“I’m walking off next time,” Hendrix announced. “If I can walk.”
“Well ...” Taylor’s next few words were drowned out by the explosion. Everybody tensed, ready to run if the stands began collapsing into the locker room. Dust boiled out of the weight room, followed by a string of profanities screamed in rage by Simon D’Hanis.
“What was that?” Hendrix was calmly rubbing his hair dry. He had been in the League too long to be surprised by anything.
“Sounds like Simon.” Taylor worked his fingers. “Here he comes. Ask him.”
The pulsing hulk of Simon D’Hanis, covered with sweat and concrete dust, walked toward the two men and the mouse gathered at Taylor’s locker. Simon’s face was contorted in fury and disgust.
In the middle of some arcane power-lifting exercise that the weight coach had devised for the ever-willing, increasingly narcissistic lineman, Simon had torn the complete weight machine from the low-grade Colony Stadium cement. The resultant momentum had thrown the machine through the cinder block wall and destroyed the hot-dog stand in the tunnel.
Fortunately it was not a game day or there would have been deaths and injuries. The machine blasting through the wall caused a large section to collapse, tearing loose stored weights and bars. Thousands of pounds of metal had cascaded onto the concrete floor.
The noise was deafening and the dust heavy, but once it was learned no one was injured, everyone except Simon returned to their previous tasks, including the mouse chewing quietly on Taylor’s chin strap.
It would not have been surprising that first year if old Colony Stadium had been ordered demolished with the Pistols inside.
Although Taylor thought Simon overdid the steroids and bio-machine approach, Simon D’Hanis did make the All-Rookie team. Pumped up and powered by Russian hormones, a high-protein diet and hours of intense working with weights, Simon had grown to a monstrous 275 pounds.
“Goddam, Simon,” Kimball Adams chided as the dust swirled around him, “tear down the stadium and put all us niggers out in the cold.”
“It’s warmer outside,” Bobby Hendrix noticed. The skinny redhead shivered, his face pinched together in pain as the cold knifed right to his damaged joints and scar-tissued muscles.
“I don’t feel like a nigger.” Simon stomped up beside Taylor.
“You’re just on a different diet,” Speedo Smith said, walking to his locker, where he found a scorpion waiting in his shoe.
Simon pointed at the pale, white, freckled Hendrix. “I’m sick of your Union bullshit and old-pro wisdom.”
“He has seen the elephant,” Taylor said. “He pushed the owner to give Terry Dudley Charlie Stillman’s job. I figured you’d like anybody that got Stillman fired.”
“That motherfucking Stillman sold me out!” Simon raged, and cement dust rose off his gigantic body like smoke. “Fuck Stillman, fuck the elephant, fuck Stillman with the elephant.”
“Calm down, Simon.” Taylor pointed into the locker. “You’re keeping the mouse from eating.”
The mouse was back on its haunches, head swiveling, watching Simon move about angrily. The big guard was not angry about anything specific, just angry—chemical aggression, synthetic fury on the loose. The mouse sensed trouble and ducked into the hole.
The mouse understood Simon D’Hanis chemically and instinctively and got the hell out of there.
T
HE
N
EW
Y
ORK-
P
ISTOLS
game was one of those contests when both teams are unconcerned about the final score and are simply bent on destroying each other.
The game was so vicious, so violent, that at halftime, Taylor watched Kimball Adams sit and bleed by his locker ... knocking back straight shots of whiskey while snorting a gram of cocaine. Leaving to start the second half, Kimball carried two more grams with him.
The officials lost control of the field and the coaches their players, and the teams rioted within the confines of the game.
There were fundamental rules that Taylor assimilated in his years of athletic competition and hostile relationships with crowds. This was obviously one of those situations.
That’s why Taylor refused to go into the game.
“What? What? What?”
Red always did that three times when someone responded with an answer he didn’t want. He felt three gave the offender time to figure out the correct answer. If the next response was wrong Red would scream
“What?”
four times. By then the player better be right or gone.
“Gimme a fucking break, Red. I am not going out there.” Taylor pointed as Kimball Adams took a headgear in the chest. The Pistols’ tackle had missed a stunt by the defensive end and tackle; the end hit Kimball going full speed. Kimball’s head snapped and he crumpled.
