North Dallas Forty (40 page)

“My name is George Rindquist. I’m a vice officer with the Dallas police. During my off-duty hours I work for Mr. March here, checking out reports of player misconduct.”

I watched Clinton Foote’s head bobbing rhythmically with the modulations of Rindquist’s gravelly voice. The speech was rehearsed.

“Several weeks ago I was requested by Mr. March here to take up investigative surveillance of one Phillip Elliott, an employee of the Dallas franchise.”

I suddenly remembered Rindquist’s face and grating voice. He had called, months back, and convinced me to make a gratis appearance at a fund-raising banquet for the families of two patrolmen killed in an automobile accident. I met him and sat next to him during the banquet. So much for community service.

“... I followed the suspect from the time I was contacted by Mr. March’s office up to and including Friday morning last when the suspect boarded a plane allegedly bound for New York.”

“Anything to say?” Clinton Foote inquired.

“The plane did arrive in New York,” I offered. The general manager’s eyes blazed and there was a momentary uneasiness as he fought to control his temper.

“Please continue, Mr. Rindquist,” Clinton said. Picking up a pencil, he began drumming on his yellow note pad. I dropped my eyes from his gaze and shook my head.

“I will read from my log of the past week.” Rindquist spoke with the careful diction of an experienced witness. Pulling a stenographer’s notebook from his coat pocket, he began reading. “On Monday at eight o’clock in the morning I picked up the suspect and followed him to Fort Worth via the Dallas-Fort Worth Turnpike. Arriving in FW—that’s Fort Worth—the suspect proceeded across town to a Big Boy Restaurant near the old Weatherford Highway where he met several other adult males—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, automatically raising my hand. “Did you happen to recognize any of the other adult males?”

“I did not.”

“Well,” I pressed, “was there anything distinctive about those men? You know, size, weight, color.”

“No,” Rindquist answered quickly, his eyes jumping nervously from me to Clinton Foote.

“What’s this all about?” Clinton angrily asked.

“I was just trying to establish the reliability of the witness,” I answered, snatching the phrase from an old Perry Mason show.

“This isn’t a court of law,” Foote announced. “Go on, George.”

“The three adult males and the suspect transferred several shotguns and various types of hunting equipment into the back of a pickup truck. When the truck was loaded the suspect climbed into the back and the remaining men climbed into the cab and headed out west on the old Weatherford Highway. I assumed they were going hunting and didn’t follow for fear of being discovered.”

“We wouldn’t want you to be discovered, would we,” I said.

“Shut up,” Clinton Foote shouted, slamming the flat of his hand on the table, his face puffed and red.

“I waited in the parking lot of the restaurant until they returned later that afternoon.” Rindquist paused and looked from March to Clinton, both of whom glanced at each other and then at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“After leaving FW—that’s Fort Worth—the suspect returned to Dallas and drove directly to The Apartments on Maple Avenue, where a party was in progress. I again kept my distance—”

“What apartment was the party in?” I asked.

“You oughta know,” the cop shot back, “you were there.” His retort brought a murmur of laughter.

“Yeah,” I said, “but you got it all written down. You’re paid to know.”

“Well, I don’t,” he replied angrily.

“Mr. Elliott,” Ray March interrupted, placing his hand gently on Clinton Foote’s arm as the general manager was about to leap to his feet in rage. “Must we remind you again, this is not a court of law. Mr. Rindquist is giving us the information he thinks is important to your case.”

I closed my eyes and nodded my head, letting it sink slowly to my chest.

“Go ahead, George,” March instructed.

The officer continued his story, carefully avoiding any particulars on the party and recognizing none of those present with the exception of myself.

“At one point in the evening the suspect was observed in the outward physical appearances of smoking marijuana with another unidentified male companion.” He had delicately failed to recognize Seth Maxwell, the singularly most identifiable face in Texas sports history.

“How do you mean outward physical appearances?” Clinton posed the question without raising his eyes from the table.

“Well,” Rindquist elaborated, “the physical act of marijuana smoking differs considerably from the actions of normal cigarette smoking.”

