Hangman's Game (2 page)

Jessica must have slipped up somehow, is all I can figure. Jessica is intelligent, but also restless. She is a painter, but not the kind that tries to sell her work. I have always seen her ennui as our primary vulnerability to being caught. The third or fourth time we were together I actually said to her, as we lay in bed, “You should try to keep yourself a little more busy. I don't want you to let your husband catch us just because it's Wednesday and you're bored.”

“But if I weren't so bored, my darling,” she answered me, stroking my neck, “what would I be doing with you?”

*   *   *

Stark's Steakhouse is situated not far from the Delaware River, in an area where the urban grid opens up. The building is a low-slung gray rectangle with the restaurant's name written on its upper left corner in neon red script. Stark's is upscale, but it is not intimate. They do a volume business. The place has an expansive parking lot, which is nearly full when we arrive. We park off to the left, and we have a good forty-yard walk to the entrance.

The Stark's lobby is defined by its wall of fame, featuring autographed eight-by-tens of the players who have eaten here over the decades. The photos tilt heavily toward stars of the sixties and seventies, and many of the photos are in the goofy style of the old football publicity stills—men in buzz cuts leaping or charging in front of empty bleachers. The pictures aren't just of Sentinels, either; the wall features players from around the league who visited when they were in town for a road game.

The restaurant is busy, with the tables full in the lower tier and many well-dressed men, mostly in their thirties and forties, hovering near the bar.

It is then that I notice Jai Carson, the Sentinels' star linebacker, in the restaurant's upper tier, which is reserved for VIPs—which, here, usually means athletes. Jai is wearing an electric-blue tracksuit, and he seems to be in typically high spirits. He is on his feet with a cocktail in his hand, entertaining friends with a bawdy story. Though I can't actually hear what he is saying, I feel confident that Jai's story is bawdy because he appears to be pantomiming a sex act, thrusting his crotch as he holds on to an imaginary pair of hips.

Perhaps anticipating such antics, the maître d' has seated Jai and his crew in a deep corner of the upper tier.

Jai's dining companions include only one Sentinel that I can see—his best friend on the team, Orlando Byrd, the 342-pound defensive tackle who goes by the nickname Too Big to Fail. The other guys at the table come from Jai's private stock of friends, buddies from his hometown of Memphis that I have often seen milling around the locker room.

Jai concludes his story with a broad slapping gesture that is greeted with whoops of laughter—the loudest being his own. He spins in a 360, a giddy pirouette, and as he settles down, he notices us. And by us, I mean Samuel. His eyes light up, and his arms open wide.

“Fuck me!” Jai shouts across the dining room. “There's a beast in the house!”

Jai hops down the couple of steps and charges across the main dining floor and throws his arms around Samuel, who has watched Jai's approach with something other than anticipation. On contact with Jai, he flinches.

“Shit, rookie,” Jai says, stepping back, taking in Samuel's size. “You stacked up!”

Samuel does loom over Jai, his chin level with the linebacker's tapered eyebrows. Even though Samuel is maybe fifty pounds heavier than Jai, he is the leaner of the two. Throw in a couple other physical details—like Samuel's straight and firm hairline compared to Jai's shiny dome, shaved to mask male pattern baldness—and it is hard not to look at the two defensive players and see Jai as the old model and Samuel as the new and improved version.

“Hi, I'm Cecil Wilson, Samuel's agent,” Cecil says, hand extended to Jai.

“Cecil Wilson, congratulations!” says Jai, shaking his hand energetically. “You got your boy signed quick, didn't you? I bet the bosses love you.”

The last line, though delivered in a friendly enough tone, is not a compliment. Cecil has in fact been getting ripped on football message boards for having Samuel agree to a contract in June, at least a month earlier than is typical for top rookies. The critics argue that Samuel could have received more money if he waited until August, when full training camps convene. The agent for the player chosen third overall publicly proclaimed that he was going to be seeking more money for his client than Samuel received, because “he was not going to let the market be set by a neophyte.”

If Cecil notices the backhandedness of Jai's compliment, he betrays no sign of offense, and Jai now turns to me with blank expectation. He seems to be waiting for an introduction.

