The Franchise (42 page)

Ginny loved airports. She used to be with the airlines as a ticket supervisor. She had taken the job when they needed money in Cleveland. She was in her element at the airport. So Bobby took his two young boys while Ginny got the tickets and checked the bags. Bobby watched the boys fight over who sat on his left side. He tried not to think about flying or the money lost down a hole.

“I never get to sit there.” Billy, the four-year-old, was crying and pointing at his father’s left side where Bobby junior, the six-year-old, was snuggling gleefully. His joy was in direct proportion to his younger brother’s misery.

“You can sit there on the way back,” Bobby junior said, grinning malevolently. “Can’t he, Dad?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bobby said, patting Billy’s tiny chubby arm and thinking about his financial condition. Now he wished he had left his money in Cleveland real estate.

He was broke and rapidly wearing out.

The team doctor had been giving him increasingly larger doses of Butazolidin and cortisone. He had to take the Bute on Thursday because it made him sick for at least one, sometimes two days. It was a rough drug, used mainly on horses. It sure did knock out that joint pain, though, better than painkillers like codeine or Novocain.

He wanted a shot in the wallet.

“What are you frowning about?” Ginny stood over him, holding their plane tickets. Bobby and Billy were slapping at each other. He grabbed their little hands.

“I’m thinking about whether I can play next year or not,” he said, “We’ll probably need the money.”

“We are getting ready to leave for five days in Cozumel and you want to talk about football. I don’t want to hear about football. I don’t care. I just want
now.
” Ginny sighed and sat down next to Billy, who crawled up in her lap and asked if she liked him or his older brother better. She kissed him absently and ran her hands through his rumpled red hair, straightening it.

“Let’s go have a good time, please, Bobby,” she pleaded.

“Okay.” He smiled and kissed her. “As of now we forget that I’m over forty and an arthritic Union rep and small-time oil man. We are gringo tourists in Mexico, doing a little fishing for the network off the shores of Quintana Roo.”

T
HE SERIES OF FIVE
articles by Tommy McNamara ran in the Dallas and Houston papers. The articles were entitled “The League and the Mob.” Taylor Rusk bought a paper at the Houston airport.

The government had canceled McNamara’s grant to study sleep deprivation in chickens, sending the remaining amphetamine-laced feed and chickens to Texas Garbage Disposal, Inc., a firm owned by the Cobianco brothers. Texas Garbage Disposal, Inc., took a fee for disposing of the chickens, but instead sold them to the Dixie Fried Chicken fast-food chain. For a short time, customers of Dixie Fried Chicken began talking more, sleeping less and finding Dixie Fried Chicken a short-term cure for depression.

Tommy McNamara went to work writing sports.

Taylor Rusk had given him several interviews and introduced him to college and professional players and coaches, helping him establish contacts as a sportswriter. But Tommy made the mistake of writing a column critical of Cyrus Chandler, which cost him access to the Franchise. After that, only the most adventuresome and older players dared talk to Tommy McNamara, limiting him to Taylor, Bobby, Speedo, Screaming Danny Lewis and Ox Wood.

The sports editor said McNamara had lost his objectivity and credibility and gave him two weeks severance pay and bad references. It was, after all, Cyrus Chandler’s paper.

That was over a year ago, and Doc Webster had said at the time they were going to be sorry they made the Kinky-Headed Boy mad.

Now, walking into the Houston Intercontinental Airport, Taylor held one piece of that prophecy in his hand. The article was headlined:

TICKET SCALPING AT THE SUPER BOWL

BY TOMMY MCNAMARA

One in a Series of Five Articles on Pro Football and Organized Crime

Before Taylor could start the story, his eyes were drawn to another headline farther down the page:

TEXAS TRADES D’HANIS TO LOS ANGELES

The Texas Pistols announced today the trade of veteran guard Simon D’Hanis to Los Angeles for an undisclosed draft choice and an unspecified amount of cash. The club would make no further comment regarding the trade.

A three-year starting offensive guard for the Texas franchise, D’Hanis was injured in the Playoff Bowl against Los Angeles and underwent corrective knee surgery which the Texas team doctor called an unqualified success.

Simon D’Hanis was unavailable for comment.

