North Dallas Forty (19 page)

“Excuse me, Seth,” Ragen had interrupted. “I don’t see O.W. Didn’t he come?” Ragen had sent Maxwell the ticket money and letter instructing him to “bring another representative, preferably O.W. Meadows.” Meadows didn’t come because Maxwell had asked me instead. I was more fun.

“No ... ah ... Jerry,” Maxwell stammered. “O.W. couldn’t make it. But you all know Phil Elliott, our flanker-back.”

They didn’t know, but I smiled and waved anyway.

“Oh—uh—sure. Hiya doin’, Phil.” Now we had Ragen going. I nodded at the president. Maxwell took confidence from Ragen’s confusion.

“Yes, well, the guys back in Dallas are ready to see this thing through to the end. That’s what a team’s about, ain’t it?” There was a bit more Texas twang in his voice than normal. “We unanimously voted to strike with the other teams in the association.” Actually it had been a bitter, split vote. “We’re behind the association one hunert percent.” Maxwell sat down to thunderous applause from the small group of players and advisors.

“Thanks, Seth.” Jerry Ragen stood at the front of the room beside a large flip chart. In a blue pinstripe suit and solid blue tie he looked not unlike a young politician. “Okay. Before we go any farther, I wanna say something about those cocksuckers in the other league. That fucking gimp-legged Miami running back McGregor promised me that they wouldn’t sign until we signed.” The league merger had recently been agreed upon but it was still not in effect. Both players associations had to negotiate their collective bargaining agreements separately. “Well that little motherfucker signed and I ain’t forgetting it.” Ragen’s face began to turn red and he paced nervously across the front of the room. “We play those assholes in exhibition season.” Beads of sweat popped out on his face and the angry Pittsburgh linebacker kept slamming his fists into the palm of his hand. “And I tell you one thing, I’m gonna kill that little motherfucker. He’ll be so fuckin’ sorry he double-crossed us.” Ragen whirled around and slammed his fist against the wall. There was a stunned moment while the blow echoed around the room and then Ragen turned to the flip chart. “Okay. Let’s take a look at these numbers and see if we can’t cut ourselves a deal.” He smiled and turned the first page of the chart to reveal a breakout of the total dollar revenue from bubble-gum-card sales.

The rest of the meeting had been pretty dull with lawyers and accountants telling us how much money we had coming to us and how to go about getting it. I hadn’t understood the numbers and the straight businesslike tactics had seemed pretty stupid to me. Clinton Foote headed the owners negotiating committee and I knew what he would do with businesslike tactics.

That night Maxwell went out with Ragen and the quarterback from Green Bay. I had been sitting alone in the bar when a waiter plugged a telephone into my booth. He handed me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Phil. Is that you? Where’s Seth?”

“He’s gone. Who’s this?”

“This is Schmidt. I need to talk to Seth.” Bill Schmidt was the twelve-year veteran center of our team and one of Conrad Hunter’s favorites. He worked for Conrad several off seasons and was the godfather of Conrad’s youngest boy. On the Sunday the boy was born Schmidt won the game ball.

“Seth ain’t here. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s Conrad, that’s the goddam trouble. Tonight’s paper quoted Seth as saying that our strike vote had been unanimous. Did he say that?”

“Yep. I watched him do it.”

“Goddammit. Fuck. Why did he do that?” Schmidt’s deep voice had turned into a whine. “Conrad come down to my office and fired me this afternoon. I told him I voted against the strike but he showed me the paper. My God, what am I gonna do?”

“Don’t ask me, Bill. If he didn’t believe you over the newspaper I’d say you were in serious trouble to begin with.”

“I don’t need any goddam advice, you stupid asshole. All this is your fault. You’re not supposed to be out there anyway.”

“Goddammit, Schmidt, I don’t have to listen to this shit.” I hung up. A few moments later the waiter returned and told me to pick up the phone again.

“Elliott, you hang up on me again and I’ll kill you.”

I hung up again.

The waiter returned and I picked up the receiver for the third time. There was no response.

“Hello?” I said cautiously.

“Phil?”

“Yes.”

