The Franchise (66 page)

Red Kilroy found Simon a high school assistant-coaching job; that lasted only a week. The high school head coach made the mistake of yelling at Simon during practice. Simon broke the coach’s nose, knocked out his front teeth and strangled him into unconsciousness before all the assistants and the whole first-team offense could pull Simon off the poor, stupid son of a bitch.

Simon quit before the coach regained consciousness.

“How’s Simon?” Taylor rubbed his sore neck with his free hand.

“Not good.” He didn’t realize she was answering his question about their destination.

“Buffy called me during the game,” Wendy suddenly burst forth with explanation. The greeting—everything to this moment—had been an effort of intense self-control. The words tumbled out. “She said that Simon had locked himself in his trophy room with his portable television and was still in there; she could hear him screaming and breaking things. She begged us to come get the kids.” Wendy, pausing to catch her breath, looked at Taylor, who had opened his eyes but kept his head against the seat back.

“Well,” Taylor sighed, “I guess he’s not pleased about us being in the Super Bowl.”

“Simon’s in bad shape.” Wendy looked ashamed, tears filled her eyes. “I told Buffy I was on my way to get you and we’d be right over.” Wendy wiped her tears on Taylor’s sleeve.

“Simon was listening on the extension,” Wendy continued. “He started screaming terrible things, crazy things.”

“Simon was always a wild and crazy guy.” Taylor slowly turned his head despite the pain in his neck, and he winced at the grinding in his ribs. “Just how wild and crazy is he this time?” Taylor felt all the reserve energy drain from him.

“He told me to make certain
you
came first. He said deer season was here and he needed to sight in the four-power scope on his two-seventy.” Wendy looked at Taylor. “What’s a two-seventy?”

“A heavy-caliber thunderstick.” Taylor rubbed his undamaged hand across his face. “What the fuck kind of world is this?” He slugged the seat facing him. “The DC killer fans almost get us, but at the Mayflower Hotel, A.D. and the Pistolettes give global superpower blowjobs to congressmen, admirals and the whole State Department. Back at my apartment wait CIA agents on leaseback from the Mob, while I’m on my way to let my only friend use me to sight in his goddam deer rifle. The dumb son of a bitch! I told him to get his degree; I told him to lay off the steroids—always taking those Russian steroids. What the fuck do friends bring but trouble?
Russian
steroids.
Russian
, for Christ’s sake—”

“I’m your friend, Taylor,” Wendy interrupted the anguished rambling, brushing his cheek, “and congratulations for what you did today and all season”—she kissed him lightly on his neck—“and especially for who you are.”

“That’s my job.”

“I’m beginning to understand how hard it must be.”

“Not a lot of choice. The only game in town.”

“You really made it all happen.” Wendy’s small, strong hands gripped his jacket tighter as she pulled herself tighter against him. “I’ve watched how hard you work, how much disappointment you swallowed all year long....”

“I didn’t do it alone. I got The Fastest Nigger Ever, Ox, Danny, Red, Margene ... you, Randall ...”

“But only you remember the bad news constantly.”

“I told you, it’s the job.”

“When you and Red started laying all these plans for going to the Super Bowl”—Wendy nuzzled gently against his neck—“I kept thinking talk was cheap. But then I saw how much you paid—the discipline, dedication, pain, anger, fear, concentration and caring it took to back up those words.” Tears wet his neck. “How much we all depend on you, your words, to keep us happy, believing in you....” Wendy cried softly; he touched the tears on her cheeks.

“Just believe the words. Don’t worry about the rest.” He pulled her to him with his good hand. “The words are
I love you.
”

She fitted herself comfortably on top, her warm thighs gently clutching him, her breasts softly pressed against his chest, her lips brushing the hollow of his neck. “I love you ... I love you.”

Taylor felt the depth of her fear. She wanted him to guarantee that he could save them all. Everybody. Everywhere. Forever.

He turned his head wearily and watched the town whirl past, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. All moving too fast. He felt dizzy, almost passing out, concentrating on his pain to stay conscious. Taylor let out a long, painful sigh, his ribs, neck and hand throbbing.

“Simon is going
too fast
and he thinks it’s
too slow.
”

“Turn here, Toby,” Wendy said. “It’s the two-story house on the left with the light on in front.”

“Toby?”

“Yessir?”

“You have that rifle with the Starlight scope on it?”

