Her Game Was Passion Ch. 05

"I can't," I said. "I got a game tomorrow night. But if you can spare some, I'd like to take a little with me."

"Take a little of me with you. Now."

"I got to have legs for that game."

"I only want one of them now," she said.

-three-

I went home happy and I woke up happy. I thought maybe after I figured what I was going to do to suit up for sure with the Vikings, my fat-ass altar-boy conscience would start pinching my ass again. Like my being in love with Mary Derry. Shit. I was in love with Scott Norton, and it was time I decided that was the whole hog business. Bullshit on romance. The thing I'd always wanted to do was play in a Superbowl. The odds were against my getting in the game. About a sixty-to-one shot, but it was a cinch right now I was going to suit up.

Tough shit, Jackos, you've had it. Maybe Graff on the Viking taxi squad might break a leg, Bob Lee might get VD just before the game and his balls would drop out, and there would be good old Scott Norton dropping back in the slot for the Vikings.

When I started dreaming like that I figured it was time to cut it out or I'd be going on a trip with what was in my pocket from that sweet little Girl Scout troop mistress. What a lay! They ought to have her give the sex-education course to the Eagle Scouts.

One nice little sugar cube of LSD and Mr. Jacko was going to take a trip to the moon.

I figured to give it to Jacko in the locker room after we suited up. Everybody usually went back to the locker room after warm-up to crap and pee and get a little instant coffee. I was going to mix Jacko a nice cup of instant and in ten minutes he would be on an IBM to the moon.

We got taped and suited up. Kick-off was set for eight o'clock. It was colder than a nun's tit on the field. So everybody went for the coffee when we got back in the locker room. I had the cube in my hand when I picked up the cup. Jacko was over in the corner talking to the coach and Clemens.

I crushed the LSD cube with one hand, put it right over the cup full of coffee and held it like that for a couple of minutes, watching Jacko out of the corner of my eye. He was jabbering away to Reeves. They were both making X's and O's in the air with their fingers. Suddenly Reeves walks over to the chalkboard and starts drawing X's and O's on the board. I walked over with two cups of coffee. Jacko is looking over Reeves shoulder.

I tapped Jacko on the shoulder and nodded my head at the cup of coffee in my right hand and smiled. He took the cup without looking at what his hand was doing.

I started to sip my coffee. So what does Jacko do, but stand there, letting his coffee cool.

I stepped up next to him and put my left hand on his shoulder, old buddy-buddy fashion, and said, "May the best man win?"

He turned his head, kind of keeping one eye on the chalkboard, and he was grinning. He raised the cup of coffee like he was offering a toast, "Youth before beauty."

I touched the rim of my cup against his, but gently. I wanted him to get the full load. "Shoot your best shot," I said. "I'm probably going to have to win this ballgame for you the second half."

"Up your ass, Norton," he grinned, putting the cup to his lips. He raised his chin and drank the whole damn cup.

I slapped him on the back. "Give them hell." He knew I meant I hope you fall on your ass, Jacko. He just handed me the empty cup like I was the locker-room attendant.

I took the cup and walked away.

Like I said, it was colder than hell on the field. The opposition kicked off. Jacko tried a couple of running plays, good for three yards. Then on a short flare pass, the opposition intercepted at our thirty-five.

The opposition quarterback was an Indian, left-handed. He could roll either way and throw back to the opposite. He could probably hit you right in the eye with a hand grenade from thirty yards. Just one of those small college aces somebody had dug up from a scout's report. The kid ought to be on somebody's taxi squad.

He started killing us with short passes, over the middle, sidelines, and the next thing I knew they were at the three. I was watching Jacko. No change. He was standing beside Reeves, talking to him, looking relaxed. Was it just a damn sugar lump Miss Scout had given me or was it the real thing? It ought to hit Jacko in a couple of minutes. I was still watching Jacko when the opposition scored and kicked the conversion.

Schaeffer ran the kick-off back to the thirty-two and Jacko trotted slowly out onto the field. He came out of the huddle slowly. He wasn't doing anything different when he started calling signals. Just looking up and down the line, checking the defense.

Then all of a sudden you could hear his voice all over the field. He was really bellowing those signals. The fans weren't shouting, so you could hear him like he was trying to wake hogs in the next county.

