Deal Breaker
Page 31
“For a few days, anyway,” Myron replied.
“Goodie. May I also assume that you have a plan?”
“I’m working on it. Feverishly.”
Christian jogged out on the field. He moved in that effortless way great athletes do. He got into the huddle, broke it, and approached the line of scrimmage.
“Full contact!” a coach yelled out.
Myron looked at Win. “I don’t like this.”
“What?”
“Full contact on the first day.”
Christian started calling out numbers. Then he gave a few hut-huts before the ball was snapped to him. He faded back to pass.
“Oh, shit,” Myron said.
Tommy Lawrence, the Titans’ All-Pro linebacker, charged forward unblocked. Christian saw him too late. Tommy placed his helmet into Christian’s sternum and slammed him to the ground—the kind of tackle that hurts like hell but doesn’t do any permanent damage. Two other defenders piled on.
Christian got up, wincing and holding his chest. Nobody helped him.
Myron stood.
Win stopped him with a shake of his head. “Sit down, Myron.”
Otto Burke came down the stairs, entourage in tow.
Myron glared at him. Otto smiled brightly. He made a tsk-tsk noise. “I traded a lot of popular veterans to get him,” he said. “It looks like some of the guys aren’t too thrilled.”
“Sit down, Myron,” Win repeated.
Myron hesitated, then complied.
Christian limped back to the huddle. He called the next play and again approached the line of scrimmage. He surveyed the defense, yelled out numbers and hut-huts, then took the snap from the center. He stepped back. Tommy Lawrence blitzed again over left guard, completely untouched. Christian froze. Tommy bore down on him. He leaped like a panther, his arms stretched out for a bone-crushing tackle. Christian moved at the very last moment. Not a big move. Just a slight shift, actually. Tommy flew by him and landed on the ground. Christian pumped and threw a bomb.
Complete pass.
Myron turned around, grinning. “Hey, Otto?”
“What?”
“Kiss my grits.”
Otto’s smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he’s making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.
Win looked at Myron “Kiss my grits?”
Shrug. “Paying homage to Flo on Alice.”
“You watch too much television.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
“About Gary Grady,” Myron said.
“What about him?”
“He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s crazy.”
“So is everything about this case.”
Myron shook his head. “Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he’d want to do?”
“Publicize it.”
“Yet her picture ends up in his ad.”
“Ah.” Win nodded. “You believe someone is setting him up.”
“Exactly.”
“Who?”
“Fred Nickler would be my bet,” Myron said.
“Hmm. He did hand over Grady’s p.o. box without much debate.”
“And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine.”
“So what do you suggest?” Win asked.
“I’d like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very thoroughly Maybe talk to him again. Talk,” Myron repeated. “Not visit.”
On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.
“Christian’s own lineman is setting him up,” Myron said.
Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard’s groin. There was a short oomph sound. The left guard collapsed like a folding chair.
“Ouch,” Win said.
Myron almost clapped. “The Longest Yard revisited.”
The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic “Ooo.”
Christian walked over to his left guard—a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds—and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.
“Christian has balls,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “But can the same be said of the left guard?”
Chapter 18
As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.
“Listen, putz, I got what you want,” P.T. said. “My friend’s name is Jake Courter. He’s the town sheriff.”
“Sheriff Jake,” Myron said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Hey, don’t let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he’d meet with you today at three.”
Myron checked his watch. It was one o’clock now. The station was five minutes away. “Thanks, P.T.”
“Can I ask you something, Myron?”
“Shoot.”
“Why you looking into this?”
“It’s a long story, P.T.”
“This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?” He cackled.
“You’re all class, P.T.”
“Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story.”
“It’s a promise.”
Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams—some from as far back as a hundred years ago—lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam Spade film. The word FOOTBALL was stenciled in black. He knocked.
The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. “What?”
Myron stuck his head. “Busy, Coach?”
Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“Fine, thanks. But let’s dispense with the pleasantries.”
“Goodie. May I also assume that you have a plan?”
“I’m working on it. Feverishly.”
Christian jogged out on the field. He moved in that effortless way great athletes do. He got into the huddle, broke it, and approached the line of scrimmage.
“Full contact!” a coach yelled out.
Myron looked at Win. “I don’t like this.”
“What?”
“Full contact on the first day.”
Christian started calling out numbers. Then he gave a few hut-huts before the ball was snapped to him. He faded back to pass.
“Oh, shit,” Myron said.
Tommy Lawrence, the Titans’ All-Pro linebacker, charged forward unblocked. Christian saw him too late. Tommy placed his helmet into Christian’s sternum and slammed him to the ground—the kind of tackle that hurts like hell but doesn’t do any permanent damage. Two other defenders piled on.
Christian got up, wincing and holding his chest. Nobody helped him.
Myron stood.
Win stopped him with a shake of his head. “Sit down, Myron.”
Otto Burke came down the stairs, entourage in tow.
Myron glared at him. Otto smiled brightly. He made a tsk-tsk noise. “I traded a lot of popular veterans to get him,” he said. “It looks like some of the guys aren’t too thrilled.”
“Sit down, Myron,” Win repeated.
Myron hesitated, then complied.
Christian limped back to the huddle. He called the next play and again approached the line of scrimmage. He surveyed the defense, yelled out numbers and hut-huts, then took the snap from the center. He stepped back. Tommy Lawrence blitzed again over left guard, completely untouched. Christian froze. Tommy bore down on him. He leaped like a panther, his arms stretched out for a bone-crushing tackle. Christian moved at the very last moment. Not a big move. Just a slight shift, actually. Tommy flew by him and landed on the ground. Christian pumped and threw a bomb.
Complete pass.
Myron turned around, grinning. “Hey, Otto?”
“What?”
“Kiss my grits.”
Otto’s smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he’s making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.
Win looked at Myron “Kiss my grits?”
Shrug. “Paying homage to Flo on Alice.”
“You watch too much television.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
“About Gary Grady,” Myron said.
“What about him?”
“He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s crazy.”
“So is everything about this case.”
Myron shook his head. “Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he’d want to do?”
“Publicize it.”
“Yet her picture ends up in his ad.”
“Ah.” Win nodded. “You believe someone is setting him up.”
“Exactly.”
“Who?”
“Fred Nickler would be my bet,” Myron said.
“Hmm. He did hand over Grady’s p.o. box without much debate.”
“And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine.”
“So what do you suggest?” Win asked.
“I’d like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very thoroughly Maybe talk to him again. Talk,” Myron repeated. “Not visit.”
On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.
“Christian’s own lineman is setting him up,” Myron said.
Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard’s groin. There was a short oomph sound. The left guard collapsed like a folding chair.
“Ouch,” Win said.
Myron almost clapped. “The Longest Yard revisited.”
The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic “Ooo.”
Christian walked over to his left guard—a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds—and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.
“Christian has balls,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “But can the same be said of the left guard?”
Chapter 18
As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.
“Listen, putz, I got what you want,” P.T. said. “My friend’s name is Jake Courter. He’s the town sheriff.”
“Sheriff Jake,” Myron said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Hey, don’t let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he’d meet with you today at three.”
Myron checked his watch. It was one o’clock now. The station was five minutes away. “Thanks, P.T.”
“Can I ask you something, Myron?”
“Shoot.”
“Why you looking into this?”
“It’s a long story, P.T.”
“This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?” He cackled.
“You’re all class, P.T.”
“Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story.”
“It’s a promise.”
Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams—some from as far back as a hundred years ago—lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam Spade film. The word FOOTBALL was stenciled in black. He knocked.
The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. “What?”
Myron stuck his head. “Busy, Coach?”
Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“Fine, thanks. But let’s dispense with the pleasantries.”
