The Franchise (47 page)

“You come on my boat to make trouble, Mr. Quarterback?” Don Cobianco’s voice was even. “I can arrange trouble if you want it.” Cobianco’s eyes flicked to Tiny, who dropped his thick, sunburned arms to his sides. “You still owe me money on an apartment you rented from me and my brothers when you was a chicken-neck college kid.” Cobianco grinned slowly, exposing his big teeth.

“Talk to A.D. about that,” Taylor said. “His name was on the lease.”

“We already talk.” Cobianco’s thick fingers dug into A.D.’s neck. He shook A.D.’s head and laughed. Koster winced in pain and his face turned white. “We had a long talk about it, didn’t we, A.D.?”

“Yeah.” The new Texas general manager tried to grin. “We already had a long talk.”

“He said you refused to pay your share.” Cobianco looked at Taylor and let go of A.D., who rubbed his neck with both hands.

“Yeah, well, A.D. lies a lot,” Taylor said.

“You call your new boss a liar?” Cobianco looked at Taylor in mock amazement and then ran the look around the table past Lem Three and the commissioner. “You don’t get far in the world, you call your boss a liar. Isn’t that right, Mr. Commissioner?”

Robbie Burden nodded his head slightly but dropped his eyes to the plate of finger sandwiches on the table.

“Yeah, well, the commissioner lies a lot too,” Taylor said. “That’s why he’s the commissioner—”

“Now, see here, Taylor,” Lem Three interrupted, “you can’t just come aboard this boat and begin insulting people and calling them liars.”

“Shut up, Lem,” Taylor said. “I’d be real interested in what Tommy McNamara would write in the newspaper about this little meeting here. I’m sure it is just coincidence, but you know those reporters; they have to sell papers.” Taylor shook his head. “Dick Conly would never have done something
this
stupid.”

“You want I should have Tiny toss you over the side, Mr. Quarterback?” Cobianco said to Taylor.

“Just like he tossed Bobby Hendrix out of the plane?” Taylor shot back. The two women at the table gasped at the accusation. Tiny tensed himself to move; Taylor was watching him, waiting.

“Come on, Taylor, old buddy,” A.D. finally said, “that’s not funny.”

“I’m sure Bobby and his wife and kids would agree with you, A.D.,” Taylor replied, “but I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was just trying to get things straight.”

“You have worn out your welcome here, Mr. Quarterback.” Don Cobianco looked over at Tiny, who started his advance on Taylor.

Tiny had to step up from the lower hatchway. He got his lead foot on the deck and was shifting his weight, his hands gripping the hatch side, when Taylor spun and kicked him in the mouth. The heavy man careened over backward into the lower cabin, banging his head on the bulkhead, knocking him unconscious. The blue-steel .45 automatic flew out of his waistband and clanked onto the deck. Taylor picked it up and looked it over. He looked up at A.D. and Cobianco, then to Charlie Stillman. “Was this for Bobby if he refused to believe he could fly, Charlie?”

Stillman squirmed and looked to A.D. for help. A.D. remained silent, his jaw muscles working visibly.

“You better leave while you can, Mr. Quarterback,” Cobianco said.

“It’s your boat,” Taylor said. “Anyone care to go back ashore?” Taylor turned back toward the rail and ladder.

Nobody moved.

Taylor looked slowly around the table.

Suddenly Wendy stood smiling at Lem, who was embarrassed by the whole scene and his inability to deal effectively with it.

“I’ll go,” Wendy said to Taylor without emotion. “I have some last-minute shopping to do.” Wendy looked to the commissioner’s wife. “LouElla, come on.” Wendy held her slender hand across the table to the small, mousey, foolish woman married to Robbie Burden.

LouElla looked at Robbie Burden. The commissioner looked at Donald Cobianco, who nodded slightly and closed his eyes.

“Sure, dear,” Burden began hesitantly. “Yeah, sure, that’s a good idea.” The commissioner wasn’t sure, but Cobianco smiled and nodded again.

Below deck Tiny Walton was moaning loudly as he regained consciousness.

“Well, ladies,” Taylor said, “I hate to rush you, but I hear the sounds of Mr. Cobianco’s muscle coming awake.”

The two women gathered their purses and went over the side, down the ladder and into the rowboat. Taylor Rusk followed them. But first he tossed the .45 into the water.

“W
AS ANY OF WHAT
that idiot was spouting true?” Lem pointed at the rowboat carrying his wife, the commissioner’s wife and Taylor Rusk.

