Titans

by Tim Green

  "I got Rachel!" Hunter said excitedly. "I had to hide her and Sara. I came back to win this game."

  "You can't win this game," Henry said. "Those guys were here. They ..."

  It hit Henry." Are they safe for sure?" he said, working himself out of Hunter's uniform.

  'Yeah," Hunter said. "They are, and winning this game is the only way I can make sure they stay that way for good. That's why I came back."

  'You mean you came back to save my ass from having to go out there and shit all over myself," Henry said excitedly.

  'That, too," Hunter said.

  "That, too," Henry repeated in disgust. "You son of a bitch, I can't believe you would've left me!"

  Henry got the rest of the uniform off, and Hunter worked fast to get it on.

  "I don't know who's a bigger prick," Henry said, "that Mafia guy or Price."

  Hunter grinned, 'That's a tough call. No, not really. Rizzo is an animal."

  He could hear 'The Star Spangled Banner" from beyond the door that led out onto the field. He pulled on his turf shoes and laced them tightly.

  "Hank," he said, standing up and gripping his brother's hand firmly, "I'll never forget this. I love you, Hank. I haven't said that for a lot of years, and I should have. I couldn't have saved Rachel without you. I may not see you again. You need to just get the hell out of here as fast and as far away as you can."

  Henry pulled Hunter close and gave him a quick hug, then pushed him away, saying, "Good luck, little brother. Good luck."

  Hunter smiled at their old joke of him being the younger one. He picked his helmet up from the floor and tucked it under his arm before he turned and dashed out through the locker-room doors and into the stadium.

  Hunter went right to the Titans' sideline and found Bert.

  "Bert..." he said.

  "Hunt?" Bert said. "Is that you? Did you get her?"

  "Yeah, she's safe . . . thanks. I'll tell you about it later."

  "Damn," Bert said and nodded with relief.

  "How'd you know it was me?" Hunter asked.

  "Well," Bert said, "I knew Henry was nervous as hell, but not nervous enough to grow a full beard in five minutes. You need a shave."

  "Yeah," Hunter said, "now tell me what the hell's going on. Is everything OK?"

  "Yeah," Bert said. "Everyone's expecting you to play. Henry did a hell of a job. I don't know what would've happened if you didn't show. I didn't know what the hell to say to him."

  The two of them stopped talking and turned their attention to the field, where the Titans were about to receive the kickoff. When Hunter trotted out onto the field with the Titans first-team offense, the place erupted with boos.

  "What the hell are they booing at?" Hunter asked his center, Murphy, in the huddle.

  They didn't like those ducks you were throwing during warm-ups," said Weaver, who was one not to pull any punches, "and frankly neither did I."

  "Warm-ups?" said Hunter.

  "Yeah, if you call that shit you did out here a half hour ago warming up," Weaver said.

  "OK," Hunter said, "forget that and let's win this. Two Twenty-Seven Strike Right on two. Ready . . . break!"

  The first quarter, Hunter played like a guy who hadn't practiced all week. His passes were erratic and he under-threw his receivers. The Giants got a 7-0 lead and sat on it.

  'Just hang with me," Hunter implored his teammates after each bad play. "I'm gonna get this one."

  Steadily, as Hunter got warmer and warmer, his passes became more and more accurate. With a minute fifty-five to go in the half, the Titans defense got the ball back on their own three-yard-line. Hunter got into a groove and, using his team's two-minute offense, drove the entire ninety-seven yards for a touchdown to tie the game up at the half.

  The Titans stormed into the locker room on the crest of the emotional wave Hunter had generated with his last-second touchdown pass. They would no doubt have the emotional edge coming out after the half. They knew from what they'd just seen that their quarterback was back in form. Enthusiasm and confidence spread like a drop of ink in a glass of water. Helmets were crashing about and war cries resounded through the thick, pungent air of the locker room, giving it the feel of some kind of prison riot.

  No one seemed to notice Tony Rizzo and Mike Cometti as they wove through the team and stopped in front of Hunter Logan, who was downing a Gatorade on the stool in front of his locker. Tony stood calmly above him and then, with one quick movement, grabbed Hunter by the front of his jersey and yanked him to his feet before slamming him backward into his own locker.

