Red’s boys. Only two criteria
, Taylor thought as he put the phone back in its beige cradle.
None of Red’s boys are crippled or dead.
After drinking several ounces of tequila, his sore throat burning, Taylor called the commissioner’s office.
“Taylor. Good to hear from you.” Robbie Burden’s voice was cheerful, buoyant. “How can I help you?”
“Commissioner, you
sound
like you have a tan,” Taylor said. “I got a call from your office.” Taylor drummed his fingers on the table. He disliked Robbie Burden. It was an irrational emotion bequeathed by Bobby Hendrix. Before Hendrix was killed, Taylor just thought of Burden as a harmless, skilled, highly paid lobbyist and public relations man. Now he resented Robbie Burden for being the commissioner and never having been a player. Burden, the opposite of Bobby Hendrix, joined the League as Cleveland’s public relations man the same year Bobby was Cleveland’s Rookie of the Year.
“Listen, Taylor, I think we need to get together and talk about the problems caused by your signing that Standard Player’s Contract with LA.” The commissioner purposely slowed the pace of the conversation, trying to gain an edge. “I’ve talked to our lawyers. We’re not certain that the contract is legal. Contracting for your services without public notice like that. I’m just not ...”
“You should have said something in Cozumel, Commissioner,” Taylor interrupted.
“Cozumel? What are you talking about?” The commissioner was good at sounding genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t been to Cozumel in years.”
“You and your wife were there on the Cobianco’s boat with A.D. Koster and Tiny Walton.” Taylor left out Lem and Wendy Carleton. Taylor didn’t have a light on his phone like Red Kilroy that warned of eavesdroppers.
“I don’t understand why you would say that, Taylor.” Burden’s voice was smooth and soft. “But we still must meet and discuss this Los Angeles contract that you signed. There are certain problems with it.”
“Yeah, right, Commissioner, but they’re
your
problems.” Out the apartment window Taylor saw a red El Dorado convertible creep into the lot. Speedo Smith’s new car had a white top and wire wheels. “Look, I’ve got people at my door.”
“I will definitely be back in touch with you, Taylor.” Robbie Burden’s voice hardened. “And when you have a minute, you might reread Paragraph Nine. It says I can suspend you without appeal for any goddam thing I please!”
The commissioner slammed down his phone. It sounded like a gentle click to Taylor.
He poured and drank more tequila and spat in the kitchen sink. He had stopped bleeding, but the expensive Herradura still burned his throat.
Taylor watched Speedo, wearing a full-length natural mink, slip out of his bright-red convertible. Another long fur followed him out of the car; inside the coat was a big, good-looking blonde. Taylor recognized Flawless Jade, a Texas exotic dancer. Flawless Jade’s debut had been in Dallas at halftime. She had dropped her halter at midfield. Taylor had seen the replay. The Pistols were beating Oakland when it happened.
Speedo Smith rapped on the door and walked inside with his arms thrown wide. The big blonde stood behind while Speedo did a slow full turn to allow Taylor the full effect of the new mink coat.
“That real mink?” Taylor whistled in admiration.
“Turkey, it is genuine drape....” Speedo pulled open the coat to show the bright red lining and the Neiman-Marcus label. “ ’Cept the label. Flawless took it off one of her coats.” Flawless Jade was still outside, standing behind Speedo. Sliding by the smaller man, she stepped into the apartment, closing the door.
“I told him it had to have a Neiman’s label,” Flawless said. “It just should be from Neiman’s. Don’t you think?” She looked at Taylor. When he nodded, she hugged Speedo, tucking his head between her breasts, stroking his thick, woolly hair. Flawless wore a full-length coyote coat.
Taylor watched them hug, a beautiful sight. Speedo—with his small, muscular, fine-boned face and smooth dark, black skin—snuggling into Flawless—tall, full-breasted, fleshy but pretty-faced, white-blond hair. The two people entwined with the long, full fur coats. Speedo, Flawless. The Mink and the Coyote.
“I wish I had your style, Speedo.” Taylor admired them and sipped his drink.
“You is too white and lower class—morally speaking.” Speedo nuzzled the large breasts and Flawless Jade laughed. “Right, Momma? Even with your new wealth, look how you live.”
“What you drinkin’, turkey?” Speedo, Flawless and the furs tangled.
“Tequila. You know where everything is.”
