Titans

by Tim Green

  The scar-faced man came in and told Tony that they would see him. He entered the dining room but didn't bother to sit down.

  "We would like to accept your gift, Tony," Mark Ianuzzo said with a warm smile, "but on a condition ..."

  "Certainly," said Tony, unable to hide his relief.

  "We would like to watch a game be controlled first," Ianuzzo said, "to see how it's done. We will put up some personal money, both Sal and I, as I assume Scott is going to do. We will see how that turns out and if it succeeds and it looks good to us, then we'll move some big numbers around. It's not that we don't trust you, Tony, it's just that these things are easier said than done. We want to see it first. If you can do it once, then you can do it twice.

  "If this all works out," the older man continued without a smile, "then we see no reason to interfere with your family business. We look at it simply as a gesture of good faith and friendship."

  It was a bad week for Hunter. The Titans lost their road game to Miami, and Hunter felt the loss was due to the three interceptions he'd thrown. There were two types of athletes in pro ball. One lost and looked around him for the reason; the other lost and looked within himself for the reason. Hunter was one of the latter. This made him a natural leader on the field, but it meant a lot of sleepless nights the week after a loss. At first, Rachel couldn't understand this. "It's one game," she would tell him. 'You didn't lose it by yourself. There are fifty other guys out there with you."

  Now, however, she knew better. She knew it was because he cared so much when his team lost that he could help them so much to win. When things were on the line, everyone knew that Hunter Logan could be counted on to leave everything he had on the field. No one seemed to suffer more when the Titans lost.

  If a loss wasn't enough to haunt him, Hunter's shoulder was acting up. And if those two things weren't enough, there was always Tony Rizzo to think about. Hunter had imagined that the longer Rizzo remained silent, the better he would feel. This was not so. Hunter had not forgotten Rachel's words about people like Rizzo not going away so easily, and the more time that went by, the more anxious Hunter became. He couldn't go anywhere without looking over his shoulder. Every time he pulled into a parking lot, he expected to see a van racing up next to him and the goon squad popping out to surround him. At every intersection Hunter would nervously scan the traffic around him. Every noise in the night woke him. It got so bad that he found himself wishing Rizzo would just appear so it could be over with.

  Because Hunter was so acutely aware, he saw Carl before Carl saw him. He was stuck at a traffic light, making a left off the Sunrise Highway. It was not uncommon for him to have to wait at this spot for three changes of the light on Wednesdays. Because of his long post-practice film sessions in the middle of the week, he usually did not leave for home until six o'clock, and the traffic was always bad.

  Carl was walking slowly toward him down the middle of the median that divided the traffic. His size and gait made him stand out from the shabby old guy selling papers, the Asian woman holding a white bucket of roses, and the other occupants of this small territory set between the opposing lanes of the rush-hour traffic.

  Hunter instinctively ducked when he saw Carl scanning the traffic. He felt like a fool when he heard the thug's beefy knuckles rapping on the window. Hunter looked up. What else could he do?

  "Let me in, man," Hunter heard Carl say through the glass. "You fucking better."

  Hunter hit the power locks and watched helplessly as Carl crossed in front of the Town Car and climbed in through the passenger-side door.

  "Go to Atlantic Beach," Carl said. 'Tony wants to see you. I'll tell you how to get there when we get over the bridge."

  Then Carl reached over and changed the radio station to KROC. AC/DC was playing "Hells Bells."

  "Cool," Carl said, pumping up the volume and settling back into the leather seat as if Hunter wasn't even there. Carl was comfortable with who he was. By sheer luck he had been taken under the wing of a powerful Mafia assassin. Carl had been transformed. From the clothes he wore to the way he talked, almost nothing remained of his former self, the goofy, steroid-using gym rat that ran errands and numbers for Jimmy the Squid. Carl was a member of an elite club, not just a street thug.

