The Franchise (74 page)

“Do you agree?” Wendy topped off the crystal and tossed the Dr Pepper can in the trash compactor.

Taylor shook his head. “I am not Ox Wood. I have to think about winning and losing. I can never be reckless. I don’t willingly sacrifice my body, nor awaken from my delusions. I need my devils and my angels.”

Taylor continued to stare at the playing field. Muted sounds crossed from the skyboxes on the west side.

“Who owns those?”

“Junior and Three lease that one with the chandeliers and the blue and white French provincial furniture.”

“All they need is a guillotine.”

“The Let-Them-Eat-Cake Suite.” Wendy carried the long-stemmed crystal down to Taylor, who was staring over the edge. You don’t get down in it like the old stadium,” she said. “You don’t get any of man’s dirty, bloody business
on
you.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not. Maybe up here it just doesn’t leave any stains.” She held out the Dr Pepper. “How about a drink?”

“I better not.” Taylor was preoccupied. “It’s Thursday.” He looked into the seats below, then back to the bright-green-and-white-striped field. Taylor carried chronic burns and bruises from hitting the plastic-covered asphalt. “Damn painful turf.”

“But cost-effective.” Wendy handed him the stemmed crystal.

“For who?”

Taylor held up the expensive wineglass. “What’s this?”

“Dr Pepper.” Sitting down in a brown leather swivel chair, she slung a leg over the soft chair arm. She wore jeans, a tailored western shirt with ivory snaps and chocolate-brown kangaroo-skin boots.

Taylor took a drink. “It must be strange up here during a game.”

Wendy pointed at the bright green and white grid. “I bet it gets stranger out there.”

He waited a long time before saying, “I don’t think so.”

“Red Kilroy came to my house a couple of days ago,” Wendy said. “He told me that Suzy had offered him the GM’s job and five percent ownership with an option on five percent more. She wanted him to throw the game.” Wendy looked at Taylor for a reaction. She got none.

He was looking out at the field, watching the artificial grounds crew and drinking Dr Pepper out of $175 crystal.

“Well?” Wendy asked finally.

“Well, it means that A. D. is out. A definite lame duck.”

“That’s all you get out of that?” Wendy stood and walked to the glass wall.

“That’s all I see on the surface.”

“Will Red throw the game?”

Taylor shook his head. “Not on Suzy’s word. Red knows power and how to deal with it. Winning the Super Bowl
is
winning the Super Bowl. To Red, Suzy is a fart in a whirlwind.”

“I want to get the Franchise back from her,” Wendy said. “After the Super Bowl I’m moving against them.”

“I thought you wanted out.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Okay”—Taylor held up a hand—“but I am getting tired of this relentless exercise of your rich girl prerogatives and by Sunday there is going to be some sort of shakeout. Why don’t we let things take their course, relax ... come along later, picking up the pieces.”

“Why?”

“Because my job is winning, not losing. I can’t be reckless and risk beating myself. I have the means and am responsible for the end. Only the
end
counts for the quarterback.” Taylor gazed down at the bright-green plastic arena, the straight white lines, the neat, exact angles, the definite set of rules. “Football was fun because it used to be so unlike life. But now the game
is
life. This Sunday the world turns upside down and we have to be incomprehensible ...
bigger
than life.”

Wendy sat back in the wooden-and-soft-glove-leather chair. “What if you can’t do it? What if you can’t win by more than sixteen.”

Wendy’s negative questions and flights of future fancy were slightly irritating.

“I
can
do it. And I can convince my teammates
they
can do it. Convincing Denver’ll have to wait until Sunday.” Taylor was struck by the unreality of the ground crew that was now zooming around on the field in a golf cart. Out there on the turf, even the grounds keepers looked artificial, nonhuman. “On Sunday we will be
bigger than life.
”

“Bigger than life is quite an order,” Wendy said.

“That’s why being a hero isn’t all penthouse.” Taylor walked away from the edge and sat in a brown swivel chair next to her. “Lots of times it’s the shit house. Most of the time ... maybe even all. You can see why I cling to my delusions; I need them for a while longer. I’ll deliver.”

“We only control fifty percent of the Franchise,” Wendy said.

“A rich girl’s complaint; half isn’t enough.” Taylor stared at his new boots, studying the six-row stitching, checking for loose ends. He found none. “Give Red ten percent and watch the fur fly.”

