The Franchise (53 page)

Taylor sat on the couch, momentarily confused. Suddenly jumping to his feet, he walked quickly to the door and locked it. Then he checked the windows and the back door. When he got back to the couch, he was too keyed up, so he poured some more tequila. Taylor sipped it and stared out into the deserted parking lot.

The bad guys?

Who
are
the bad guys?

R
ED WAS WALKING
back and forth in his soundproof basement. Taylor sprawled across several pink plastic classroom chairs and watched his head coach pace.

“Well, I guess you understand the kind of problem we face with Dick Conly gone to New Mexico, A.D. Koster as the new general manager and Cyrus Chandler married to that fucking carhop and pissing on himself?”

“Not exactly.” Taylor tried to figure out what Red knew, what he expected to hear, what he planned.

“Not exactly? Not exactly?” Red’s face turned crimson. It was the source of his nickname. “The hell with ‘not exactly.’ You’ve known that son of a bitch A.D. since he forged his dead grandmother’s Social Security checks, for Chrissakes. What the hell do you mean? Not exactly?”

“I mean
not exactly.”
Taylor leaned back and let Red rave. He would rave himself out, then they would talk.

“I’m talking about a goddam lying, sniveling cheat that has been made general manager of this football franchise,” Red yelled. “We have got to figure out a way to keep him out of the practices and away from the game plans and playbook or we don’t win doodley squat.”

“Can you trust your assistants?” Taylor asked.

“They’re
my
assistants, ain’t they?” Red snarled. “If I couldn’t trust them, they wouldn’t bounce the second time till they hit the goddam Gulf of Mexico.

“Who we
can’t
trust is your friend, A.D. Koster!” Red pointed at Taylor; his finger shook, his jowls quivered.

“He isn’t my friend. My friend is Simon D’Hanis, the crippled guy you traded to Los Angeles.”

“That was
your
fault.” Red turned his back and walked to his blackboard, where he broke four or five pieces of chalk and ate them. “You and good old Doc Webster. I never trusted that son of a bitch when I was at the University.” The coach crunched up a piece of chalk.

“He didn’t trust you, either, Red. For that matter, neither do I. How is it my fault you traded Simon?”

“Simon’s through. His knee joint is totally fucked. That idiot doctor really ruined it and the commissioner made that Portus kid at LA take him as partial sanction for tampering. I also got the two best offensive linemen in the draft, plus Greg Moore, a hell of a receiver coming out of the backfield. All that as punishment for signing you to that huge fucking contract. Don’t worry, Los Angeles will have to pay Simon off; he passed their physical. But he won’t play. You’ve seen him work out.” Red kept his back to Taylor. “We’ve got the personnel, the system, surprise ...”

“What if they don’t pay him?” Taylor asked. “What if they just cut him?”

“They won’t do that.” Red broke some more chalk and ate it. “It’s whether everybody delivers on Sunday. Your responsibility ...”

“The hell they won’t cut Simon; that’s
exactly
what they’ll do, and you know it.”

“Our schedule is good,” Red offered. “I figure you want to start fast, win five, six straight, then slump and hide for a couple games ... sandbag these jerks ... then burn the last four or five games, hitting full stride by playoffs, and hit ’em coming out of the bushes.” Red smiled.

“At full speed,” Taylor added. “Okay, now what about Simon? You know you’re screwing him....”

“Your union’s got grievance procedures. That’s why you pay Terry Dudley two hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s a shitty thing to do, Red. Real shitty.”

“So?” Red spun around. “I don’t call plays and I don’t like it. If you don’t like this, tell your goddam player rep.”

“I don’t like it, Red,” the quarterback said, and the two men faced off. “And
I’m
the goddam player rep.”

“Aw, sheeit,
you
?” Red bellowed and collapsed into his swivel chair. “We don’t have enough trouble?” The color drained from his face. “You think I want to screw Simon?” His voice turned to a whine. “But everybody trades off for what they need. We need help
this year!
We have to win the Super Bowl this year.”

“Too fast,” Taylor said, “too fast.”

“This race isn’t all straightaway. We’ll show our stuff in the curves.”

“If we don’t hit the wall or blow up or burn out.”

“That’s your problem, Taylor. It’s what you wanted. I can lay it out, but you have to do it.
You
are the driver.”

“Too fast, Red.”

“It’s the only way. This franchise won’t hold together one more season.”