Taylor folded the paper, stuck it under his arm, picked up his bags and headed for the ticket counter. He knew the trade was to make it difficult for Simon D’Hanis to file an injury grievance against Texas by putting another corporation, the Los Angeles franchise, between Simon and the Pistols. The commissioner and Cyrus Chandler had probably forced Portus in LA to make the trade as part of the beating they were giving him for offering Taylor five million dollars in writing. Simon’s betrayal wouldn’t be the only price exacted, but it was the first public sign that the full force of the League was being brought to bear on the kid that Doc Webster had gotten to sign the SPC.

Taylor tossed his bags on the scale and gave the ticket agent his name and flight number to feed to the computer. He asked for the No Smoking section as the agent hammered on the terminal keys.

Outside, Speedo Smith got out of a taxi wearing an eggshell linen suit and a white high-crowned Panama with a broad red paisley band set on his delicate head. Speedo carried a big French leather suitcase and matching shoulder bag. The handsome, muscular black man smiled at the whole idea of himself. The tan nose flared and the white teeth showed. He was a beautiful sight.

Taylor looked around the waiting area. Bobby, Ginny and their two youngest boys sat together near the glass wall, looking out onto the plane-lined concrete apron connected to the terminal by umbilical jetways. Aircraft of various sizes and colors taxied in and out of the area. In the distance, planes could be seen taking off and landing in an unending stream. They appeared and quickly disappeared in the dirty white sky.

“There you go, sir,” the ticket agent said, stapling the baggage claim checks to Taylor’s ticket envelope and inserting the boarding pass. “We’ll be boarding in about forty minutes. Have a nice flight.”

Taylor stuck the ticket in his jacket pocket and walked over to join the Hendrix family. The two boys were fighting over a candy bar that the older boy had divided unevenly and then eaten down to parity, a deception that did not go unnoticed by the four-year-old.

“I hate you,” the four-year-old said.

“We don’t hate people,” Ginny said quietly. She threaded her arm through her husband’s thin freckled one and rested her head on his bony shoulder. The six-year-old retaliated by taking another bite out of the four-year-old’s share of the candy. The younger one began to cry.

“Bobby!” Ginny said to the older boy. “I saw that. Now you give both of those pieces to Billy. Right now, mister.”

Bobby reluctantly handed the candy over to his younger brother, who responded by sticking his tongue out at him.

“Billy!” Ginny said hopelessly but with force. “You be nice.”

“That’s not fair.” Bobby junior began to cry over his loss of the candy.

“Life’s not fair, son,” his father said.

“Don’t tell him that,” Ginny whispered.

Taylor walked up behind them and dropped the newspaper on the bench next to the thin redheaded receiver.

“There’s proof that life ain’t fair,” Taylor said, “and that there are certain people who need hating.”

“You shush, Taylor Rusk,” Ginny hissed back. “Those boys listen to everything you tell them. Last night Bobby asked me if you and his daddy really killed Hitler.”

“What did you tell him?” Taylor eased down beside the couple. The two boys were still busy fighting and hadn’t noticed Taylor’s arrival.

“I told them the truth: that their daddy and you never killed anybody, including Hitler. I told them that nice people don’t kill each other.”

“I’ll tell them I was just kidding. It was Mussolini.”

Ginny Hendrix reached around her husband and punched Taylor Rusk in the chest. “You’ll tell them no such thing, not even as a joke. They don’t understand killing.”

“Who does?” Bobby Hendrix finally spoke. He took a slender freckled hand and opened the Houston paper to the sports page. Tommy McNamara’s headline for part one of his expose on the League and the Mob glared out in bold type.

Taylor pointed to the article announcing Simon’s trade. Hendrix read it quickly.

“He hasn’t recovered from that knee surgery yet,” Taylor said.

“The doctor said the operation was a success,” Ginny noticed.

“That means the doctor got paid,” Taylor replied. “I don’t think he’ll ever recover.”

“Then why would LA take him?” Bobby asked.

Taylor pulled the Xerox copy of his Standard Player’s Contract that Doc Webster had brought from Canada and tossed it in Hendrix’s lap.

“The original’s in my safe deposit box,” Taylor said.

Hendrix looked the SPC over quickly. He laughed softly and shook his head when he reached the no-cut provisions. “This Portus kid must be a real bozo.” He handed Taylor back the contract. “I had heard rumors about this from Kimball. I’ll bet the commissioner and Cyrus are shitting bricks. No wonder Dick Conly quit. Somebody is going to have to pay you that money. They won’t let you move to LA and they’ll want to keep it quiet, but they’ll pay,” Hendrix laughed softly and shook his head. “They will
have
to pay.”

