The Franchise (39 page)

“You can call me Pat.” Garrett was dressed in a khaki leisure suit and ankle-length zipper boots. A small star embroidered with gold stitching sat on the upper lift flap of the four-flap patch-pocket jacket. Over the small gold star were stitched the small white letters
SSI.

Lamar didn’t notice how Major Pat Garrett dressed or look too closely at the plaques, certificates, pictures and neatly boxed and framed gold-and silver-plated special-edition pistols that hung on the office walls. Lamar mainly kept track of the dog and the trench knife that lay across the Standard Employee’s Contract with Consent to Take a Lie Detector Test that Lamar would have to sign before he was ready to go out and work.

One steamy afternoon at Tan Son Nhut, Lamar saw an attack dog eat its handler. They kept dogs out by the aircraft all the time. Mean fucking dogs. This dog just went nuts and ate a complete air policeman, who was able to draw his .45 but never got off a round. Dogs went nuts over there just like people.

Lamar had always heard that seeing a horse go crazy on the battlefield was the most unnerving thing to soldiers in the horse wars. Lamar would put that dog that went berserk guarding F-4s up against any horse. Anyplace. Anytime.

“I’m actually not even named Patrick,” Major Garrett continued, seating himself in his wooden swivel chair. He motioned for Lamar to sit on the wooden stool across the desk from him. There were no other chairs or seats of any kind in the spacious if rather Spartan office. If the Major had many visitors, they stood.

“I really didn’t have a middle name,” Garrett went on. The dog rumbled low in his throat. “I just took Patrick after I got out of the service. It fit in well with the Security Service. You know? Pat Garrett? The famous marshal?”

Lamar nodded and listened to the dog.

“You’d be surprised the number of calls I get just from putting Pat in my Yellow Pages ad.”

The hair along the back of the dog’s neck began to stand as the rumble turned to a growl.

“Louie Deal tells me you’re a good worker, you’re dependable, you got an honorable discharge and you got skragged in ’Nam.”

Lamar flinched when the Major said
skragged
, but then nodded and watched and listened to the dog.

“I wanted to go there myself,” the Major said. “It would have looked good on my record.... Well, it actually
does
look good on my record.... You know what I mean? Just before I retired, my record went to Vietnam, but I didn’t actually go. One of those little bureaucratic creations one learns about.”

The Major leaned forward and the hair on the dog’s neck turned straight up. The Major didn’t notice. He had the dog on a “tryout loan” from a service buddy who got them off the Air Force base in San Antonio. The guy’s job was killing the crazy dogs.

He sold them instead.

“Anyway,” Major Pat Garrett droned on, “I would have liked to have gone there ... seen it ... you know, felt it ... smelled it ... you know what I mean?” The dog was onto all four feet, baring its teeth. Lamar Jean moved forward on the stool. The growl was quite audible.

“I saw
Patton
twelve times.” Major Pat Garrett’s eyes became unfocused and he seemed serene. The dog relaxed and sat back down. It never took its eyes off Lamar’s throat.

“We do a lot of rock shows and concerts,” the Major said. It had seemed like a long silence. “So you got to have a high shit tolerance, you know what I mean?”

Lamar nodded.

“I mean the shit you got to take from these kids.” The Major looked over at Lamar. “Are you up to taking a lot of shit?”

“Yessir, been takin’ it all my life.” Lamar spoke low and tried to smile. He moved as little as possible. The dog again began a deep, rumbling growl.

“Little assholes!” the Major said. The dog was back on his feet, teeth bare. “Okay, I can use you. You got to take a pistol course and buy your own uniform. Seventy-five dollars. I supply it and take the money out of your first three paychecks. You can buy your own pistol or I’ll supply you with a weapon and take it out of your first six paychecks. You got to have a physical. You got a doctor?”

Lamar Jean Lukas sat on the edge of the stool, watching and listening to the dog. Major Pat Garrett was a distant drone, unseen, unnoticed.

Lamar Jean Lukas had his own pistol, a six-inch-barrel Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum with black rubber Pachmayr grips. It had been his choice when the time came to buy himself a pistol. Lamar preferred a revolver to an automatic because every time you pulled the trigger the hammer slammed down on a fresh cartridge. That is important to a man who understands a misfire.

