by Irwin Shaw
Another of the poker players, Hartwright, the racehorse owner, called Hugo and, after swearing him to secrecy, told him that he and what he called “a few of the boys” were buying up land for a supermarket in a suburb of the city. There was inside information that a superhighway was being built out that way by the city. “It’ll be a gold mine,” Hartwright said. “I’ve talked it over with the boys and they think it’d be a nice idea to let you in on it. If you don’t have the cash, we can swing a loan.…”
Hugo got a loan for $50,000. He was learning that nothing pleases people more than helping a success. Even his father-in-law, who had until then never been guilty of wild feats of generosity, was moved enough by the combination of Hugo’s new-found fame and the announcement that he was soon to be a grandfather to buy Hugo and Sibyl an eight-room house with a swimming pool in a good suburb of the city.
So the season went on, weeks during which Hugo heard nothing, spoken or unspoken, that was not for his pleasure or profit, the golden autumn coming to a rhythmic climax once every seven days in two hours of Sunday violence and huzzas.
The newspapers were even beginning to talk about the possibility of “The Cinderella Boys,” as Fallon and Hugo and their teammates were called, going all the way to the showdown with Green Bay for the championship. But on the same day, both Fallon and Hugo were hurt—Fallon with a cleverly dislocated elbow and Hugo with a head injury that gave him a severe attack of vertigo that made it seem to him that the whole world was built on a slant. They lost that game and they were out of the running for the championship of their division and the dream was over.
Before being injured, Hugo had had a good day; and in the plane flying home, even though it seemed to Hugo that it was flying standing on its right wing, he did not feel too bad. All that money in the bank had made him philosophic about communal misfortunes. The team doctor, a hearty fellow who would have been full of cheer at the fall of the Alamo, had assured him that he would be fine in a couple of days and had regaled him with stories of men who had been in a coma for days and had gained more than 100 yards on the ground the following Sunday.
An arctic hush of defeat filled the plane, broken only by the soft complaints of the wounded, of which there were many. Amidships sat the coach, with the owner, forming glaciers of pessimism that flowed inexorably down the aisle. The weather was bad and the plane bumped uncomfortably through soupy black cloud and Hugo, seated next to Johnny Smathers, who was groaning like a dying stag from what the doctor had diagnosed as a superficial contusion of the ribs, was impatient for the trip to end, so that he could be freed from this atmosphere of Waterloo and return to his abundant private world. He remembered that next Sunday was an open date and he was grateful for it. The season had been rewarding, but the tensions had been building up. He could stand a week off.
Then something happened that made him forget about football.
There was a crackling in his left ear, like static. Then he heard a man’s voice saying, “VHF one is out.” Immediately afterward he heard another man’s voice saying, “VHF two is out, too. We’ve lost radio contact.” Hugo looked around, sure that everybody else must have heard it, too, that it had come over the public-address system. But everybody was doing just what he had been doing before, talking in low voices, reading, napping.
“That’s a hell of a note.” Hugo recognized the captain’s voice. “There’s forty thousand feet of soup from here to Newfoundland.”
Hugo looked out the window. It was black and thick out there. The red light on the tip of the wing was a minute blood-colored blur that seemed to wink out for seconds at a time in the darkness. Hugo closed the curtain and put on his seat belt.
“Well, kiddies,” the captain’s voice said in Hugo’s ear, “happy news. We’re lost. If anybody sees the United States down below, tap me on the shoulder.”
Nothing unusual happened in the passenger section.
The door to the cockpit opened and the stewardess came out. She had a funny smile on her face that looked as though it had been painted on sideways. She walked down the aisle, not changing her expression, and went to the tail of the plane and sat down there. When she was sure nobody was looking, she hooked the seat belt around her.
The plane bucked a bit and people began to look at their watches. They were due to land in about ten minutes and they weren’t losing any altitude. There was a warning squawk from the public-address system and the captain said, “This is your captain speaking. I’m afraid we’re going to be a little late. We’re running into head winds. I suggest you attach your seat belts.”