“There isn’t a thing for me to learn out there except how to bleed and recognize the sound of broken bones and my own screams,” Taylor said. “C’mon, Kimball, buddy, get up!” he rooted. Adams staggered groggily to his feet.
A glint caught Taylor’s eyes, pulling them away from the coach’s face. He resisted, not wanting to be off balance against Red’s counterattack, but Red’s eyes fell sadly to the telephone in his hand. Cyrus Chandler was on the other end—on the line direct to the New York owner’s private air-conditioned suite where Cyrus Chandler was a guest. The suite had a wet bar, white-coated bartenders, carpeting, heavy leather swivel chairs. It was extremely civilized.
Surrounded by his well-fed and -wined friends, Cyrus told his head coach to put Taylor Rusk in the game because he wanted to show what the Pistols planned to build the Franchise around.
On the field the New York-Texas game was a war of attrition; destruction and vengeance the game plan. There was no winner, only survivors.
“Goddam, can’t somebody get the middle linebacker?” Bobby Hendrix pleaded, dabbing his bleeding nose and mouth. “That’s the third time he’s clotheslined me.”
“I could send Amos,” Kimball said. “What do you think, Amos?” The huddle turned to the blocking back. Amos Burns’s dark eyes looked out from under his black, wet, deeply wrinkled brow.
“I can get him, but if I don’t put him out, he’s gonna know
you
sent me.” Amos looked at Kimball. “I’ll hurt him, Kimball, but I can’t promise he won’t be back, looking for you.”
“I’ll get him,” Simon D’Hanis said. “We’ll see how bad this joker wants to bump heads. Gimme a pass-over block with opposite influence.”
“Okay! Ninety-three opposite G pull influence!” Kimball ordered. “On two.”
The huddle broke. The teams took up their positions.
“I’m making an inside handoff, Amos,” Kimball told the big back. “After I give you the ball, you veer. I’m getting the hell away.”
Amos Burns grinned.
Kimball called the defensive set; the Pistols’ center called the line blocking odd; the New York lineman played the gaps. The linebackers came around, faking a blitz. Kimball knew they weren’t coming, though—the safeties were too deep—but he called out a dummy audible so they’d wonder if he bought the fake.
On the snap Kimball Adams whirled quickly, slamming the ball into Amos Burns’s stomach. The ninety-three opposite-influence blocking worked well against defenses that read and pursued. New York read pulls, and both of their tackles were chasing the pulling Pistols linemen, leading Danny Lewis flaring on what could be either a pitchout, power sweep or screen pass.
It was none of those.
Amos Bums was through the holes left in the line of scrimmage by the New York pursuit.
The middle linebacker took the influence fake and the two steps necessary to remove him from the play. A furious competitor, he knew Amos had beat him through the hole, but he reached desperately to grasp at the stocky back.
Dig down, he was told over and over.
Dig down
. The middle linebacker dug down.
He never saw Simon coming.
Simon saw the opening under the helmet cage and, using his own headgear, hit him high, trying to tear his face off. The collision echoed across the field, and players on both teams turned to see. It was a familiar sound: demolition.
The middle linebacker was sprawled out on his back. His helmet flew off and it looked like his head was still in it. His face had bones sticking out of it. Every time he exhaled, blood bubbled from a hole beneath his eye.
Simon staggered back to the next huddle.
Bums had gained six yards.
Up in the air-conditioned owner’s suite, Cyrus was on the phone, instructing Red Kilroy to put Taylor Rusk in the game.
“Have him throw some to the nigger speed-burner,” Cyrus said. “Then tell him to hit Hendrix with a few so I can show these assholes up here what we stole off the blacklist.” Cyrus Chandler laughed and rolled the big cigar around in his mouth. Dick Conly sat tight-lipped next to him. Wendy sat next to Dick.
Lem Three was drinking double martinis, trying to forget how Cyrus had screamed at him in the hotel lobby because the buses were late at the airport and the room keys were not sorted correctly.
Wendy poked Dick Conly. “Stop him, Dick.”
“Why?” Conly said, “There’s always the chance he’ll step on his own cock and break his neck. Can’t stop a man from making an ass of himself. All you can do is refuse to kiss it.”
“Please stop him,” Wendy urged. She turned to Lem. “You tell him, Lem.”