  Right now Carl was on a kind of probation. If his work and his loyalty impressed the others, he would be in. Angelo assured him that he was talking with Tony about it personally and that he had taken Carl on as his protege. He knew that one day, maybe in a month, maybe in a year, or two years, Tony Rizzo would come to him and give him a very difficult task. The completion of that task would mark his entry into the family. Carl could not wait for that day. He knew he would be worthy.

  "Stay on the rotary and head east," Carl said when they'd finally crossed the bridge.

  "Now turn at this light and go all the way to the beach."

  Hunter did as he was told.

  "Park it over there," Carl said, pointing with a thick finger. Tony's on the beach. Get out and follow that path."

  Hunter looked over his shoulder as he made his way down the path that led through the dunes. Carl followed. Just past the dunes, Tony Rizzo sat on a worn bench, his eyes shaded by a pair of dark sunglasses. He was slumped in his seat with his hands in his pockets and his feet crossed in front of him. He looked out at the ocean. The surf crashed loudly against the shore and gulls wheeled in the air, landing momentarily to tear a rotting piece of flesh from a large fish carcass. For years to come, Hunter would associate the pungent ocean smells of Atlantic Beach with Tony Rizzo.

  "Sit down," Rizzo said without looking up.

  Hunter sat and glanced over his shoulder to see Carl take his position behind them a few yards away.

  "Now," Rizzo said, "isn't this nice? Isn't this a nice way for you and I to be doing business?"

  Hunter didn't say anything as his anger and frustration started to boil inside him.

  This is how you and I will meet from now on," Rizzo said, still intent on the seascape in front of him. "What I did before the Detroit game was to make sure you and I were on the same wavelength. Now I know we are.

  "By the way," he continued, chuckling, "I got a fucking laugh when you tried to throw an interception right into that Detroit guy's hands and he dropped it! But you did good, though. I was pleased with the way you handled yourself.

  "Oh, that reminds me," Rizzo said, reaching down beside him and lifting a brown paper bag from the sand. This is for you." Hunter looked at the bag that Rizzo held out for him.

  "It's ten thousand dollars," Rizzo said. "A little post-game token of my appreciation. Go ahead, take it. You earned it."

  "I don't want your money," Hunter said with disgust. "I'm not taking a cent from you. You and I aren't in business together."

  Rizzo laughed, "Oh, yes, we are. We are in business. In fact, this money here is just a little something extra. We already dumped a hundred grand into your bank account a few days after you threw the Detroit game.

  "Yeah, that's right," Rizzo continued. "It looks kind of bad for you, I know, throwing a game like that and then having one of my men walk right into your bank and make a big fuss about dumping that kind of money into your account. But I didn't want you to think you could walk away from me. No one does that. I say when things are over and when they're not, and right now, they're not. So go ahead and take the money."

  Hunter sat staring straight ahead with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  'Take the fucking money!" Rizzo said threateningly.

  Hunter took the bag and set it down on his lap.

  "Look at it," Rizzo said. "Look at the fucking money."

  Hunter pulled a tightly wrapped stack of twenties from the bag.

  In a calm voice Rizzo said, "You work for me, Logan, and if I decide to give you something extra for the effort, you take it and be fucking thankful.

  "I said fucking thankful!" Rizzo said, turning his face toward Hunter.

  Hunter slowly stuffed the sta
ck of bills back into the bag.

  "Thanks," he muttered, spitting on the ground in front of them.

  "Good," Rizzo said. "Now, you're favored to win this weekend by six, but I don't want you to make it by more than three points. You got that?"

  Hunter said nothing as he watched Rizzo's eyes move behind the dark lenses.

  "You see, because even though I'm acting all nice with you, and even though I'm cutting you in on some of the action, the same shit goes...

  "In other words, if you fuck up, I'll not only end your career, I got some sick fucker that works for me who loves little girls--just like the one you got."

  Blind rage flooded Hunter's brain and he lunged for Rizzo's throat. Hunter could feel the soft flesh between his fingers and the ridged tube of the windpipe as he tried to crush it beneath his thumbs.