The unmistakable accent on
normal
was aggravating, but I remained unresponsive.

“Marijuana smokers,” Rindquist pronounced the words with the same distaste he would have if discussing niggers, lepers, or meskins, “cup the cigarette, or joint, in their hands, taking short puffs and holding their breath. It makes the smoking action very jerky in appearance and easy to identify. That was the manner in which the suspect was smoking.”

There was a short lull while everyone in the room waited for me to offer something more, a defense or an admission. I just slowly shook my head, my lips twisted into a wry smile. I could feel the world crumbling but could do nothing to stop or even slow the process.

“Shortly after observing the suspect smoking marijuana—” Rindquist began again.

I leaped to my feet and pointed a finger at the policeman. “Do you know it was marijuana, you fat son of a bitch? Do you have any proof? You lousy ...” My voice and energy trailed off as I was unable to conceptualize a proper insult. I fell back into my seat, exhausted.

“Look, boy!!” the policeman yelled back at me and started toward me with his fists clenched. He caught himself and stopped, looking around the office for reassurance. Ray March came to the officer’s assistance.

“We understand fully, Mr. Elliott,” March’s voice was authoritative and his statement was carefully and impassionately structured, “that Mr. Rindquist’s remark is merely an assumption on his part. But in all fairness you must understand that we hired Mr. Rindquist because of our immense respect for his abilities and judgments as an experienced peace officer.”

“Why didn’t you just have him shoot me and be done with it?”

“You can be flippant if you wish, Mr. Elliott, but the charges against you are serious. And lame attempts at humor can only be regarded in terms of consequences. Please continue, George.”

The policeman’s eyes moved from me to Clinton Foote, who gave him a tight smile and a short affirmative nod.

“As I said,” Rindquist looked down at his notebook, “shortly after observing the suspect smoking marijuana, I broke off surveillance for the night, picking him up again the next afternoon, Tuesday, as he left the north Dallas practice field. He proceeded downtown to the CRH Building, where he remained for approximately two hours. After leaving the CRH Building he proceeded north on Central Expressway to Loop Twelve where he turned east and proceeded to the Twin Towers Apartments, where he remained the night.”

“Do you know in which apartment Mr. Elliott spent the night?” Clinton leaned forward and glared at me, then leaned back and crossed his legs. His foot was wagging nervously.

“Yes sir, I do. Twenty-five forty.” Rindquist didn’t bother to check his notes. “The apartment is occupied by—”

“There’s no need to discuss the occupancy of the apartment,” O’Malley said. The Hunter family attorney spoke for the first time. “It’s not important to the case being discussed here.”

A look of perplexity passed across Rindquist’s face, his lips still pursed to say
Joanne
. His speaking pace slowed perceptibly as he stumbled on, confused by the interruption. “He spends the night there often.” Rindquist’s eyes flitted back and forth from Foote to March to O’Malley, trying to determine if he had made a mistake.

“You are really a bunch of sleazy cocksuckers,” I said, feeling appreciably better as the insult rebounded around the room and seemed to fit everyone perfectly, including me.

“At about midnight,” Rindquist continued, ignoring my anger, and picking up his old rhythm, “—I left the Twin Towers and drove to the suspect’s house where I effected a search of the premises, finding several pill bottles and a quantity of obscene literature.”

“And twenty bucks,” I added

I was again ignored.

The number and variety of officials present was a pretty good indicator of impending doom and I realized the folly of any attempted defense and began to build an ending, a climax. I swallowed hard and laid a hand on my chest trying to calm my heart. When I leaned back in my seat I could see it pounding against the shirt tightly drawn over my chest.

“The following night ...” Rindquist was boiling on to the conclusion, proud that he had done his part before I turned to ax murders. The assumptions were already drawn, inferences already allowed, and punishment already decided, I knew that now. All that remained was animation to make it plausible. “... I again picked up the suspect as he left the practice field and followed him to the house of one Harvey Le Roi Belding, a suspected user and dealer in narcotics and a known campus agitator and political revolutionary.”

“A real Che Guevara,” I muttered.

“While the suspect was inside I searched his car. In the glove compartment I found and photographed two marijuana cigarettes. You have the photographs.”