“Now don’t hang up on me. This is costing me money. Listen, man, you gotta help me. You gotta call Conrad and tell him what really happened. I want my job back. I been there twelve years. I can’t get another job like that one.” He began to sob. “I won’t have anything when I retire.”

“Jesus, Bill.” I was embarrassed and shifted nervously in my seat. “I don’t know what to do. Conrad won’t listen to me.”

“You gotta call him,” Schmidt pleaded. “I want my job back. Tell him I voted against the strike, please.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus, stop crying.”

Schmidt gave me Conrad’s private number and I tried to reach him during the remainder of the night but he wouldn’t accept my calls. When Maxwell came in I told him the story but he wasn’t too interested. After a good night’s sleep I had forgotten the incident.

The next day’s meeting was canceled. The association’s negotiation files had disappeared. On a hunch Ragen stormed into Clinton Foote’s hotel room and found Clinton and the commissioner reading the files. Ragen had to be dragged screaming from the room by a defensive tackle from San Francisco. The furious association president threatened to kill Clinton if he ever caught him alone. The commissioner issued a statement that an unidentified third party had brought the files to Clinton’s room and they were merely going over them to establish ownership.

Several days later, a select committee of players’ representatives reached an agreement with the owners’ group. A document was drawn up and Clinton asked permission to take it to his superiors for their signatures. The next day he returned with the signed agreement and announced that the owners were pleased the strike was over. While Clinton was making his speech, Jerry Ragen thumbed through the twenty-five-page agreement and found that the owners had substituted fourteen new pages.

“You lousy cocksucker.” Ragen had leaped over the conference table and grabbed at Clinton’s throat. The startled general manager had fallen over backward and scrambled for the door. Ragen hit Clinton on the back as the terrified man dove out onto the mezzanine. The same defensive tackle from San Francisco subdued Ragen again.

Another agreement was reached three days later and the owners’ signatures were witnessed by the select committee.

It had all seemed pretty pointless. The owners refused to honor several portions of the agreement, preferring long court hassles to compliance. The San Francisco defensive tackle who had twice saved Clinton’s life and another player who attended the negotiations were released outright the first day of camp. Bill Schmidt had gotten his job back after Maxwell had convinced Conrad Hunter the strike vote had been a narrow majority.

Six months later, it was discovered that Ragen and one of the association lawyers had been diverting funds for personal use. And McGregor, the Miami running back Ragen had threatened to kill for double-crossing the association, retired from football and went into politics. It all had to do with survival.

“Survival,” I said aloud. The sound of my own voice jerked me back to the present. I was still staring into the fire.

“What?” David Clarke was looking at me.

“Just remembering.” I was having difficulty pulling myself from the fire.

“Well, I think you’re wrong, man. I got more faith in people than that.”

I nodded, still lost in the fire and trying to decide who did win the strike. Me, I guess, I got a free trip to Los Angeles.

David walked to the picture window and flipped a switch. Instantly the outside was illuminated. It was a rolling pasture of thick coastal Bermuda grass; the shadows of live oaks filled the landscape. I immediately pictured Brahma and Black Angus grazing lazily through the trees.

“Is this a working ranch?”

“Sort of. John owned several large oil leases and left them to her, so she doesn’t need the money. But working keeps us busy and she seems to like it. Mostly we just bottle-raise calves and sell ’em at about five to seven months.”

“Who’s in charge of your cow placement?” I inquired. “I’d like to apply for the job.”

“Cow what?” Charlotte asked, stepping into the den from the hallway. She was carrying a tray with a coffeepot and three heavy brown mugs with bridles and saddles hand painted on the sides.

“Cow placement,” I said. “Placing the cows in just the right spots in the pasture for an overall aesthetic effect. You know, so they blend just right with the trees and sky and clouds. It’s a job most dopeheads in this part of the country dream about. My favorite is to place them in small clumps, sitting and standing, on the tops of the low rolling hills, so they stand out against the horizon. It’s called the Edge of the World Technique.”

“Are there many job openings?” Charlotte asked, smiling.

“I’ve never seen one. It’s sort of like a royal patronage and if a guy gets a job like that he don’t quit. It becomes a legacy. That’s the trouble with this world today, power and privilege.” I winked at David. “They never give a truly creative man a chance. I mean, how many people really care how the sun hits a Brahma’s hump?”