His first day on the job, Lamar Jean was assigned to the Seasons Apartments. He noticed right away that Taylor Rusk was living there. The quarterback had a three-bedroom apartment all to himself.

“I’ll have to drop in on Taylor,” Lamar said to himself. “Surprise him sometime.”

T
AYLOR’S PHONE RANG.
It was Kimball Adams in New York City.

“Hey, Fresh Meat,” Kimball rasped into the phone, “it’s me, the man who taught you everything worth knowing.”

“And some things I’d rather forget,” Taylor said.

“Don’t forget ’em. Fresh Meat,” the ex-quarterback growled. “Those are the most important things. The rest of it is the magic show. How are my old teammates?”

“Waiting on training camp, I guess,” Taylor replied. “Hendrix is in Houston with his father-in-law. They closed a big offshore deal with VCO. Bobby may get rich and retire.”

“Old Gus Savas?” Kimball growled. “I like that old bastard. He put me into some good oil deals when Bobby and I were in Cleveland, but then oil wasn’t bringing but three dollars a barrel.”

“Well, they have that problem solved,” Taylor said. “This VCO deal looks like a chance for Bobby and Ginny to hit big. They got a lot tied up in it.”

“I just talked to Terry Dudley. He plans to run for governor down there in four years,” Kimball said.

“A dead man can get elected if he spends enough,” Taylor replied. “What else did our seven-foot Union director say?”

“Plenty. He’s got big plans. A big network deal. How’s Simon and Ox and Speedo?”

“Speedo’s helping Hendrix and Dudley with the Union here. They’re talking about residuals now,” Taylor answered. “Which is causing plenty of trouble since nobody understands anything. The last I saw Ox, he was helping Simon up off the purple carpet in the weight room. Simon’s leg isn’t healing right. I don’t think he’s going to make it back.”

“How’s he taking it?” Kimball wanted to know.

“Not too well, and he don’t even know it yet.” Taylor sighed. “Generally everybody’s gone nuts. The shithouse to the penthouse and back. The elevator doesn’t make any stops in between. And don’t say I told you so.”

“What was it Speedo always says?” Kimball asked.

“ ‘Almost about the same,’ ” Taylor quoted Speedo Smith. “ ‘Everybody is almost about the same.’ ”

“Sounds like you all could use a vacation.”

“You mean
this
isn’t a vacation?”

“I mean a trip,” Kimball replied. “How about a few days in the tropical sun, all expenses paid? I got me a travel agency here in New York and I got some airline and hotel packages that are free for promotional consideration, as we say in the business. How does a Caribbean island sound to you?”

“Too small.”

“Other than that?” Kimball pressed. “Lay around in the sun, do a little fishing. I got room for ten to fifteen people. The network is doing one of those sportsman shows. They asked me to handle the travel package. Terry Dudley is coming to help coordinate the players with the network. He thinks this is one way to get a better image for the Union.” Kimball shook his head. “I think he means a better image for the Union director, but what do I know? Anyway, can you make it?”

“Where?”

“Cozumel. Off the Yucatán on the Caribbean side. Most of the tourists there come from Texas. Good airline connections out of Houston. I’ll already be down there. Bring a date if you want, Fresh Meat. There’s always room for more. Talk at you later. I’m going to call the others now. Have you got Bobby’s phone number in Houston?”

“No, but it’s Gus Savas on River Oaks Boulevard. Bobby’s still living at his father-in-law’s place.”

“He ought to: the place is the size of the Astrodome.” Kimball laughed again. It was a gargling sound.

“Who else is going?”

“Who do you want?” Kimball replied. “I was thinking of Bobby and Ginny Hendrix and their kids.”

“What about Speedo?” Taylor asked.

“Fine. It’ll do them Mayans good to meet some niggers.” Kimball laughed his rusty laugh. “The network wanted a club official. The only one we could get was Lem Carleton and his wife, Wendy. She’s Cyrus Chandler’s daughter, you know.”

Wendy would be in Mexico.

S
IMON FINISHED HIS
workout and soaked his swollen sore knee in ice water for twenty minutes. His whole leg ached from the cold water. The joint was degenerating. The loss of complete range of motion would cause the quadriceps to remain underdeveloped. The whole leg would slowly deteriorate and atrophy. The resulting limp would misalign Simon’s spine and the lower discs would begin to wear. Favoring the weak leg would result in too much strain on Simon’s good leg, causing joint problems in the hip and ankle.

