by Tim Green
"Who the hell is that?" Rachel hissed. The two of them could see out through the small window in the door.
"I don't know," Hunter said.
"Is it someone from the team?" Rachel asked.
"Who is it!" Hunter demanded through the glass. Before Cook answered he lowered his arm and showed his face. Hunter's stomach dropped as he realized it was the FBI agent who'd spoken at the team meeting they'd had back in training camp.
"My name is Ellis Cook," the man said in a strong, educated voice that was also slightly impatient. He held his badge up to the glass. "I'm with the FBI. I need to speak with Hunter Logan."
Chapter 32
Cook apologized for coming to the back of the house in such an unorthodox manner, but said he would explain. He asked if he could sit down, and together they sat at the kitchen table. Hunter's feeling of sickness was almost overwhelming, and he felt as though he were in some crazy dream, caught in the act of committing some heinous crime. Cook had read up extensively on Hunter during the past few days by doing a NEXUS search. There were hundreds of articles written about the quarterback over the past few years, and through them Cook had gained a feeling for the kind of man he was dealing with. He had decided to approach Hunter as a friend, someone he could confide in and rely on. This is why he had chosen to first meet with the quarterback at his own home, with his wife present. He wanted Hunter as calm as possible.
"I'm going to give it to you straight," Cook said, addressing both Hunter and Rachel at the same time. "You're in a lot of trouble, Hunter."
Hunter looked Cook in the eye. The blank look on his face was replaced with an acuity that encouraged Cook. The look told Cook that he wasn't going to have to go through this step by step and start taking photographs out of his briefcase.
Hunter nodded and said, "I know."
"I'm not here to scare you," Cook continued. "If I'm not mistaken, you're probably pretty scared already. But I have to inform you that if convicted for what you've done, you could do ten to twenty.
When things like this shake down, the wise guys all start to talk. They give up other people to save their own ass, and the athletes are the ones who end up doing the time.
'They've got nothing else to give," Cook explained. "Like that deal with the B. C. basketball players back in the early eighties . . . The wise guys gave up their pals who pulled off the Lufthansa heist and got into the government witness-protection program. They also dropped the dime on the players. They did ten years."
Cook saw the blood drain from both Hunter's and Rachel's faces, just what he'd wanted. "I don't want to see that happen here," Cook said.
"I didn't have a choice," Hunter said quietly, looking up again and meeting Cook's stare.
Cook nodded. "I suspect not, but you must have done something. These guys don't go after someone unless they've got something on them."
Hunter quietly explained how Rizzo had proof of his gambling through an old friend on NFL games and how it would end his career if it came out. "I thought if I gave up a couple of points on a game and didn't lose it that they'd leave me alone and no one would really be hurt by it," Hunter explained. "I was actually going to call you. I've still got your card in my wallet. Here," he said, pulling the card out and tossing it onto the table as proof of his veracity.
Cook only nodded sympathetically. He wanted to let Hunter continue, to get it all out. Rachel was saying nothing, but she had taken Hunter's hand and held it now as it rested on the table. There was a moment of silence. Only a large cuckoo clock ticked noisily on the wall. Then Hunter went on to explain how the very day after Cook's visit he had read about a player who'd been suspended from the league for a suspected connection with gambling.
"It would have been the end for me," Hunter finally said. "I guess it is now anyway ..."
Then he fell silent.
"I don't know about your football career," Cook admitted, "but I can tell you that with me, you can have a life after all this. You can help me put this Tony Rizzo away, maybe for good."
"Huh, what, in a witness program?" Hunter scoffed. 'You think I could go somewhere where someone didn't notice me? You think I want to?"
"I didn't say anything about a witness program," Cook said.
Hunter glanced nervously at Rachel, then decided to speak anyway. "You think these people are going to let me help you put them away and not do something to me? Isn't that how all this works?"
Cook shook his head, "No, that's not how it works. You're somebody. They won't just harass you or hurt you. They do that to people in their own world, or somebody who could disappear without too much commotion. Someone like you? They're not going to do anything. Look at Art Schlester. He blew in a bunch of wise guys to get out from under his debts. Nothing happened to him. It just doesn't work that way. They only want you to believe things like that so you'll do what they want."
Hunter looked skeptical.
"Look, Hunter," Cook said, "it's up to you. If you wanted us to move you someplace and help you change your life, to get away . . . we could. But if you help me, I can help you keep your career. Believe me, if we go to the commissioner and say, 'Here's a guy who did very little wrong, then got himself into hot water because he was scared and being threatened,' and then we convince him that you were integral in helping us take these guys out. . . Maybe you get a fine or a couple of games suspension, but believe me, we can help you put your life back to normal. I can guarantee you the commissioner will be getting calls straight from Washington to tell him how you were integral in helping us out--and how you came to me personally, of your own volition."
Hunter wondered if that was possible. He wished it was, but did not know.
"We don't really have a choice, do we?" said Rachel suddenly. She realized that Cook was giving them the opportunity to make it look as though they had initiated everything and not him. It was a magnanimous gesture that could save not only Hunter's career but his reputation.
Cook paused, thinking, then said, "No, you don't."