There was the click of metal all over the plane. It was the last sound Hugo heard for a long time, because he fainted.
He was awakened by a sharp pain in one ear. The right one. The plane was coming down for a landing. Hugo pulled the curtain back and looked out. They were under the cloud now, perhaps 400 feet off the ground and there were lights below. He looked at his watch. They were nearly three hours late.
“You better make it a good one,” he heard a man’s voice say, and he knew the voice came from the cockpit. “We don’t have enough gas for another thousand yards.”
Hugo tried to clear his throat. Something dry and furry seemed to be lodged there. Everybody else had already gathered up his belongings, placidly waiting to disembark. They don’t know how lucky they are, Hugo thought bitterly as he peered out the window, hungry for the ground.
The plane came in nicely and as it taxied to a halt, the captain said cheerily, “I hope you enjoyed your trip, folks. Sorry about the little delay. See you soon.”
The ground hit his feet at a peculiar angle when he debarked from the plane, but he had told Sylvia he would look in at her place when he got back to town. Sibyl was away in Florida with her parents for the week, visiting relatives.
Going over in the taxi, fleeing the harsh world of bruised and defeated men and the memory of his brush with death in the fogbound plane, he thought yearningly of the warm bed awaiting him and the expert, expensive girl.
Sylvia took a long time answering the bell and when she appeared, she was in a bathrobe and had her headache face on. She didn’t let Hugo in, but opened the door only enough to speak to him. “I’m in bed, I took two pills,” she said, “I have a splitting—”
“Ah, honey,” Hugo pleaded. There was a delicious odor coming from her nightgown and robe. He leaned gently against the door.
“It’s late,” she said sharply. “You look awful. Go home and get some sleep.” She clicked the door shut decisively. He heard her putting the chain in place.
On the way back down the dimly lit staircase from Sylvia’s apartment, Hugo resolved always to have a small emergency piece of jewelry in his pocket for moments like this. Outside in the street, he looked up longingly at Sylvia’s window. It was on the fourth floor and a crack of light, cozy and tantalizing, came through the curtains. Then, on the cold night air, he heard a laugh. It was warm and sensual in his left ear and he remembered, with a pang that took his breath away, the other occasions when he had heard that laugh. He staggered down the street under the pale lampposts, carrying his valise, feeling like Willy Loman coming toward the end of his career in Death of a Salesman. He had the impression that he was being followed slowly by a black car, but he was too distracted to pay it much attention.
When he got home, he took out a pencil and paper and noted down every piece of jewelry he had bought Sylvia that fall, with its price. The total came to $3468.30, tax included. He tore up the piece of paper and went to bed. He slept badly, hearing in his sleep the sound of faltering airplane engines mingled with a woman’s laughter four stories above his head.
It rained during practice the next day and as he slid miserably around in the icy, tilted mud, Hugo wondered why he had ever chosen football as a profession. In the showers later, wearily scraping mud off his beard, Hugo became conscious that he was being stared at. Croker, the taxi-squad fullback, was in the next shower, soaping his hair and looking at Hug
o with a peculiar small smile on his face. Then, coming from Croker’s direction, Hugo heard the long, low, disturbing laugh he had heard the night before. It was as though Croker had it on tape inside his head and was playing it over and over again, like a favorite piece of music. Croker, Hugo thought murderously, Croker! A taxi-squadder! Didn’t even get to make the trips with the team. Off every Sunday, treacherously making every minute count while his teammates were fighting for their lives.
Hugo heard the laugh again over the sound of splashing water. The next time there was an intra-squad scrimmage, he was going to maim the son of a bitch.
He wanted to get away from the locker room fast, but when he was dressed and almost out the door, the trainer called to him.
“The coach wants to see you, Pleiss,” the trainer said, “Pronto.”
Hugo didn’t like the “pronto,” The trainer had a disagreeable habit of editorializing.
