Candleburn

by Jack Hayes

  What a heap of junk.

  The car park, the club buildings, the walls – the best description I can think of, architecturally speaking, is: someone got a good deal on concrete. It was enormous. A giant, late sixties carbuncle rising up out of the surrounding dilapidation – reminiscent of everything the Romans wouldn’t have done to build a coliseum, if they’d had our technology. I read somewhere that the Beatles had performed one of their last concerts in the arena, back in the days when the town was swinging.

  No wonder they’d broken up.

  To cap it off, the whole place was that monotonous, grubby, city shade of soot-laced off-white. The only splash of colour came from graffiti and the occasional vomit stain. At least it smelt marginally better than Wheeler’s side street. The vague aroma of ammonia was the only detectable scent, drifting over from a rundown fertilizer factory about five hundred yards north of the complex.

  It proved difficult to find the way in at this early hour; the sign-posted entrances were all padlocked with heavy steel chains. I spent twenty minutes wandering in circles. At least the walk in the clear air gave me time to settle my mind after the crime scene.

  I regard myself as a reasonably travelled person, perhaps to some even a little jaded. Still, a dead man close up, eyes gawping, lips parted in gaping surprise, was an eerie sight. Who would shoot a groundskeeper? And how the hell was I going to get on top of my job when an event like this swamped in over everything?

  Trying another gate, I cursed.

  I knew what to expect once I got inside the arena. The first two weeks at any place were usually the same when you’re a “fixer”. You have to fend off permanent inquiries from everyone, from the Chairman to the man who changes the towels in the bathroom. “Why are you here? What exactly do you do? Is your salary as high as the rumours say it is?” Of course, usually people were too polite to ask the last question out and out but it would still come up in one form or another.

  Sure, my pay was high. For god’s sake, I’d hardly have travelled a third of the way around the world to relocate at a club whose home stadium was, quite frankly, shat from a great height into the middle of nowhere, unless the offer I’d been made was tempting. But when it comes to my core being, money isn’t what motivates me. The money hadn’t been the deciding factor at all.

  A voice shouted out behind me. An overweight man, middle forties, with a white moustache called: “You alright there?”

  Sheepishly, I explained that I was somehow locked out.

  “First day huh? You must be that new press guy.”

  He waited for me to respond. Normally I wouldn’t oblige, but I was more anxious than usual to clear the bullshit out of the way so I could get inside and get to work. Dead bodies before breakfast make me pensive like that.

  “Yeah. I’m Janokovic’s new man.”

  There was a momentary flash in his eyes, a small but noticeable dilating of his pupils. The Russian’s name resonated uncomfortably in the air and his head. He licked his lips.

  “You parked in the fan’s car park. You want to park here in the player’s area. Name’s Coach Tyler. The entrance is that way.”

  He walked me through to another part of the building and here I saw the team members’ Porsches and Firebirds all neatly lined up. There was even a space for me, with “Simon Ritter” sprayed neatly on the concrete curb.

  “You got a named spot and right next to the manager too – there’ll be some people mighty jealous,” Tyler said with a smile.

  The manager’s car was already parked. It didn’t seem out of place next to all these other fancy models but nonetheless, the badge caught my eye. A Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren. If you don’t know better, one boxy Mercedes looks much like another. If you do, that wasn’t your usual $50,000 of car; it was a half a million dollars lying brand spanking new in the Florida sunshine. I almost felt embarrassed that it was going to have to sit next to my rented Honda.

  Ducking between the vehicles, I noticed the various personalised licence plates. A shiny new Lexus with the tag “Catcha” sat beside a 1971 black Trans Am, the kind driven in Smokey and the Bandit, with “Voodoo1”. Next to that was “Lineman”.

  “Nice plates, hey?” Tyler said.

  “Yeah, in Britain personalised ones are expensive – is it the same here?”

  “A couple of hundred bucks,” he replied. “When you register with the DMV – the Department of Motor Vehicles – you can pretty much have any plates you want, as long as you use 7 characters or less and no one else has got them. Oh, and subject to the profanity laws.”

