Little Did I Know: A Novel (14 page)

I looked around the room. Mr. Vander and Mr. Jordon looked as if they were in the early stages of coma. Perhaps drooling was next. Miss Golden looked flushed and titillated. The good doctor was clearly upset, but restrainedly so.

Within moments his agitation increased. He spoke slowly and quietly, but then his words rushed out of control. “Yes, I understand. Everyone here has the best of intentions. But I am an older man. I have lived a life that you all should envy and I am not used to being challenged! Remember you are dealing with the Barrows Foundation! I am not to be played or pushed into a position that I don’t embrace. I will not tolerate being played. I run this town!

“You young people, including my wife, have a sense of entitlement that makes me wonder where our youth is headed. What have any of you done or accomplished? Who are you? The young! You all want to go to heaven, but none of you wants to die. No sacrifices. No getting down in the trenches and seeing something through. You have embarrassed me in my own home. You have suggested improprieties that are infused with disrespect and condescension. You . . .”

Then he stopped, breathed deeply, pulled the pocket square from his coat and slowly wiped his mouth. After this, he folded the square precisely and returned it to its place.

There was stunned silence.
What the fuck?
I thought.
And they say that show business people are crazy?

Finally I spoke. “I mean you no disrespect, sir. Respect is earned. It is not showered upon you because of seniority. Trust me, I respect and admire what you have accomplished in your life. True respect begins with the strength of one’s character, not with the number of years one stays in the game. Age and experience do earn one certain privilege. Those privileges do not include judging me without merit.

“You don’t know me or where I came from or what makes me get up in the morning or what is in my heart or if I am a man of courage or substance. You can make those judgments after you have observed me and grown to know me. Then I will honor your opinion. Our respective ages have no relevance in this regard. You’ll have the balance of your funds within the given time frame.”

After a moment, Susan stood and walked slowly across the room and put her hand on Barrows’s shoulder. Whether it was to gain her balance or show compassion, I wasn’t sure. “Andy, stop this. Pull yourself together. They are not responsible for your situation nor for the world turning. Give these boys what they want and let it go. Don’t impose your issues where they don’t belong.” She refilled her glass yet again and took a seat next to Davey.

Secunda got out of his chair and walked to a large chess set that sat near the alcove window overlooking the sea. It was one of those sets with two different teams instead of lookalike black-and-white pieces. This one, painted in brilliant detail, was of sailors from different ships, truly a work of art. Secunda picked up one of the kings, the captain of the blue sailors. He eyed it for a moment and dropped it on its side, disturbing the placement of the other pieces. Then with more than a touch of irony he looked directly at Barrows. “Checkmate.”

Barrows sat motionless, as if he had to okay pulling life support from a family member. He raised his head slightly and said, “Okay, boys. You deliver in seventy-two hours and I will ‘welcome’ you to Plymouth.” Then in a childlike whisper he added, “But don’t look to me for help as I won’t answer such a call.”

There was little else to say.

Lizzy Barrows hugged herself and looked out the glass doors and away from the room. Davey packed up. We attempted respectful goodbyes to all and left. To my surprise, Barrows caught up with me just as I was getting in the red Alpha.

“Sam, what happened between you and my wife?” he demanded. His eyes were penetrating and full of rage. “You stay away from her. You stay away from my girls. No more, do you hear me?”

“If you want to know anything, doctor, I suggest you ask your wife or ‘your girls,’ whoever they may be,” I said as I pulled my arm away. Then I offered to shake his hand, which he declined.

I hopped into the waiting car. Davey pulled the GTO out of the driveway, heading south; Secunda followed. Seventy-two hours seemed like a short breath in a fast race. In less than a minute I realized the Mercedes sedan that had been in Barrows’s driveway was dogging us. Behind the wheel was Susan Golden, counselor at law.

I
was surprised and vexed by what had just happened. Then I remembered something my father had always told me: “Once you have made a choice in life, that choice begins to make you.” Of course I was happy. My friends and I had gotten exactly what we wanted, at least for three days. Yet at what cost? I had been in Plymouth for a week and the body count of adversaries was already quite high. I had heeded Harold’s advice, focused on our objectives, and achieved them. But I wondered about personal responsibility. I had unexpectedly become aware of some strange doings in America’s hometown: a cognizance of an underbelly of corruption, perhaps intimidation—at the very least something “off.” To ignore it seemed a continuation of some deep-rooted narcissism, which was not the person I wanted to be.

My dad had assured me that “I would do the right thing” and perhaps I had, but perhaps not. He had also said I had to “play the whole game.” As of the moment I felt I was winning. I played football for many years and in turn I knew there were still many plays left in their playbook. So I suggested quietly that we head back to the motel and reconnoiter. We had no other choice but to win the game.

Secunda had just put up $45,000 on my behalf without even telling me that was his intention. I don’t think I’d ever had more than $1,000 to my name; I’d worked my ass off during the past four years to pay for my education—at $6,000 per year, a daunting task. Yet another of my father’s mottos was, “If you plan to play in a big casino, make sure you can cover your bet.” Was Josh’s $45,000 the ante? Were we all in for the next $30,000, which we didn’t have?

Secunda looked over at me. “Hey, smiley, who died? Someone crap in your hat?”

“Blow me,” I countered. Then I turned to him with a big fake ear-to-ear grin. “Man, you just put up 45K for me. Big-time risk. You know you didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s not about having to do anything. Sometimes the difference between having and needing is blurred. Not this time, Sammy. We all need purpose in our life. Hell, I’ve been in college for six fucking years. If I hadn’t jumped on your dream, the chances of me finding my own would be decreasing exponentially by the day.”