“Not me, that’s for sure.” Charlotte smiled. “How about some coffee, maybe it’ll bring you down.”

“Is it that noticeable?”

She just raised one eyebrow and poured the coffee.

“I guess I should apologize to you,” I said to David. “I have a tendency to rave.”

“No need to apologize. I just don’t agree with you.”

“Cream or sugar?” Charlotte was looking at me.

“Sugar. One.”

Outside, the dogs started barking. David got up and started out of the room. “I might as well check the gate and lock it for the night.”

“David’s a writer,” Charlotte said, gazing absently at the doorway he had just passed through.

“He seems like a very nice guy.”

“He is a very nice man.” She accented the
man
.

“That’s what I meant.”

“All his brothers married white girls. It confused him terribly.”

“That’s strange, all mine did the same thing. It didn’t bother me a bit.”

Charlotte ignored the remark and crossed the room to the bookcase. She dug through the record trunk and put a Willie Nelson album on the turntable.

We stared silently at each other. I made a stab at mental telepathy but I couldn’t hold one thought long enough. Her face softened and seemed to glow. She was beautiful and sad. I knew by her eyes that she liked me; I just knew. Madness crept from behind my eyes and I dropped them from her gaze. Panic bubbled at the back of my throat. I walked to the bookcase and watched the record spin. Then I walked back and sat down again.

The kitchen door slammed and the sound rescued me from my spiraling mind. Suddenly, I felt better, the tightening stopped, my thoughts slowed and the fear vanished. Shortly David stood in the doorway.

“There was a car down by the gate, but they drove off. Probably high school kids. I locked up. I think I’ll go to bed. Good night.” He tossed a ring of keys on the table and then continued down the hallway to the bedrooms.

“Good night,” we called out in unison after him.

“Does David live in the foreman’s house?” I asked after what I thought was a proper interval.

“Only when he’s working on something.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “He writes down there and when I’m out he stays there until I get back.”

“He sounds like a good friend.”

“He is.”

We fell to staring at each other again. She licked her lips and they seemed to sparkle in the firelight. Her fingers played in the long brown hair that rolled over her shoulders.

“What about Beaudreau?”

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he your friend?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, why do you date him?”

“I don’t date him,” she answered, a touch of venom in her voice. I didn’t know whether it was for me or Beaudreau. “He owns some land near here and runs cattle. He came by to ask if I was interested in leasing him some of my land. He called and asked me out several times after that.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t hide here forever,” she flared.

“I didn’t mean anything.”

“Anyway, I’m not going out with him anymore.” Her tone quieted. “He said some pretty shitty things about David tonight on the way to Rock City.”

“I think he’s nuts.”

“He talks like you and he are old army buddies.”

“I barely know the son of a bitch. He’s a hard-core football groupie and energy thief who comes to all the parties whether he’s invited or not.”

The music ended and Charlotte got up and turned the record player off. As she stood by the stereo, she was outlined in the light from outside. I could see her body clearly through the thin material of the dress. She walked to the window and turned off the floodlights. The room was filled with the changing shadows of the fire. She slipped back to the couch.

“Are you married?”

“Divorced.” I went to the hearth and tossed in a log. “The same old story. College star from wrong side of tracks pulls himself up by his jockstrap and marries wealthy debutante. Star brings office woes home with him and turns to bottle, while wife looks for consolation elsewhere and finds it ... in the offensive line ... defensive backfield ... specialty teams ... and so on. All rather sordidly funny but highly expensive.”

I pulled and rubbed on my nose, a nervous tic I had picked up in high school basketball when I thought every eye in the gymnasium was on me and waiting for me to fuck up. I usually did.

“Would you like to turn on?”

“Yes.” I answered too fast.

Charlotte got up and left the room. She was gone a good while and when she returned, carrying a red Prince Albert can, she had changed her dress for a pair of faded Levi bell bottoms and a loose-fitting Mexican peasant blouse.

“My dope smoking uniform.”

I eased myself awkwardly to the floor at her feet; I stretched out my legs and moaned, partly from pain and partly for pity, as the kinks came out. A lighted joint appeared from the sky, I took it, dragged deeply, and passed it back. After two or three drags, I noticed a definite effect.