The Franchise (36 page)

It took Simon a few moments to organize his thoughts and become coherent.

“How bad was it?” Simon finally mumbled, his tongue thick and his eyes rolling in his head. He tried to move and pain slashed across his face. “Aaaahh,” he groaned involuntarily, and lay back. The haunted look returned to his once soft blue eyes; a deep line dug down from his hairline across his forehead, splitting his face between his eyes and dragging the corner of his mouth into the perpetual scowl that appeared during his rookie year.

“How bad?” he growled. “I asked you a question.” He looked down at his bandage-swathed leg. “I hope it ain’t as bad as it feels.” He glared at his leg like an old enemy. “Son of a bitch.”

“The doctor didn’t say.” Buffy brushed his hair absently. “He told me he would look in on you when the anesthesia wore off.”

“Well, the goddam anesthesia has worn off.” Simon’s tongue was still thick and the words came out disjointed. “Where’s the doctor?” He raised his garbled voice.

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Well, goddam. Go find out.”

The doctor walked into the recovery room, still in his green scrub suit with paper covers on his alligator loafers. He was a big fat man who perspired constantly. He had been the team surgeon for three years and had gotten rich on his Monday-morning calls to his bookie, giving the injury status of the Texas Pistols and several other teams where his friends were the team doctors. That gave the bookie a three-day jump on the point spread before the official injury reports came out of the commissioner’s office on Thursdays.

“Well, how are we doing, Simon?” the doctor asked.

“That’s what I want to know, Doc,” Simon said. He was respectful, almost obsequious, to the doctor. Buffy noticed the difference in Simon’s tone toward the doctor compared to his treatment of her. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Well,” the doctor said to the bandaged leg, “you had a total blow out: cartilages, ligaments, the whole smear. I did a hell of a reconstruction job, but the rest is up to you. If you work hard and you want it bad enough, your knee ought to be better than before.”

Better than before?
Buffy thought the doctor’s arrogance was outrageous, but she kept quiet and stood back as the doctor continued to look at the leg and talk to her husband.

“I did a hell of a job,” the doctor said. “You have to carry the ball from now on. It’s just a matter of how badly you want to get well.”

“I want it bad, Doc.” Simon sounded pitiful. Buffy cried silently as she watched her husband pleading for reassurance from this fat man wearing a sweat-soaked scrub suit and paper covers on his two-hundred-dollar shoes. “I want it real bad, Doc. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t play again.”

“Well, go for it, Simon,” the doctor said, turning to leave without ever looking at the big lineman’s face. “The operation was a complete success. I’ve done everything I can. The rest is up to you.”

“I’ll do it, Doc. I’ll do it.” Simon’s hands gripped the sides of the hospital bed. His knuckles turned white.

“That’s the spirit.” The doctor looked at his watch. “I have more surgery scheduled this morning. I better hurry if I expect to get through and still get in some golf. I’ll come look in on you tomorrow and see how you’re doing.”

The doctor nodded at Buffy without noticing, or caring, that tears streamed down her fleshy red face.

“He’ll be fine,” the doctor said, and disappeared out the door to complete a schedule of five surgical interventions of which Simon’s was the only one actually necessary. He had botched Simon’s operation by stapling the ligaments too tightly, then sweating into the open wound. This resulted in a staph infection, but nobody would ever find that out, and the doctor would always blame Simon for the failure to recover full usage of the knee.

“He just didn’t want it badly enough,” the doctor would tell Red Kilroy and Dick Conly, because Simon had failed to rehabilitate. The staph infection alone stretched the hospital stay from one week to a month and a half, as the incision refused to heal and continued to drain pus and blood.

Buffy dried her eyes and blew her nose after the doctor left.

“What are you bawling about?” Simon turned angry. “Didn’t you hear what the doc said? I’m gonna be fine. He said the operation was a success.”

“What was he going to say, Simon? That he failed?” Buffy stepped back to the bed and touched her husband’s forehead. “He’s a mechanic and he is sure not going to tell you that anything that he did went wrong.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Simon pushed her hand away. “Don’t you want me to get well?”

“I don’t want you to believe people like him,” Buffy said. “He wears alligator shoes just like A.D. Koster and I never trusted A.D. Why don’t you stop playing now, Simon, before you get hurt any worse? Daddy’ll help us. I’ve got some money. I can’t stand to see you hurt.”

