The worst Taylor left for last: the baby. He would be in the nursery at the end of the hall, in his crib, all dressed as if to sleep, soaked in blood with two holes punched neatly behind his ear.
Taylor’s neck pain drove him down; he didn’t know if he could make the walk to the crib to find the inevitable. He was sick.
Then, from down the hall, the baby boy started to wail. Simon Taylor D’Hanis had slept through the entire ordeal of destruction.
Back in the nursery, Taylor’s godson was screaming his lungs out and shaking the crib slats with his big hands. Simon Taylor D’Hanis was a large baby.
The note was in the crib:
Taylor ...
Take care of him. He is the only one who won’t remember me. Thank God for that. I couldn’t leave Buffy and the girls. What would they have done without me?
Simon
“You should have asked, Simon.” Taylor put the note back in the crib. “You big dumb bastard, you should have asked.”
Picking up the screaming baby boy, Taylor walked toward the staircase, holding him against his shoulder, singing to him. He hummed “Yellow Submarine.” When he reached the car, the baby had stopped crying. Toby opened the door and Taylor and the baby slid in next to Wendy, still behind the wheel.
Sirens were howling in the distant night, far across the old cotton fields. House lights flashed on up and down the street.
People stood on their porches. They peered at Simon’s house and the white Ford, staying close to their open doors, ready to beat a hasty retreat.
“What about ...” Wendy started.
Taylor continued the tune of “Yellow Submarine,” inserting the words “The rest are dead, so let’s get going before the police come ... the police come ... the police come ...”
Wendy drove them off into the night.
By the time the police car reached the street, the curious had returned inside their own homes. The squad car cruised up and down the block twice. Nobody came out, so they returned to their normal patrol. An hour later, after Wendy Chandler’s lawyer called, they were dispatched to Simon’s house.
One of the patrolmen vomited all over his partner when they found the mess Simon had made in the Trophy Room.
Wendy stayed at home with Taylor, the baby, Bob Travers and Toby. Randall was sleeping undisturbed in his bedroom.
Taylor carried the sleeping baby to the old crib in Randall’s room.
He had left Simon’s note for the police. One line burned his brain.
What would they have done without me?
Lived,
Taylor kept thinking.
They would have lived.
Taylor and Wendy, the older guys from the team and Buffy’s mother and father were the only ones at the funeral. The Franchise sent a flower wreath in the team colors shaped like crossed pistols.
Perfect,
Taylor thought, looking at the wreath.
Just perfect.
As they lowered the four caskets Taylor kicked the pistol wreath into the grave.
T
HE DAY THE MEDICAL
examiner released the autopsy report on what had remained of Simon D’Hanis, Ginny Hendrix called.
“The insurance company’s refusing to pay Bobby’s life insurance.” Ginny talked fast. She was agitated. Bobby Hendrix being smashed into the ancient Mayan ruin at Tulum, Bobby being tossed out of a doorless airplane by Tiny Walton, Bobby five hundred feet up, free falling in blue Caribbean sky. These were
not
the things upon which Ginny Hendrix wanted to dwell.
“The insurance company has his blood tests showing leukemia, so they say he killed himself, and
of course
the policy has a suicide clause. I keep telling them that they didn’t know Bobby and that he wouldn’t kill himself over the possibility of dying, which you would think any rational person could understand as a perfectly sane response. Wouldn’t you? Of course you would.” Ginny did not slow down. The words would not stop. “Bobby
knew,”
Ginny machine-gunned her monologue into the telephone. “When he chose to play football, he
knew
that he would get hurt. ‘Uncontrollable factor,’ he called it. Like a motorcycle, or living on the river, or owning a horse. They’ll get you. He
knew.
”
Taylor held the phone away from his ear. He could imagine Ginny pacing that big Spanish kitchen floor, her black eyes glowing, constantly tossing her hair in fury. She howled in pain.
“Sooner or later ... no matter how hard you plan ... the son of a bitch is gonna get you! Bobby always accepted death as his companion; he
wouldn’t
kill himself,” she pleaded. “He couldn’t. He always figured that they’d invent something or make an exception in his case. It was that way with the Butazolidin. He knew he took a chance. He always figured they would come up with some new miracle drug. When he learned about his blood count, the first thing he said was ‘Now we’ll find out what they got that’ll fix
that.
