Titans

by Tim Green

  Rachel laughed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know it's not funny. But you've never given our finances the slightest bit of thought, and now, when you'll be making more than ever before, you're suddenly concerned about some bad investments made long ago. I can't figure you sometimes, Hunter, I really can't."

  They were up on the softer sand now and the walking was harder. They made their way through the grassy dunes to the house.

  Tm just thinking worst-case scenario," he said. "I can't help worrying about the worst case. I don't want to let you down, Rach. I want to take good care of you and Sara."

  Hunter reached inside the sliding glass door, glad to have sidestepped a major confrontation about his gambling. He hoisted a large duffel bag over his shoulder. Rachel picked up a deck chair and followed him silently as he went back down the steps. She sat in her chair as Hunter dug into the bag for a football. A local carpenter had rigged up a two-by-four frame and some netting with a tire suspended in the middle by four rusty chains. The awkward-looking contraption sat tucked between the slope of one of the grassy dunes and the back corner of their house. Hunter stood about thirty yards away from it. He began to zip the balls through the tire. Rachel loved to watch him. His motion was smooth and beautiful, and she loved to hear the sound of the footballs as they whistled through the air. She equated that sound with peace, probably because the two of them had had many of these moments together and Hunter, lost in the effort of something he did so well, would for a few brief moments shut down the internal engines that seemed to drive him through life.

  After he'd thrown a half-dozen balls, Rachel spoke.

  There is no worst case," she said quietly. "So stop hanging your head and try to enjoy these last few days before you leave us for that god-awful camp. We have nothing at all to worry about."

  The week after the Fourth crawled by painfully for Grant Carter. He was paralyzed by the impending meeting with Morgan Lloyd at First Bank. Guy Fitzpatrick, the Titans' general manager, had been after him to give his final approval to some rookie contracts, but he had no heart for it. The thought that the Titans might not even be his anymore invaded his every thought. He struggled diligently on the phones, seeking alternative financing from every source he could conceive of. No one was willing to help. The properties he owned had dropped so much in value that he had only his reputation to offer, that and the Titans. But when someone so much as mentioned his team as a possible bargaining chip, he would hang up abruptly. That was the only reason he was searching for a new source of money, to save the team.

  After a week of no sleep and nothing but failures, Grant Carter once again found himself in the imposing offices of First Bank. Despite his precarious position, Carter maintained an air of dignity that in no way revealed his financial weakness. He had his pride, and if he had to go down, he would go down with his chin up. He would fight and scrape until nothing was left. He would take on First Bank in the courts and sue them for everything he could think of. He would destroy his records. He would pay off construction managers to abandon current projects. He would transfer the team to one of his shell corporations owned by Camille and file for bankruptcy. First Bank would ultimately get his team. But they wouldn't get it without a fight, and Morgan Lloyd wouldn't be the one to dole out options on the Titans. It would take years, and it would probably cost him everything he had. Grant Carter had built himself up from nothing and he could do it again. Surrender was not a word in his vocabulary.

  There was no waiting this time, and Carter assumed Lloyd had eagerly awaited this moment. In a way, Carter was looking forward to this meeting as well. It had been clear to him a week before that he was backed into a corner, and he was eager to draw the battle lines. He would tell Lloyd that if he planned on taking him out, he'd better be ready to lose some sleep.

  When Carter got his first look at Morgan Lloyd, he immediately thought the man was ill. Lloyd was pale and drawn. Dark bags sagged under lusterless eyes that twitched uncontrollably. The tick in the corner of Lloyd's mouth was going nonstop, like some broken child's toy. Carter smiled ever so slightly. It didn't bother him to see his enemy like this.

  "Mr. Carter," Lloyd said fawningly, rising from behind his desk and showing Carter to a seat on the leather couch, "I'm glad you're here. I've been anxious for our meeting."

  Lloyd sat down across from Carter on the edge of a wing chair.

