“Is he doing anything besides smoking dope?”
“A lot of jerking off, but that’s okay. Drinks a little, that’s all I know. He’s a good boy, but he’s lonely at a time in your life you ain’t s’posed to be lonely. He needs you.”
“I’ve been so damn busy.”
“Save that shit; this is Billie Jean, Queen of Rampart Street, you talkin’ to. Just ’cause Amos treated Cyrus good and he grew up to be a peckerhead don’t mean that ignoring Luther is gonna make him the tall dog.”
“But, Billie ...”
“Uh-uh, I’m tellin’ you to come on home and spend time. We’re all just passin’ through, Mr. Conly. There ain’t none of those instant foreplays in life.”
“Replays,” Conly replied. “Instant replays. Unfortunately there
are
instant foreplays in life.”
“Well, I gotta go. Those toilets won’t clean theirselves. Now, get on home.” She hung up without waiting for a reply.
Dick Conly sat on his desk and looked out at the night, missing his youth and the wild times with Amos Chandler.
“I’ll set up a big hunting trip,” Conly said to himself, and stared at the skyline. “Luther and me, maybe Taylor Rusk and some of the other players. He’ll love it.”
Luther Conly didn’t like hunting or football.
Dick Conly dialed Suzy Ballard’s number. It rang and rang. Finally he called Taylor Rusk. Taylor answered on the third ring.
“Taylor, this is Dick Conly, your general manager. Let’s go drinking and fucking.”
Taylor held the phone away and looked at it, slightly shocked.
“Frankly, Dick, I’ve got practice tomorrow, and Terry Dudley is here now.”
Conly knew that before he called. “The basketball player?” he replied, acting surprised.
“I believe he now prefers to be known as the new director of the Players Union, which he has been since Bobby Hendrix forced out your old pal, Stillman.”
“Does he drink?”
“Ask him yourself.” Taylor handed the phone to Terry Dudley.
“You bet, Mr. Conly,” Dudley said. “Conflict? Hell, sounds like a major breakthrough in labor-management relations. Come on over.” Dudley replaced the receiver and began rubbing his hands together.
“Today is our lucky day,” Terry said, staring at the phone like it was a magic lamp. “Conly has political contacts all over San Antonio and South Texas. This could move my timetable for the Union way up.”
“You better walk soft with Conly,” Taylor warned. “He wants something.”
“Jesus, Taylor, this guy could help us. Where’s Hendrix?”
“Gone to Houston to be with Ginny and the boys at his father-in-law’s. Gus Savas has one of those River Oaks mansions.”
“Did Bobby fly? I thought he was scared of flying.”
“He flew scared,” Taylor said. “He had to talk to Savas about an oil deal with VCO.”
“Harrison H. Harrison’s company? The father-in-law must be rich, huh?” Dudley began pacing the room.
Taylor nodded. “Gus is a damn successful independent, a wildcatter. He found some big fields at the right time and sold them to the majors for the right price. That’s how the business works: Wildcatters find and sell oil to the majors and they hide it again.”
“Somebody ought to kick the majors’ asses!” The seven-foot man struck out with his long sinewy leg and size-seventeen shoe. “Might be a good political position for the Union. The fans could dig that, and we’ll need the fans if we strike.”
“Fuck the fans,” Taylor said, “and the strike.”
“Kick the majors’ asses,” Dudley repeated. “How many owners are oil men?”
“Too many. We’ll run out of feet long before they draw down their stock of asses.”
“I saw A.D.,” Dudley said suddenly.
“Speaking of asses. Where’d you see A.D.?”
“He came to Union headquarters with a couple of walking garbage compactors. We had some drinks. They wanted to talk about Union pension insurance.” Dudley wrinkled his forehead as he moved birdlike around the room. “They kept talking to me about a big-term life-insurance-policy scheme. Not only would I not have to pay a first year’s premium, but A.D. would give me a twenty-thousand-dollar finder’s fee.”
“Twenty thousand dollars for finding yourself?”
“I know, Taylor, I’m not as dumb as you seem to think. Christ, the guy is
your
fucking friend. I was
nice
to him because he was a friend of
yours
, but after
that
offer and a second look at the two jukeboxes ...”
“The Cobianco brothers.”
“One was Cobianco, the other was a Tiny something.” Terry shook his head, arms and hands. “I think it was Tiny Mind. Nice friends you got.”