  “Profanity laws?” I said.

  “This is north Florida, son, folks around here’re the decent sort. You got to prove when you sign up that your plates aren’t another way of expressing your potty mouth.”

  I nodded sagely, as if I had any idea what constituted a “potty mouth.”

  I felt a tension between us, thick in the air. I could feel it squeezing the back of my shoulder blades. My trapezoid muscles tightened the way they did before a fight back in the old days, back in Nagasaki. One on one, or hitting a guy in a bar, that never bothers me. You either make a move or you don’t – dominate or back down – there’s no time for pressure and nothing to cause it either. But when you’re pushing through the crowds of Japanese gamblers, heading towards the pit, the smell of sweat filling your nostrils, the sounds of the loud speakers filling your ears as some referee the dockworkers have called in for the night announces your name, not knowing who it is you’ll face until you reach the edge of that ring and they hoist you in, well: then there’s time for tension and plenty of it.

  The door that Tyler walked me to and opened looked like a fire exit. It led down a flight of steep steps beneath San Carlos Stadium and along some hospital-white corridors. We chatted back and forth, lazily discussing the weather, the city and a few things about the game. I guess I must have said the wrong thing because Tyler stared at me with his deep brown eyes:

  “So you know nothing about American Football, then?”

  Southerners can be direct. Then again, so can I.

  “Nope. Is that important?”

  I could tell from his look as we pushed through another set of plastic double doors that he resented my reply. His face said what his mouth didn’t: “This Englishman is here working for Florida’s second-biggest American Football club and he doesn’t even understand the game. Just what the area needs: another Limey.” Well, big deal, Tyler. I am here. Get used to it.

  He bit his lip and simply commented: “Nope, I guess not.”

  Through the bowels of the stadium we crossed over to another set of doors. This one read “Girls’ Locker Room”.

  “Quickest way to the field is through here,” he said.

  I hesitated.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m not comfortable with going through there. Won’t the girls mind?”

  The Coach smirked.

  “Our girls? I shouldn’t expect so.”

  He pushed the door open and walked in.

  The changing area was full of long wooden benches, shaded indigo with old, peeling paint. Where the flecks were coming away, various layers of maroon or green could be seen underneath from previous coats. It was hygienic and pleasant enough, if somewhat tired, as though the club had been making do on little money for some time. Doing my best to ignore the women’s under garments, I eased around following Tyler, while trying to focus on the large posters. The latest pin ups of men were stuck with the odd pictures of cheerleaders and a full length poster of Jamie Lee Curtis from her younger years, dressed in a dancing leotard.

  Pushing aside another set of double swing doors, we turned the corner and moved into the men’s locker room, then along another corridor, down a tunnel and onto the field.

  It was vast.

  I was glad I’d never had to fight in a stadium like this. The players themselves were tiny from this distance: all fifty-three men, miniature action figures in the uniform of the Tequesta Black
Ears. We strolled towards them. Some threw balls back and forth, while others were running around the pitch, grinning as they passed the bum-wiggling cheerleaders. One, number 27, was even jogging away from the drinks table where he’d been chatting up some pretty plastic Floridian tart. As he moved, she leant forward and shouted: “Happy birthday for tomorrow Tom!”

  The ground here was lower than outside and the seats, in brilliant blues and red spelling “Black Ears”, went all the way to the bottom. With the steeply angled terracing, it looked three times bigger than from the car park. Full, it would make an awesome venue on big-game nights. I could hear the 71,368 fans cheering the team on in my head, their ticker tapes and streamers fluttering high on the wind.

  Coach Tyler pulled a whistle from his outer jeans pocket and blew it. The players began to bustle towards our position. I felt like I was standing my ground in the face of a buffalo stampede.

  Tyler rumbled in his low Pan-Handle accent, “Now listen up. We all know the Black Ears have new owners. You’ll have heard rumours about changes that may or may not be made. The first of those changes is standing right here beside me.”