“It wasn’t far off,” A.D. said. “But don’t worry, nobody’ll believe him.”

“What do you mean, don’t worry?” Robbie Burden, the league commissioner, said. “You didn’t actually have Bobby Hendrix killed? Did you? Well, did you?” Burden’s carefully nurtured tan began to fade as blood drained from his face.

A.D. rolled his eyes over at Don Cobianco. A.D. exhaled loudly, irritated at the commissioner’s simplicity.

“Look, Robbie, we are pretty certain that Hendrix was supplying Tommy McNamara with a lot of the information for those newspaper articles.” A.D. lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, pausing to pick tobacco off his lip. “Kimball Adams figured it was probably Bobby.”

“Those articles didn’t prove anything.” Robbie Burden’s eyes began to burn with panic. “You didn’t kill that boy over those articles.”

A.D. exhaled again with exasperation. “What are you complaining about? He was
our
player. Tommy McNamara was close enough to accidentally flip over the wrong rock.” A.D. looked directly at the commissioner. “Like your numbered bank account in the Bahamas. So Mr. C. and I decided ...”

Robbie Burden turned completely white, his lips suddenly looking dry and cracked. He seemed in shock. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to hear it,” the commissioner said. “I’m not involved.” Robbie covered his ears and closed his eyes.

“Well,” Lem interrupted angrily, “I sure as hell want to know what you two decided. Damn you, A.D. I told Cyrus about you. I warned him.”

“Yeah, I know,” A.D. sneered at Lem. “And Cyrus told Suzy and Suzy told me. Then I told Suzy some things about you to tell Cyrus, and that’s how the cow ate that little turnip. I don’t imagine you’ll be with the Franchise for the Super Bowl or even the new stadium in Clyde. Damn shame. A guy like you that spent so much time kissing ass.”

“Like you with this gangster here?” Lem shot back. “Well, they may not believe Taylor Rusk, but they will believe me and the commissioner. Right, Robbie?” Lem turned to see the commissioner still had his eyes closed and his hands clapped over his ears. “Isn’t that right, Robbie?” Lem pulled at one of the commissioner’s arms, uncovering an ear.

“I don’t want to know. I said I don’t want to hear.” The commissioner then began humming at the top of his voice until the bewildered Lem turned his arm loose and Robbie clapped his hand back over his uncovered ear.

A.D. laughed. “The commissioner doesn’t want to explain his numbered bank account in Freeport or how many Super Bowl tickets he scalped to get the four million dollars deposited and unknown to Internal Revenue.”

“Well, ahh ...” Lem was momentarily shaken—“they’ll still believe me, goddammit. They’ll believe me.”

“You should think about it a little, Lem.” Charlie Stillman spoke for the first time. “As your attorney, I advise you ...”

“You are not my attorney, Stillman.”

“You should listen to Mr. Stillman. He has advised lots and lots of people on a variety of subjects,” Don Cobianco said to Lem without ever taking his eyes off the rowboat, which had reached shore. Taylor Rusk was helping the two women out. “Otherwise, maybe you would listen to Mr. Walton over there, putting the ice on his lip where that chicken-neck quarterback kicked his face in before he left with your wife.”

Lem looked around the table. The commissioner’s eyes were still closed and his hands were still clasped over his ears. A.D. puffed on his cigarette and looked at his white loafers. Charlie Stillman tried a sympathetic gaze and a nod of the head. Don Cobianco kept his eyes on the three people who had reached shore in the ancient rowboat.

“You can’t threaten me,” Lem said. “I’m not afraid.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Cobianco said. He signaled Tiny, who was nursing his smashed face with ice water and a bloody cotton cloth. Tiny dropped the red-soaked cloth and snatched Lem by his long hair backward out of the deck chair and dragged him down below deck.

Lem Carleton III screamed for help. The commissioner kept his eyes closed and ears covered. Charlie Stillman continued to look sympathetic and nod. A.D. Koster puffed on his cigarette and flicked some dirt off one of his Guccis. Don Cobianco watched the three Americans on the beach split up and the commissioner’s wife go off alone in the Jeep.

It was less than a quarter of an hour before Lem realized he was afraid after all. The issue was settled. Tiny Walton had not put a mark on Lem’s face.

“L
OUELLA, YOU TAKE
the Jeep,” Wendy said as they walked up the breakwater. “I want to walk to the T-shirt place and get Randall some; he is outgrowing everything.”

Taylor handed the commissioner’s wife the keys, and LouElla Burden started the Jeep and rattled off down toward the
zocalillo.