“I ought to know where everything is.” Speedo shucked his coat. “You ain’t moved nothing or bought anything new since you moved into this dump. You are froze in time and lost in space.” Speedo helped Flawless out of her coyote. “Now I see you got armed guards to maintain the status quo.”
“I do?”
Speedo was rummaging through the cabinet for glasses and drink. “Accordin’ to the sign.”
“I didn’t see any sign.” Taylor took another drink.
“It’s about five feet by five feet and is red and white.” Speedo laughed a short, delighted screech. “It’s right by the entrance to the parking lot.”
“I never saw any sign.” Taylor shook his head and drank his glass dry.
Carrying two glasses of Scotch and water, Speedo returned from the kitchen and went straight to Flawless on the couch. He pointed at Taylor as he handed Flawless a drink. “He has to find me and throw me the ball in a stadium full of people and he didn’t see
that sign
.”
“I just look for the empty helmet,” Taylor said.
“I don’t see how you could have missed the sign.” Flawless’s voice was a hard nasal twang. “It damn near kept us from coming in.
Warning: Armed Guards
in two-feet red letters. It stopped us dead.”
“It wasn’t till we got to the fine print,” Speedo said, “that we decided to continue on this mission.”
“Speaking of fine print,” Taylor said, “what about your contract? Did you read yours?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Speedo patted his pocket.
“The top desk drawer over there.” Taylor held his hand out. “Let me see how A.D. Koster compares to Dick Conly.”
Flawless filed her nails and sipped her drink while the two men read each other’s contracts.
“Well”—Taylor spoke first, holding up the SPC—“this really
is
a three-year contract, not three one-year contracts. And all the money is due in this century.”
“It don’t come close to this,” Speedo said softly. “A million a year.... Will they let Los Angeles have you?”
“I was speaking to the commissioner when you drove up, and I can, with relative certainty, say no, they won’t let LA have me. But I can also say with some confidence that
somebody
is going to have to pay that money. Otherwise I take ’em to Antitrust City.”
“Poor folks just got regular hell. Antitrust City is only for the minorities, the rich and powerful,” Speedo said. “What kind of country discriminates against the rich?”
“Only in America, and I’m proud to be an American,” Taylor said.
“It’s harder for a rich man to reach the kingdom of heaven,” Flawless said, inspecting her nails, “than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.” Flawless knew lots of scripture and sewing tips.
Taylor and Speedo exchanged looks of amazement.
“All right, Momma!” Speedo said.
“Why did A.D. decide to renegotiate with you?” Taylor asked his receiver. “You got another two years on your old contract.”
“Why do you think?”
“The last surviving player representative to the Union?” Taylor replied.
“Straight sellout. A.D. wanted me to spy for him at the Union meetings. I told him I would, so he gave me the bucks,” Speedo said. “Now, I’m resigning and nominating you.” Pointing a spidery black finger at Taylor, he grinned with his perfect white teeth. “You need to do
something
to protect your five million.”
“I don’t want to be the player rep.”
“Who does? Look what it got Bobby.”
“Why are you doing this to me, Speedo?” Taylor pleaded. “Just so you can have furs, white women and big cars?”
“You got it, turkey. You can afford all four”—Speedo tapped the Xerox of Taylor’s contract—“white women, fur coats, big cars
and
player rep. You’re making so much money you have to care. I am making just enough so I don’t.”
“Well,” Taylor snapped, “quit saying
toot
on my goddam phone, pork lips.”
“Fuck you, I got mine,” Speedo squealed with glee. “Welcome to Niggertown. You might develop some style yet.”
Flawless and Speedo both laughed.
“I always liked you colored boys ... but from now on expect lots of short routes across the middle. And don’t complain if the ball hangs and draws a crowd ... and don’t expect the laces up.”
By the time Speedo and Flawless Jade left, she was drunk. While putting on her coyote, Flawless admitted that her name was Emma Lou Richards of Selma, Alabama.
“Boy, they would kill me if they saw me now, wouldn’t they?”
“Flawless,” Taylor said, “they may kill us all anyway.”
Half asleep on his couch, Taylor heard the phone ring several times, but he let the answering service take the messages. They were all from Buffy Martin D’Hanis calling from a phone booth. He tried to return the calls, but she was gone and Taylor ended up talking to a guy claiming to be pursued by a hit squad from the Church of Scientology. When he hung up, Taylor lay back on the couch, fell asleep and dreamed about the fight with Simon in the weight room. The big lineman staggered and stumbled, his face a mixture of pain, panic and killing rage.