“Well, quit watching, then,” Simon said. “Now leave me alone. I want to sleep.”

She didn’t tell Simon that she was pregnant with their third child until after the staph infection cleared up and he came home from the hospital almost two months later. He was weak and pale and took the news without much emotion. When a boy was born that spring, Simon’s spirits picked up and he renewed his efforts at rehabilitation, hoping to make it back.

They named the boy Simon Taylor D’Hanis, and Buffy asked Taylor Rusk to be the boy’s godfather and Wendy Chandler Carleton to be his godmother.

“Y
EAH?”
T
AYLOR HAD BARGED
through his apartment door and snatched up the jangling phone. He had been out running the golf course.

“Taylor, it’s me. Doc. I’m in Canada.”

“That’s great, Doc,” Taylor said, “but I don’t need you to phone me every time you cross an international border.” He looked around the apartment. The maid hadn’t come and it was in the usual disarray. Taylor had kept the three-bedroom apartment that he and Bobby Hendrix and Kimball Adams had shared the first year. It was too big, but Taylor was just too disorganized to move.

“This is business,” Doc Webster said.

“What kind of business?”

“Football, Taylor. Football.”

“I don’t want to talk about football.”

“Well, actually it’s about money. One of my old students has a proposition for you.”

“What kind?”

“Strictly legitimate. He knows you’re considering playing out your option this year.”

“I am?” Taylor was beginning to get cold. The air conditioner was set at sixty-five and he was still in his shorts and T-shirt. His sweat was drying stiff on his skin.

“As of May first you’re a free agent. Last season was your option year,” Doc replied, “and this boy wants you to come and play for him.”

“In Canada?” Taylor asked. “No way, it’s too cold.”

“In California. He’s Canadian, but his daddy bought him the Los Angeles franchise for sixty million dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Taylor decided. “How much do I get?”

“A whole bunch,” Doc Webster said. “Five million for five years. A million a year.”

“Tell him I accept.” The quarterback sat down, reached over and grabbed his shirt. He had begun to sweat again. “Five million?”

“This is straight. He flew me up here because he knew you and I were friends.”

“How old is this guy?” Taylor asked, pulling on the shirt.

“Twenty-two.”

“Goddam, Doc. Are you sure he’s old enough to sign contracts?”

“I have the Standard Player’s Contract right in front of me,” Doc Webster said. “He already signed it.”

Taylor laughed in amazement. “With what—a crayon? Jesus, doesn’t he know about the commissioner’s compensation rule? Robbie Burden’ll try and stop this by giving Texas all the LA draft choices and this guy’s firstborn child.”

“He knows and says his daddy’ll handle Robbie Burden.”

“Bring the contract, Doc. Catch the next plane. I do believe we have Cyrus Chandler over a barrel.”

“C
YRUS,
I
’M QUITTING,”
Dick Conly announced as soon as he had fixed a drink and sat down in the owner’s office. “The trust for Randall is all set up and Chandler Industries is in the best shape ever.”

“Why, Dick, this is a shock.” Cyrus did not sound shocked.

“I’m tired. Everything is on line with the Pistol Dome project and the Franchise.” Conly picked up Cyrus’s fake surprise but let it drop. He didn’t care. “I’m taking a vacation for the rest of my life with Suzy Ballard. The sooner I quit, the better she’ll like it. She’s up in Taos, looking at furniture to buy for my ranch.”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows slightly, then nodded. “Gosh, Dick, I’m sorry to hear this.”

“I want out as general manager.” Conly drained his glass and poured another. “You can give the job to your son-in-law or Red Kilroy. A.D. Koster is Suzy’s choice. I would watch him, though, Red’s a better pick, but that’s your decision. I want my severance and profit-sharing money sent to Santa Fe. It’s about a million five.”

“That’s an awful lot of money, Dick.” Cyrus suddenly tried to become a negotiator. “I’m not sure I can get it that quickly or even whether you’re worth that much.” His eyes were flat, his voice dead.

“You may be right, Cyrus.” Conly took a drink and rattled the ice against the side of his glass. “Make it two million five and I want it in Mexican gold, fifty-peso pieces, in Santa Fe by the end of the week. If you even blink I’m going to three five, you dipshit.”

The phone buzzed and Cyrus pushed the intercom button. His secretary said, “It’s a call for Mr. Conly from the commissioner.”