’ ”
Ginny pulled at her dark straight hair. In the background was the distinctive sound of the electronic game and the two boys arguing fine points of Alien Invaders from Hyperspace.
“Look, Taylor, I can’t stand this. I don’t want to point out daily, justify daily. You’re the rep. You’ve got to help me to explain what
really happened.
” Ginny leaned forward, opening her free hand, thrusting it twice. “That somebody threw him out of an airplane.” Ginny hit herself on the thigh with the open free hand. “He paid dues for twenty years. That’s
twenty years,
Taylor. The guy says we don’t believe you and don’t believe Bobby was murdered and will recommend we fight your claim because Bobby Hendrix committed suicide because he was going to die. It’s the
cost-effective thing to do.
That’s what twenty years buys today. Now I know why people fear loneliness.”
Taylor thought for a moment of four freshly dug graves, two large coffins and two small ones. He heard the creaking as they were lowered forever.
“What should I do?” Ginny slowed. “What? Tell me, Taylor, please.”
Taylor washed away the thoughts of another family almost gone. He brought the phone closer to his ear. “Have you heard from Terry Dudley?”
“No.” Ginny paused. “But I don’t answer the phone very often; it’s never good news. Terry may have called a dozen times. I don’t know. It was the news about Simon that made me call.” Ginny calmed. “They
published
the chemical analysis of his
fat tissues.
It just made me mad. They just put Simon’s fat analysis in the newspaper like they were everybody’s business. The chemical level of his fat. How would you like it?” She began to anger, almost like a child who catches sight of how sad she looks in the mirror and cries.
“Ginny, be calm.” Taylor reached for her sense of outrage. “I try not to think about what they’ll do or say about me when I’m gone. I mean, they already dissected Simon years ago. Christ, Simon dissected himself. He’s probably glad they know about the chemical level in his fat. He probably always wondered himself.”
“Jesus!” Ginny was not soothed. “They publish your urine count ... your blood count ... your sperm count ...”
“My sperm can’t count.” Taylor kept at Ginny’s outrage. “They can spell and make balloon animals but they can’t count.”
“Yeah, you are still a laugh a minute.” Ginny slowed but the anger still poured out. “It
happened
to me. I work each day to strike that part of my mind dead, to erase it, wipe it out. I don’t want to have to think about it ever. Now this damned insurance guy wants to talk blood counts and states of mind.”
One of the two young boys won something on the electronic game and an immediate fight ensued. Ginny continued talking over the background noise.
“People are already beginning to talk about Bobby like he was crazed. And now, with Simon ...” Ginny stopped and listened to Taylor breathe at the other end.
“I’ll call Terry Dudley,” Taylor said. “I’ll get it all straight. Don’t you worry about it.”
Suddenly she asked, “Did he kill them?” She sounded like another person. She wanted the naked facts. Quickly. She almost couldn’t. It was awful.
“Yes, he did.”
“Why did he leave the boy?”
“He figured the kid wouldn’t remember him.”
“Really?”
“That’s what I got out of the note.” Taylor changed his tone. “Look, Simon’s story isn’t going to help. I’ll contact Terry Dudley at Union headquarters and get him to take care of it. You try and forget about it,” Taylor advised slowly and thoughtfully. “Terry’ll tell me who at the Union can help and I’ll call you later.”
“In order to collect the insurance, I’m supposed to go to public court and prove my husband was not a suicide. Shit.” She was angry. “Shit. Shit.
They killed him.
”
Taylor thought a moment. “He scared them. Bobby was always the thinker, always ahead of his time. His moral stance didn’t make sense to them, and when documents began showing up in Tommy McNamara’s pieces about the League and the Mob, they figured Bobby was McNamara’s source. A mistake.”
The line was quiet for several moments.
“A mistake,” Ginny repeated. “I guess I could live with a mistake. Accidents, you know. Accidents happen. Like that?”
“Yes. Do it like that. I’ll get Terry and the Union moving on it.” Taylor spoke slowly. “Remember this phone
is
probably tapped. Let’s not give away too many secrets.”
