The Franchise (23 page)

Dick Conly watched Suzy arrive. He staggered out of his room and down the hall to meet her as she was putting down the house phone.

“He’s gone off with Kimball Adams,” the general manager said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” Dick Conly looked over the young girl, again barefoot, dressed in white shorts and a tank top. She bit her lower lip in anger. She was about the same age as Luther.

“Damn him,” Suzy said. “I told him I would be a little late.”

“Can I take you somewhere?”

“I got a car, thanks.”

“Good.” Dick Conly weaved slightly. “You take me somewhere.”

Suzy Ballard just looked at the florid-faced middle-aged man.

“You want a drink?” Dick Conly held up his plastic glass with the purple team logo on the side.

“Yeah.” Anger tinged her voice. “Do you own this team?”

“Honey, I just run it. I run everything.”

Suzy giggled. “Let’s go get that drink.”

“Good, they have a bar at the Sahara Motel.”

Suzy knew what that meant and decided it might not be all bad. It was a way to get even with A.D. Besides, Dick Conly would probably pass out before he got around to dragging her into bed. He didn’t, but it still wasn’t all bad.

Luther watched from his window as his father drove off with the carhop that everybody from Park City High cruised the Sonic to see.

Suzy performed sexually like an Olympic gymnast. Dick Conly just lay back, grunted, groaned and fell hopelessly in love. Before dozing off, Dick Conly offered Suzy a job with the Pistols.

Back at the dormitory Luther tried to masturbate, but his father and Suzy kept popping up. Luther quit in despair when his arm began to ache. He felt guilty and depressed, his balls ached and he’d skinned his dick.

“H
EY,
T
AYLOR.
T
AYLOR.”

Taylor Rusk felt someone shaking him awake. The dormitory room was dark and the only light came from the hall.

“Taylor, wake up, I got to talk to you.”

The quarterback slowly came awake and looked into a shadowy face he had never seen before. Lamar Jean Lukas was standing over the bed, shaking him.

“Come on, Taylor, wake up. We got to talk.”

“Who the hell are you?” Taylor asked, too tired and sleepy to really care.

“Lamar Jean Lukas. I’m a season ticket holder.” Lamar Jean grinned and sat back on the extra bed. “I want to talk to you about the scrimmage this afternoon and about the team’s prospects.”

“Go find the other season ticket holder and talk to him about it, for Chrissakes, and let me sleep.” Taylor rolled over, putting his back to the man. “I’m tired. Leave me alone.”

Lamar was momentarily angry but let it pass and gained control of himself before he spoke again. “C’mon, Taylor, I’m a big fan of yours and the Pistols. I just wanted to tell you a few of the things I noticed out there today. I used to play in the Marines.”

“Everybody has played somewhere.” Taylor didn’t turn back. “Now, go back to the Halls of Montezuma and let me sleep.”

“Hey, man,” Lamar flared and grabbed Taylor’s shoulder, jerking him over in bed, “don’t turn your back on me. While you were screwing off, being a star, I was getting my ass shot off to keep the goddam commies out of Vietnam.”

Lamar had Taylor awake. The big quarterback sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t care if the commies are in LA. When they get to New Mexico, come and tell me. Now goddam ... ah ... what did you say your name was?”

“Lamar. Lamar Jean Lukas.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Taylor took it without enthusiasm.

“How did you get in here?” Taylor asked. “Civilians are not supposed to be in this dormitory.”

“I’m not a civilian. I just wanted to give you a little advice. I drove up here from the city to watch the scrimmage. I just wanted to help out.”

“Well.” Taylor just wanted this nut out of the room. He knew the type; delay and future promises were usually the best approach. “Listen, Lamar, I appreciate the interest, but I’m just too tired to concentrate right now. Why don’t you put it all in a letter or something and mail it to the team offices. We’re breaking camp soon.” Taylor Rusk wanted Lamar Jean Lukas to go away fast but not mad. An angry, embarrassed fan might lay out there and ambush you one day. If fans killed each other over football games, how long before they started killing quarterbacks?

“A letter? You think so?” Lamar asked.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Taylor lay back, checking Lamar over for suspicious lumps in his clothing, a pocket or belt knife. “A letter. Then I can study it. Make sure you get everything down. That’s the way Red does it. Now, you better get out of here before one of the coaches comes by.”