He doesn't know who I am.

Unbelievable. As a punter, I am used to slights to my ego—casual insinuations that I am not a real player, not actually part of the team. But if Jai doesn't recognize me, after five years in the same locker room, this will top them all. Times ten.

“Hello, Jai,” I say evenly.

“Hey, man,” he says, extending his hand to me as if he is doing a corporate appearance, and I am the salesman of the month. “Good to see you.” With no indication whatsoever that he knows we are teammates, Jai turns his attention back to silent Samuel, who still has not said a word.

“I can't wait to see you and Samuel on the field together,” Cecil says, rubbing his hands together with pronounced eagerness. “Who are they going to double-team? They won't know what to do!”

“You know it,” Jai says. “Samuel and JC are going to fuck some major ass together. I bet there's quarterbacks at home right now clinching their buttholes up tight just thinking about it!”

This is Jai as he ever is, continuously and joyously profane. Samuel's jaw clenches and his posture rises—I am guessing this is different from the dinnertime chatter back home with his parents—and his eyes zero in on Jai's necklace, which asks in shimmering rhinestone lettering:
WANT TO?

Samuel's silence is making Jai uneasy. His eyes dart, searching for signs of appreciation. No showman likes a mute audience.

Jai then asks Samuel a question he shouldn't ask, one that a more cautious person might have swallowed, understanding that the wrong answer would create unspeakable discomfort:

“You do know who JC is, right?”

Jai Carson's personal mission over the last decade has been to get his face on as many television programs, talk shows, magazine covers, video game boxes, and roadside billboards as he could. He recorded his own CD,
Sack Dance
, starred in a reality dating show, and he also has a line of JC earrings. Hell, he has even been on
The View
. There could be no bigger insult for Jai from anyone, let alone a rookie on his own defense, than to say: I don't recognize you.

In response to Jai's question, Samuel scans the dining room, as if he is looking for the “JC” that this boorish and insistent stranger is talking about. For all the awkwardness of the moment, I smile inwardly. Jai is paying the price for referring to himself in the third person.

“Samuel comes from a poor family,” Cecil says, placing his hand on Samuel's shoulder. “Very poor. They don't have television. And he lived at home all through college. So he's kind of a TV illiterate.” Given Samuel's muteness, the word
illiterate
lingers uncomfortably in the air. “At the draft, Samuel didn't know who Chris Berman is,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.

Jai considers this explanation, and though I am sure he believes himself to be a bigger deal than any ESPN broadcaster, he makes an effort to appear placated by Cecil's words.

“That's cool, that's cool,” Jai says. “I know about being poor. When I was growing up, all I could afford to eat was pussy.”

Jai laughs at his joke, as do Cecil and I. Samuel's nervous smile could, I suppose, pass for an appreciative response.

At this point, the Stark's hostess inserts herself into our group. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, which is old enough to qualify her as the den mother of the restaurant's young female staff.

“Good evening,” she says. “Are you all joining Mr. Carson's party? We can pull up another table.”

“Let's do it,” Jai says. “I know there's a lot of ugly motherfuckers in my group, but these are quality people.” He shouts across the restaurant, “Hey, Cheat Sheet. Stand up!”

The man who rises from Jai's table is maybe five foot six, skinny, and wearing a bright purple jacket with an orange shirt and pants. He smiles, flashing a full grille of gleaming gold.

“He's my pastor,” Jai says.

Somehow I don't think the presence of that particular pastor will appeal to Samuel's country values. But still, we need to accept this invitation, before this potential rift between the defense's veteran leader and its high-priced rookie opens any wider.

“Let's…” I start.

“No.”

Samuel says this quietly and firmly while looking at Cecil.

“I see a table over there,” Samuel mutters, and begins walking into the dining area—not toward the players' section but to an empty table on the far side of the regular dining room. The hostess grabs three menus and runs out in front of Samuel, attempting to gain control of the expedition.

Up to this point, I have been feeling sorry for shy, sheltered Samuel, but his refusal is unmistakably rude.