  Carl jerked Hunter's head back by the hair at the base of his neck. He felt the air rush out of his body. Carl had him in a choke hold and Rizzo was standing in front of him, rubbing his throat. Rizzo hauled back and punched Hunter in the stomach, forcing the air from his body a second time. Carl increased the pressure on his neck and Hunter collapsed.

  Rizzo had pulled his Beretta from its holster and jammed the gun into Hunter's gasping mouth.

  "Now," Rizzo bellowed with hatred, "you got that now, don't you? Because I mean what I say. You do it, or you're fucked, and so is your family. You got that?"

  Hunter closed his eyes and nodded.

  "And never," Rizzo screamed, "Never do you touch me again!"

  Rizzo jammed the gun deeper into Hunter's mouth and cruelly twisted it around. Hunter felt the pistol's sight tearing up the soft tissue on the roof of his mouth. He tasted blood. Then Rizzo yanked the gun out, chipping the backs of Hunter's front teeth.

  "Come on," Rizzo said to Carl.

  Carl let Hunter fall to the ground. The men walked slowly away, leaving Hunter to choke in the sand.

  When Cook saw Hunter Logan sitting alone on the bench with his head in his hands, it was all he could do to keep from running over and cuffing him on the spot. This was the break he had been waiting for! Cook could see the headlines now. What he was about to uncover would be talked about for years to come. It was bigger than Art Schlester, bigger than the Boston University basketball scandal. He would not only bring down one of the country's biggest crime organizations, he'd throw in a superstar as well. Cook knew who Hunter Logan was. It didn't surprise Cook that Logan was involved. He'd seen it time and time again with these professional athletes. He'd seen it firsthand, the drugs, the guns, the gang rapes, the hookers--they were into it all, athletes were. And it pissed Cook off, too. These were the same guys whose pictures hung on the bedroom walls of kids across the country. They were respected, admired, idolized.

  And Hunter Logan was supposed to be one of the best role models. Cook had read about him, a hardworking guy who had grown Up on a farm and still did charity work for farmers in need; and that was only one of the many charities that he was involved in. Every time Cook turned around, he saw Hunter Logan's face or heard Hunter Logan's voice. The guy was on billboards and TV. He was in the newspapers and on the radio. When Cook saw something like this it made him want to spit.

  "Charities my ass," Cook mumbled under his breath.

  A gust from the ocean blew some sand up into his face and he wiped it off with the back of his sleeve. When he looked up, Hunter Logan was on the move. Cook packed his camera with the zoom lens into his duffel bag and scrambled down the side of the dune, through the sea grass, and onto the concrete walk that led back to the street. He kept himself distant from Hunter Logan so he could watch without being noticed; it was now only curiosity. He really should be back in his car and following Rizzo to wherever he was off to next. But something about Hunter Logan attracted him. It was like the big one that swam lazily under your boat just past your line. You had to watch it swim until it disappeared into the murky depths of the water. Hunter Logan was a big fish.

  But Cook would not take him today. He could do that any time. He had the pictures of the two together. He had a shot of Logan with the money in his hand. He could implicate Logan with the mob and their gambling and end his career. Of course, Cook didn't really want Logan. He was of no value without Rizzo. Ending an athlete's career wouldn't put him any closer to D. C. But bringing down Rizzo with implications of a scandal within the closely guarded world of the NFL, now that would give Cook some clout.

  As Cook watched Hunter Logan's Town Car pull away from the curb, he thought about all this. Logan was the key. He could simply threaten to destroy Hunter Logan, thereby securing the quarterback's cooperation in taking down Rizzo.

  If he got Logan to help him, he could create an airtight case against Rizzo. Once he had Rizzo, Cook was certain that the whole Mondolffi organization would soon follow. Rizzo was too egotistical to sacrifice himself for the good of others. What Cook needed to insure Logan's help was leverage. If he was wrong about Logan's involvement with Rizzo, then Logan might set off all sorts of bells and whistles within the league, and the media, the mob, and the Bureau would be certain to hear them. Fellows would end his operation instantly, and Rizzo would run for cover again. If, however, Logan was really on the take, he would fold under Cook's pressure.