She nodded and looked at Hunter. She would never say that she had told him to call Cook in the first place. She didn't have to. He knew it better than anyone.
Hunter shrugged and said, "What do I have to do?"
Cook forced himself not to smile. "How does Rizzo meet with you? How does he contact you?"
T never know," Hunter said, frowning. "They just appear and take me to him, once in the parking lot of the Food King and another time the guy just climbed in my car at a traffic light."
"Hmm," Cook thought about that, "and Rizzo's never told you how to contact him if you needed to?"
"Our conversations are never that long. He tells me what he wants me to do, makes some threats, and that's it. Then he sends some goon into the locker room right before the game. He must get the pass from Rizzo through Grant Carter's daughter, Camille."
"Yeah, I know all about her," said Cook.
"She's not in on this, is she?" Hunter asked.
"No, not as far as I can see." Cook said. "I think she's just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong guy. Now, what about the guy you used to place the bets through? The bookie. He could get you in contact with Rizzo. I want you to call him so I can wire you. If we get Rizzo talking about the whole thing, if we can get him to threaten you, we'll have him in the bag."
"I never placed the bets myself," Hunter said. "I did it with Metz, like I said. I never even asked who he placed them with."
"So where's Metz?" Cook asked.
Hunter shrugged. "I haven't seen him or spoken to him since I found out that he bet on that Titans game last season. That was in July."
"OK, you get in touch with this Metz and find out who his contact is. That way you can get a message to Rizzo that you want to meet."
"What about Rachel and our daughter Sara?" Hunter said suddenly. "I want them to get away from town. I don't want them around while all this is going on."
Cook frowned and shook his head. "No, we can't move them arou
nd. We can't do anything out of the ordinary. That was precisely why I came to the back door tonight. Rizzo's got someone watching you all the time, following your every move to make sure nothing funny is going on. He's sitting out on the street in the front of the house right now in a black Town Car with tinted windows."
This news made Rachel visibly shudder.
'Tony Rizzo knows he's exposed himself with all this," Cook said, "and with everything that's at stake, they're keeping an eye on you to see if you do anything out of the ordinary."
"That's all the more reason to get them out of here," Hunter said.
"No, that's all the more reason to keep them right where they are," Cook said. "Everything's fine just as it is. You just go on about your life as you always do. Nothing's going to happen. Then, the minute we get the tape on Rizzo, I'll have him and his men in the bag before they know what hit them."
"How many men do you have with you?" Hunter asked.
"I've got twenty agents directly underneath me, but I can have a small army if I need it," Cook said. "Right now, though, I'm working alone. I didn't tell anyone I was going to meet with you. Right now everything we do is best kept between us. The time will come when we'll call in all the troops, but what we need more than anything is stealth. Don't say anything to anyone. Like I said, just live as you always do. Talk on the phone like you always do. Go to the store, work, whatever, just look normal. We can end this whole thing in a couple of weeks if we're careful."
"Are the phones tapped?" Rachel asked.
"I don't know for sure," Cook admitted. "I haven't checked the main box on the pole, but if they wanted to hook in, I'm sure they can do it. But like I said, you shouldn't be saying anything to anyone anyway."
"So what do I do?" Hunter asked.
Tomorrow," Cook said, like a general laying out his plan of attack, "make a call to your friend Metz. Get his contact and then call whoever he is and tell him you want to get a message to Tony Rizzo. Have him tell Tony that you need to see him because you've got a problem that you need to talk to him about. Use those words so Rizzo doesn't think you're walking around with loose lips. Tell whoever it is that Tony will want to know right away so he calls Rizzo right away. I'll be back tomorrow night and show you how to wear the wire. You'll have to keep it on you all the time since Rizzo probably won't let you know when he's going to see you. I imagine he'll do what he's been doing, just have someone pick you up somewhere and drive you to him. I'll tell you tomorrow night all the things I want you to say to him and we can go over them until you're comfortable.
"If you need me," Cook said, picking up his card from the table and writing on it, "call me at this number. It's my home. I'll be back tomorrow night. I'll come in through the back again. Don't call me at the office. In fact, I'll scratch the number out. Like I said, until we're ready to call in the troops, this operation will stay between the three of us. It's safer for us all."
On that ominous note Cook stood to leave. He glanced around quickly at the beautiful interior of the regal old home, then looked at the couple sitting in front of him holding hands at their kitchen table. They seemed frozen in their seats. Cook waited patiendy for them to come around and let him out through the same door he'd come in. They weren't much younger than he was, but they looked like children to Cook. Of course, they hadn't seen the same things in life that he had. They didn't know the horrors that were out there. This was their first taste of the way things really were. Cook marveled that people could go through life so thoroughly out of touch. But then, he guessed that a lot of people did.
After Cook left their house and the alarm system was back on, Rachel and Hunter went upstairs to talk in their bed. After about ten minutes of going over how Cook really was the best and only way out of their dilemma, Rachel started to nod off. She had always had the unique ability to sleep in times of extreme stress. Hunter didn't chide her for it. He wanted her to sleep. He felt bad enough that he had gotten them into the mess they were now in, and he considered it his lot to remain wide awake, tormented by the events of the past few months. As he wandered aimlessly about the house, he clung to the one notion that gave him any peace at all: It would be over soon.