“They aren’t my friends.”
“They did have one good idea about the next bargaining agreement between the Union and the League ...
residuals
... like actors get ... a piece of the action.” Dudley stopped pacing and looked at Taylor. “Do you think Conly would go for that?”
“He’d love it,” Taylor replied, “because he knows none of us have a clue
how much
action there is, and Conly doesn’t have to tell us.” Taylor was irritated at Dudley’s sudden obtuseness. “The Union would have to
define the action
and the League wouldn’t have to open the books. Forget it. Dick Conly will pick your pocket. You’ll never get rich.”
Terry wasn’t listening. “I’m gonna ask Hendrix and Speedo ... they’ve been around and they’re the player reps. Right now I got to take a shit,” Dudley announced.
“Well, take it home with you.”
“Come on, I’m waiting to meet Conly.”
“He’ll have his own.”
Dudley disappeared down the hall just as the door opened and the Texas Pistols’ general manager stumbled inside Taylor’s apartment, holding out an empty glass.
“You drank it,” Taylor said without moving.
“Hell of a place, Taylor,” Conly said. “Hell of a place, but with what we’re paying you, you could afford better.”
Down the hall the commode flushed and Terry Dudley returned, buckling his belt. Dick Conly still held out the empty glass.
“Bloody Mary,” he said.
Dudley took the glass without saying a word and disappeared into the kitchen. He fixed the Bloody Mary and returned. Conly took the glass into the dining room.
“Well?” Dudley looked at Taylor. “Are you going to introduce us?”
“I know Dick Conly. You want to meet him? Go fucking meet him. What the hell kind of a Union politician are you? Get in there and let him beat your brains out.”
Returning to the room, Conly held out his empty glass for a refill. Dudley took the glass from Conly’s hand and returned to the kitchen. The general manager watched the new Union director intently as he walked away.
“What the fuck does he want?” he asked Taylor.
“His fair advantage, Dick, just like everybody. He just wants what he’s got coming.”
“He ought to be careful; he just might get it,” Conly said. “You, too, Taylor.”
Taylor got to his feet. “Well, Dick, you can be certain
you
won’t get it.”
“Let’s go to Hollywood,” Conly said. “Get a bungalow at the Beverly Hills, play with the stars and starlets.”
“I am a star,” Taylor replied, “and I’m going to Colony Stadium and play with myself.”
Dudley returned with the Bloody Mary.
“You want to go to Hollywood, fella?” Conly asked.
“Sure, but I just wanted to meet you and sort of listen to what you had to say.”
“About what?”
“Politics, business, government, labor, stuff like that.”
“It’s all the same; what can I possibly tell you?”
Dudley shrugged. “Inside stories, secrets ...”
“Here’s my only secret; You live in a country where wealth is its own reward. Money means freedom, and freedom means no rules, and man cannot live without some rules. Even if only to break them. Get me another drink.”
Dick found Taylor’s phone and dialed Suzy Ballard’s phone number. She answered on the fourth ring; she had sat next to her phone and watched it ring the first three times. She told Dick to come right over. He was gone when Terry Dudley returned with the Bloody Mary.
“Aw, shit.” Dudley drank the tomato juice and vodka in one long gulp. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,
shit
.”
C
OLONY
S
TADIUM, AN ANCIENT,
crumbly cement structure, was used for the black high school south of Park City. The blacks lived south in a small clump of houses between Park City and the redneck cotton-gin town-soon-to-be-suburb of Clyde. The black area wasn’t incorporated and didn’t provide city services, but it did have a football stadium. The area was called the Nigger Colony, and the Texas Pistols used Colony Stadium for practice the first year in the League. It was one reason why the Pistols had such a large black following in the early years, much to Cyrus Chandler’s dismay.
Dick Conly had originally made a quiet arrangement with Lem Carleton junior to lease some extra space from the University for a practice field and locker-room facility, but when the issue came before the athletic board for routine authorization. Athletic Director T. J. “Armadillo” Talbott vetoed the plan.
Armadillo demanded that Red Kilroy return the University football slush fund. “You tell that sneak thief Kilroy we want our three hundred thousand dollars back,” Armadillo ordered.
“What three hundred thousand dollars?” Red had replied.
So the first season the Pistols practiced in Colony Stadium. The final practice of the season was extra long and hard. Red wanted to win the final game against New York.
