Loose Head (17 page)

She had laughed, and there was something in her face that he couldn’t look away from. There was no denying that she was lovely, breathtakingly so. But there was more to it than that – a sweet earnestness, a guilelessness, an honesty, that made
him
feel as if he’d been thrown from a horse. He realized that he hadn’t been this attracted to a woman in years.

And so he had invited her to lunch, and she had accepted, and six months later, they were married. That was nearly 15 years ago. Now Bernie couldn’t imagine life without her. When he needed someone to talk to, she was there. When there were problems to be solved, she was a font of practical wisdom. And on those rare occasions when he needed cheering up, her quirky sense of humor never failed to bring him out of his funk. She didn’t just compliment him – she completed him. And in return, he treasured her.

God knew she had enough to put up with. At 48, he was still strong, still fit enough. But here of late, the good life seemed to be taking its toll. Drink had softened his once-strong chin and, often, left his startlingly blue eyes peering out between puffy folds of flesh. His hairline had receded like the tide; where once a full and ample crop had sprouted, there now grew only a few sparse tufts. He was growing old, he thought ruefully, while Jane still preserved a preternaturally youthful freshness. If he didn’t want to start being mistaken for her father, well – he would simply have to age her before her time.

“Oy! Bernie! There you are, mate, been looking all over for you! Time for the de-bagging ceremony!” Jester Atkinson was beckoning furiously, with Dex Reed in tow. Looking over their shoulders, Bernie could see the captain of the host team, together with the tournament sponsor and his wife, preparing to present the championship trophy to Weathersby, Hastewicke’s captain, who looked even more smug than usual. As the assembled throng turned to watch the ceremony, Jester, Dex and Bernie snuck around behind the dignitaries and got themselves into position.

“...showed us that we Americans still have a thing or two to learn about rugby. What more can I say? You really kicked our asses. On behalf of the Starlight Casino, I here’s the championship trophy.”

As Weathersby reached to grasp the prize, the three conspirators suddenly darted in from behind and snatched down his shorts, leaving him naked from the waist down. The crowd roared with laughter as Weathersby, red-faced, yanked them back up again. “Sorry, hadn’t planned to give you the full monty. On behalf of the Hastewicke Gentlemen – those of us who
are
gentlemen...”

Laughing at Weathersby’s discomfiture, the trio made their way to the bar and ordered three more. “Here’s to you, Bernie,” said Dex, raising his glass. “For such a mild-mannered sod, you’re a holy terror on the pitch. Thought I was a goner until you came hurtling in out of nowhere.”

With about 15 minutes to go in the final, and the score knotted at 14-all, The Hastewicke Gentlemen had found themselves in a line-out on the Old B.A.T.S. 22-meter line. A few minutes before, Dex had sorted out the Old B.A.T.S. number 8, who had just used Harry Barlowe’s groin for a springboard, with an elbow to the nose. Now, in the lineout, as Dex went up for the ball, an Old B.A.T.S. prop undercut him and sent him crashing heavily to the ground.

Dex, stunned, nevertheless retained possession and tried to present the ball, but the Old B.A.T.S. forwards surged forward to deal him a pummeling. Then a blurred form – Bernie – darted in from the Hastewicke side to drive two opponents backward, clearing just enough space for George Waters, the Hastewicke scrum half, to loft an up-and-under toward the corner. An alert Roger Seagrave had won the footrace to the try-line, and scored to make it 19-14. Meanwhile, Bernie had stood over Dex to ensure that there was no off-the-ball cheap-shotting now that the referee’s attention was elsewhere.

“Think nothing of it, Dex. You’ve done the same for me on many an occasion.”

The truth was, thought Bernie, he
needed
rugby. He needed the contact, the violence, the almost post-coital release that rewarded total commitment on the pitch. Yes, he was mild-mannered and even-tempered in everyday life. It was just the way he was made. Couldn’t stand upheaval and hurly-burly. But even if he didn’t let it show, much of the time, he had more than his share of stress to release. Thank God for rugby – and for Jane.

He didn’t think she knew he was gay. Their sex life was vigorous and regular, thanks to his vivid fantasy life. Through the decade and a half of their marriage, he had been scrupulously careful never to let her know who he was really thinking about when they made love.