“Give up a share and then just wait it out? Waiting seems to be your solution to everything. If I wait, there may not be a Franchise left.”

“Not if you give Red ten percent. He’ll start kicking asses and taking names. No sense planning past Sunday. It’s wasteful and distracting.”

“We have to protect Randall’s interests. It
is
his trust income that’s being threatened.” Wendy slugged down the last of her soft drink like it was rotgut.

“For Chrissakes, he isn’t going to starve. He doesn’t
need
a professional football franchise,” Taylor protested. “
Nobody
needs a football franchise.”

“If I let that bitch and those hoodlums bleed the Franchise,” Wendy argued, “it’s just like I’m helping them.”

“Who cares? I don’t recall one game you played,” Taylor said. “Without Dick running the Franchise, it’s already a leaky boat. I don’t think it’s worth the effort to toss the other passengers overboard. We’d still have to plug the holes and bail water. Not to mention all the bloodstains on the deck.” Taylor dropped his feet to the thick carpet and sat up in his chair. “Besides, I’m
gone
after the Super Bowl, and I
am
the Franchise.”

Taylor looked across the field at the commissioner’s guests drinking, dancing, eating and necking in the west skyboxes. “A.D. and Suzy can’t deliver; the Cobiancos have bet the farm
and
their pizza chain. Red will keep leading Suzy on while Conly makes certain the Cobiancos do not lack for takers. Sunday night they will all be broke. The ultimate football game for this season will be decided by a strategy based on the oldest motivation in the world,” Taylor said. “Revenge. Revenge for making Dick Conly look like an old fool. Just plain old revenge.”

“I don’t want revenge, I want the truth known,” Wendy said.

“If you wanted revenge or blood, I’d feel better,” Taylor said. “You just want what you
think
is yours.” He began to anger. “In another year you’d be calling plays from up here.”

Wendy stepped down from the top level and stood next to Taylor. Lifting his battered right hand to her gentle, exquisite face, she pressed the aching fingers to her soft, smooth cheek, then turned the hand over and kissed the palm, closed the fingers into a loose fist and replaced it in his lap. She didn’t deny it.

At midfield a grounds keeper was staring up at the Insiders’ boxes, looking into each skybox, slowly turning a complete 360 degrees, his jaw slack and his mouth hanging open in salacious shock. Finally he shook his head and returned to work, painting the Pistols logo on the turf.

Wendy watched the man lay out the stencils, then spray two purple Colt .45 Peacemakers, crossed and cocked against a circular field of white.

“And Samuel Colt made men equal,” Taylor said. “While the infrared sniper scope made them all the same color.”

There was a sharp rap on the skybox door. Bob stepped into the skybox. “He’s here.”

“Send him in,” Wendy said.

The door opened wide for a smallish, well-dressed man in a three-piece suit and carrying a slim attache case. In his mid-thirties, he wore a full head of prematurely gray hair. He was Wendy Chandler’s lawyer and adviser, Samuel Biggs Rice of the law firm of Rice, Rice, Rice & Rice.

Wendy introduced Taylor. The two men shook hands.

Competitive senses told Taylor the lawyer was his adversary. Taylor had no time for new enemies or outside interference. “Which Rice are you?”

“The last,” the lawyer snapped.

“You should have said the first,” Taylor sparred. “Who would know?”

“I would,” the attorney said. “It’s not a ranking in order of ability.”

“What’s it by?” Taylor had to dispose of the lawyer immediately, returning the focus of his concentration to Sunday’s job. “Height?”

The small man’s face flushed.

“Please, Taylor,” Wendy said. “I invited Sam to meet with us to discuss future plans. He thinks we have a good case for moving against Suzy and the Cobiancos after the Super Bowl.”

“Please spare me this. All lawyers think you have a good case until you get to the courtroom.” Taylor turned to Wendy. “Then they tell you that the law is a funny thing, juries are undependable and we got a bad judge. I have more important things to do than watch his high-dollar tap dance at my expense.” He studied her eyes, trying to plumb the depths of her conviction. “You
really
think you know more about what’s happening here than I do?”

Wendy’s face was slightly flushed.

“You and lawyer Smurf don’t have the vaguest idea of what has to be done.”