Then, finally, would come arthritis.

Simon could see it all in the future. He knew it was coming, inevitable. He had made a study of the science of kinesiology and his own body in particular while a physical-education major at the University. Simon D’Hanis was hurt badly, and although he knew it, he desperately refused to admit it. His mind and body lived in contradiction and it was driving him mad. He flared angrily at any innuendo that his recovery was slow, his injury not responsive. He had tried to fight with his oldest friend, Taylor Rusk, because he had misinterpreted and resented Rusk’s concern about his knee. If he wouldn’t admit it, he had to keep others from admitting or discovering that the knee was not responding, that the leg was not coming around. Simon forbade Buffy even to mention the injury or talk football around the house. He kept his pain and fear suppressed and hidden, but at weak moments it would burst forth in violence. He had attacked his quarterback in the weight room. At home he had beaten Buffy into submission. When he was home they avoided each other. She kept the children away from Simon while he rested on the couch, his knee elevated and packed in ice, reading the newspaper or watching television. They seldom talked or touched. Simon was wound so tightly that he gave off vibrations. He fulminated, pulsed with fury, desperation, despair, anger and desire.
He could not learn to be a cripple.

The ice water had turned his leg into a dull aching log while the big man did forearm curls with barbells. He ground his teeth, making his head and neck hurt from exertion and unreleased tension, doing permanent damage to his teeth and jaw.

The phone rang in the trainer’s office. A few minutes later Clint, the trainer, came out. Clint was dressed in his whites and ripple-soled shoes.

“That was Red on the phone,” the short, heavyset trainer told Simon. “The line coach wants to look at some range of motion pictures of your leg to see if he can count on you for this season. Dry off and let’s go to the weight room. The video tape is already set up.”

Simon pulled his cold, reddened leg from the ice water and dried it, rubbing the knee scar gently with the towel. The joint seemed to feel better and the swelling wasn’t as bad that day. Simon would show them range of motion if that is what they wanted to see; he would move like Fred Astaire.

The trainer had the camera set up and the VTR on when Simon got to the weight room.

“Just get up on the friction table, Simon,” Clint said. “I have the dial at zero. We don’t care what you can lift yet, we just want to see if you can get full extension and what sort of endurance you have. If you can get it straight and do ten repetitions, I’ll be satisfied.”

Simon tied his foot into the friction machine and sat on the padded bench with the machine arm paralleling his leg from knee to strapped-in foot. While the trainer fooled with the movie camera on the tripod, Simon switched the controls on the machine so that it would provide reverse resistance to knee movement. The machine would then assist in straightening the leg while Simon would only have to force it back to a ninety-degree angle. The machine would be forcing his knee to full extension, making it appear that Simon had full flexion and extension of the knee joint. The machine would actually pull his leg straight those last ten degrees. The most important ten degrees.

“Okay, Simon.” The trainer flipped a switch and the VTR began to whir. “Start straightening that leg. Don’t worry about speed, it’s range of motion we want to see here.”

Simon began to work, appearing to force the machine and his leg straight out, flexing his knee to full extension. The weight of the machine was actually pulling the knee straight, but the trainer didn’t know and Simon made it appear as if he were straining and pushing the friction arm. The joint pain was searing, making D’Hanis nauseous. He ground his teeth and his jaw popped.

“Goddam, Simon, that is great!” Clint said from behind the camera. “You got full extension that time, full range of motion. That’s the first time I have seen you do that.”

“It’s been doing a lot better the last couple of days, Clint,” Simon lied through gritted teeth, letting the machine pull the screaming knee to full extension. Simon would force the friction arm back down, then let it pull his leg straight out again through the knee’s full range of motion.

Ten times.

“That is great, Simon.” The trainer flicked off the camera and removed the small spool of tape. “Red’ll be glad to see this. Come on, let’s go get a shower.” Clint started out of the room.

“In a minute.” Simon knew he could not stand up; the pain was too great. “I want to sit and do a few more.”

“Okay, but don’t overdo it,” the trainer said as he left the room. “Red will love this tape.”