“I’ll take it here.” Dick picked up the phone. “This is Conly. Yes. Yes. How much did they offer him? Is it written down anywhere? Well, goddammit, Robbie, find out. What do you think we pay you for? To drink with Howard Cosell, for Chrissakes? If they made the offer in writing, it could be big trouble. And Robbie, when you call back, ask for Cyrus. I just quit.” Conly’s eyes flicked up to look across the desk at Chandler. “None of your goddam business!” Conly slammed the receiver down and turned back to Cyrus Chandler. “Well, this problem you’ll have to handle yourself. I
told you
to sign Taylor Rusk last year, but you said playing out his option would teach him what he was worth.”

“Damn right. Doc Webster wanted a million a year.” Cyrus leaned back in his chair, still preoccupied with the decision to pay Conly the profit-sharing and severance pay. “Nobody gets that kind of money.”

“Remember that Canadian oil-man buddy of yours?” Conly grinned. “The one you insisted I vouch for at the owner’s meeting so he could buy the LA franchise for his son when we squeezed out Marconi, and I told you we shouldn’t sell the LA franchise to a kid?”

“Richard Portus. We did some joint ventures on the North Slope,” Cyrus said. “He’s a hell of a guy.”

“Maybe so, but his kid just offered Taylor Rusk the million a year that you said nobody gets to play for Los Angeles next season.”

“Son of a bitch!” Cyrus fell back into his heavily padded leather swivel chair. “That ungrateful little bastard.” Chandler looked wildly around his office for a few moments. “Well, you can’t leave now until we settle this. I’ll teach both those ungrateful ...”

“The hell I can’t leave.” Conly swirled the ice and whiskey around in his glass. “When I go out, that doorknob won’t hit me in the ass and you’ll never see me again. Unless my centavos don’t arrive in Santa Fe on time, then you’ll
wish
you never saw me again.”

“You little pissant! Are you threatening me?”

“As plainly as possible. I told you to stay away from the Cobianco brothers, but now you scalp tickets and God knows what else. I can ruin you.”

“Dammit, Dick, you can’t leave me this fix. I’ll teach Rusk and that Portus kid a lesson they’ll never forget,” Cyrus wailed.

Conly drained his glass and left it on Cyrus’s desk.

“Let Robbie Burden handle it through the commissioner’s office.” He got unsteadily to his feet. “Don’t threaten anybody and wait until the commissioner finds out if the offer was verbal or in writing. You’ve got the compensation clause to fall back on. The commissioner will put such a high compensation price on Rusk that Portus kid’ll feel like somebody ran a hot poker up his ass.”

“I’m not letting them get away with this.” Chandler’s face turned red. “Rusk did this to me purposely. The ungrateful bastard hates me because of Wendy.”

“So what? I hate you too. Most people hate you. This is business: Don’t let your feelings get involved.” At the door Conly stopped. “This is your first big test without me, Cyrus; don’t fuck it up. There could be antitrust implications. Wait until the commissioner gets all the facts. There’s plenty of time. You could get a tampering ruling, so don’t panic.” Conly stared. “And get your greedy ass loose from the Cobianco boys, Cyrus, before ...”

“Get the hell out of here!” Cyrus turned on Dick Conly. “You’re just like the rest of them—out to get what you can from me. I don’t need you. I’ll run this club myself.”

“You have a short memory, Cyrus. If I had wanted the money, I could have taken it all years ago. But I kept thinking we had more between us—maybe not friendship, but something; maybe part of what I shared with your father. I guess I was wrong.”

“You are damn right you were wrong,” Cyrus said. “There is nothing between us. There never was. Amos liked you ’cause you would drink with him and listen to him and laugh at his jokes. Well, I hated him and I used you. Now I’m through with you and so is Suzy Ballard.”

Drunk and tired, Dick Conly’s mind still snapped to the implications of Cyrus Chandler’s last statement. He stared at Cyrus for a long time, then shook his head. “I guess I know what you are saying is true, but I won’t believe it until I get to the Pecos and she isn’t there. She’s given me enough to deserve the benefit of the doubt. You should have listened to your father. He was a funny, smart, caring man. I’m just smart and mean. If the money doesn’t arrive by the weekend, two and a half million in Mexican gold centavos, I’ll bring this whole operation down around your ears. You’ll spend the rest of your life in front of congressional committees and grand juries and IRS investigators. You understand?”