  A ripple rumbled through the crowd. Like the last murmur on the lips of a long dead corpse as the air is pushed from its lungs. A name was whispered with dread. Janokovic. Yeah, they’d been anxiously gossiping about what might be coming. Some fancy Russian billionaire oil and steel baron was looking for a way to get a Western passport quickly. Maybe he had underworld connections. Maybe he’d been responsible for killings or torture on his way to the top. But what did they really know about the man behind the myth?

  The Russian president was renowned for taking the country’s recently legitimized mafia bosses and confiscating their wealth while throwing them in jail. Need a quick way out? Buy a sports club. Pick one big enough and you’ll instantly be given a new home while sneaking a few hundred million out with you. No nation will turn you down.

  The odd thing was, normally Russians fleeing overseas went to Cyprus or England. I’d certainly never heard of them choosing Florida. Maybe Roman Aclef Janokovic just preferred American women.

  “This here is Simon Ritter. He’s from England. He’s going to be providing you guys with a first line of defence against the bad media we’ve been having lately. Here Simon, say a few words to the boys.”

  It was my turn to speak. There’s always the merest tingle of stage fright, for those few seconds, no matter how much I do this because it’s always the hardest bit of the job; you have to project your personality right or you’ll forever have problems exerting your authority. In this moment, just prior to speaking, you have to take a single deep breath, toss the mental coin high into the air, and choose which way to make it land.

  Hard or soft?

  This time, something good and authoritative was needed – something to make them understand why I’m here.

  The lad’s lad.

  “First up, forget the Simon. Just call me Ritter. As the new Head of Player/ Public Relations, I’m in charge of this phone line,” I said, holding a small plastic business card above my head. It was black with a single number on it emblazoned in red. “When you lose your wallet, before you call your bank to cancel your cards, you call this number. When you get up in the morning, before your hand reaches for your dick to make sure you’ve still got it with you, it needs to reach for this card to make sure it’s still there. Gentlemen, this card is more important than anything else in your world from now on. The phone number on it is your personal life line.”

  A couple of the young men looked at one another and grinned. They loved the dick line. Good. I’ve got them on side. Keep it funny and harden it up at the same time.

  “Doherty – that means when your wallet is taken by your wife on a shopping spree after an argument, you will call this number. That way we’ll avoid another Vinewood Valley Times story about you spending $2000 on female sex aides.

  “Jacks: When you can’t decide what clothes to wear on a date, you will call this number. That way, Jacks, there will be no more photos of you in Hello magazine wearing a green tie with a blue shirt and a red jacket. And hopefully people will stop asking if someone who is clearly colour blind has the appropriate eyesight to remain a star catcher.

  “And for the rest of you too: when your wife leaves you for a one-armed Mexican dwarf with a limp, the first thing you will do is not cry, it is to call this number.

  “I don’t care what you’ve done; all I care about is that it’s fixed discretely. Your fuck ups are your own business and nobody else’s. If what you’ve done is illegal or immoral I cannot guarantee you won’t go to jail but, I can guarantee that if I find out about it and you haven’t called this number then whatever else happens you will lose your job and, more than that, we will hang you out to the press to dry. Come to me, confide in me, and however heavily the rain falls, I will see to the best of my abilities that you at least have an umbrella.”

  A couple of the younger players laughed. A few of the older ones shuffled uncomfortably, hopping from one foot to the other. But that was the black and white of it. From now on, when there was a potential news story to be had, it was my job to know about it first and kill it.

  “Okay boys, line up!” Tyler shouted.

  Fifty over muscled hulks tumbled into a queue. A little jostling met with stern stares from Tyler. So, heads bowed like nuns heading for confession, they received the blessings from my hand. Some stuffed the card straight into a pocket. Others kept gawking blankly at it. Christ, what do I do if these dickheads can’t even read?

  “Any questions?”