James had been a year older than him at Hastewicke – tall, handsome, witty and modest. Bernie had long recognized that, while he felt comfortable around girls, he was not attracted to them. The sexual side of his being had simply lain dormant – until the first time he saw James.

They had remained best friends and lovers through university. Then, one night, as they lay in each others’ arms in Bernie’s Oxford flat, James had made a fateful announcement – a comedy script he’d written had been accepted by an American production firm. He was moving to L.A. “Come with me!” James had urged him. “You’re as free as the air. There’s nothing keeping you here!” But there was. The idea of trading in his well-settled and privileged English lifestyle for an uncertain future in a foreign land filled Bernie with dread. All his mates were here, and all his family. It simply wasn’t on.

And so James had disappeared from his life. Oh, there had been other lovers – all discreet, all brief, all carefully concealed from his mates on the Hastewicke Gentlemen. Then he had married Jane, and become a new man. His family, particularly his sisters, who had begun to wonder, were delighted. But to his despair, he had never forgotten what he and James had shared. Eventually, he had found Boris, a young prostitute who bore an uncanny resemblance to the James he had known at school. He saw him once a month, but it wasn’t the same.

The post-tournament party was winding down. Final beers in hand, kit-bags slung over their shoulders, the Hastewicke Gentlemen made their way to the line of limousines waiting in the parking lot. By the time they reached the Bellagio, rigor mortis had begun to set in; Bernie had already popped several ibuprofen to ease the chronic ache in his shoulder. Crossing the expansive lobby, he noticed Bob Leicester standing in the elevator door in a posture of unmistakable belligerence. Fatigue forgotten, he dropped his bag and, seizing Dex and Jester, he strode over, just in time to see Leicester go down beneath a swarm of attackers. “What the hell...?” said Dex, accelerating to a run.

They had dived into the melee, forming a protective cordon around Leicester and sending his assailants staggering backward. Security had arrived within seconds. “Thanks, lads,” Leicester had said “– dinner’s on me tonight.” Well, he could certainly afford it. Dex and Jester had accepted with pleasure. Bernie had declined with regret. He already had plans for later that evening – plans that had been years in the making.

When he arrived at Suite 455, Bernie paused, self-doubt suddenly palsying in its intensity. He hadn’t seen James in more than 20 years. How could he fail to be disgusted by the ravages time and good living had wrought in Bernie’s once-pristine features?  Well, there was nothing for it. He was who he was.

James had already let himself in with the key Bernie had left at the front desk. When he turned, all of Bernie’s misgivings melted like high-desert snow. He saw the same anxiety in James’ age-softened face.

“Bernie,” said James. “You look wonderful. It’s been so long – I’ve missed you so terribly.” And without another word, he took Bernie’s hand and led him to the bedroom.

Chapter 15

In 1996, the Hastewicke Gentlemen toured Texas by bus: Dallas, then Houston – both armpits of creation – and finally Austin, a lovely little university town on the banks of the Colorado River. One afternoon, as we traversed the blistering desert between Houston and Austin, the air conditioning on the bus failed, at a little town called Carmine, Texas. While the driver arranged for repairs, we beguiled the time at a biker saloon called Rattlesnake Roy’s.

It was a dim, shabby cave of a place, insulated from the rock-blistering heat outside by a foot of adobe and a blissfully-efficient air conditioning system. Snakeskins and stuffed armadillos (one of which mysteriously disappeared during our visit, and reappeared, under equally-unexplained circumstances, in the Hastewicke Gentlemen clubhouse a month later) festooned the walls; the place was inhabited by a colorful and surprisingly friendly mix of sunburned locals and large, bearded, tattooed bikers. They were thoroughly bemused when 25 English rugby players in matching tour polos sauntered through the door.

We shoved some tables together and disposed ourselves near the back of the bar, beneath a large poster of a squinty-eyed George W. Bush in a Stetson hat, with the legend “My heroes have always been cowboys.” Jester Atkinson snorted in disgust. “Wasn’t he raised in Connecticut?”

One of the bikers – a huge walrus of a man with a bristling Fu Manchu moustache and a sparkling diamond stud in his ear, ambled over to join us. “So,” he said amiably – “you boys ain’t from around here, are ya?”

“We’re from London, actually,” Ian replied “– on rugby tour.”

“Rugby! I’ll be dipped! And what brings you to Rattlesnake Roy’s?”

