The Franchise (31 page)

She was the city in the swamp.

He was the Man from New Orleans.

And there was a knock at his door.

“Sir, Mr. Kazan?” He heard Cisco rap lightly again on the door. “It’s Mr. Conly on the private number.”

“Fine, Cisco, put him through.” The Man picked up the phone. “Yes, Richard, my dear friend?” He paused, listened and nodded. “This has to do with Marconi’s problem. I hate to see those kinds of fights, but all is not lost if you get some gain. Memphis and Phoenix are the core of Marconi’s support. You’ll have their proxy at the owner’s meeting. When they go with you, the handwriting will be on the wall.”

The Man listened and smiled.

“Always my pleasure, Dick.”

The rain picked up and the call ended.

The League Owners meeting at La Coste Country Club had two major items on the agenda. The question of the LA franchise and the awarding of the next three years’ worth of Super Bowls. After the presentation of evidence against Marconi’s daughter by J. Edgar Jones of Investico, the owners talked and smoked and conferred. Dick Conly broke the stalemate by providing the proxies of the Memphis and Phoenix teams, helping Commissioner Burden and the West Coast owners finally force the Marconi interests completely out of the Los Angeles franchise. They then voted to secure it for one Richard Portus, a twenty-one-year-old graduate of the University. Portus’s father was an oil-man friend of Cyrus Chandler, and Conly helped to secure the LA franchise for Portus.

In return the Texas Pistols were named to host the Super Bowl in three years.

Now all Dick Conly had to do was build a stadium for the game.

“O
NCE WE AMORTIZE
the player costs of the purchase price of the Franchise and lose the depreciation, we’re going to show a positive cash flow unless we do something,” Dick Conly said. “The television money is going to be unbelievable. We’ve got to find some shelter.”

“Any ideas?” Cyrus Chandler sat behind his half-full glass of bourbon.

“A couple.” Dick Conly dug a shaking hand into the stainless-steel ice bucket, then dropped the cubes into the whiskey. “We form a trust for your new grandson and move ten percent of the Franchise in every year. We would appoint and control the trustees. It would reduce the tax exposure and it’d allow you to offer Red the ownership position that he wants. Give him two and a half percent and he’d have a reason to help keep down player costs.”

“Whoa!” Cyrus sat up. “I told him maybe if we got to the Super Bowl I would reconsider.”

“He would be easier to control if he had something to lose besides his job.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Go ahead and set up Randall’s trust, but hold off on Red. I want to think.”

“Every time you think, it costs us money.”

“I want to ...”

“You go ahead and think, Cyrus. Meanwhile in three years we host the Super Bowl,” Conly explained. “And between now and then we build a stadium.”

“We just got University Stadium,” Cyrus protested. “Why spend the money to build one?”

“We’ll be spending someone else’s money, first of all. And second of all, with our own stadium we are vertically integrated. We can move the money around a lot easier, without even considering our radio network and the television plan,” Conly said. “Depending on where we want the income to show up, we charge rent and split parking and concessions accordingly. We’ll finance it through bond sales too. They have to buy bonds before they can buy season tickets. We pay the bondholders about three percent interest with an option to buy the bonds back at face value in thirty years.”

“With ten-cent dollars,” Cyrus added.

Dick Conly often used inflation in player negotiations, deferring large contract payments into the twenty-first century, expensing the full amount currently. Now they were planning to do it to the fans.

“We’ll put it outside the city in one of those little suburbs to the south—maybe Clyde.”

Cyrus was puzzled but interested in the plan. It was another Dick Conly money-making scheme using OPM.

“South to Clyde for two reasons.” Dick had poured another drink and was sketching out some rough figures on a cocktail napkin. “First, the city is going to grow south when the new airport is built out past Clyde. That means expressways and accessibility to the stadium. Next, the mayor and city council of Clyde have already promised us free municipal services and exemption from property taxes. I’ve already optioned a thousand acres on both sides of the freeway for a thousand dollars an acre. In thirty years that land will be selling by the square foot and we will exercise the option to buy the bonds back from the ticket holders at face value. The Franchise owns the land, the stadium and all improvements and won’t have a tax problem with property for thirty years.” Dick looked at Cyrus Chandler. “You won’t be here.”