  Grant Carter eased himself comfortably back into the couch and began to assess the situation. He knew already that things had changed. He had been in enough negotiations to know when a man had lost his support. Carter could tell from his appearance alone, even without his beaten demeanor, that Lloyd had somehow lost a crucial component that was required to carry out Carter's destruction. Carter's mind raced with the possibilities. None made sense. Felix LaMonte was not a man to change his mind about something, and if he had, certainly he would be in this meeting himself, scrambling wildly to make up. Also, Carter knew he was vulnerable. He had been well aware of his situation even before his previous meeting with Lloyd. He had known that some pressure from someone high up within First Bank could ruin him. So what could it be?

  The answer was not forthcoming, but that didn't bother Grant Carter. He knew that sometimes in business, things happened in unexpected and fortuitous ways. It was important when such aberrations occurred that the beneficiary go along with them as though it was expected from the start.

  So when Morgan Lloyd said, There's been a mistake," Carter simply nodded and smiled blandly and waited for him to continue.

  "It's just that..." Lloyd seemed to be searching Carter's face for something. Carter gave him stone. "It's just that I realized over this past week that you have been an invaluable client to First Bank for years, and that the solvency of your financial position will most certainly resolve itself in time. Well, I'm sorry to have troubled you with all this, Grant. Please, let's just leave it at that and go on as though none of this has ever happened."

  Grant Carter rose and waited for Lloyd to stand and offer his hand. "I'm glad you've come around, Morgan," Carter said with a vague note of condescension as he took the man's hand briefly. "It wouldn't have done either of us any good the other way."

  Carter thought he saw raw fear in Lloyd's eyes. Why, he couldn't figure for the life of him. Whatever the reason, though, Grant Carter knew he liked it, and whenever he found out where it was coming from, he imagined he'd give Lloyd a few more doses of it before he was through.

  Later that day, Carter's question was answered when his secretary told him there was a Tony Rizzo on the phone who insisted that he speak with him.

  "He says he's a friend of Camille's, Mr. Carter, and that it was important. If he hadn't mentioned Camille, I wouldn't be bothering you, but I thought you might want to know," the secretary said apologetically.

  "Ah, yes," Carter said, and because he was in a particularly good mood and it might humor his daughter to accept such a plea, he agreed to take the call.

  "Hello," Carter said dully as he picked up the phone.

  "Grant. This is Tony Rizzo." The voice was an arrogant one, and Carter had to replay breakfast in the Hamptons in his mind to match this voice to Camille's Tony. And he couldn't recall telling the young man to call him Grant.

  "I met you in the Hamptons over the Fourth, with Camille," Tony said, immediately dispelling all doubt.

  "Yes, Tony, what can I do for you?" Carter said with cool impatience.

  "Well, I was just checking up on that First Bank situation to make sure everything was all smoothed over."

  Carter almost fell out of his chair. How could Tony Rizzo know?

  "Yes. Yes, everything's fine. Nothing to worry about after all," Carter said.

  "Oh, that's real good, 'cause I made a few calls to some friends about that deal on Tuesday and I just wanted to check with you to make sure things were back on track."

  Carter didn't know what to think. Could it really be possible that this young punk had something to do with Morgan Lloy
d's turnaround?

  "Well," Tony said abruptly, not giving Carter a chance to wonder any further, "I'm real glad things worked out for you, Grant. You just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. Anybody who's important to Camille is important to me, too. I want you to know that. Good-bye, Grant."

  The phone went dead.

  Grant Carter buzzed his secretary. "Where is Guy Walker?" he asked her.

  "He's in Brockport with the team," she replied.

  "Well, get him on the phone for me. Right now. I don't care what he's doing or what you have to do to get in touch with him. Call the damn Brockport police and have them drag him off the practice field if necessary, but find him and have him call me immediately."

  Carter clunked the phone down to let her know just how serious he was. Walker was essentially useless, a washed-out ATF agent from Chicago who he'd hired on as a favor to a friend. Carter had wondered before why the league required every team to have someone in charge of team security. Well, maybe he could be useful now. For ten minutes Carter did nothing but think about Rizzo. What he came up with was not comforting, but then again, anything was better than what Lloyd had been planning to do to him. The phone rang.