He took the snap and instead of dropping straight back in the slot, he whirled around and ran straight back about fifteen yards and set up to throw. His protection was shot to heft and a big guard came straight for him.

What Jacko did, I've never seen any quarterback do. He ran straight at the big guard. Then just before they were about to smash head-on, Jacko sidestepped faster than a water bug, just a sudden jerky little sidestep and rammed a stiff arm into the guard's guts. Only it wasn't a stiff arm. It was dark out there but I could see what it was. It was one hell of a left hook and the guard went clunk on his face.

The next thing I knew Jacko had switched the ball to his left hand and decked the next rusher with his right hand, a hell of a blow right under the helmet in the side of the neck. Then Jacko took off running, leaving another guy on his face.

I've seen some crazy runs, cutting and stiff arming, standing still and jigging around, running over players. Jacko ran through the whole bag. He looked like a combination of Red Roberts and Hugh McKinney. He ran through the whole team, through them or over them and around them.

At the end of the field, there was a brick wall. So help me, he ran three steps up the brick wall, tossed the ball over his head, did a back flip, and caught the ball as it bounced off the ground into the air.

I've seen guys on acid having good trips, but this had to be the finest trip of the century. My asshole felt as if it had fallen straight out of my pants.

But that wasn't enough. After the conversion, Jacko was over by Reeves trying to hustle Reeves to let him play defense.

"I know what they're going to do!" Jacko said in a high, excited, thin voice. "I know! I know! Come on! Let me play cornerback and I'll get that ball back!"

He had both hands on Reeves shoulders and he was shaking him, urging Reeves to let him play defense. Reeves got out of that one. Our defense stopped them on their second series and Schaeffer ran the punt back to our forty-two. Jacko ran out on the field like he was a bird, sprinting all the way to the huddle.

On the first play he calls his own number. I know the play. It's a roll-out pass. You run with the ball one time out of ten if you want to stay alive as a quarterback.

Not Jacko. He ran right around the defense. If they'd have been antelopes, he would have trampled them. He turned the corner all alone.

He went down the sideline like an Olympic sixty-yard gold medal holder. Whoosh! And he was standing in the end zone, holding the ball up high in one hand.

"What the hell's got into that guy?" Koch said as he sat down beside me on the bench and we watched the defense trot onto the stripes.

"He's hot tonight," I said.

"He must be loaded with super pep pills."

"He's loaded," I said.

The next thing Jacko is jumping up and down beside Reeves, begging to go in on defense. He looked like he was on a pogo stick.

"Shut up!" Reeves yelled at him. He put one restraining hand on Jackos' shoulder, but it only made Jacko bounce up and down more.'

Those two touchdowns took all the guts out of the opposition. They dragged ass through a series, punted and we took over.

On the first play, a belly series, Jacko handed off to Hicks, the fullback, then took the ball back. It wasn't a fake. It was a straight hand-off. He jerked the ball back right out of Hicks hands, ducked his head and went straight into the line like he was the fullback.

He carried the middle linebacker on his back for seven yards before three men brought him down. But that wasn't enough. On the next play, he dropped back, pumped twice, and started running up the middle, shedding tacklers right and left.

Finally the free safety and a cornerback dropped him after a thirty-yard gain. Jacko came up swinging.

"Tackle me!" he roared. "Me! Me!" He knocked the free safety down. A big lineman tried to pin his arms from behind. Jacko flipped the elephant over his shoulders, knocked down two more big linemen trying to reach him. Both benches emptied. I sat there.

"He's crazy," Koch said. "He must of got kicked in the head."

"That's probably it."

By the time the police were on the field, Jacko had decked about five of the opposition and was starting on his own team. He was moving around like a heavy-weight version of Nick Bockwinkle. He'd thrown away his helmet and when he wasn't swinging at somebody, he was stripping off his clothes. When the police maced him, he was standing there in his cleats, sweat socks and jockstrap. They took him away on a stretcher.

I played the rest of the game. I didn't run out of the slot once. I didn't have to. The opposition seemed to be in a daze the entire remainder of the game.