It was three in the morning when Red Kilroy and Taylor Rusk Finished discussing strategy tactics and personnel in the coach’s soundproof basement. Taylor used the secure phone to call Wendy.

“How’s the boy?” he asked when Wendy came on the line.

“Sleeping.” Wendy’s voice was weak, whispering. “The doctor says he’ll be fine unless that hole in his throat gets infected.”

“I’m sorry I panicked. He didn’t look too good, turning blue like that.”

“It’s over now,” Wendy said. “I didn’t get a chance to say thanks at the creek.”

“I’ve been with Red all night. We’ve been discussing how to keep A.D. away from the players, playbooks and game plan.”

“That won’t be easy,” Wendy said. “He’s out at the Hot Springs Ranch with Cyrus and Suzy now. I called Daddy to tell him about Randall.... Suzy said he was already asleep. I think they’re drugging him.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised; I wish somebody were drugging me. When can I see you and Randall?”

“Don’t come here. Lem’s coming over in the morning to discuss the settlement. I’ll meet you out at Doc’s. We need to find a place to live.”

“Randall’s okay? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Taylor. I’ll see you at Doc’s.” Wendy hung up without saying good-bye.

Taylor put the phone down. “A.D.’s out at the hot springs with Suzy and Cyrus, right now,” he told Red.

“Well, at least, he’s a long way away.” Red’s eyes stayed on the movie screen.

“Are we gonna be better this year?” Taylor stood staring at the screen. “Or just faster?”

“Both. I got you all the ingredients and I’ll tune up your top hat. The rabbits are in there somewhere, but you got to yank out twice as many twice as fast as ever before. Come on, I’ll take you back to your car.” Red reached up and took his riot gun off the wall rack. He pumped a double-ought buckshot cartridge into the chamber. “Can’t ever trust them dogs.” Red shook his head. “In the old days I used to have geese. Best damn guards in the world.” Red led the way up the stairs. “A gaggle of geese. Somebody killed every damn one of them after we lost to A & M your sophomore year. If I ever catch the son of a bitch that did
that.”
Red shook the sawed-off pump shotgun. “My daughter found ’em. She was only ten. Feathers, guts and blood, all over the yard. Heads twisted off. Jesus, what a sight!” Red opened the door to the outside. “I don’t think she ever got over it. She went off to school in Switzerland and never came back. She doesn’t even speak English anymore. All her letters are in French. My wife goes there every summer while we’re in camp.”

The two giant Dobermans came growling around the corner of the house.

“Hold. Hold!” Red yelled at the sleek black dogs as he raised the shotgun.

“Hold. Goddammit. Hold!”

The huge snarling dogs slid to a stop and sat, quivering and growling, while Taylor got into his car.

“Pretty fast. Red.” Taylor rolled down his window.

“Do what I tell you and you’ll have us a Super Bowl.”

“Or crash and burn.” Taylor drove away. The coach never took his eyes or the muzzle of the shotgun off the dogs.

Stopping in the lot in front of his apartment, Taylor caught sight of Lamar Jean Lukas wandering through the complex, checking doors and shadows.

“Hey, Lamar!” Taylor felt sorry for the lonely guard in his ill-fitting uniform. “Come on over, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“It’ll have to be a Coke, buddy.” Lamar hobbled over, holding the big Magnum to his side. “I can’t drink when I’m on duty. I don’t drink much anyway. I get kind of crazy.”

Taylor handed Lamar his Coke. “Well, Lamar, just because I live here, don’t you mistake me for an authority figure.”

“Worried about me having flashbacks?” Lamar Jean Lukas stood in the middle of the living room.

“I have nightmares just from playing football.” Taylor watched the television screen fill with the face of Billy Joe Hardesty. The volume was off; Billy Joe’s fat lips flapped and his eyes blazed silently.

“Don’t worry about flashbacks, buddy.” Lamar said “I’ve had a few nightmares—flipped out once at a rock show when they started the flashing lights and colored smoke bombs—but I’m in pretty good shape now. Hell, I don’t even limp near as bad anymore. My counselor says that the delayed stress syndrome is probably not my problem.” Lamar sipped his drink. “I black out, that’s all ... just black out.”

Taylor sat on the edge of the couch. “
Just
black out?”