Taylor and Wendy walked along the waterfront, hot beneath the midday Caribbean sun.

Wendy wore khaki shorts, sandals and a short-sleeved khaki shirt, open at the neck and tied at her midriff. She was naked beneath the green shirt.
A
bead of sweat ran out of the hollow at her throat between her delicate collarbones and down the tanned skin that separated slightly the soft mounds of her breasts.

Taylor wiped his forehead and tried to tell Wendy the pain he felt without her and Randall, but her presence made language impossible; his sadness was incoherent.

He watched another droplet of sweat make the run down between her breasts. She looked up at him.

“Is it true about Bobby Hendrix?” she asked. “They killed him?”

“Probably doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no way to prove it.” Taylor shrugged. “And not much to gain.”

He watched the Houston
turistas
tossing coins off the breakwater for a ten-year-old Mexican boy. The boy dove to retrieve the peso pieces.

“I knew that Bobby Hendrix was always making Cyrus and the commissioner mad with all his union and clubhouse lawyer work,” Wendy said, “but I can’t believe they’d kill him. I can’t believe he’s dead,” Wendy said slowly. She shivered. “Why would someone kill him?”

“Mistaken stupidity and panic.” Taylor wiped his face with his shirt front. “I’ll find Tommy McNamara as soon as we get back to Texas. We need to think about moving out.” Talking to Wendy about the death was the first time it hit him; danger was quite near and they were in a powerless position.

“The Kinky-Headed Boy?” Wendy asked.

Taylor nodded. “Now he’s a sportswriter and he just wrote a five-part newspaper series called ‘The League and the Mob.’ My guess is that someone thought Bobby was the source.”

“Why?”

“Bobby was in professional football for twenty years. He learned a lot about gambling and ticket scalping and tax dodging schemes. He paid attention. But it was never worth it to him to ever say what he knew. He never talked about it. ‘What’s the point?’ he always said. ‘What’s the point?’ ”

Wendy began walking again. Sweat formed on her forehead and upper lip. Her tanned face showed new lines around her eyes as she watched Taylor’s face. There were no soft contours anymore. It was a hard face; the years had changed it. It was not handsome but like a wild animal’s. Furious eyes, nose flattened, nostrils flared, he looked tired, beaten down, yet somehow stronger, painfully tempered by his struggles.

Taylor rubbed his eyes and watched the brown kid diving for peso pieces thrown by the white-haired Americans into the deep blue water.

“You think Tommy will give you his sources?”

“He’ll tell me who it
wasn’t.
”

He stopped and faced Wendy, studying her thin, straight nose and full lips, her hollow cheeks highly ridged with delicate bone and pale, almost transparent skin. His gaze stopped at her cheekbones, afraid to meet her blue gaze. He was ashamed, embarrassed.

“What are you looking at?” Wendy asked quietly. “Really, what are you looking at?”

“You. I’m just looking at you. We’ve got to get off this island. Where’s Randall?”

“With Junior and Pearl at their ranch in Kerville,” Wendy said.

“How is he?”

“You’ll have to look and see.” Wendy’s voice was gentle, encouraging, trying to guide a child through a frightening but essential experience. She gazed easily at Taylor, realizing how much he had changed in a few short years. “You’re just like him,” she said. “You change so much.” She laughed. “I swear, he changes between the time I drop him off at school in the morning and pick him up in the afternoon.”

“Listen, I think ...” Taylor looked up into Wendy’s pale blue eyes. His own eyes were dark and wet, divided by a deep furrow wrenched between his eyebrows. “We ought to be together.” Taylor blurted it out, then his face drew tight and pinched with pain. “We’ve lost too much time already ... we got serious trouble. We need to go back and see Red. If he’s ready, we’re still in the race.”

Football season was approaching. If Red was on schedule, it could be a Super Bowl season.

It had to be. Things were going too fast. Time was running out. It was the only way to get control back.

Wendy reached out and touched the back of his hand. “You call the plays.”

Taylor reached for her, moving them quickly away from the waterfront into the street. He flagged down a battle-worn black and white ’57 Plymouth taxicab.

“Where are we going?” Wendy stepped into the battered old Plymouth.

Taylor slid in next to Wendy. “Off into the sunset.”

“Get ’em all, son.” At the harbor’s edge, the white-haired man tossed a handful of coins into the deep dark water. The boy dove after the glittering wealth before it was swallowed by the darkness. A large silver coin flittered and glinted just out of reach, sinking fast. The boy kicked harder.