The coach was sitting with his back to the door, looking up at the photograph of Jojo Baines. “Close the door, Pleiss,” the coach said, without turning around.
Hugo closed the door.
“Sit down,” the coach said, still with his back to Hugo, still staring at the photograph of what the coach had once said was the only 100 percent football player he had ever seen.
Hugo sat down.
The coach said, “I’m fining you two hundred and fifty dollars, Pleiss.”
“Yes, sir,” Hugo said.
The coach finally swung around. He loosened his collar. “Pleiss,” he said, “what in the name of Knute Rockne are you up to?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Hugo said.
“What the hell are you doing staying up until dawn night after night?”
Staying up was not quite an accurate description of what Hugo had been doing, but he didn’t challenge the coach’s choice of words.
“Don’t you know you’ve been followed, you dummy?” the coach bellowed.
The black car on the empty street. Hugo hung his head. He was disappointed in Sibyl. How could she be so suspicious? And where did she get the money to pay for detectives?
The coach’s large hands twitched on the desk. “What are you, a sex maniac?”
“No, sir,” Hugo said.
“Shut up!” the coach said.
“Yes, sir,” said Hugo.
“And don’t think it was me that put a tail on you,” the coach said. “It’s a lot worse than that. The tail came from the commissioner’s office.”
Hugo let out his breath, relieved. It wasn’t Sibyl. How could he have misjudged her?
“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Pleiss,” the coach said. “The commissioner’s office has been interested in you for a long time now. It’s their job to keep this game clean, Pleiss, and I’m with them all the way on that, and make no mistake about it. If there’s one thing I won’t stand for on my club, it’s a crooked ballplayer.”
Hugo knew that there were at least 100 things that the coach had from time to time declared he wouldn’t stand for on his club, but he didn’t think it was the moment to refresh the coach’s memory.
“Coach,” Hugo began.
“Shut up! When a ballplayer as stupid as you suddenly begins to act as though he has a ouija board under his helmet and is in the middle of one goddamn play after another, naturally they begin to suspect something.” The coach opened a drawer in his desk and took out a dark-blue folder from which he extracted several closely typewritten sheets of paper. He put on his glasses to read. “This is the report from the commissioner’s office.” He ran his eyes over some of the items and shook his head in wonder. “Modesty forbids me from reading to you the account of your sexual exploits, Pleiss,” the coach said, “but I must remark that your ability even to trot out onto the field on Sunday after some of the weeks you’ve spent leaves me openmouthed in awe.”
There was nothing Hugo could say to this, so he said nothing.
“So far, you’ve been lucky,” the coach said. “The papers haven’t latched onto it yet. But if one word of this comes out, I’ll throw you to the wolves so fast you’ll pull out of your cleats as you go through the door. Have you heard me?”
“I’ve heard you, Coach,” Hugo said.
The coach fingered the papers on his desk and squinted through his bifocals. “In your sudden career as a lady’s man, you also seem to have developed a sense of largess in the bestowal of jewelry. In one shop in this town alone, you have spent well over three thousand dollars in less than two months. At the same time, you buy an eight-room house with a swimming pool, you send your wife on expensive vacations all over the country, you invest fifty thousand dollars in a real-estate deal that is barely legal, you are known to be playing cards for high stakes with the biggest gamblers in the city and you rent a safe-deposit box and are observed stuffing unknown sums of cash into it every week. I know what your salary is, Pleiss. Is it unmannerly of me to inquire whether or not you have fallen upon some large outside source of income recently?”
The coach closed the folder and took off his glasses and sat back. Hugo would have liked to explain, but the words strangled in his throat. All the things that had seemed to him like the smiling gifts of fate now, in that cold blue folder, were arranged against him as the criminal profits of corruption. Hugo liked everyone to like him and he had become used to everyone wishing him well. Now the realization that there were men, the coach among them, who were ready to believe the worst of him and ruin him forever because of it, left him speechless. He waved his hands helplessly.