“Yessir. It’s in the trunk in its case.”

“Any tape?”

“In the trunk.”

“Then stop here and let’s organize,” Taylor instructed.

The car jerked to a halt a block from the D’Hanis house.

“Toby, you get the tape and rifle and get in the backseat. Wendy, you drive and I’ll ride next to you in the passenger seat.”

The three people changed positions. Toby retrieved the tape and the rifle with the night-vision sniper scope. Taylor taped down the interior light switch on his door, then told Wendy to drive past the D’Hanis house and through two intersections until reaching a cul de sac. Taylor’s breathing was audible. Toby had checked his rifle and was quiet.

“Now turn around and drive back,” Taylor continued, “but park across the street. Toby, you stay down when I open the door. I want him to think it’s just Wendy and me.”

Wendy eased the white Ford to a stop across the street from Simon D’Hanis’s house. The tires squeaked against the curb.

The D’Hanis house was dark inside, but the yard and porch lights were on. Taylor could see an open window on the second floor. A figure moved at the window. It was Simon. He was holding his .270.

“Second-floor window.” Taylor’s heart pounded. “Don’t shoot unless he does. He can’t hit a bear in the ass with a bull fiddle.”

“A two-seventy isn’t a bull fiddle and you’re no bear’s ass.” Toby rolled the window down and lay on the seat.

“Either way, don’t shoot unless you have to,” Taylor insisted. “Then just ruin his aim. Try not to hit him unless he shoots at the car.

“Don’t
you
leave the car,” Taylor said to Wendy. “Keep the engine running, and if he starts shooting, get out of here fast.” Taylor stepped out into the street and closed the door. The interior light never came on.

“Taylor-boy, I was hoping you would make it in time,” Simon yelled from the window. “Come on, I got something for you for getting in the Super Bowl. You aren’t alone are you? Bring the little lady inside. Let her see what professional football is all about. Let her see how her daddy’s team builds character. I mean, I wasn’t any
real
important football player, like you.” Simon’s voice came in rushes, pulses. Loud, then louder. “Even at the University it was you and that seven-foot faggot basketball player that got into Spur. Now the Super Bowl. Goddammit, must mean you’ll be a general manager next, or an owner; just marry the boss’s daughter. Come on, now, Taylor, tell her to come inside. We’ll celebrate your Super Bowl success, all at my expense.”

“No, Simon. She isn’t feeling too good.” Taylor’s voice broke slightly. “I just thought I’d stop over and see if you wanted to talk about anything.”

“That’s a good one.” Simon laughed harshly. “Yeah, I want half your goddam five-million-dollar contract, I want a new knee and I want to play in the goddam Super Bowl.” Simon’s voice continued to increase in volume. He shouted the last words.

“And I want to be somebody again!
Goddammit!
I want to be somebody!”
Simon’s voice echoed down the quiet streets; house lights came on down the block.

“You
are
somebody, Simon.” Taylor talked softly. “You’ve always been somebody.” He walked slowly across the street and started up the walk to the darkened house. His first fear was of being shocked and startled by the muzzle blast of Simon’s .270. Taylor fought the urge to cover his ears.

“Oh, yeah? What was I?” Simon yelled. “
You
are the big shot. Goddam A.D. was a thief. Look what it got him: He’s running the goddam Franchise. I was dog meat ... Mr. Honest Guy. Mr. Sucker. I strained until I cried to get full flexion so they could videotape my knee working good and they used the tape
against me.
I fucking
posed.
”

“You weren’t a sucker, Simon. You got hit; you got wounded.” Taylor kept walking slowly. “We were all so busy dodging bullets, none of us helped you.” Taylor’s neck was aching and the pain seemed suddenly unbearable. “It was all our fault—my fault.”

“You hurt me!” Simon screamed back. “They told me it was your five-million-dollar contract and the Union that forced them to get rid of me. You and the Union.”

The dark house loomed ahead. Taylor’s stomach churned at the thought of what waited inside. His toe hit the porch step. “That’s not true. I didn’t hurt you. You are not a sucker for being honest, trying hardest, Simon. But you’re still hurt bad and you need to get well.” Taylor looked up at the window. “They lied to you, maltreated and abused you, with no concern for the health of your body. But that doesn’t make you a fool. It makes them
criminals.
” Fear had him by the neck. Taylor almost passed out from pain. He was terrified and it hit him at his weakest point.