“Well, fuck me,” Jai says, mystified. Then, angrier: “Fuck me!” For Jai, the phrase is like “Aloha” or “Shalom,” in that it carries many different meanings, dependent on situation and inflection.

I wish I could tell you that I have never seen anything like this, a simple disagreement that quickly escalates into high-grade hostility, but football is populated by thin-skinned competitors who see every conflict as an urgent test of their manhood. That's great when it's fourth-and-goal on the one; less so when you want a peaceable dinner.

“Later, buddy,” I say to Jai with a shrug, and I hold out my fist for a bump. He looks at me dubiously before returning my bump with a shot that bears an uncomfortable resemblance to a punch.

At our table, the three of us study our menus quietly. “Porterhouse or rib eye, the eternal question,” Cecil says with forced jollity. I wonder if Cecil is thinking about what a disaster that was. I certainly am. Just as a nation divided against itself cannot stand, a locker room divided against itself cannot win. Between Jai's ego and Samuel's reticence, it is not clear who will initiate peace talks.

Soon we are greeted by our waitress, who is quite a sight. I would guess that she is in her early 20s. Like all the waitstaff, she wears a pale pink dress shirt and a short black skirt. She has blond hair that she wears tied up on top, feline green eyes, and round, freckled cheeks. She is the shortest girl on the floor, which accentuates that she is also the most buxom, the lone girl here whose curves dominate her straightaways.

“Howdy,” she says with a broad grin. “I'm Melody.”

“Howdy,” I say. “I'm Nick.” And then I introduce Cecil and Samuel.

“Are you Samuel Sault?” Melody asks Samuel, eyes wide.

“Yes,” Samuel says quietly. And that is all he says. Though he is making strong eye contact with her breasts.

After a decent interval of silence, Melody taps pen on pad and asks for our order.

“I'll have the rib eye,” Cecil says. “Medium rare. With creamed spinach and mashed potatoes.”

“Excellent,” she says, and turns to Samuel. “How about you, big fella?”

“Same,” Samuel says.

“Very well. And you, sir?”

“I'll have the broiled salmon,” I say. “And for side dishes—the broccoli, can they steam that?” I ask.

“I think so, but I'll check. You get a second side as well.”

“Just the steamed broccoli will be fine.”

“And what if they can't steam the broccoli?”

“Then no sides for me.”

“Really?” She eyes me curiously. “You have a beauty pageant coming up or something?”

Cecil snickers. “Every day, miss. Every day.”

“For your drink, let me guess … club soda with lemon,” Melody says. “Am I right?”

That is exactly what I was going to order, but I suddenly don't want to admit that.

“Lime, actually.”

“You really wanted lemon, right?” she says with a grin. “You're saying ‘lime' to fuck with me?”

“Fine,” I say. “Lemon.” Maybe it's because I'm in need of a distraction, but this waitress's sauciness feels entirely welcome. I check her left hand to make sure this one doesn't have a husband. The ring finger is clean.

“Anyone ever call you Mel?” I ask her.

“Not if they want me to answer,” she says with a chuckle. “Mel-o-dee. Three syllables. Trust me, I'm worth the effort.” She winks and walks away.

Samuel unabashedly eyes Melody as she goes. He smiles boyishly, his eyes relax, and I see that he is handsome when he's happy. His teeth are a little here and there, but in a sweet sort of way. I can picture that smile in an aftershave commercial, or on the cover of
GQ
, if he wants to make that happen.

Samuel excuses himself to go to the bathroom. When he is out of earshot, I say to Cecil, “He's not the most loquacious fellow, is he?”

“He's a good kid,” Cecil snaps. “He's just out of his element. You should see where he grew up. It's like they got indoor plumbing a few weeks ago. He's in shock just being here.”

“If you say so,” I say. I grew up in a small town, too, though I only came to Philadelphia from Upstate New York, and I had always wanted to live in a city, whereas Samuel seems to have been forcibly relocated here by the magnitude of his talent. And when I arrived in Philadelphia, none of the locals knew who I was, and none of them were counting on me to make their Sundays happier ones.