  "Walker?"

  "Yes, Mr. Carter, they just got hold of me."

  "Do you know someone by the name of Tony Rizzo?"

  There was a pause, then Walker said, "How would I know him?"

  "From around town. He's in the construction business, I think."

  "I can't say I do offhand, Mr. Carter, but I can make some calls and have some people run a check on him."

  "I want you back here now. I want you to handle this yourself. I want to know who this Tony Rizzo is. I want everything and I want to see it before the end of today. Now get back here."

  Again he hung up the phone abruptly.

  Grant Carter sat thinking for a few more minutes, then rose from his desk and looked out over the grass practice fields where the Titans carried on their in-season training. He stared at the sun-yellow goal posts and the bright orange blocking dummies. Without his players teeming about, sweating and knocking one another senseless, things just didn't seem right out there. But then again, things didn't seem right elsewhere either.

  Ellis Cook spun and leveled his pistol at the advancing form. He fired and the figure dropped. From the gloom another figure sprang toward him, and again he fired. Now both lay in the muck that covered the concrete floor beneath his feet. He was in an old warehouse and it was dark with fog. Still, he could see enough to know that both the forms that now lay at his feet wore masks. There were three, though, where he thought there'd been only two and now their masks were off. Cook's scream came from deep within him. The horror was beyond anything he'd ever known. He drew a deep, quick breath and began screaming again, emptying his soul with the shriek. Beneath his feet were the lifeless faces of Tommy Keel, his girlfriend . . . and Naomi.

  Cook's scream shook him from sleep. He sat up straight in bed. He hurt from the inside out. He ached for Naomi, and the unfairness of her death cut deep into him like a day-old wound. Even through the shock and dread and horror of his dream there was a certain joy in seeing her, even her corpse. Cook felt like mixing himself a drink, but decided not to. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and peered in on Natasha, his only comfort. Esther stirred and Cook shut the door quietly.

  He got back into his own bed. The blankets were still in a heap on the floor. He pulled them back onto the bed and wiggled his feet in through the tangle in order to straighten them out. He pulled them up to his chin and shut his eyes. His mind began to turn. It was the same old thing for him. Possibilities and leads turned over and over in his mind as if by will they could help him to bring down Tony Rizzo. Tommy Keel came to mind, and Cook huffed to himself in the dark. He couldn't even dream in peace anymore.

  Sleep would not return for Cook, so when the clock struck five he showered and dressed quietly. He phoned Conrad Duffy and suggested meeting him for breakfast. Duffy, Cook knew, was always up early, and Cook had in fact just caught him on his way out the door. They met at a Greek diner on Eighth Avenue. The place was packed with men wearing work boots and unkempt Cartwright overalls. Their faces were mostly rough and unshaven. Cook and Duffy, two black men in suits, drew stares as they sat down and ordered eggs and coffee.

  "Thanks for meeting me," Cook said as the buzz of conversation that filled the place resumed.

  "I'm glad you called," Duffy replied, sniffing the smell of bacon and toast from the greasy air around them.

  "Listen, I want to know what you think about all this stuff with Grant Carter, Duffy. You've been in this city all your life. Sometimes I get the feeling I'm missing things, like things are different here."

  "You don't seem to miss much, if you ask me," Duffy said as he dumped a package of sugar into his coffee and began to stir it with a battered spoon. "But since you ask, I think you should let the Carter thing go."

  "I know, but I could squeeze Carter. If Fellows would only stop being such a prick."

  "Let me tell you something about Fellows," Duffy said. "Prick that he is, he's right about Grant Carter. First of all, Carter wouldn't be such an easy nut to crack. If that motherfucker didn't want to help and you tried to pull some shit on him, he wouldn't scare so easy. He's a bad dude. You have to be to do big business in this city. I bet he could have your ass transferred to fucking Forsythe County if he had the itch to do it.