  Cook needed to make sure . . . and he had a strong feeling he'd know if he was right after watching Logan's performance this coming Sunday.

  Chapter 29

  Hunter didn't have to tell Rachel that he'd been contacted by Rizzo again. She knew the moment she saw his face when he walked through the door. All week he'd been low. His performance in Miami and his aching shoulder had revitalized the media criticism of the pre-season. Now he didn't even say hello to her. Sara jumped on him, screaming, "Daddy! Daddy!" and led him by the hand into the playroom. Hunter went as if under a spell. Rachel followed and watched as Sara sat him down on a tiny chair next to her table and began to lay out a pretend tea party.

  Sara chattered away, completely unaware that anything was wrong with her father. She pretended to pour tea from a pink plastic pot and then paused to dig a rubber croissant out from underneath her plastic sink, placed it on a plate, and set it before him, asking if he wanted jam. The expression on Hunter's face was dull. His eyes were glassy and he responded to Sara in a monotone. He was trying his best to be normal. It made Rachel want to cry.

  "Honey," Rachel said to Sara as she entered the room, "why don't you let Daddy sit down at the big table in the kitchen and have a drink before dinner? You can watch a tape while we're eating."

  Sara had already eaten a grilled-cheese sandwich, one of the few meals she would even consider these days. She frowned at the notion of ending her tea party.

  "Come on, honey," Rachel said, coaxing, "Daddy's had a very hard day and he needs to relax. He'll play with you after dinner.

  Why don't you go in the other room now, and you can put on your new Beauty and the Beast tape."

  "Yeah! Beauty and the Beast! And can I have some ice cream, too?" Sara asked, sensing that she held some kind of advantage.

  "Yes," Rachel said, leading her into the TV room.

  "Julie," Rachel yelled into the kitchen, "will you please bring Sara a dish of ice cream?"

  When Rachel returned, Hunter was sitting just as she'd left him, with his knees tucked up close to his chest and absently turning his plastic teacup over and over on the little table.

  "Hunt?" she said.

  He looked at her as though he hadn't noticed her until then. "Yeah?" he said quietly.

  "You OK?"

  "No."

  Rachel walked over to him and he wrapped his arms around the backs of her knees, burying his face in her thighs. She reached down and held his head tightly. He moved it slowly back and forth in a silent no. For a time they said nothing.

  "We should tell someone," she said finally.

  He seemed to be thinking about it, then said, "We've been through this."

  "I know we have," she said, "but look wh
at it's doing to you."

  "I'll be OK. I just have to get through it. I just have to get through Sunday. How many more times can they try to do it?" he said. "It has to end."

  "We're making close to a quarter of a million dollars a week," he said, reminding himself just as much as her. "Just this season. I just have to get through this season."

  "But what if something bad happens?" Rachel said.

  "What? Like what? All I have to do is shave the games. What could happen bad?"

  "What if you couldn't shave the game?" she said. "What if something happened? Like last time ..."

  She was referring to the way his team had almost scored at the end of the game and taken away the point spread.

  "I can control the game," he said, not sounding all that confident. "I can throw interceptions. I can fumble the ball. I can cause a delay of game. I control the game more than anyone in that stadium. Nothing's going to happen. I'll be all right."

  "I just say forget the money, Hunter," Rachel said. "We can live without the money."

  Hunter let a long time pass. He was thinking about what she'd said and about all the things he'd said to her after the Detroit game, when she'd first found out. They were all still true.

  "I can't," he said finally.

  "Do you want a drink?" she said, pulling away and raising him up.

  He looked up at her from his small seat. "Don't be mad," he said. "Look at me, Rachel. Don't be mad."

  "I'm not," she said, "but if you're not going to tell someone about it, then let's not talk about it anymore. Not right now. Let's just have a drink and dinner. We can put Sara to bed and watch a movie. Like you said, we'll get through this game and a few more and it will be over. This can be your last year. You can retire. Your shoulder ..."