“They caught one of the boys up in Dallas sticking up a bank, and a hot-shot San Antonio lawyer got the brother off; he claimed the war left him with the need for excitement that only sticking up a bank could satisfy. Billy Joe”—he pointed at the TV screen—“said God used the war to punish Americans for creeping humanism.”

“ ‘Creeping humanism’?” Taylor watched the soundless Billy Joe.

Lamar frowned at Taylor. “You read much?”

“Books,” Taylor said, “not newspapers or magazines. I know how much bullshit is on the sports page; it spoils the rest of the paper.”

“Bisexual.” Lamar pointed to Billy Joe Hardesty. “I had a corporal in my outfit who was in the All-American Youth Choir. And he married a girl from the Chorale. On their wedding night the girl broke down and confessed she’d had sex with Billy Joe. She’s begging my guy to forgive her for screwing Billy Joe and my corporal starts screaming and crying and the girl is bartering her eternal soul. If my guy won’t tell and won’t throw her out, she’ll do anything. Anything! And she does—has for years now. I was at his house when we got back and she treats him like a king.” Lamar hunched his shoulders as he laughed. “When I was leaving, the corporal told me a secret that his wife didn’t know and he hoped I wouldn’t tell her, but since we’d been together a year, he would tell me the funny half of the story.” Lamar wheezed. “When he was in the All-American Youth Choir, he’d screwed Billy Joe too.”

Lamar laughed and limped to the kitchen to put his crumpled empty can in the garbage. “I got to finish my rounds.”

“Watch out for the weirdos and bad guys.” Taylor leaned forward to turn up the volume on Billy Joe Hardesty. “I’ll keep tabs on the creeping humanists.”

“I heard rumors about the new Dome Stadium they’re building in Clyde.” Lamar now stood by the open door.

“What rumors?” Taylor held on to the volume knob but turned to look at the security guard in the doorway.

“They’re saying that us season ticket holders’ll have to buy a five-thousand-dollar construction bond if we want to keep our seats.” Lamar’s face turned blank. “They promised me that I could always have my season ticket. I bought one of the first ones, you know?”

“I know, Lamar. You woke me up to tell me.” Taylor left the volume down and leaned back on the couch. “I heard the same rumor. And next year, A.D.’s going to raise prices and make season ticket holders buy all the exhibition games—eleven games in all.”

“Son of a bitch,” Lamar whispered softly, amazed that he had been played for such a big sucker. “I feel so foolish. I sure wish they wouldn’t do that to me. I should have been treated better; people deserve more courtesy. But it’s my fault. I should have paid closer attention. Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

“Hell, Lamar, I’ll give the money to you.” Taylor finally looked back at the door but it was closed. Lamar Jean Lukas was gone.

Taylor watched Billy Joe Hardesty’s
All-American Evangelical Hour.
Billy Joe formatted his show just like Johnny Carson, opening with a monologue sprinkled with both laugh lines and amens.

A fat guy in a wig laughed, amened, and joined Billy Joe on the dais. Billy Joe sat behind a Formica desk. The guy in the wig was on the couch.

“Just let us hear from you,” Billy Joe pitched, “and we will send you a copy of my new book,
The Lord and Me,
absolutely
free.
But we need to hear from you if we are to continue our fight against Satan. You can make the difference.... Strike the devil a killing blow, send a check for five dollars or fifty dollars or five hundred dollars, we’ll send you my book
The Lord and Me
absolutely free. So let us hear from you. Because I want to save
you
from eternal damnation.”

Billy Joe clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Boy, have we got a show for you tonight. But first I want to send special word out to a dear, dear member of our flock—Brother Cyrus Chandler.”

Taylor sat up at the mention of the owner’s name.

“You all remember that a while back, right here on our show, we married Mr. Chandler and his beautiful bride, Sally ... I mean ... Suzy. It was ... well, it was just a lovely, blessed event, and we rejoiced together in the Lord and joined two wonderful Christians in holy matrimony.” Billy Joe tossed in a few amens. “Amen. And I really mean
amen
, because Brother Cyrus Chandler has truly given his life and wealth over to the service of Jesus Christ our Savior. Brother Chandler has pledged ten million dollars for our construction fund.”

Amens were hot and heavy, then the crowd broke into loud gasps, cries, wails, cheers, plus more amens and applause, responding to the flashing applause and Amen signs hung from the studio ceiling. Billy Joe held up his hands. His manner was so similar that Taylor guessed Billy Joe studied videotapes of the
Tonight
show.