“Hey, wake up.” Taylor Rusk felt someone shaking him. “Hey buddy, you okay?” Lamar Jean Lukas kept shaking the quarterback’s leg. “Hey, Taylor, did those two do anything to you?” Lamar stood by the couch in his uniform; the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver was holstered and belted snugly around his waist.
Taylor recognized the voice from somewhere and squinted one eye open. He didn’t plan to move, but the six-inch blue steel barrel hung at eye level and brought him straight up. Wide awake.
“You okay, Taylor?”
“Hey, yeah, I’m fine, fine, buddy. How you doing? Long time no see. What you doing with that pistol?”
“I’m one of the security guards here,” Lamar replied. “Security Services, Incorporated.”
“We never had guards before.”
“Lot of weirdos out there.” Lamar peered out the window, looking for weirdos in the darkness. “Some big Canadian company bought this place and they want security. So a fake Green Beret major puts our lives on the line for the minimum wage while the fucking Canucks take the depreciation and then convert to condos.” Lamar shook his head. “And the dollars go to Toronto.”
“You do world-market economics too?”
“I just pay attention to what I’m doing.”
“Where’ve we met before?” Taylor wiped his face and eyes, trying to recall Lamar.
“Training camp a few years back.” Lamar stuck out his hand. “Lamar Jean Lukas. I had just bought one of the first Pistols season tickets when we met.”
Taylor took Lamar’s hand.
“I’m pretty well over that now,” Lamar said as they shook hands.
“Over what? Buying a season ticket?”
“I had a chip on my shoulder for a while,” Lamar said. “Left over from the war. You were rude, but I can dig it.... I just walked into your room and woke you up to talk football.” Lamar looked around the apartment again. “You had every right to get a little pissed. I just walked in and woke you up because I had a season ticket. One of the first.” Lamar nodded. “I just walked right in and woke you up and started talking football, giving you advice ...”
“Just like you’re doing now.” Taylor, over his initial shock, was beginning to get bored.
“Hey! No, man”—Lamar held up his hands—“this is security business. I came in here to check on you. I saw some spade in a fur coat leaving here, looking like Superfly with a big blonde on his arm, getting into a red Caddy convertible. I got their license number and ran a Twenty-eight and ... I kept waiting on the Twenty-eight ...”
“What’s a Twenty-eight?” Taylor was irritated by this guy in the blue uniform, shoulder patch and badge. The big pistol was losing its deterrent value.
“License number check. The computer’s down and it still ain’t come back. Decided I’d better come up, and when I found the door unlocked ...”
“You just walked right in and woke me up.”
“Yeah.” Lamar frowned at Taylor’s attitude. “You oughtta be damn glad it was me; there’s a lot of weirdos out there....”
“Right. Right.” Taylor sensed Lamar’s anger and refocused on the Magnum revolver. “I’m sorry. Look, thanks a lot. I’m fine and I’ll keep my door closed and locked from now on, believe me.”
“What about Superfly and the blonde?”
“Friends. Speedo Smith and ...”
“No shit?” Lamar’s eyes lit up. ‘That was Speedo Smith? Son of a bitch, I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“Well, next time I’ll introduce you,” Taylor said. “Now, exactly how long are we going to have security guards here?”
“From now on, man.”
Taylor was glad he was moving. Soon.
“Did you ever see
Walking Tall?
”
Taylor shook his head.
“It was about this sheriff, and when the bad guys would piss off the sheriff, he took a big old slippery elm club and beat the shit out of them. God! I’d like to do that. It would be great.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” Taylor said. “I’ll keep myself locked up here.”
Lamar was looking back outside, checking for bad guys and weirdos.
“
I’ll
bet it’s great playing ball for the Pistols,” Lamar said.
“Not like being in the goddam Marines, getting shot at, or working for the Exxon or guarding asshole Canadians’ property.” Lamar shook his head. “I bought one of the first season tickets the Pistols sold. Did I tell you that?”
Taylor nodded wearily.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, I woke you.” Lamar began backing out of the room. “If that goddam computer hadn’t been broken, my Twenty-eight would have come through....
That
was Speedo Smith? Damn, I love to watch him run. I’ll see you later, buddy. Keep her locked. And watch out for the bad guys.” Lamar backed through the door and closed it after him.