It was after midnight when I got home. I went out alone to eat after the game. Reeves didn't have to say anything tome in the locker room. Jacko was in the hospital. They didn't know what was wrong with him. Maybe brain damage, somebody said. Probably kicked in the head. I was almost asleep, wondering when the newspapers were going to announce the news about Parks or maybe some bright surgeon had installed an aluminum sternum in him. But I wasn't worried. The telephone started ringing. Who in hell could be calling at this time of night?

"Hello, Scott. I know this is a hell of a time to call. Nice game. I saw you. Very smooth. I want to talk to you in the morning."

"Who is this?"

A kind of yuk-yuk chuckle and a man's voice said, "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry about that. It's Eddie Schwartz."

"Eddie Schwartz?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Remember?"

I figured it was some local drunk. But how the hell did he get my number? No matter, he had it, and my name. So I decided to hang up until he said, "Scott, I got a nice business deal for you. You want to make some money?"

"Endorsing jockstraps?"

"Yuk-yuk," he chuckled. "Not a joke, Scott. Some very big green. Going to be home in the morning?"

"What have you got, a used car lot or something?"

"Don't be funny. This is big."

"How big?"

"See you in the morning. Your place. Ten o'clock."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Friend of a friend. See you, Scott. Get lots of sleep."

Some goof, I thought, and turned over and closed my eyes. Friend of a friend? Looking for somebody to pimp some product?

Eddie Schwartz was right on time the next morning.

"Friend of a friend?" he said when I opened the door. He stuck out his hand. "Remember me?"

"I never saw you before in my life."

"Right." He grinned. Nice bridge work. Gray hair. Six feet. Dark blue fly-front coat. Thick steel-rimmed glasses. Real thick glass. Like he was a mad scientist or about to go blind. Maybe sixty years old.

I didn't invite him in at first.

"Who's our mutual friend?" I asked.

"Audie."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Get out of my way, Scott." He pushed his hand against my chest, blew a little cigar smoke in my face and I let him step past me into the apartment. "I got a nice deal for you if you got any brains."

I shut the door. He started walking back and forth across the room, puffing cigar smoke, jabbering. "I think you're a smart boy, Scott. I like smart boys. I like boys who know what they're doing. We think you know what you're doing. We want to help you."

"Cut the crap."

He turned around. "How'd you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?"

"Print it?"

He tapped cigar ash on my floor and sat down on the davenport. I leaned against the wall.

"Scott, you're going to the Superbowl. Parks definitely out."

"How do you know?"

"Don't you worry about that. Just listen to what I got to tell you."

"How do you know?"

"Ten to one, it's in this afternoon's paper."

"Ten to one?" I said.

"Fifty to one."

"What are you, a bookie?"

"No, but I got a lot of friends who know a lot of bookies."

"Who are you talking for and what do you want?"

"Miami is a three-point favorite -- now. When the news hits the streets, Miami will be a twelve-point favorite."

"Lee's got a hell of a strong arm."

"And practically no playing time."

"You want the odds controlled. Point shaving?"

"We don't want nobody throwing touchdowns that are going to bust the spread. There's going be millions riding."

I felt lousy listening to him because I knew what he was getting at, and I was afraid I was going to go for it. I didn't want to, but I was afraid of myself, and the more I was afraid of myself, the more lousy I felt. I'd never wanted to lose a ballgame in my life. I hated losing. I hated any kind of losing. I couldn't stand to lose. It always made me feel lousy. No, I wasn't going to go for it. No way. I wanted to get in the ballgame, and if I got a chance to win it, hot damn, I'd win it.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You don't stand a chance to get in the game."

"Get out," I said. "Beat it."

I walked over to him. He stood up and held up one hand to protect his face, as if he thought I was going to hit him. The trouble was I was sore at myself, sore because I was tempted to listen to his offer. Hell, I wanted to hear his offer. Look at it coldly, Norton, you haven't got any time left in the grass. You haven't got enough time to get a pension. You need three more years for your pension. You'll never play after this. Not with this knee. But you haven't got any nest egg. Twenty-five thousand!

"You'll probably get in the game," he said.

"Bullshit. Are you going to shoot Lee?"

"That ain't the point. The point is Gregory hurt his leg yesterday."