Cyrus blinked and jerked back.

“Do the math. This is for your grandson, that’s why I’m moving assets into the trust as fast as possible—for
him
.” Dick tossed the paper with the hastily figured stadium-financing plan. “The least you can do for the kid is protect him with the trust.” Conly smiled. “Not that I enjoy planning your estate, but the assumption of your death is so attractive.”

Cyrus didn’t smile. “What makes you so certain this’ll fly?”

“Two things,” Conly replied. “We get the Super Bowl in three years. Robbie Burden is willing to go along as long as the commissioner’s office gets its share of tickets. And Red Kilroy and Taylor Rusk just might take the Pistols to the Super Bowl by then. Since the blackout rule includes
all
local games, that means my Pay-Per-View television plan will include the Super Bowl Game.”

“What’s the Super Bowl worth?”

“How does a hundred-million-dollar gate strike you?”

B
EFORE
R
ED MET
with Cyrus Chandler and Dick Conly to discuss the draft, he had Taylor stop by his office. He wanted to lever his head a little.

“Taylor, you know this is pro ball, and ...”

“It certainly is, Red.”

“What?”

“Pro ball. You said this was pro ball. I was just agreeing with you.” Taylor walked away from the coach’s metal desk to the window. “Geez, Red, what a shitty view.”

“What?” Red bit through his cigar in frustrated confusion. “Siddown, Taylor. I’ve gotta meet with Conly about the draft, and ...”

“I
guess
you got a draft.” Taylor ran a hand around the window. “They not only gave you a bad view, you’re on the north side of the building. I’ll bet you freeze in here on cold days.”

“What are you talking about now?” Red swiveled his leather swivel chair around and spit part of the cigar into the waste can.

“Red, I didn’t invite myself over here. I figure you called me up here to threaten me with all the quarterbacks available in the draft.”

“Taylor. Taylor. How can you say that?”

“Bull’s-eye.”

“I have to think ahead.”

“And I don’t?” Taylor turned quickly from the window and advanced on Red. The size of the movement was intimidating. Red pulled back into his chair.

“I don’t have to think ahead? Is that it, Coach?” Taylor’s wide, long hands splayed out on the metal desk as Taylor leaned across it. “Now”—his voice was soft, but the man towering over Red Kilroy was visibly angry—“I don’t like mind games. I thought we got all that shit straight at the University. So far you have told me that this is pro ball and the draft is coming. What advantage do you think that gives you over me?”

“Look, Taylor, I’m just the coach. Conly and Chandler have their own ideas about what we need in the draft.” Red tried to look sincere. “They want more quarterbacks. Cyrus doesn’t like you much.”

“And?”

“Well, they want to use our number one to get Jacobi from Notre Dame.”

“And?”

“Jacobi?” Red went on. “The quarterback from Notre Dame? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Taylor moved back to the window. He looked north to where the new expressway fed out into cotton fields and gin towns.

“Notre Dame, Taylor, Notre Dame.” Red slapped himself on the top of the head as if pounding a stake into his brain. “Catholics, Taylor. Do you know how many Catholics there are in the world?”

Taylor shook his head. “How many?”

“How the fuck should I know? But they watch a fucking lot of TV football. Dick and Cyrus think they’ll watch Texas if we get Jacobi. And frankly, Taylor, it’s a sound theory.”

“But you’re willing to stick with me.”

Red nodded grimly.

“Well, Red”—Taylor glanced over his shoulder—“your whole scheme is so obvious as to be patently absurd, starting with the fact that this
is
pro ball and Jacobi couldn’t carry my jock. Hell, he can’t carry his own jock.” Taylor looked back north. The city was sprawling up the expressway, devouring the rich black land “What do you
really
want, Red? What’s the tradeoff to keep this vile papist conspiracy from usurping my quarterback’s job?”

“Let me call the plays.” The words rushed out, betraying the desperation Red was trying to conceal.

Taylor laughed softly out the window. He didn’t answer.

“Well? Taylor?” The coach swung his chair left and right. “What about it?”