“Well,” Ginny yelled, “if you are really listening, you made the biggest fucking mistake of your lives. You’ll pay. I mean it. You’ll pay.” She paused, listening while her screamed threats died away, as if she could tell whether she had been heard. Finally she said softly, “You’ll pay.”
“I don’t see any point in threatening the tape recorder, Ginny,” Taylor interrupted. “Whoever they are, they have made some mistakes. One day they’ll make a big mistake and the world will get yanked out from under them.”
“Promise me you’ll get even for Bobby?” Ginny asked, dropping her voice a full octave. “Please, Taylor. You won’t let them get away with killing him; you couldn’t. You were teammates.”
“We were friends, Ginny. Anybody can be teammates.” Taylor was unhappy, reluctant, but he went on. “I’ll do something someday, Ginny. Somehow. I promise. That’s as specific as I can get.”
“Thank you, Taylor. We all love you here. Be careful.” Her voice changed suddenly. “Do you really think your phone’s tapped?”
“I figure somebody is listening to everything. A wiretap is treading that fine line between paranoia and The One God.”
“Taylor, when you came and stayed with us, did you take some documents and give them to Terry Dudley?”
“That was just the kind of question I didn’t want you to ask when I told you my phone was tapped.” Taylor sighed.
“Well, A.D. called the other day, offering to help with the insurance, and he asked me to ask you. I told him I didn’t know.”
“Be glad you don’t,” Taylor said. “Now I have to go call Dudley. He believes that vibrations on magnetic tapes are evidence of something.”
Taylor called Union headquarters and left a message. The director failed to return the call until two days later, after Terry Dudley’s house and office were burglarized.
“Nothing of value was taken except the documents and they’re of limited value to us anyway,” Dudley said. “After all, they
are
stolen. We can’t enter them as evidence of anything at any forum.”
“The damn things aren’t even good insurance anymore,” Taylor moaned. “If the Cobianco brothers were as certain as I am that television won’t touch this shit with Tom Snyder in a wetsuit, they would drop Tiny Walton on me like a truck.”
“Don’t think that way,” the director said. “As evidence in a murder trial, documents are powerful stuff. Now you are talking.”
“I should get killed?”
“No. Well ... wait a minute. No. I guess not you, but if you could tie the documents to the disappearance of Tommy McNamara ...”
“Tommy McNamara is with Jimmy Hoffa.” Taylor leaned against the wall. “I called about Bobby Hendrix....”
“Bobby Hendrix didn’t even know about the documents,” Terry seemed to argue.
“But A.D. and the Cobiancos thought he had them,” Taylor said. “They killed him, they were so certain. In their case it doesn’t take much evidence. Anyway, what about Hendrix’s insurance?”
“What about it?”
“Your guys on the insurance and pension board turned down the claim. His and Simon’s.”
“And?”
“And
my ass.” Taylor turned angry quickly. “You can’t turn his claim down
or
Simon’s.”
“Oh? I can’t?” Terry seemed slightly amused. “You’re right, of course. I can’t do
anything.
”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You promised me. We have a deal.”
“There were the chemical reports on Simon and evidence that Hendrix may have killed himself. Besides, it’s the board’s decision.”
“Fuck the board, Terry. My deal is with you and I plan on collecting. Tell
that
to the board.”
“I’ll
do
that, Daddy. Anything else?”
“Yeah, you roundheaded son of a bitch. You owe me eight hundred dollars for tickets to the Washington game. If you don’t pay, I’ll come wring it all out of you,
personally.
Now get your ass in gear. Go to work!”
“Taylor, calm down,” Dudley said easily. “We can straighten this out. Don’t forget we are
Spur
; we are
friends.
I get the message. These things take time, but I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”
“Fuck Spur! And if you don’t get those pension and insurance claims to Ginny Hendrix and for Simon’s boy, we aren’t friends.”
“Well, being your friend hasn’t been easy,” Dudley complained.
“If we end up as enemies,” Taylor warned, “you are going to find your ass in a storm every day, all day long. And that’ll be a lot harder.”
S
UZY
B
ALLARD
C
HANDLER
summoned Red Kilroy. She had taken over Cyrus’s old suite and moved A.D. into public relations. She kept the head coach waiting in Dick Conly’s vacant office, checking her makeup and clothes, letting him daydream about his possibilities of filling Conly’s shoes.