by Tim Green
It was the first peaceful moment they'd had since arriving at Carter's party that afternoon. Since then, Hunter had answered question after question about football. He had the feeling that he was more of an attraction than a guest. So when the tables of food finally drew the crowd toward the house, he and Rachel retreated to the beach. As they stood looking out at the Atlantic, groups of Carter's wealthy friends climbed the stairs to the boardwalk and came in from the beach. Two couples passed quietly, stopping only to look back and whisper that it really was Hunter Logan.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Rachel said above the breeze. They were used to people stopping to stare and seemed not to notice.
Hunter nodded, "Mmm. I'm beginning to think we should have stayed home and had a nice quiet Fourth with your parents and Sara."
Rachel turned to him. "I want you to know that I think what you're doing is good," she said. "I know you aren't really comfortable socializing with these people. I know you're not having a good time, and I know you're doing it for Sara and me. As bad as it seems sometimes, people groping at you, not giving you a minute to breathe, it is a good idea to make these kind of contacts now. I know you, Hunter, you'll want to stay in the thick of things long after football, and the people you meet now can help you do that. Look at your friend Metz. He was a big name around New York one time, wasn't he?"
"He went to the Pro Bowl," Hunter said. 'That's big."
"Right," said Rachel, "and look at him now, working a job he doesn't really like, scratching to make ends meet."
"It seems like that's what happens to most players when they're done," Rachel continued. "I know it won't happen to you, honey, but I just want to make sure. Not for me. I don't care if we're rich or poor, you know that, but I know you, Hunter. You like to be on top, and you should, even after football. I mean, you have So many opportunities right now."
"You don't have to apologize, Rach," he said. "I'm here tonight because I want to be. I think you're right about taking advantage. I realize that in a couple of years no one will care about Hunter Logan. I'm glad you got on me about it. As much as I like Metz, I'd hate to have that kind of life, where the only thing you've got is something that's already gone.
'The only thing I think is," he continued, "that after the money I make this year, I won't have to worry about working after football anyway."
Rachel opened her mouth to speak.
"I know, I know," Hunter said, raising his hand to cut her off, "the more you make the more you spend, I know."
Rachel smiled at him. "Do I say that?"
Hunter pulled her close and hugged her.
"If you weren't so right all the time, you'd be hard to live with," he said, kissing her soft dark hair.
After a few more minutes, Hunter's hunger overcame his aversion to the crowd, so they headed back to the house, hand in hand. Hunter loaded his plate and half of Rachel's with steamed clams, corn on the cob, and three fresh lobster tails. They found two unoccupied seats together at one of the tables on the breakfast terrace. Hunter got a sweating bottle of Amstel Light out of a silver tub for himself and asked one of the bartenders to mix up a sea breeze for Rachel.
"Can you imagine what all this must cost?" Hunter said between mouthfuls of lobster.
This is a nice party," Rachel replied. "But he can afford it with a team like the Titans."
"Someone told me Carter has his own fireworks display after dinner. They said it's bigger than the show they put on in town. I guess people come from all over and line the beach to watch his show. Can you imagine that? Your own damn fireworks?"
Rachel nodded and said, "If they're going to start soon, I'm going to go in and use the ladies room, OK?"
"Sure," Hunter said, "I'll wait right here."
Hunter watched Rachel make her way through the guests and disappear into the house. He thought of the time he had gone in to use the bathroom at his first party here. Blood surged involuntarily to his face. Despite himself, he began to look around, just to see if Camille Carter wasn't there. Hunter didn't think it would hurt to take a discreet look at her as long as Rachel didn't see him doing it.
"Mister Logan?"
Hunter turned toward the heavy Spanish accent that had come from behind his chair. One of Grant Carter's servants was standing there shifting nervously on her feet. A small, dark-skinned boy with jet black hair peered out from behind the woman's black-and-white uniform. Hunter guessed the boy was about eight years old.
"Yes?" he said politely.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Logan. I do not wish to bother you. I wait until you and you wife finish eating. I no mean to bother you, but I promise Jesus I try to get him to meet you. Jesus is very good boy. He work hard in school and he get good grades. He know you come to this house sometimes because I talk to him about it after you here last time, and Jesus, it was his birthday last week. All he want is to meet you, Mr. Logan, and get you autograph. I'm sorry, Mr. Logan. I no mean to bother you. I wait until you finish eating and you wife leave you."