“There is justice in the world, Simon, and honesty. You’re the good guy. They’re the bad guys, not you or me.” Taylor tried to calm himself, take the ragged edge off his breathing. The still of the night was ominous. Nothing came from Simon’s house but his angered screams.

“Simon? You’re the good guy.”

“Not anymore.” Simon’s voice was suddenly weak. “Not anymore.”

“You just need time. Time to heal and rest. Time to slow down.” Taylor listened for other sounds inside the house. “I got Terry Dudley at the Union working up your injury grievance....”

“Yeah.” Simon’s voice was flat, suspicious, angry. “Well, you’re taking your sweet time getting anything done. I called Dudley once and he never called back because you hurt me and you told him not to help.”

“I
didn’t
hurt you, Simon.” Taylor kept looking at the window, wishing he had prepared his eyes for night vision. He could only see a shapeless shadow in the frame. “I want to help. You can have anything of mine you want or need. Money, anything.”

“I want your leg,” Simon laughed.

“Can’t have that. Anything else?” Taylor prayed there was. Toby was placing the cross hairs right on Simon’s sternum, despite Taylor’s instructions. Toby shot only to kill.

“Yeah, I want to be nineteen years old again,” Simon growled from the darkened second-floor window. “I’d just watch movies all day.”

“You don’t have to be nineteen; you could do that now.” Taylor stepped up onto the first stair. He heard the bolt work on Simon’s rifle. “I’m coming in, Simon. Please don’t shoot me.” He could feel Simon sighting down from directly above him. He climbed the stairs and reached the front door. It was unlocked and Taylor was quickly inside, then a blast of pain shot through his neck, knocking him to the floor. At first he thought he was shot, but it was only fear that had hit him hard again in the neck. Taylor pushed off the floor; pain shot up his arm from his right hand. Trying to regain his feet, he had reinjured the fingers with the large divots of flesh missing.

Taylor leaned against the wall, trying to calm himself. His breathing was in gasps. Gulping oxygen desperately, he could feel the blood running from his fingers. Terrified, he started up the stairs. Each step seemed insurmountable. What was he climbing to reach? Why?

Finally the quarterback reached the open doorway of Simon’s darkened trophy room. The roar and flash of the explosion of Simon’s .270 blew Taylor flat on his back. He lay in the sudden stillness. D’Hanis had shot himself.

Taylor stood and slowly searched the quiet house. The quiet of the grave. He found Buffy fully dressed and sprawled on the floor, two neat .22 caliber holes behind her ear. Some dying reflex had caused her to kick one of her shoes up onto her dressing table and it lay in front of the mirror that Buffy faced every new day. A mirror that Simon faced less and less as he degenerated.

Each girl was in her bed, wearing a nightgown. They seemed asleep, except for the blood-soaked pillows and identical .22 holes punched behind their ears. Simon had shot his daughters as they slept. The sisters looked peaceful and content in their sleep, without dreams, without fear.

Taylor was not yet strong enough to look for the baby boy. Instead he returned to the god-awful mess in the trophy room.

Simon D’Hanis had used the .270 only on himself, fearing that a misplaced shot from the .22 Woodsman that he used with such cool efficiency on Buffy and the two girls would not have the same fatal effect. He didn’t want to fuck up his own killing.

“You have to sacrifice your body,” Simon always said. “Sacrifice your body. Destroy yourself.”

Taylor found Simon amidst the wreckage that had been his trophy room. His arms were flung out, the rifle beside him, the remains of his head in a widening pool of blood. The room was destroyed: trophies, plaques, game balls, scrapbooks—all smashed, scattered, slashed, destroyed, strangely diffused, almost atomized. It seemed to be disappearing as Taylor looked. Decomposing. Decaying. The football career of Simon D’Hanis was as obliterated as he.

Simon had stuck the gun in his mouth and taken off most of the back and top of his head, turning it into so much red, gray and white mucilage splattered on the walls of his trophy room. Blood and chopped-up newsprint, brains and brass platters, bone chips and chunks of a game ball. Destroy yourself. Sacrifice your body. Leave it on the field.

Taylor looked at Simon for only a moment. He still twitched and gave off life, but Simon D’Hanis was dead. It was taking a while for the message to make the circuit. The aura would not last long.