Cook had said that in a few weeks Rizzo and his crew could be behind bars and that Hunter's celebrity status would give them immunity from repercussions with the mob. Hunter wondered about that. It scared him to think about. The only thing he knew about organized crime was what he'd seen in the movies. He thought that if you crossed them, you were finished. But Cook seemed unconcerned about that.
Hunter had a good feeling about Cook. He always thought he could get a good feeling for the type of person someone was in the first five minutes of meeting them, and he had a feeling that Cook was straight up. In fact, he couldn't get away from the notion that Cook was some kind of guardian angel. He gave off the sense that he'd seen so much and been through so much and come out knowing how things like this really worked.
Hunter took another bottle of Rolling Rock from the fridge, cracked it open, and wandered upstairs. He went into the front bedroom that they used for guests and pulled back the lace curtains, trying to peer through the thick old trees to the street. Cook had said someone was out there in a dark car. It gave Hunter the creeps. He couldn't see anything, but he didn't doubt Cook.
He wandered into Sara's room. She was sleeping peacefully amid all her dolls and stuffed animals in the pretty, pastel-colored room that Rachel had worked so hard to decorate. Sara, peaceful in her sleep, lay there without any idea in the world that their lives were balancing delicately on the brink of disaster, and hopefully she would never know. The thought that this beautiful young thing and his wife were in danger brought tears of frustration and grief to Hunter's eyes. He wanted it all to go away, to wake up tomorrow and have everything back to the way it was.
He would appreciate things then, things he had taken for granted. The simplest things came to mind: dinner with his family, driving home from practice with the windows down and the radio on, walking on the beach, throwing passes at his tire machine, and a dozen others that he would ordinarily not think of as special in any way. Now, though, everything in his previously "normal" life was special because of nothing more than the fact that the ominous threat of Tony Rizzo was hanging over them.
Hunter left his daughter's room and dug a Halcyon out of his shaving kit. He stole a furtive glance at his sleeping wife as he washed it down with a glass of water from the sink. The clock read 1:48 when Hunter lay back in the bed. Tomorrow was a big day. He closed his eyes and waited for the drug to lift him away.
Hunter sat in his shorts at the desk in their bedroom with the telephone in hand. Rachel, he assumed, was downstairs, having already taken Sara to kindergarten classes that were only a minute from the house. She always let him sleep in on Tuesdays since it was the only day of the week he had off during football season. Not that he had slept that long--the Halcyon had gotten him only six hours of sleep--but it was six more than he could have gotten without it. Hunter's fingers trembled as he dialed the phone. His feet were cold. He hadn't bothered to put on socks or even a T-shirt. The instant he woke up he had only one thought in mind, to call Metz and get things started. Hunter counted twenty rings before placing the receiver back in the cradle.
He pulled on a sweatsuit and went downstairs. Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the paper. She looked the same as she always did, and Hunter wondered briefly if Cook's visit hadn't been just a dream. But when Rachel looked up, Hunter saw fear in her eyes.
"Hi," she said. "Sleep OK?"
"Yeah," he said, "I called Metz's house but there was no answer."
"Why don't you call him were he works?"
"I will but not until nine. They don't open until nine."
Hunter sat down and Julie brought him a cup of coffee and asked him what he wanted for breakfast. Hunter said nothing and he and Rachel just sat for a while looking at each other.
"It's all going
to work out," Rachel said finally, trying hard to smile.
Hunter nodded and said, "You know, I'm sorry, Rach--"
"Don't," she said. "I know. It's OK."
At nine o'clock exactly, Hunter dialed Metz's office.
"Dan Metzler no longer works here," said a perky female voice on the other end of the line.
"Could you tell me where he is?" Hunter asked, twisting the phone cord with his fingers.
"Hang on," the girl said, putting him on hold.
"Personnel" came the lispy voice of a bitchy young man, "can I help you?"
"I'm trying to find out where Met--Dan Metzler is. Can you tell me?"
"What department?" the man huffed.
"Uh . . ." Hunter tried to think. Even though he'd known Metz for years, he never was sure exactly what he did for a living. Metz rarely talked about his work, as if it was a nasty habit that he just couldn't shake. "I think he visited stores and checked on accounts, or something like that..."
"Oh, something like that?" the man said sarcastically. Then in a flat tone he said, "That would be Quality Assurance Department, probably an assistant manager. A real V. I. P. Hang on."
Hunter was put on hold again. After almost ten minutes he was told that Metz had taken a job up in Syracuse with U. S. Tobacco.
"Do you have a number or anything?" Hunter asked.
"I'm sorry, that's all I can tell you," he said, and Hunter was disconnected before he could ask another question.
It was the kind of phone conversation that always burned Hunter. It didn't matter who you were when you called some businesses. People were rude, apparently without fear of losing their jobs. He knew from reading the papers that it almost required a court order these days to can someone from any job, especially in a large corporation. That was one of the good things about football, there was no pandering about. When someone screwed up they were gone before they knew what hit them.