Hunter held his hand up. "Please," he said, "I'm happy to give Jesus an autograph. Come out here, Jesus, and let me shake your hand, buddy."
Jesus's mother beamed from ear to ear. "I told Jesus you are a very nice man, Mr. Logan. This mean so much to him. He have your card and here is pen to sign with."
Hunter held out his hand and gripped the young boy's hand firmly but gently.
"So you're good in school, huh?" Hunter said.
Jesus nodded, wide-eyed with awe.
Hunter smiled at him. "Well, it sure is nice to meet a boy who does good in school," he said. "You keep working hard, OK?"
Jesus nodded so hard it looked like he might snap his own neck. Hunter chuckled and whipped his signature off on the card.
"Maria!"
The caustic voice made all three of them turn and stare. It was Grant Carter himself. He was dressed in a white sports shirt and a blue blazer. His face was beet red from either too much sun or too much drink.
"You know damn well better than to be out here with your boy!" Carter said. "I don't pay you to socialize with my guests. I've had this talk with you before about your boy. If you insist on bringing him to my house when you come to work, he stays in the kitchen with you, and I mean it!"
"Mr. Carter," Hunter said calmly, rising from his seat, "this really is my fault, sir. I saw Jesus in the kitchen and I told him if he had a football card of mine to bring it out after dinner and I'd sign it for him. It really is my fault. I feel terrible."
This seemed to confuse Carter. It wasn't normal for someone to intercede on behalf of one of his servants. He stuttered between continuing his remonstrance of Maria and telling his quarterback to mind his own damn business.
"What a nice thing to do," said Camille, who appeared beside her father from nowhere. "I think that is so nice. Don't you think that's nice, Daddy, that Hunter would ask the little boy to come out here to give him his autograph?"
With that, Camille put her arm through her father's and led him away, saying, "I'm sure Maria was just coming to get him. Oh, not that you don't have reason to be angry, Daddy ..."
Maria gathered her son and hurried him off, giving Hunter a smile so grateful that it made him sad. Hunter shook his head and wondered whether Carter was drunk or if he was really that big an ass. He turned back to his table and grabbed for his beer. He was surprised to see that a sharply dressed man with long, sleek hair pulled back into a ponytail had sat next to him during all the commotion.
Tony Rizzo," the young man said, holding out his bronzed, carefully manicured hand to Hunter.
"Hi, I'm Hunter Logan," Hunter said, shaking his hand and instantly getting a bad feeling about this guy.
"Of course," Tony said in a heavy Brooklyn accent, "everyone knows who you are. That was really nice, Hunter, what you did for that wetback. You must be a really nice guy."
Hunter scowled. He didn't like to hear that kind of talk. First it was wetback, then nigger, then dirty Jew. He didn't go for that shit
.
"Yeah," he said coldly, hoping his tone would get the message across, "I guess so."
"So," Tony said, not affected in the slightest, "who do you like in tonight's game? The Yankees or the Red Sox?"
Hunter could only figure this guy was on drugs. He shook his head and looked around for Rachel, hoping she'd return and get him away from this loud-mouthed jerk.
"I don't know," Hunter said. "I don't follow baseball much."
"No? But you follow basketball, don't you?" Rizzo said with his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.
"Not really," Hunter said.
"No? Gosh, I happen to know that you did real good on the playoff game between the Knicks and the Bulls. Made yourself an easy ten. didn't you?"
Hunter felt sick. This guy was giving him the creeps. He simply stared at Rizzo, not knowing what to say.
"Yeah," Rizzo chuckled, "you like basketball, but your real thing is football, huh? You been kicking my ass during the football season."
"I never, I don't--" Hunter stammered.
"Forget it, Logan," Tony said, rudely dismissing Hunter's denial with a wave of his hand.
Rizzo leaned forward. He motioned for Hunter to do the same. Hunter hesitated, looked around, and then did as he was told.