The lawyer’s face froze in a grimace. He turned to Wendy.

“Taylor, the least you could do is listen to Sam. There are other matters besides the Franchise to resolve. We’re getting married and ...”

“I don’t have the time, desire or ability to listen now.” Taylor stood and stretched. “Let it be. We can get married without Mr. Rice as flower girl.”

The attorney stiffened, his tiny heels clicked together involuntarily, his face purpled. He struggled for self-control.

“As I told you earlier, Miss Chandler”—Samuel Biggs Rice, attorney-at-law, found his oversize voice—“we should not wait. Those people could be draining assets that rightfully belong to you and the trust.”

“Let’s have a footrace to the courthouse,” Taylor looked at Wendy. “Get rid of this clown, because the problem with shit is the more you stir it, the more it stinks.”

“Please, Taylor.” Wendy was confused. “Just listen. What harm can it do?”

“As much as you can afford, starting with me and Mr. Rice here will defend you to your last dollar.” The quarterback pushed by the small attorney and started up to the door. “He don’t even know about the Cornpicker.”

“It is still my opinion, Miss Chandler,” the lawyer began again, “that it is a mistake to wait. And”—he spoke to Taylor, who stopped and looked back—“I’ll want those documents you have, Mr. Rusk. I would like to go over them tonight.”

“And he put his foot right in it.” Taylor looked at Wendy in disbelief. Narrowing his eyes, he cut them to the lawyer.

“Mr. Rice, I would like to go over
you
with a fungo bat. Unfortunately I left mine at home.” Taylor turned to Wendy. “You understand what you are doing?” Taylor looked back to Rice. “Look, jerk, these people you want to slap silly with bench warrants have a cement overcoat for you in their junior department.” Taylor grabbed the doorknob. “I don’t know what documents you’re talking about and neither does she. If you pursue the issue, I’ll make it a point to drop by your office with my bat and use you for infield practice around the law library.” Taylor looked over to Wendy. Her face was ashen. “I’ll meet you downstairs. There is only one driver in this race. It’s my way or the highway.”

“I must say, Mr. Rusk, you are an exceedingly rude and coarse man.” Samuel Biggs Rice cocked his head back and looked down his nose.

“So sue me, you little cocksucker.” Taylor jerked open the door and lunged into the hallway, almost knocking Bob Travers down. “You better get her away from him,” he told the bodyguard. “I’m going downstairs.”

Taylor picked his way through the gorged, besotted crowd.

Terry Dudley and the network guys were still standing by the buffet, finishing off the remains of the goose liver football and discussing the ex-basketball player’s aborted fishing show.

“I would have been great.” Dudley popped one of the anchovies that had laced the goose liver ball into his mouth.

“You had a real presence and knack for television,” a network guy said. “It was a damn shame.”

“No sense looking back.” The Union director reached for another anchovy. “I am committed to labor relations and helping the football player. I understand athletes, their strengths and weaknesses. Sports law is why I got my degree.”

“That fishing show would have led to bigger things,” the network guy injected. “A bigger platform to build on and speak from. Of course you would have to be careful ... we’ve got a standards and practices department.”

“I know.” Terry nodded thoughtfully. “I know. It would have been interesting ... to say the least. My public image helps the Union, so for that I’m thankful.”

Taylor slipped past the buffet without being noticed. The director was talking on his favorite subject: himself and everything he had done for the Union.

Waiting at the service elevator, Taylor Rusk wondered if the coming Sunday would help resolve his constant dilemma of wanting to be a part of it all, yet knowing that salvation lay in being the outlaw.

The elevator arrived and Taylor climbed in, riding to the garage level with three blacks in busboy white.

“You guys work here?” Taylor asked idly.

The three men laughed.

“Naw,” said the tallest, fingering the collar of his short white bus jacket. “We didn’t get an invitation to the commissioner’s party”—he smiled—“so we done made ourselves
invisible.”

Surprised by the reply, Taylor began to laugh loud and hard—a true fool. The doors slid open. The three men in busboy white stepped off and walked away, giggling. Taylor Rusk staggered and convulsed with laughter. It was the perfect joke.

The black men heard his laughter long after they had walked to the street. It echoed from the bowels of the Pistol Dome like wails from a madhouse.