Clinton Foote held up two Polaroid prints for the assembled officials to verify. His hand shook noticeably.

The detective rounded out the remainder of my week, covering the fight at Rock City, again unable to identify anyone else present with the exception of Charlotte. He followed us to Lacota and then picked me up again after Thursday’s practice and tailed me back to Charlotte’s. He was careful to point out “her peculiar relationship with a nigra boy.”

“Well,” I said, breaking into a short, bursting laugh, “I’m sure glad you’re all doing this to me. For a while there I thought I was getting paranoid.”

Clinton Foote took his eyes momentarily from Rindquist to glare at me. Nobody else seemed to have heard.

Rindquist wrapped up with my boarding the 727 “allegedly bound for New York” and quickly returned to his seat. Clinton looked at Rindquist and gestured toward the door with his eyes. The policeman bounded out the door.

“Thank you, George,” Clinton said to the closing door and then turned his attention to me. “Anything to say?”

“Well,” I started slowly, clearing my throat, “I’d like to thank all the little people who made this possible.”

Clinton Foote exploded. I can’t say that I blamed him.

“Who in Great God’s Hell do you think you are?” Clinton screamed. He jumped to his feet. His face was purple with rage. “A goddam broken-down football player. You guys are a dime a dozen. Do you think you’re here because by some divine intervention you deserve to be here? Do you? Huh?”

I was stunned by his passion and pulled back into my chair. I said nothing.

“You’re here because we let you on,” he continued to bluster, pointing around the room at the assembled officials. “We let you on, no other reason. We don’t owe you, you owe us, and there are sixty million fans out there who agree with me.” He pointed out the window at the Dallas skyline.

“That’s something you’ll have to work out with them,” I said. I had calmed some after his first outburst and tried to argue.

“What?” His head swiveled back from the window, his face a mixture of surprise and fury. A thin smile controlled his lips. “Okay. You’re so goddam cocky. We gave you a good job, paid you,” he looked down and dug through a sheaf of papers on the desk and pulled out a Standard Player’s Contract, apparently mine, “good money. Go out and try and earn as much out there.” He pointed back to the window. “You’ll find nobody gives a fat rat’s ass who you were or how many zig outs you can run.”

I just looked up at the fuming man and smiled.

He held the contract up for my inspection. “Well, if you could read this, which I doubt,” he had me there, I never could read a whole contract, that was why they made them so long and involved, “you would see that we own you and you check with us when you want to do something, we don’t check with you.” He shook the contract in my face. “That’s why we pay you all the money. It ain’t for your good looks and charm.”

Ray March reached up and grabbed Clinton’s arm. Clinton pulled away, then looked at March, who signaled him to calm down and be seated. Clinton stared back at me for a moment

“Oh, all right,” he said, and sat down.

“Do you have anything to say that is pertinent?” March asked me.

I shook my head.

B.A. nodded and began digging through the papers in front of him. He selected one and stared at it blankly. It was the same disarming technique that Clinton used when negotiating contracts, acting as if there were information on the paper that diminished his opponent’s position.

“Phil,” the coach began slowly, “you’ve been up here for conferences with me several times in the years you’ve been with the club, haven’t you?”

I nodded.

“What did we talk about those times?”

“Different things, mostly your reasons for benching me. You benched me three times, or so, a year.”

“Did I tell you why I was benching you?”

“Well, you usually said it was maturity. I either lacked it or had too much, I don’t recall.”

“Maturity,” B.A. mouthed the word carefully. He remained silent for several seconds, gazing at the piece of paper. “I think you’re a good receiver, Phil,” he began again. “You probably have the best hands in football today. You’re a good football player, but so is everybody else on the club. That’s why you’re all here. And football is other things besides ability. It’s dedication and it’s discipline. You must give something back to the sport, you can’t always be taking.”

“B.A.,” I said, “I can barely stand up, can’t breathe through my nose, and haven’t slept more than three hours at a stretch in over two years, all from leaving pieces of me scattered on playing fields from here to Cleveland. Isn’t that giving something back?”