"How do you know?"

"I got friends."

"Miami can't lose."

"That ain't it. They got to win by twelve points. We don't want it messed up."

"Eighteen points when the newspapers hear about Gregory."

"They aren't going to hear.. Gregory will suit up, but if anything happens to Lee, you'll be the back-up quarterback."

"For Christ sake!" I stared at him. "Are you sure?"

"My friends aren't peanut vendors," he said.

Twenty-five thousand dollars! All I had to do is make sure I keep that twelve-point spread if Lee gets hurt and I replace him. That wouldn't be hard. Just keep overthrowing a little, and it would be charged to nervousness, or throw an interception with time running out. Or let yourself get hit and fumble. That was the safest trick. But Jesus, I hated to lose. I hated the thought of losing. It always killed me to lose.

"What about Lee?" I asked.

"We got the odds figured on him."

"Is he fixed?"

"No. We know what he can do."

"Then what's worrying you?"

"We know what you can do. You could kill us."

"How do I collect twenty-five big ones?"

"Fifteen right now." He tapped his breast pocket. "The other ten after the game."

"What if I don't get in the game?"

"Keep five."

"What if I don't return the other ten?"

He chuckled, tapped my chest with his forefinger. "Your mother didn't raise any dumb kids, did she?"

God, I thought, fifteen grand. Five for just sitting on the bench. What were the odds of getting in the game? Who could tell? Lee had never been hurt. Five big ones for just sitting on the bench. Candy from a baby. Five biggies.

"What if some Viking back gets away for a touchdown? You know. A long break-away run?"

Schwartz guffawed.

"You got to be kidding. Since when did any Viking back ever do better than second down and eight? I just don't want you hitting any of those bombs you can throw."

"All right," I said. "Ten down and fifteen after the game."

He shook his head.

"You take fifteen now," he said. "You don't dare double-o anybody with fifteen big ones in your mitt."

So he knew what I was thinking. If I had it my way, I'd only take the five and return it if -- no, there was no returning anything, if you crossed up these guys. He must represent some very big bookies. Probably millions of bucks on the line. I didn't want to but I held out my hand. I didn't want to because I'd never played to lose. But what the hell was twenty years of football going to leave me? A busted knee and a fractured bankroll. The owners had the biggest racket franchise in the business. They jacked all the players around. Now it was my turn to make some money out of them. Sure, but I didn't really believe that, I mean, I really didn't feel like wanting to lose, not even for that kind of money. But it was time to be sensible. This wasn't high school or college. Hell, even they were big football business now. Get into the business now, the real business. Dough. I listened to Schwartz counting the dough. It was all in hundred-dollar bills. When I felt the money in my hand, I found myself thinking about Mary Derry.

Come on, you slob, I thought, no room for sentiment. Get the cash, baby. Get the cash. Get the cash. Get the cash.

The news about Parks was all over the paper the next morning, but no mention of Gregory's leg. He was the backup quarterback from the Viking taxi squad. Clemens called me in for an interview with the press about my going up to the Vikings to back up Bob Lee and Gregory.

"I'm really thrilled," I told the reporters. "It's a real big chance again."

"Do you still drink?" one female reporter asked.

"Never touch a drop," I said. "I learned my lesson."

At noon I drove out in the country, about fifteen miles, until I found a woods. There was a sandy road off the main highway and I drove along the edge of the woods for about a mile. The road was empty. It didn't take long to bury the money. I had bought a metal box in Kansas City. I dug down about three feet, a hole about one foot square and dropped the box with all the money in it. I pressed the sod down carefully and sprinkled dirt around the sod edges. I looked carefully at a big. elm about twenty feet to my right and I walked the fifty yards, pacing it off, back to the country road. Nobody in sight. The road vas vacant. Muddy cornfields stretching away to the bottom of the sky. Football was just a business. Not a game. And now I was in business. I couldn't win the game anyway. What difference did it make? Twenty-five thousand would make a lot of difference after this racket was finished with me. The thing to do was to get a bet down on the Vikings. I had about a grand in the bank. There would be a bookie in New Orleans where I could bet that grand on the Vikings. Just to be on the safe side. Lose it and look clean.

The End...