. But this was Easter Sunday, and just dinner with the family would not do.
Tony looked forward to the day when they would be all out to please him. There'd be no mass then. A dinner maybe, at some place like Gino's on Lexington, something with a little class. He could have the place all to himself for the afternoon. No kids running around. No wives gossiping and bitching. Only the men would sit around, eating and drinking wine and having espresso. This way they could talk about business and pussy. Boy, would that piss off the old-timers.
Tony bowed his head and smiled as the priest said the benediction. He took Maria on his arm and followed his aunt and uncle to the parking lot. Maria rode the four blocks back to the house with him.
"I love riding in a Mercedes," the young girl said as they pulled out onto Lincoln Avenue. "A lot of my friends' dads have Mercedes. My dad says we have to buy American, though. That's why he-drives a Cadillac. How come you don't buy American, cousin Tony?"
Tony gave her a big smile. His teeth were perfect and their whiteness contrasted nicely against his tan skin and long dark hair. After that smile he could say anything and it would be gospel to a young girl, especially his cousin Maria, who had adored him for years. Like most of the women who crossed Tony Rizzo's path, she was drawn to his sculptured features and his half-lidded, indolent eyes.
"Sometimes, my angel, things have to change," he said. "But as long as it's for the better, it's OK."
Maria blushed and nodded as if she understood.
Uncle Vinny's house was in the middle of Bensonhurst. It was similar to every other house on the block, modest, painted white, and well kept. There was nothing unusual about the block except that maybe it was a little quieter and a little cleaner than those in other neighborhoods. Out back on a large fenced-in lawn, children ran about in Sunday clothes. There were five picnic tables laid out in the April sunshine. They were spread with fine linen and china. Women bustled about the kitchen talking and cooking. The men stood in clusters around the back patio. Uncle Vinny was already busy in his apron turning sausages and steaks on the grill, just beyond the patio.
As always, Dominic Fontane and Ears Vantressa stood like two over-size statues on either side of the grill. They both wore Ray-Bans, and would have looked silly if Tony wasn't used to seeing them with Uncle Vinny wherever he went. Uncle Vinny seemed to be concentrating hard on the meat, but one at a time the men would break off from the group and approach him. Some of them would talk for a few minutes, others appeared to say no more than two words. Occasionally Vinny would put down his fork and embrace the man he was about to talk to. This is what he did when it was Tony's turn. Then Uncle Vinny kissed Tony on either cheek.
'Tony, Tony," the older man said in a heavy accent, "how's my sister's son?"
"Fine, Uncle Vinny, thank you," Tony said.
"Good, good. We need to talk, Tony, come on . . . here," said his uncle, pointing at two lawn chairs on the grass, "let's sit down."
Tony looked toward the patio. All the men were watching but quickly averted their eyes. It was not often that Uncle Vinny would have someone sit with him on a Sunday afternoon before dinner. Tony tried to appear confident. He casually shook the gold Carder Panther down on his wrist.
"Now, Tony," Vinny began, leaning forward in his chair and speaking as much with his hands as his voice, "I know what you got in mind ..."
There was a long silence. Tony was glad it was a bright day and that he wore sunglasses so that his uncle would not notice his furtive glances at Dominic and Ears. Dominic remained motionless, and Ears only stepped forward to turn the meat.
"You want to please me," said his uncle finally. "You want to impress me, and I must say, I'm impressed. You're enthusiastic, Tony, just like your father was, and that's good. But Tony, you're too important to dirty your hands with something like the Fat Man. We have people for things like that."
"Uncle Vinny, I--"
Uncle Vinny held up his index finger. Tony was quiet.
"Now I know, Tony, that I told you someone needed to have a talk with the Fat Man, and I know he was making his own business arrangements on the side, but if I wanted you to get ugly with him, I would have told you, and I certainly wouldn't have expected that you would involve yourself personally, Tony. The Fat Man was an employee, and although he was a disgraceful thief and was cheating the family, I am the only one who decides when a person is no longer useful. When someone is eliminated in today's world, there must first be careful consideration. In this case, there was none, and now the entire family may have to pay the price."
Vincent Mondolffi's eyes turned cold.
"When you killed the Fat Man, you raised eyebrows, here and in Washington. Now there will be a special FBI task force whose sole purpose is to bring down this family. They will be looking at you, Tony, because they know you are a hothead. They figure if you've fucked up once, you'll fuck up again. You're a liability to us now."
Vincent Mondolffi looked off into the sky before he said, "If you were not my sister's s
on, Tony, I would have to make some kind of example of you."
There was a long pause. Tony tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
"But that I will not do," his uncle finally said, turning his gaze back on Tony. "However, this must be the last time we have a talk like this. You understand that, don't you, Tony?"
Tony nodded. "Uncle, may I say something?" he said quietly.
Uncle Vinny nodded.
"I meant no disrespect, none at all. But when I looked into the Fat Man's books and checked around, I found out that he was cheating a little during the regular seasons, but it was during the series and the championship and the Super Bowl that he was taking his big bite. A lot of people, it turned out, knew what he was up to. So, I figured the best way to send a message to everyone on the street was to do him, and do him during the game that he was raping us on."
Vinny nodded. Then he said, "And why did you not tell me this until now?"
"Uncle Vinny, I want to please you. You're good to me, you always have been. I want to do things the way you did when you were my age. I want to work my way up. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty. I want people to respect me, like they do you--"
"Tony, Tony, Tony . . . respect comes with time, not killing."
"But Uncle Vinny, I always remember you and my father talking about the old days, about how you used to make examples of people and how you'd never ask someone to do something that you would not do yourself. That's what I want. That's what I want to be."
'Times have changed, Tony," said his uncle with a tired sigh. "What we did then, we had to do. We've moved away from that now. We have businesses now that require tact and knowledge and finesse. That's why your cousin Vinny is at Wharton. The family is changing. I don't want you boys to have to do the things your father and I did when we were your age. Drugs and killing and violence, that's for the chinks and niggers and Colombians. I want you boys to have what your father and I could never have--respectability. I want you boys to be able to enjoy the fruits of life. I know you want that too. Look at the car you drive, and that Jew palace you live in. You can't live like that and go around killing people. We have to focus on the businesses. The gambling will be there, of course, that's our lifeblood, but no one cares about that, that's not even considered dishonest anymore. We've got to get the feds and the IRS off our ass. We've got to begin to act respectably, then you and your cousin Vinny can live like kings. That's what I want for the future of this family, respect."