“Pleiss,” the coach said, “I want you to answer one question, and if I ever find out you’re lying.…” He stopped, significantly. He didn’t add the usual coda, “I’ll personally nail you by the hands to the locker-room wall.” This omission terrified Hugo as he waited numbly for the question.
“Pleiss,” the coach said, “are you getting information from gamblers?”
A wave of shame engulfed Hugo. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so awful. He began to sob, all 235 pounds of him.
The coach looked at him, appalled. “Use your handkerchief, man,” he said.
Hugo used his handkerchief. Damply he said, “Coach, I swear on the head of my mother, I never talked to a gambler in my life.”
“I don’t want the head of your mother,” the coach snarled. But he seemed reassured. He waited for Hugo’s sobs to subside. “All right. Get out of here. And be careful. Remember, you’re being watched at all times.”
Drying his eyes, Hugo dragged himself out of the office. The public-relations man, Brenatskis, was having a beer in the locker room with a small, gray-haired man with cigarette ash on his vest. Hugo recognized the man. It was Vincent Haley, the sports columnist. Hugo tried to get out without being seen. This was no day to be interviewed by a writer. But Brenatskis spotted him and called, “Hey, Hugo, come over here for a minute.”
Flight would be damning. Hugo was sure that the whole world knew by now that he was a man under suspicion. So he tried to compose his face as he went over to the two men. He even managed an innocent, deceitful, country boy’s smile.
“Hello, Mr. Haley,” he said.
“Glad to see you, Pleiss,” said Haley. “How’s your head?”
“Fine, fine,” Hugo said hurriedly.
“You’re having quite a season, Pleiss,” Haley said. His voice was hoarse and whiskeyish and full of contempt for athletes, and his pale eyes were like laser beams. “Yeah, quite a season. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a linebacker improve so much from one game to another.”
Hugo began to sweat. “Some years you’re lucky,” he said. “Things fall into place.” He waited, cowering inwardly, for the next doomful inquiry. But Haley merely asked him some routine questions, like who was the toughest man in the league going down the middle and what he thought about the comparative abilities of various passers he had played against. “Thanks, Pleiss,” Haley said, “that’s about all. Good luck with your head.” He held out his hand and Hugo shook it
gratefully, glad that in another moment he was going to be out of range of those bone-dissolving eyes. With his hand still in the writer’s hand, Hugo heard the whiskeyish voice, but different, as though in some distant echo chamber, saying, in his left ear, “Look at him—two hundred and thirty-five pounds of bone and muscle, twenty-five years old, and he’s back here raking in the dough, while my kid, nineteen years old, a hundred and thirty pounds dripping wet, is lying out in the mud and jungle in Vietnam, getting his head shot off. Who did he pay off?”
Haley gave Hugo’s hand another shake. He even smiled, showing jagged, cynical, tar-stained teeth. “Nice talking to you, Pleiss,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, Mr. Haley,” Hugo said earnestly. “I’ll try.”
He went out of the stadium, not watching or caring where he was going, surrounded by enemies.
He kept hearing that rasping, disdainful “Who did he pay off?” over and over again as he walked blindly through the streets. At one moment, he stopped, on the verge of going back to the stadium and explaining to the writer about the sixty-three stitches in his knee and what the Army doctor had said about them. But Haley hadn’t said anything aloud and it would be a plunge into the abyss if Hugo had to acknowledge that there were certain moments when he could read minds.
So he continued to walk toward the center of the city, trying to forget the coach and the gamblers, trying to forget Vincent Haley and Haley’s nineteen-year-old son, weight 130 pounds, getting his head shot off in the jungle. Hugo didn’t bother much about politics. He had enough to think about trying to keep from being killed every Sunday without worrying about disturbances 10,000 miles away in small Oriental countries. If the United States Army had felt that he wasn’t fit for service, that was their business.
But he couldn’t help thinking about that kid out there, with the mortars bursting around him or stepping on poisoned bamboo stakes or being surrounded by grinning little yellow men with machine guns in their hands.