Taylor stayed silent, staring toward Oklahoma, recalling the wedding trip and Wendy Chandler. The campus was to his right, the spring-fed river snaking, glittering through the trees. He watched the bums under the Red River Bridge. “I heard Lem and Wendy had a baby,” Taylor finally said.

Red spoke coldly, hard. “Big deal. Now, what about me calling some plays from the sideline?”

“Maybe Jacobi’ll let you do it. ’Course with Jacobi, you may also have to do the running and passing.”

“I take that to mean no?”

Taylor nodded.

“Son of a bitch.” Red slammed his hand flat on his desk.

“Red, control is the quarterback’s job. Creativity under stress is impossible without control. Otherwise I’d play wide receiver—less strain and pressure.” Taylor’s eyes glittered; he loved this argument. “That’s reality out there. The other players must talk to me and me to them. We must communicate completely. They must trust me and believe in me. On the field and off. You are noise—interference. The game is not a bunch of separate plays, it’s one continuous process. And no matter what else, on Sunday I am willing and able to create the whole process. The power and control have to stay on the field.”

“You know what I’ll get for you?” Red added. “The guys who never make a mistake.”

“Nope.”

“I’m talking a team of mistake-free lunatics....”

Taylor shook his head. “You find ’em and train ’em. But I’ll communicate with ’em and run the team.”

“I want more,” Red pleaded.

“Red, we’re all in this alone, and if you take power from the field, I lose it. And that makes the difference between great football and magic.” Taylor grinned. “Perspective, Coach, keep your perspective.”

“Fuck perspective—” Red began.

“I am the passer,” Taylor interrupted. “When I put the ball up, only three things can happen,
and two are bad
. I won’t accept that risk unless I choose when and where I throw.”

“This is my
chance
,” Red pleaded. Sweat beaded on his upper lip; droplets ran down his forehead from his hairline.

“You don’t have a choice, Red. It’s my chance too. I’m not changing, and if you don’t let go, I’ll break your fingers. I want no mistakes on game day.... That includes you.”

“Let me call some plays, Taylor! Just a few!”

The quarterback shook his head.

“Christ! You are some Frankenstein’s monster,” Red growled. “Greedy bastard.”

“I gotta go.” Taylor started toward the door. “You will call no plays during the game. If you try, I’ll call time out. You just get me a team of lunatics who can execute, teach them what to do and where to be, and I’ll win the games.”

Red watched his quarterback cross the room in a quick, supple move. His physical size, strength and grace never ceased to awe the coach. Taylor was not just a smart, skillful quarterback; he was a genius, and Red’s system required a genius at quarterback. Taylor Rusk was so mentally and physically durable that Red suspected he was a different species of man. The coach watched the door close as Taylor Rusk left.

“If you weren’t so fucking good ...” Red growled, then sighed, “... then we would really be shitty.”

He flicked the projector back on and watched the middle linebacker from Chicago tip off the coverage every time.

S
IMON HAD JUST
washed and waxed his new red Bronco the day he loaded up his dog, Harlowe, a new electric collar, and a defanged rattlesnake. He bought the five-foot diamondback snake hot from a herpetologist at the University.

Simon decided to drive past the Pistols office and look for Taylor’s car since the offices weren’t that far out of his way. He drove slowly through the lot, looking for Taylor’s long four-door yellow Lincoln. While cruising slowly and looking, Simon almost ran over one of the ball boys.

Luther Conly, Dick’s boy, was stumbling through the lot, blinded by tears. Simon swerved the Bronco; Luther banged right into the side and fell to the asphalt. Harlowe fell off the seat and banged her head against the dashboard, heavily padded with the Leather Cowboy Interior Package. Harlowe wasn’t hurt; neither was Luther. Simon was scared to death.

He jumped out and scooped up the young boy, who continued to sob. Simon held him gently; boys at his age were eggshell fragile.

Luther continued to sob, his face against the massive chest. Simon did the only thing he knew and hugged the teen-ager to him. Luther hugged him back and began to cry harder.

Harlowe whined from inside the new Bronco.

“Take me with you,” the boy sobbed, “please take me with you.” He continued to cry. Simon held the boy and looked bewildered.

“We’re just gonna snake-train old Harlowe. You wanna go?”

Luther nodded his head rapidly, his face still buried in Simon’s chest.