  "You're trying too hard, brother," Duffy continued after downing another gulp of coffee. "If something is up with Rizzo and the Titans, we'll see it. All we have to do is keep watching and waiting."

  "We're never going to see anything if Rizzo throws his tail every time he does business he doesn't want us to know about."

  "He's only lost us a few times," Duffy offered.

  "Yeah, but those few times must be the ones when he was doing dirty work. The rest of the time he's clean as a whistle. You know as well as I do he's on to us."

  "I don't know," Duffy said, taking a careful sip from his mug. "It is possible that Rizzo is simply careful. We've had this conversation before."

  There's a leak somewhere," Cook said. "It could be Marrow."

  They were both silent. Duffy knew that the thought had been floating around in Cook's mind. It had occurred to him as well.

  "It could be anyone, or no one," Duffy said finally.

  "You? Could it be you?" Cook said.

  "It could be me. It could be you," Duffy replied flatly.

  "What are you telling me?"

  "I'm saying that you may have to fish around on your own. You may have to stop keeping everyone so informed. Just take in what everybody gives you and keep it to yourself."

  That's no way to handle a team," Cook said as he made room on the table for a platter of food. He didn't mention the fact that his fishing had already put him on notice with Fellows.

  "You're the head coach," Duffy said. He had played college ball at Syracuse and he had the habit of using analogies from his bygone days. "You call the plays. The tight end doesn't need to know what the strong safety's doing. Why don't you try skipping the Monday morning meetings where everybody reports what they're doing to everyone else? Let it rest for a while. Tell everyone you want the time spent out on the street. That's where all the juice is, in those Monday meetings. That's how come everyone knows everything about what everyone else is doing."

  "What about Marrow?" Cook said, digging into his food.

  "Tell him some things but not all things. Keep some important details to yourself. You're the boss, don't forget."

  "What about you?" Cook said, looking up.

  Duffy flashed a brilliant smile of perfect teeth.

  "Don't even tell me everything, OK? That's how I'd do it. . . Pass me that jelly."

  Cook smiled back and passed ajar filled with purple goo. "I'm not keeping anything from you. Two heads are better than one. Besides, if I can't trust you, then I give up," Cook said, continuing t
o eat.

  When both their plates were clean, Cook said, "I want to make some kind of contact with the Titans. I just have a feeling about it. I can't shake it. If I can get the drop on some kind of scam or something, I can make some people talk. That's what we need, people to talk. We need to get someone in the Mondolffi organization between a rock and a hard place, offer them witness protection, and watch them sell Tony Rizzo's ass down the East River. I know what you're saying about letting Rizzo run his course, but. . . well, damn it, I want to get the lay of the land."

  Duffy seemed to consider something, and then he said, "I think I might have a way to make that happen. There's a guy by the name of Vince Peel. He's a good guy. He's in the Queens office, and he's the guy that goes out to the Titans training camp every year with someone from the DEA to read the players the riot act about drugs and guns and gambling. He's been doing it since I can remember. We could ask him if he needs a little help. Maybe we could even get him to let you stand in. I know he gets a chance to meet everyone when he goes out there, the coaches, the players. I don't know about Grant Carter, but I know he's met him some time before."

  Cook was on his feet. He pulled a twenty from his wallet and flipped it on the table.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Let's go give him a call," Cook said.

  Duffy shook his head. "It's only six-thirty. This guy's an old guy."

  'That's perfect. Old men can't sleep past six-thirty anyway. Let's gdeg"

  Duffy shrugged and took one last gulp of coffee before he was on his feet. Cook was already out the door.

  Training camp was actually a relief to Hunter Logan. Normally it was the worst time of year, something he had dreaded since he was a kid when they used to have double sessions in the August heat when all the other high school kids were just starting to think about buying new school clothes. Now it was even worse. The NFL camps were at least a month long. It was a month of heat and pain and seclusion from your family. Hunter could not remember a training camp in his life when he did not think about quitting football.