Lem rocked forward and almost fell to the floor; Wendy helped him regain his balance. He looked down at Dick. “She’s right, Dick, do whatever she says. I’m telling you, she’s always right. This is the best woman ... person ... the best in the world ... but how was I supposed to know that those dumb fucks can’t check into a hotel on their own or that the bus drivers would get lost? Christ! I did my best.” Lem’s eyes reddened.
“Hush now, Lem.” Wendy patted his leg. “Lean back.” Then she turned back to Conly. “Tell him or I tell him.”
“You think he’ll listen?” Dick stared at the field, watching Red and the quarterback standing by the phone. “To me? To you? Shit, he didn’t listen to Amos! Every son of a bitch in the Southwest listened to Amos Chandler except his own son.”
“Whaaat?”
Cyrus’s voice quivered, a sign of real strain. “He said
what?
” Cyrus quickly regained his voice control. He switched the phone to his right hand, knuckles white. “Put that son of a bitch on the phone.”
Wendy looked down to the field. Taylor Rusk in his spanking-clean uniform was taking the phone.
“Now listen to me, mister!” Cyrus began yelling. His grip on the phone caused it to shake.
Dick elbowed Wendy to make certain she saw that Taylor now had the phone to his ear. She nodded. Conly’s nose flared as he suppressed a grin; his eyes rolled. They both watched the quarterback in the bright white uniform standing at the phone table, holding the receiver.
Wendy put her binoculars on Taylor. His face was totally devoid of emotion, like a man refusing a telephone magazine subscription.
“I own this ball club, fella, and ...”
Wendy watched as Taylor reached out and snatched the tape shears from the trainer’s scabbard. The quarterback held up the receiver and cut the cord. He took the receiver with him back to his spot on the bench between two big linemen. They had saved him a lined parka.
“Goddam you! ... Goddam son of a bitch! Football-player asshole!” Cyrus raged into the dead line. “I own you.... I’ll bury you!”
The New York owner laughed until he cried. A reaction that drove Cyrus almost crazy.
Dick winked at Wendy, then leaned over. “Cyrus,” he asked, “you sure you dialed the right number?”
Taylor Rusk didn’t play that day; he kept the telephone receiver and hung it over his dresser mirror in the bedroom where he used the Heisman Trophy as a doorstop.
W
ENDY
C
HANDLER
C
ARLETON’S
labor pains began at midnight. One hour and thirty minutes after arriving at the hospital, she gave birth to an eight pound eleven ounce boy.
Cyrus and Junie wanted to name him Cyrus Junior Carleton or “Bubba,” while Lem junior, Lem Three and Pearl Mae Carleton were holding out for Lem IV or “Four.”
Wendy named the boy Randall Ryan—the last names of the maternity nurse and her aide, who were more helpful and supportive the last hour and a half than were all the rest combined during the whole nine months of Wendy’s pregnancy.
Randall Ryan Carleton was Aquarian.
Cyrus claimed Aquarians were good lawyers and politicians. Junie was convinced they were pessimistic because her sister, Wanda Jane, had married a very pessimistic Aquarian.
Junior and Pearl Mae thought he would probably be an artist or musician.
Dick Conly saw the Aquarian as a way out of his own dilemma.
Red Kilroy told Taylor about the boy when he called him in to play a few off-season mind games.
“My reading of the zodiac,” Red explained, “says this boy’s got good legs.”
I
T HAD RAINED
hard around Sam. Now the Quarter glistened black and gray in the mist and clouds of dawn. He liked the wet darkness of the swamp, the city squatting on the ooze. Pulling the heavy red velvet drape from the window, he hooked it over the bronze gargoyle, then sat in his heavy oak straight-back chair with hand-carved elaborately scrolled arms and claw feet.
The chair and drape and most of the interior furnishings of the grand house were from the French Period.
The house, built during the American Period, was Victorian, painted white and green, three stories with bays and extended verandas and second-story porches. The wrought-iron fence and gate were forged during the Spanish Period. The help was African. The Man was Lebanese.
New Orleans was his place in the world. He knew it the moment he arrived from the desert through Mexico. Years ago with Amos Chandler. Hard years but good years, well worth the effort.
He stared out the bay window down Royal Street at the dismal morning, dripping wrought-iron balconies and peeling white paint. The mist came and went. He wanted hard rain and black clouds all day; then he would sit in the chair and stare from dawn to dawn.