“Why don’t you give me your address?” Lamar said. “Or phone number. We could talk and become friends.”

“I don’t have a place yet.” Taylor began to get nervous about Lamar. His eyes seemed to shine in the dark. Taylor never thought shiny eyes were a good sign. Middle linebackers had shiny eyes. “Listen, put it in a letter and mail it to the team office. They’ll get it to me. Now, you better get out of here. If the coaches catch you, they’ll file trespassing charges on you.”

“But I got a season ticket.”

“They’ll still do it, man,” Taylor said. “You know coaches.”

“Yeah.” Lamar nodded his head. “The assholes.”

Taylor grabbed and shook Lamar’s hand. “It was great meeting you, but you better get going.” Taylor indicated the door with a nod of his head. “The coaches are always sneaking around.”

“Those bastards,” Lamar said. He paused and looked at the floor. “A letter, huh?”

Taylor nodded. “You better get going. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, man, that’s a
promise
.” Lamar slapped his knees, stood up, walked to the door, checked the hall and was gone.

Taylor shook his head and tried for sleep, chasing the frightening specter of a world full of nameless, faceless fans nursing private grudges against Taylor Rusk. He drifted into unconsciousness.

Early that morning Simon came in to Taylor’s room and slammed the door so hard it sounded like a gunshot. Simon’s mood swings were getting easier to discern.

S
IMON SAT ON
the edge of the bed and glared at Taylor, forcing the quarterback’s eyes open by will. Simon’s pupils were dilated, making his eyes look almost black.

“Simon?” Taylor sighed. “Before you say anything, I have already been threatened in the dark by a lunatic Vietnam-vet football fan.”

Simon’s breathing was rapid and shallow.

“If whatever is making you crazier than normal can be solved by simply fine-tuning your drug intake, I beg you go do it without further complaint.”

“What makes you the authority on sanity around here? Because Doc Webster got you all the money?”

“Simon, I don’t sign your check. We’ve been through all this.”

“You and Doc Webster wrecked Conly’s budget for salaries, so there was nothing left for me. Cyrus said so. Charlie Stillman did too.”

“Simon, there is no player’s salary budget. Cyrus jerked us both around that day. It was over Wendy, not money. Cyrus doesn’t know about money. Dick Conly and Red run this team, not Cyrus.” Taylor closed his eyes. “Charlie Stillman sold you out; accept it, learn from it. Relax, Simon, and quit worrying.”

“I am not crazy.” Simon puffed up red, clenching his fist.

“You’re not
crazier
. You should cut down on the steroids. Talk about lousy credentials—a drug thirdhand from a Russian. You might as well go to the team doctor.”

“You have never been injured. You have no understanding of pain. It is
my
pain. Mine! Not Buffy’s. Not Red’s. Not yours to dismiss at will. You need some broken ribs. You don’t know what it does to get broken.” Tears sprang from Simon’s eyes. “Each one is worse.” He wiped a great paw across his face. “You’ve
never
been hurt, you just don’t know.” Simon D’Hanis’s red face was now wet with smeared tears and he was trembling. He paced into the bathroom and back out, cracking his huge knuckles. The chemical change in Simon was more than Taylor could bear.

“She don’t understand why I love playing!” Simon slammed his palm on the side of the dresser. “I don’t
like
injuries. Sure, I get hurt, but if you can’t stand the heat—”

“Don’t crash and burn,” Taylor interrupted. “Even though people pay to watch us crash and burn, that doesn’t mean we have to.”

“She wouldn’t understand.” Simon furrowed his brow. “Buffy thinks everything is just fine.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“Is it for you?”

Taylor did not reply. The question stopped him dead.

“See what I mean?” Simon chewed on this thumbnail.

“Lay off the steroids, Simon,” Taylor mumbled.

“I should have known you’d side with her.” The door closed with an explosion. Down the hall another door slammed shut.

Taylor was crossing the parking lot, heading for the training room; Simon and Buffy D’Hanis sat in her car. The Mercury had been a wedding present from her father. Her mother just cried daily until July. Taylor walked over to say hello to Buffy.

“Hello, Buffy. How’s the bride?” He put his hands on the door and leaned down.

Buffy turned away from Taylor and said nothing.

“She’s fine,” Simon growled. “She’s just goddam fine.”

Taylor moved back at Simon’s anger. The big lineman squirmed from behind the wheel. Taylor still leaned against the passenger side. He could feel the car rise when Simon stepped out. The springs groaned.