  "You son of a bitch!" Rizzo screamed. "You think I'm fucking kidding with you? You think I'm playing?"

  "Hey!" Murphy, whose locker was two down from Hunter's, was on his feet in a blink.

  "Hey, fuck you!" said Tony, pointing at the master pass he wore around his belt loop.

  "I don't give a fuck if you're the owner's fucking son!" Murphy bellowed, grabbing a handful of Rizzo's leather coat and jerking him away from Hunter. 'That's my fucking QB, you asshole! No one touches my QB."

  "You . . ." Tony drew his fist back to punch Murphy in the chin, but before he could connect, Murphy swung his free hand in a wide, swift arc like a club that landed on the side of Tony Rizzo's head and knocked him off his feet. Mike Cometti threw a cheap shot at Murphy and hit him in the back of the head. Murphy reached up and rubbed the spot as if it were a gnat, then turned, and with a smile, grabbed Cometti and threw his body across the locker room and into a Coke machine, where he fell in a useless heap.

  Before Rizzo could get to his feet, security guards and police were everywhere, dragging him and Mike Cometti out by their hair.

  "You better fucking remember, Logan!" Rizzo screamed as they dragged him outside. "You better fucking remember what I'll do!"

  The thrill of watching Rizzo take a thumping was like a drug for Hunter--it got him up fast, but soberly. Rizzo's bold appearance reminded Hunter of the kind of desperate, angry, and powerful force he was working against. He hoped Cook was right. If he was not, Hunter would have to run fast and pray hard.

  In another way, though, Rizzo's appearance solidified Hunter's commitment. Rizzo would never leave him alone. Cook was right about that. He was the type that would never go away, a parasite that did not desist until its host was completely dry of blood. He could beat Rizzo by winning this game. He regretted that he wouldn't be there to watch what the vermin's own kind were going to do to him. He was sure it would not be pleasant.

  Hunter left no doubts at all about his abilities in the second half. He put on a show. His throws were like rifle shots, fast and accurate. His leadership was evident on both sides of the ball. When the defense was out on the field, Hunter was right there beside the coaches, cheering, encouraging, and celebrating with his defensive teammates. By the middle of the fourth quarter the score was 28-7, and Hunter relaxed about the game. He wondered what Rizzo would try to do, and how much time he had to get his family to safety. He knew he would have at least a couple of hours after the game. It would be that long before Rizzo got back to his cabin and found Rachel gone.

  After the final gun, Hunter ran off the field and into the locker room, where he quickly changed and left before the media was able to get in to interview him. He knew that would raise a ruckus. The quarterback was always the most interviewed player, and he would be expected to give the press their quotes after such a spectacular stomping of New York's other NFL team.

  Hunter used his face and name to get one of the state troopers to give him an escort past the jammed-up traffic that snaked all the way to the Lincoln Tunnel. From there Hunter raced across Manhattan to the Midtown Tunnel and then took the Long Island Expressway until it turned into 27, which took him to the end of the island and Montauk. He had left his family out here at a small oceanside motel. He was afraid if anything went wrong and Rizzo found out Rachel had been rescued, that he might have his people go to Rachel's parents' place in Quogue. It seemed unlikely, but no
w that Hunter had her back, he was taking no chances. Rachel's parents were with her and Sara.

  Hunter had had Morty go to the bank in West Hampton on Saturday morning and withdraw fifty thousand dollars in cash. Hunter didn't know what was going to happen with Rizzo for sure, and he wanted to be able to lie low for a long time if necessary.

  When he pulled into the motel lot, the sun was beginning to set. He got out of his car and tasted the ocean air. It smelled pungent but clean, and the breeze was warm. Hunter still had an edge of adrenaline, but it was wearing off fast. He'd gotten a few hours' sleep last night at this very hotel--once he'd reunited Rachel and Sara and her parents and gotten them all moved out here. Now the long evening shadows made the warm light coming through the window of their room even more inviting. Hunter could already feel how good it was going to be to lie down and collapse with Rachel and Sara snugly tucked in beside him in the same soft, cozy bed. The image made Hunter yawn. His father-in-law appeared from his room, adjoining theirs, and carefully closed the door.

  "How is she?" Hunter asked.