  There were a few. There always are. “When will it start running?” “Right now.” “How many people will know about the call?” “Just the people in my team. For now that’s just me. Later, when I get around to it, I may hire trusted associates.” “When can I call the line?” “Any time. 24-hours. If in doubt, just call it.”

  “Anything else?” Tyler asked, looking at me.

  “Just this: I’m sure by now you’ve all heard that the club’s second groundskeeper was shot this morning in the Downtown area. Under no circumstances are any of you to talk to the press. Later today, I’ll be dropping by for a chat with you about the situation with some of you. If anyone’s got anything they want to share with me, it’ll be treated in the strictest of confidence. Drop by my office anytime.”

  The inquisition fulfilled, the players huddled in for practice. One of them volunteered to show me to the elevator. My new office was on the tenth floor. As he led the way, I read the wording on his back. Number 37. Ghanimifard. Jesus, if the whole NFL’s made up of names like that, how do the commentators cope? I thanked him as the steel elevator doors opened and I stepped inside.

  I stared into the mirror.

  Blue eyes. Closely cropped, spiky, brown hair. A crooked nose, mostly fixed by expensive plastic surgeons. It was broken by the Korean with the bear claw fist on my fourth night in the pits. In my three month stint in the Port of Nagasaki, he was the only fighter liable to give me the creeps if I ran into him again in a back alley. That’s unlikely now. I heard a while back he was crippled shortly after I left the scene. It makes sense. Few illegal dockland fighters have long-running careers. When I realised how low I’d sunk, I guess that’s why I got out fast.

  That was a long time ago now.

  I fell, recovered, then fell again and now I’m on my way back up. So here I stand, face to face with my reflection and starting out from scratch once more. Why am I doing this to myself?

  It’s a good question.

  I’m not sure I have a ready-made answer, not one that makes sense to anyone else but me, anyways. A change of scene is always good when you turn a page – but boy are there times when this job sucks. It sucks to have to get up at three in the morning because some star player’s been caught in bed with his mistress by his girlfriend and she’s now walked out on him.

  Oh yes, it sucks.

  But that’s the job. That’s what t
hey pay me to do.

  I guess coming to the Black Ears seemed like the right move to make. Something about the mysterious Janokovic sparked a calling within me – an intrigue – perhaps even the notion of a destiny. If you’re the kind who doesn’t believe in such things, though – call the situation of a Russian oligarch buying an American Football club an intellectual puzzle I couldn’t resist. With the number of problems this club had had lately, I’m amazed someone like me wasn’t called in a long time ago.

  I’d spent three years working for soccer club Manchester United on a similar gig. Players may have talent but usually they have shit for brains. Give a kid of twenty, with no common sense and a big ego, millions of dollars a year and you’re likely to find yourself reading stories in the newspapers all day long about the string of models they’ve been sleeping with after going to fashion parties. It’s just what happens. That can be bad for the club’s brand image. And if you can’t keep 53 young men on the straight and narrow you can at least chaperone them.

  Janokovic had probably heard about me when he met Manchester United’s owner at a charity event. That feckless American was looking for ways to cut costs so he could take more money out of the club to buy his wife Ferraris and his mistress fur coats. Laid off, I’d chased down every sports team I knew to see who else could use my services.

  Janokovic spent almost six months making me jump through hoops of fire, answering questions for his “Head of American Investments” Olaf Blavatsky over the telephone. “How would I react in this situation? What did I make of that moral dilemma? If a house were on fire and my wife and child were inside, would I rescue my wife or the baby?” Eventually, he’d agreed that I was suitable for the role he had in mind and put me forward for approval from Janokovic himself.

  The bell rang.

  The steel lift opened once more. I stepped out into an inoffensive little hallway, carefully carpeted in blue with magnolia walls. I walked down the corridor staring at the numerated doorways, scanning for mine. If there was a methodology behind the numbering, it eluded me. I wondered, if he visited, which would be Janokovic’s temporary office. None of them had the requisite grandeur.