"I got you by the balls, motherfucker!" Rizzo hissed. "I got the whole deal on you and your fat buddy Metz. I got records of your bets, and I got pictures of your fat friend paying you off, so don't you try to fuck with me!
"You got guts, too," Tony continued malevolently. "I give you that. I checked the records real careful, and I see that you bet a grand on one of your own games last year late in the season. That took some balls, betting on your own game like that, against your own team!"
Hunter saw hatred in Tony Rizzo's eyes. It scared him. He didn't even know this guy, but here he was staring at Hunter with hatred and contempt. He was crazy, too. Hunter had never bet his own game. His mouth was dry. He swallowed. Tony sat back and smiled.
"Yeah, but that's nobody's business but yours and mine, right?" Tony said. "Sure, if that was to get out, that you were betting on NFL games, and then bumping up the stakes against your own team when you personally have your worst day of the season? Let's see ... they'd boot your ass from the league forever. Well, I don't want to see that happen. No, especially with you owing so much money on those two nice houses you got, as well as the family farm back in fucking Podunk, West Virginia."
Tony savored the shock on Hunter Logan's face before he said, "Oh, yeah, I know all about you, big shot. I know about your little girl and your cute wife. See, I like to know everything about a guy before I go into business with him. But you got nothing to worry about with me. I'm just gonna ask you a little favor some time, maybe ask you to come my way, and when I do, you're gonna fucking do it without giving me any shit, 'cause if you don't make me happy, motherfucker, I'll drop the fucking curtain on you. I'll end your fucking show, Mr. Big Shot."
Rizzo got up and put his hand on Hunter's shoulder.
"Enjoy the fireworks," Rizzo said pleasantly.
Chapter 17
Absolutely not" was Fellows's reply.
"I don't see why not," Cook said. "Maybe we can get some help from him. Maybe he knows something."
"Cook, I wish you could hear yourself," said Fellows. 'This is an important man, and you want to shake up his life because his daughter is sleeping with Tony Rizzo? How many other women has Tony Rizzo slept with in the past six months? Do you want to contact their fathers, too?"
"But this man owns a professional football team! Rizzo spent the damn weekend at his beach home. There may be some connection," Cook said.
Fellows stared malignantly at his underling. They were seated in the large conference room where Fellows always held his Saturday meetings. The rest of the supervisors had gone home to play with their kids or golf or do whatever it was that senior-level FBI agents did in their spare time. Cook had remained. He didn't want to have to go through this with his colleagues looking on. He had known how Fellows would react.
Actually, it was how most FBI higher-ups would have reacted. If you wanted to get some help from a small-fry businessman, go ahead, threaten to shut him down or sic the IRS on him. Remind him that his daughter in Seattle grows pot in her backyard. You do what you have to in order to get people to cooperate. No one wanted to help law enforcement these days. No one wanted to get involved, so it was standard procedure to lean on the little people.
But you just try to talk to some big shot like Carter, and you had someone from the attorney general's office on the phone telling you to back off, police harassment and all that shit. Cook didn't think for a minute Fellows would go for it, especially since he didn't really have a good reason to do it. He just had a feeling. Unfortunately, since the Keel incident, Cook's intuition wouldn't count for much with Fellows.
"Cook," Fellows said finally, "if you want to inform Grant Carter of Tony Rizzo's involvement with organized crime, OK. You can even politely ask him if he has any information that might help us in our effort for an indictment, but I know what you've got in mind and I'm not going to let you harass a man like Grant Carter into helping you do your job. In fact, if you do decide to contact Carter, I'll go with you. I don't trust you, Cook, and I don't trust your instincts."
Fellows rose, signaling an end to the meeting.
"You let me know if you want to talk with Carter," he said on his way out of the room without looking back. 'Then call my secretary and I'll see if I can set up a meeting. I don't want any calls from Washington telling me to back off of a guy like Grant Carter, so you make sure you do exactly as I've said."
"Fucking pompous ass!" Cook said when the heavy door had slammed shut.