“Mind your own business, Taylor.”

Simon walked quickly off toward the dormitory.

“I got the parking concession, Smiley.” Taylor turned back to the car. “What’s bothering the founder of the Akim Tamiroff Fan Club?”

Buffy slid over to the steering wheel, keeping her back to Taylor. The child she was carrying made the maneuver difficult and awkward. She said nothing.

“That’s twice he screamed at me, and it isn’t noon.” Taylor noticed Buffy’s struggle and came quickly around to the door on the driver’s side.

“Let me help.”

“No. No, Taylor. I don’t need any help. Please leave me alone.”

It was too late; Taylor was already around the car and leaning in to help her get behind the wheel. She turned her head away, but Taylor had already seen.

“My God, Buffy, what happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing happened.” She began to cry.

Taylor eased into the car, took her head gently in his hands and turned her face to him. Her lips were bloody and swollen and one eye was purple-black, puffed almost shut. Buffy looked at the horror in Taylor’s face with her one good eye.

“Is it that bad?” she sobbed.

“It’s pretty bad,” he told her. “You can’t go back in the game and you are doubtful for next week. Jesus Christ, did he do this?”

Buffy broke into racking sobs and Taylor held her, laying her head on his shoulder. She cried for about five minutes, completely soaking his shirt. When she calmed down she began apologizing.

“I’m sorry, Taylor. This isn’t your problem. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Then she began to cry again, softly this time.

“Did Simon do this?”

She nodded her head. “He just went crazy,” she sobbed. “He’s never laid a hand on me before.” Her lip split open again and began to bleed. Taylor dabbed at the blood with his shirt.

“You better see a doctor,” he said. “Or at least come with me and let the trainer look at you.”

“No. No. Don’t you dare tell anyone about this.” Buffy lifted her battered head and glared with her one good eye. “I’ll never speak to you again. If you’re my friend and Simon’s friend, you won’t ever tell anybody about this. You stood up at our wedding.”

“If you call that standing. You can’t drive back to the city in this shape.” He pushed her head back to his shoulder and stroked her hair. She started to wail.

“I kept telling him he was gonna kill the baby. He was crazy. What’s happened to him, Taylor?”

“I don’t know, Buffy. Maybe it’s the pressure. This is Fruitcake City, the last bounce. Maybe he hit too hard. It’s a mean game and the sidelines are vague. Nobody is sure and it’s that way on purpose.”

Taylor checked her eyes and ears for blood while Buffy sobbed softly.

A.D. Koster’s convertible roared into the lot in a cloud of white dust. Suzy Ballard was at the wheel. Dick Conly staggered from the passenger side around to the back entrance of the dormitory. Suzy checked herself over in the rearview mirror and put on some lipstick.

“Wait here, Buffy.” Taylor eased out of the car and Simon’s wife lay back against the seat. Taylor jogged over to Suzy.

“Say, Suzy, can I ask a favor?”

“It depends,” Suzy said coldly, putting the lid back on her lipstick. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about I don’t tell A.D. you been fucking the general manager.”

She narrowed her eyes and returned the lipstick to her purse. She grimaced, shook her head and checked it in the mirror, studying the fall of her hair. “That’s a lame threat, sonny, but you got spunk. Okay, what do you want?”

“I want you to leave A.D.’s car here and drive Simon’s wife back to the city in her car.”

“Then what’ll I do for a car all week?”

“You’ll think of something,” Taylor smiled. “You can always roller skate.”

“Shithead.” Suzy pushed out the door, shoved Taylor aside and crossed the lot to Buffy’s car.

“Jesus Christ.” Suzy saw Buffy’s face. “Did you get the guy?”

Taylor leaned across to Buffy. “Suzy will drive you home.” He turned to Suzy. “Don’t you leave her until somebody gets there to look after her.”

“Oh, Taylor, please,” Buffy cried, “don’t call my folks, please.”

“Don’t worry, Buffy, it’ll be just fine,” Taylor soothed, then turned to Suzy. “Get her on home.”

“It’ll be just fine,” Suzy mimicked. “Is that right? Men are usually fools or assholes, but you could be both.” She drove the car off toward the city, leaving Taylor with a multiple-choice expletive.

Taylor went inside and called Wendy Chandler Carleton. She answered on the third ring.