“Thirst!” replied Weathersby, signaling impatiently to the waitress. “Oy! How about some service!”

“Shhh!” the biker winced. “That’s Large Marge, and today’s one of her grumpy days! Whatever ya do, don’t piss her off!”

Weathersby looked at him incredulously. “Piss her off? How?”

“Never mind! Yer from the land of good manners! Just be polite, or we’ll all suffer! And whatever ya do, don’t stare at her wart!”

The biker fairly sprinted back to the bar as our waitress approached. She was six feet tall and grossly obese; for an instant, we all gaped up at her, unable to keep our eyes from the hairy, gooseberry-sized wen between her eyes.

“Well?” she demanded in a voice that could cut steel. “You boys gonna order, or just sit there like turds in the bowl?”

“Beer, please my good lady,” said Ian, suddenly recovering his aplomb. “Six pitchers, I think, for starters.”

Large Marge grunted. “What about food?”

Ian snatched up a menu and perused it desperately. “Let’s keep it simple – we’ll have... the tortilla soup and some of your fine chips and salsa.”

She turned to go, then stopped abruptly to fix us with a fish-eyed glare. “Why the hell y’all dressed the same? Ya ain’t
Mormons
, are ya?”

“Good God, no,” Ian said with his most winning smile. “We’re a rugby club. From England.”

“English.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I met a Englishman once. Sat right over there at the bar and asked if he could buy me a brew.”

“Good man,” Ian said.

“Said I wuz the hottest-lookin’ fox he’d ever seen. Then he leaned over and whispered all the things he wuz gonna do to me when we got back to his hotel.”

She paused. We gaped in horrified fascination as the visual images her narrative provoked danced in our heads, and tried desperately not to let our gazes stray to her wart. “And then?” Ian said, encouragingly.

“And then?” Her voice rose to a bowel-liquifying shriek. “He barfed on his own lap and fell off his barstool! And I’ve hated you Limey bastards ever since!”

She spun on her heel and stalked toward the bar. A minute or two later, our biker friend scuttled over, eyes bulging in alarm. “Oh, Jesus! What’d ya say to her? I tole ya not ta piss her off!”

Weathersby mopped his face with a napkin. “I thought fat women were supposed to be jolly!”

Large Marge suddenly loomed behind him, three pitchers in each massive hand. “What was that you said?” she asked sweetly.

Weathersby thought desperately. “I said, ‘What a way with women you have, Ian.’” And he smiled hopefully. For a moment, she regarded us through slitted eyes. Then she thumped down the pitchers, turned without a word and stalked ponderously to the kitchen.

“Come on, Dex,” said Ian bravely, “-- time to turn on the old English charm.” We arose and made our stealthy way toward the swinging half-door to the kitchen. When we arrived, Ian peered cautiously through the aperture, then had to bend double to stifle his laughter.

Large Marge stood at the stove, humming. She had removed her voluminous underpants and was in the process of straining our soup through the ancient, yellowed crotch into a large tureen. Then she turned them upside down, allowing the chunks of meat and tortilla trapped inside to plop into the bowl. I looked at Ian, and we both broke into a helpless fit of choked laughter.

Marge whirled on us with astonishing and menacing grace. “You motherfucking Limeys, I’ll...”

But Ian waved his hands placatingly, still weak with laughter. “No, no, Marge, it’s quite all right,” he gasped. “I’ll even tell you whom to serve!”

An hour later, Large Marge was off shift and sitting at our table, drinking beer straight from the pitcher and cackling like a fishwife, as though we were her oldest mates in the world. She was genuinely sorry to see us go. And everyone who’d tried it, including Weathersby, a notoriously finicky eater, assured her the soup was the best they’d ever tasted.

When we returned to the bus, Ian threw himself down in the seat next to me. We looked at one another, then burst out laughing again. “You see, Dex?” he gasped. “That’s the secret to dealing with difficult personalities. Sometimes, to get what you want, you just have to give them what
they
want first.”

II

Ian’s wisdom was brought forcefully to mind when I entered my cube early the next morning. I’d hardly sat down when the phone rang, and I heard Oakhurst’s unwelcome voice. “DI Reed, can you join me in my office? We need to discuss your... report.”

Well, I had known this moment was coming. I made my way upstairs, paused at the door to gather my thoughts, then knocked. “Come,” Oakhurst growled.