Secunda pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. “Sammy, enjoy the moment, at least for a while. You’ll have plenty of time to worry and a fuckload of burdens to bear. If you want, we can stop and buy you a big globe, and you can carry it on your back all day every day. But for now, smile, you bastard, and grab the brass ring you’re always talking about. Otherwise, I’m taking you down.”

He started the car again and pulled back onto the highway. The sun was resplendent as ever. Man, God was consistent when it came to painting pictures. Josh turned on the tape player and pushed play; the cast of
Annie Get Your Gun
belted “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” I knew there were accidents in life, but this song at this moment was not one of them. Secunda knew how to play a scene.

No business like show business, huh? Well, I was about to find out. Then I remembered that Irving Berlin wrote that song in fifteen minutes. I had three whole days.
Piece of cake
, I thought. At that point I asked Secunda to pull over again. I opened the passenger door and threw up.

I
t was Monday, 6 p.m. You give someone seventy-two hours and they will use all of that time, to the very last minute, to get the job done. Not me. Not with so much at stake.

I locked myself in the pay phone at the motel with enough change to anchor an ocean liner and pulled out a clean, yellow legal pad. I wrote down whatever names came to mind: family, friends, roommates’ parents, guys I played ball with, and guys whose names I didn’t even know how to spell. By the time I was finished there were 137 names on my list. There had to be $30,000 in gold there.

I leaned back and took a deep breath. It would take guts to call some of these people. In some cases it had been years since we spoke. Some carried broken hearts or animus. But it mattered not. I picked up the phone and dialed my first lead. Then my second, third, fourteenth, and more. Within four hours I had finished more than half the names on the yellow pad. I had raised some money; more than I might have imagined.

My first calls were fruitless. Old “friends” who thought my idea was folly but did offer to buy tickets if they were in the area. My first success was an associate of my father’s who had become a family friend, Marty Miller. He had been a ranger during the war, one of those insane soldiers who would scale mountains, kill the enemy, then grab a smoke before the next raid. He still spoke with a clipped cadence as if ready to begin his next suicide mission before finishing his cigarette.

“Marty, I believe in this. It’s what I am meant to do. Will you support me with an investment?”

“I’ll send you five hundred dollars,” he said without hesitation. “Now give me the address, send me some paperwork, and make me proud.” He hung up before I could say thank you.

I now tardily realized that taking in this money would require some documentation; $30,000 was a boatload of dough. I called Harold Feldman. As always, he was friendly and supportive. He explained that the funds would have to be in the form of a loan, as there would be securities violations otherwise. I was silent for a long time. “Does that mean I have to pay the money back?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“Do you believe in this venture?”

“Yes, Mr. Feldman, I do.”

“I’ll prepare a simple agreement and mail it tomorrow. It will also include a check for $1,500 dollars.”

“Thank you, sir.” I hung up feeling quite blessed.

I called Jack Kennedy whose sons both played football with me. Jack was connected to the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, and the call and request made me nervous.

“You don’t want to borrow money from
me,”
he said. “Missed paybacks are tough in my world.”

“I know, sir. I thought about that before calling, but you have always been so kind to me.”

“You played ball with my boys, son. That’s different than borrowing money from the teamsters.”

“Nevertheless, sir, I need the help.” “How much?”

“I need a total of about 25K.”

“You have guts, August. I’ll send off a check for 5K. No paperwork, just your word.” He hung up. My heart beat faster than a jack rabbit running from danger.

That brought up the tally—and obligations up my ass. It was past nine, really too late to call anyone else until morning, but as I was on a roll. I found one more number I thought offered promise. Hank Watertower was my college roommate’s dad, and he always wore a smile and carried loads of cash. He’d come up every six weeks or so and take six or seven guys to dinner at the famous Anthony’s Pier Four. We’d eat lobsters and tell stories of university life, talk of girls, and imagine the futures we all had planned. Mr. Watertower had made a small fortune by inventing a home yogurt maker and thought his success was all rather serendipitous and silly.

Hank picked up on the first ring and seemed agitated. When I asked if it was a bad time he gave me a terse “no” and an unfriendly, “What is it, Sam?”

I gave him the spiel and he was silent throughout.

“I like you. You were a good friend to my son in school, but this is not an investment. This is a loan I’ll never see. I’m not happy you called me on this, and don’t do it again unless it’s something real.”

“We all have to start somewhere, sir.” I said. “Obviously I caught you at a bad time. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Character wins, son, and you have that,” he said with a tinge of a smile in his voice. “I’ll send you five hundred dollars, but don’t fuck up.”

“I won’t, sir. I assure you I won’t.”

“Goodbye then, Sam, and good luck.”

I was spent. I headed over to the Full Sail and ordered a shot of Jim Beam, which calmed my nerves. Then I had another shot. As I headed off to bed, I decided to throw the heavy line tomorrow and reel in a whale. I had no idea who that whale was or what my bait would be.

B
y seven-thirty the next morning, I was back in my phone booth office sipping a coffee laced with heavy cream and seven sugars. It was the only thing sweet about the morning. The sky was gray and promised a cold rain within the hour. Although I had made progress the night before, I felt to some degree that I had a pair of twos and was still throwing markers into the pot.

I began the day with some safe calls—cousins, aunts and uncles, parental friends—asking for amounts that would be hard to reject. This was fruitful and empowered me to reach for another big prize.

One of the finest men I met while at school was a Mr. Tucker Holly. He lived in Boston where he ran a fourth-generation family banking business. His daughter Mary attended Tufts and appeared gracefully in some of our shows. She was elegant like her dad: tall, lean, and attractive. I called Holly and was put directly through to his office. He was in an early meeting, but his secretary told me he could see me in an hour and a half; he had a small window so I shouldn’t be late.