“I’m afraid Simon’s part of the quid pro quo,” Taylor said, watching as the two boys walked to the glass wall and leaned against it, leaving little chocolate handprints.

“They’ll pass him on the physical and then cut him before the season starts,” Hendrix said, smiling at his boys. “The commissioner will rule that Los Angeles is responsible and Texas no longer liable because he passed the LA physical. It’s standard procedure. I’ll tell Dudley about it in Cozumel and see Simon when we get back if he wants to file a grievance.”

“He won’t,” Taylor said. “Simon has hit the wall. I would advise talking to him over the phone.”

Hendrix looked at Taylor and raised his eyebrows in question. “Too many of those Russian steroids?”

“Who knows?” Taylor shrugged. “I didn’t help him any. I punched him out in the weight room. It was pathetic. He can barely move on that knee.”

“I guess not. If
you
punched him out.”

“You’re talking to the guy who killed Mussolini.”

“Uncle Taylor. Uncle Taylor.” The two little chocolate-covered boys ran at the quarterback and jumped into his lap, their little pointed knees just missing vital organs. They got chocolate all over his shirt and jacket before giving him kisses and settling each under an arm.

“Momma said you didn’t kill Hitler, Uncle Taylor,” the six-year-old said. “Tell her how you and Daddy drove the tank to Germany and machine-gunned him when he tried to escape.”

As the plane lifted off the ground north of Houston, Speedo Smith sat down next to Taylor Rusk.

“I saw the new general manager,” Speedo said. “Your old college roommate. What do you think about him?”

“I think A.D. will be a real pain in the ass. Hopefully Red’ll be able to handle him; otherwise there’s no telling what will happen. He’s a thief and a liar; he is stupid and runs round with gamblers and thugs....” Taylor stopped. “This list is endless.”

“Just your regular old general manager,” Speedo grinned. “Did you see that we play Denver in exhibition season?”

Taylor nodded.

“Well?” Speedo Smith looked at his quarterback.

“Well what?”

“R.D. Locke is still there.” Speedo stared at Taylor. “You do remember the crazy nigger that tried to shoot you during the first training camp?”

“R.D. Locke ...” Taylor mulled over the name. “How could I forget R D. Locke?”

“I don’t know, Taylor, but those kinds of oversights will most certainly shorten your life span.”

They both sat silently and watched smoky, smelly Houston disappear beneath clouds of water and petrochemicals. The plane climbed, then leveled off. They were out over the Gulf of Mexico, heading for the far side of the Caribbean, the Yucatán and the island of Cozumel.

“My great-grandfather, he turned a hundred and ten last week.... He was born and raised near Jacksonville and has never been more than ten miles away. His parents came as slaves to East Texas when the Civil War turned after Gettysburg and East Texas was the last stand of the Old South.” Speedo smiled. “Last week I went to his birthday party. You ain’t never seen so many niggers in your life, Taylor, and all of them descended from
him.
He just sat on the porch of his old shack and rocked and smiled and patted the little babies. He never talked. Everybody else did, but he never talked. I just stood and watched him. Finally he crooked a finger at me and waved everybody else away. He told me that he was proud of me and had seen me play on television and expected me to be the one who brought honor to the family name.”

“Smith?” Taylor asked.

“Yeah, I know.” Speedo cackled his peculiar laugh. “I thanked him and told him how proud I was to be descended from him and that I was working with Bobby Hendrix and the Players Union to better life for all football players, black and white.” Speedo smirked. “Imagine saying that to a man who picked cotton for sixty years as a sharecropper. I
had
to ask him how it felt to be one hundred and ten years old.” Speedo imitated the old man’s movements and leaned to Rusk’s ear, speaking in a whisper, “ ‘Well, son,’ he said to me, ‘I feel just like a twenty-year-old ... with something
real bad
wrong.’ ”

They broke into laughter, Taylor’s deep rumbling laugh punctuated by Speedo’s high-pitched cackle. They laughed for almost one hundred miles.

“Speedo,” Taylor said after they had laughed themselves out, “you be careful with the Union stuff, okay? You already got Dallas pissed off at you and you’re still in Texas. It’s like Hendrix says: Red Kilroy can only offer so much protection. With A.D. as general manager, anything can happen.”