“A win will give us momentum for next season,” Red claimed.
“Only if the first game is by Groundhog Day,” Taylor Rusk said sourly.
“You’ll be out here till then if you don’t shut up and throw some more decent passes,” the coach shot back.
“Goddammit, Red, we’ve thrown too much already. My arm hurts.”
Red kept them working another forty-five minutes before sending them to shower.
“I’m afraid Harlowe’s going to get rattlesnake-bit,” Simon said to Taylor as they walked off. “She’s a good retriever. She’s ready to work quail and I got twelve thousand acres leased up past Childress. But until Harlowe’s snake-trained I’m not taking her out. A damn shame, too, ’cause I got bobwhite and blue quail out the old whazoo up there.”
Small rivulets of sweat worked their way through Simon’s heavy whiskers and dripped from the underbrush that covered his brow ridge without break from side to side. He had stripped his six-foot-four-inch frame to Pistols practice T-shirt and jock. His body had grown hulking with muscle definition.
Taylor unlaced his shoe and noticed a slight twinge in his elbow. “Goddam Red. I told the son of bitch we were throwing too much today.” He worked the sore arm, trying to feel the nature of the ache.
“Let’s go kick his ass.” Simon was dead serious. “It’ll make him easier to handle later on ... make him flinch a little.”
Taylor shook his head. “Red is nuts enough. He might start flinching too much.”
“That’s what worries me about Harlowe.” Simon returned to the danger of rattlesnakes while quail hunting up near the Oklahoma border. “This guy from Dallas who’s on the lease with me has a German shorthair. He’s lost two dogs already. Diamondbacks bit their heads while they were on point.”
Taylor pulled off his second shoe and worked his arm. The ache had lessened and so had Taylor’s anger and panic. “What’s a lease cost now?”
“I don’t pay,” Simon said. “I couldn’t afford it. You get the whole year for a dollar an acre with a limit of six guns. I get it for practically nothing ’cause they think I’m gonna win Rookie of the Year.”
“Jesus, twelve thousand dollars to go hunting.” Taylor dropped his shoe and stared openmouthed into the tiny locker; a small mouse was hunched in the corner chewing contentedly on Taylor’s chin strap. The quarterback wiped his face with a dirty towel and yelled over his shoulder. “Any hot water in there yet?”
“No!” came Bobby Hendrix’s reply, echoing from the shower. “But it’s only December if you want to wait.”
“Taylor ...” Simon stopped and stared into the quarterback’s ancient locker. “Taylor, Taylor,” Simon was whispering, “there’s a mouse eating your chin strap.”
“I know. I think he likes the salt from my sweat.”
“Yeeech ... that’s disgusting!” Simon tossed a sock into the locker and the mouse disappeared into a hole in the back.
“Hey! Simon! Leave my mouse alone.”
The old stadium locker was cold and dark and dank and was home to creatures with little interest in professional football. They cared only about the Pistol Franchise as a source of food. Rats, mice, scorpions, spiders, mosquitoes, lizards—creatures that scurried noisily through the walls or sat quietly, eating the leather ear pads out of a helmet or sucking the blood out of players and staff.
“Anyway”—Simon kept his dark hooded eyes on the locker—“I want Harlowe ready for next quail season up there. She’s a great dog—soft mouth, hell of a nose, and she already follows hand signals. She is that once-in-a-lifetime dog, and I don’t want her sniffing up to some six-foot diamondback and getting bit in the head.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“So I want to take her out and snake-train her after the season. You wanna go?” Simon asked. “Harlowe likes you and I could use some help.”
“If you quit harassing my mouse.”
“Deal,” Simon said. “Now I gotta go pump up.” He headed for the weight room.
Bobby Hendrix, pale white and freckled, topped by a shock of red hair, hobbled heel-and-toe out of the shower, dabbing at his shivering naked body. He moved gingerly but stiffly on the cold cement. His movements belied the grace with which he controlled his battered body on the football field.
“Bobby?” Taylor was working his complete arm. “Didn’t you think we ran too many routes today? We had skeleton, one-on-one, full-team passing, and then ended with individual routes.”
“Way too much.” Bobby limped over. “Red can’t keep me on my feet that long. I’ll leave my game on the practice field. Does your arm hurt?”
“Elbow aches; not bad, it just pisses me off. He kept us out there because he knew we didn’t think he was right. One of his fucking mind games.”