  "She's fine," Morty replied. "I have a good friend who's a doctor. Don't worry, he wouldn't say a word to anyone. He came and looked at her today. He told her to rest as much as she could and eat. Her mother's seen to that end of it."

  Hunter nodded and started to move toward his own door.

  "Well," Morty said quietly, "you did good. Do you think that will be it?"

  "I don't know," Hunter said, stopping and turning toward his father-in-law. "That's what Cook seemed to think, but I can't be sure. Tony Rizzo isn't going to go down easy, I know that. And if he has the chance, and he can find us . . ."

  "So, will we go?" Morty asked.

  "Yes," Hunter said. "I think we should."

  "We'll have to wait until morning," Morty said. 'The last ferry left at seven-thirty. It's the off-season."

  "I think we'll be all right here tonight. You didn't say anything to anyone when you went to town today?"

  "Of course not."

  "I know," Hunter said, "I'm just tired . . . and worried."

  "I am, too," Morty said. "But you've done well. Don't worry. They won't get to any of us again."

  Hunter held out a hand and Morty took it before giving his son-in-law a hug. "You did good," he said in a low voice. "You did very good."

  Hunter let himself into their room and Sara jumped up and into his arms. Rachel smiled warmly from the bed. Hunter was surprised at how much better she looked already. The blood was back in her face, and her hair was a glossy black.

  "You look . . . You look beautiful, honey," Hunter said, carrying his little girl in his arms and bending down to give Rachel a long, warm kiss.

  "Thank you," she said. "You played great, Hunter. You did it."

  "I hope so," he fretted, stroking her soft cheek gently, "but let's not even talk about it anymore. Let's just be together, and know that we won't be apart again, ever."

  Tony Rizzo went rigid at about the same time in the fourth quarter that Hunter Logan relaxed.

  "Let's go," he told Mikey, and the two of them left their seats and the stadium.

  Mikey knew better than to say anything right now, but he was having a hard time holding it in.

  The silence was too much. "You want me to go back in there and kill that fucking Logan?" he said when they finally reached their car.

  "What the fuck's your problem?" Tony said with a glare. "You know as well as I do that you ain't going back there to kill anybody, let alone a guy who's surrounded by cops and security guards.

  "Besides," Tony said, starting the engine, "payback for that son of a bitch is gonna be with his little wife. I said I was gonna fuck her before I snuffed her, and now I'm gonna do it. I may be fucked in this, but that fucker is gonna wish this day never came. He thinks the FBI can protect him? Ha!"

  The traffic was already thick with people trying to beat the rush, and Mikey was surprised at Tony's patience. He had imagined Tony would be bouncing off the walls.

  Tony?" he began again, unable to help himself and emboldened by fear. "Aren't we in a little trouble with all this?"

  Tony snorted half a laugh. Trouble is not the word."

  Tony got on 95 and stopped at Fort Lee, which was the last town in Jersey before the George Washington Bridge. He found a Hertz and rented Mikey a car.

  "Now," he said to his protege, "you take this car and go back to my apartment. Drive right into the garage and wear this fucking Hertz cap pulled down low over your head in case the feds are still sniffing around there. Go into my closet, and behind my shoes is a wall safe. Here, I'll write down the combination.

  Take all the cash that's in there, Mikey. It's a half million," Tony said. "We're gonna have to lay low for a long time. We might even have to leave the fucking country. With my uncle dead, Vincent, Jr.'s gonna be looking for us. Without Ianuzzo and Gamone, I'm done. They'll probably want a piece of me themselves for all this."

  Mikey looked down at his shoes--they were Ballys, just like Tony's. 'You're pretty calm about all this," Mikey said. 'You OK?"

  "Hey," Tony said with a grim smile, "this business isn't easy. Now is when I need to keep cool. I can get us through this, Mikey. Just get me that money and come right up to the cabin."

  "OK, Tony."

  Mikey watched as Tony Rizzo made his way through the Hertz lot to the black Blazer. He felt a surge of pride. Tony was so cool, even now.

  Mikey raced into the garage just like Tony had said, with the goofy Hertz hat pulled low like some minimum-wage worker with half his senses. Old Willie, the attendant, waved nonchalantly when he saw Mikey crouched low in the driver's seat. Willie was used to it all.