Metz had taken the Fourth and made a vacation out of it. An old Titans teammate that he'd kept in touch with was now a U. S. Tobacco rep up in Watertown, New York, near the Canadian border. His buddy had a house on an island in the middle of the St. Lawrence River, and the two of them, along with some of his friend's other cohorts, spent a full week on the island, fishing, drinking, and playing cards. It had been a dream vacation for Metz and already he was planning on going back for Labor Day. When he pulled up to his town house, cramped tightly on a street of town houses that looked just the same as his, he was depressed. He missed the wide-open river and the air and the trees. The way he saw it, his life was pretty much a shit pile.
As he pulled his gear from the trunk of his old Cadillac, he remembered the words of his buddy: "Come up here," he'd said. "I can get you a job as the rep for Syracuse. We could fish every fucking weekend."
The only thing bad about that was Syracuse. Metz had grown up in a small town, and when he arrived in New York years ago, he'd sworn he would never go back to one. It was something to think about, though. He would be able to afford a house of his own upstate, a house with some trees and a lawn.
Instead of making two small trips to get his stuff inside, Metz bogged himself down with all his gear. When he got to the door he ended up dropping half of it to get his key in the lock. There was no welcome inside besides the familiar smell of himself and the bowl of potpourri he kept on top of his TV. The answering machine was blinking, twenty-seven messages. That was more than he'd ever had before. It was strange. He rewound the tape. The first message was Hunter.
"Metz," said a disturbed voice, "it's me, Hunt. I'm out at the Hamptons. It's the Fourth at night. Call me whenever you get in. I don't care how late."
The next message was from Hunter as well. And the next, and the next. By the fifth message, Hunter was audibly angry.
"You fucking son of a bitch! Why aren't you calling me back? Call me, Metz. I need to talk to you!"
Metz waited no longer. He clicked off the machine and dialed Hunter's home at the beach. Rachel answered.
"Is everything OK?" Metz asked Rachel.
"As far as I know," Rachel said, her voice turning wary.
"Oh . . . good. Well, is Hunter there?"
"Yes, he's in the back, throwing," Rachel said, and then Metz heard her call to her husband.
"Hi, Metz," Hunter said in a cheerful voice. Then to Rachel, Metz heard him say, "Honey, will you go keep an eye on Sara? She and her friend are out on the dune, and I don't want her disappearing on us."
Metz could hear Hunter waiting for his wife to leave.
"Metz, tell me the fucking truth," Hunter said in a low, angry voice. "Did you put money on a Titans game last season?"
"No," Metz said reflexively.
"Metz," Hunter said in a pained way, "don't lie to me, man. It's so fucking important. Did you bet a Titans game?"
Metz thought for a moment. He wished he was back on the river, sitting on the front porch and watching the sun go down over Canada.
"Metz!"
Hunter's voice startled him.
"Well, just once," Metz said meekly. "It was that one game at the end of the year, Hunter. I didn't mean nothing by it. You were sick, remember? You had the flu and you guys were playing out in L. A. I had the money from all I'd won during the year. The game didn't mean nothing to you guys. You were already in the play-offs. I just figured I'd take a chance with all my winnings in one shot. You were pretty sick." Metz gave a nervous laugh and then said, "Why?"
"I told you never to bet the Titans, man. How could you do it? How the fuck could you do it, Metz? You fucking promised, you son of a bitch. You were supposed to be my friend, Metz."
"Hey, Hunt, I am your friend, buddy. Don't get so down. I didn't think it was any big deal. It's not like you did anything wrong--"
"Metz, don't call me anymore," Hunter said. "You fucked me, man. Just stay the hell away from me."
The phone went dead. Metz's lip quivered. This was bad. He wondered what could have happened. He sat down in his chair and dialed his buddy in Watertown. Something was really bad.
Carl sat rigidly in the leather seat of the new-smelling Cadillac Seville. The car shot down the Cross Island Expressway through the dark, thumping and bumping over potholes and random gaps in the road. Even at this late hour, traffic was not thin. Carl was nervous but excited. He had the feeling that this was a big opportunity for him. He had been begging Jimmy to give him some big work, some real work, for a long time now. He'd worked for Jimmy since he graduated from high school four years ago. It was his dream to be made a member of a family. He'd always been in and out of trouble as a kid and had never thought of aspiring to be anything other than a gangster in the Mafia.