  Mikey got out of the rental car and looked around. There was no sign of anyone or anything unusual. He made his way up to Tony's apartment and let himself in with a key. Sitting in the two big chairs in Tony's living room were Sal Gamone and Mark Ianuzzo. Mikey was flanked by two of their henchmen, men the equivalent size and meanness of Angelo Quatrini. Two more stood directly behind their bosses.

  Sal Gamone spoke. "Where's Tony?"

  Mikey's mouth hung open. "I ..."

  Sal blinked slowly, as if he was disappointed that a quicker, better answer was not forthcoming.

  Mikey heard the spit of a silencer and felt his legs go out from under him. Blood was sprayed everywhere and it showed up in gruesome scarlet spatters all over the white marble foyer. Screaming in pain, Mikey writhed on the floor.

  "Where's Tony?" Sal said in the same quiet voice from the living room, without bothering to look and see if Mikey had heard him.

  "He's at his cabin!" Mikey cried. "I can show you! It's in the mountains . . . please . . ."

  "Why are you here?" Sal asked.

  "Tony sent me to get his money from the safe," Mikey bawled.

  ''Where is the safe?"

  "In the closet, behind his shoes. My God! My knee! Please don't hurt me!"

  "What is the combination?"

  "It's here! It's in my pocket, written down."

  Sal took the time to clear the money out of Tony's safe and split it with Mark Ianuzzo before the two of them left and got into a long, dark limousine. They followed their men, who rode with Mike Cometti between them in a crimson Buick Electra. For almost two hours they rode upstate. Neither of them spoke a word. Both were disappointed with the whole business and intent on cleaning things up as quickly as possible. They'd both been around long enough to know that Tony would try to run. But they had known from Meeker that Tony had a safe where he kept his cash. They knew Tony, or someone, would have to come back for it, so they had waited like patent spiders.

  The young doctor whom everyone called Cappy got up from his cot and stretched, scratching his hairy belly which hung out from under his T-shirt and spilled over the waist of his sky-blue scrubs. He was overweight from all the junk food he ate--no time for real meals. He looked at his watch and hurriedly threw on his white coat, pushing his feet into a worn-out pair of Dock
siders at the same time. He loved what he did, saving people's lives, and the thought of beating death made him hurry down the hall. He did not even bother to grab a doughnut from the half-empty box that lay askew on the counter of the empty nurses' station.

  He knew if the patent was still alive, he was going to make it. It was one of those cases where the damage was either going to kill the guy or make him stronger.

  Cappy liked the idea of making someone better than they were before. It was like the six-million-dollar-man. Their ICU had only four beds, but it was better than nothing. Fortunately for Cappy's mystery patent, there had been a vacancy last night. Without intensive care, the man wouldn't have had a chance. As he covered the last four paces of the hallway to ICU, Cappy wondered who this man was and what he did. He suspected it had something to do with drugs, but he really had no idea. It didn't matter anyway. A win was a win.

  Cappy smiled broadly when he entered the room. The heart monitor was beeping along merrily. He moved in and started giving the patient a once-over of sorts, just to make sure there was nothing he'd missed. It was possible. He had operated for fourteen hours and done some procedures he'd hitherto performed only on cadavers. But everything looked good.

  When the man opened his eye, Cappy jumped. It scared the hell out of him.

  "You're one tough son of a gun," Cappy said to the man admiringly. With a smile he added, "But then again, you had one hell of a surgeon."

  Tony suspected what had happened the moment he saw the gate hanging open off the driveway below the cabin. It would certainly explain Hunter Logan's refusal to heed his warnings. Tony knew for sure what had happened the instant he saw the front door to the cabin hanging ajar. He walked quietly into the cabin and stood over Angelo Quatrini's body. A thick pool of coagulated black blood lay in a sticky mess around the body, and Tony's shoes left distinct prints into the room. He moved to the window, and broken glass crunched under his feet. He wondered for a few moments how it had happened. There was blood all over the sill, and out on the porch as well. It didn't surprise Tony that Angelo may have taken other lives with him. The only surprise was that Angelo himself was dead. That was something that Tony had never been able to envision, and he half expected Angelo to get up from the floor where he lay like the stiffened carcass of some oversize road kill.