Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  Decker lived in an impressive two-story, Spanish Colonial, which featured white stucco walls, several ornate balconies and numerous distinctive arches. Three black guys in suits stood outside the front door drinking. They were as big as Bear and appeared as if their suits had been spray-painted on. Even though I no longer followed football, I recognized one of them as Brad Davis, the New York Turbos' running back.

  "Is Liz Johnston around?" I asked him.

  "Who wants to know?" He eyed my dripping wet form with some dubiousness. I didn't blame him. I looked like a failed extra from The Day After Tomorrow.

  "Mark Tanner."

  "Are you a new coach?"

  "Do I look like one?"

  He eyed my ripped jeans and stained runners.

  "Man, it's hard to believe, and I never thought I'd live to say this, but they actually dress better than you. Are you a friend of Decker's?"

  "No. Never met him."

  "Don't tell me you're a friend of Liz's?"

  A friend? Yes. What else I wasn't quite sure. We had been lovers and soul mates until I left for Afghanistan. After, it had never been the same. My head was full of too much shit. There was hardly room for me, let alone a girlfriend, so I had ended it. Now? I wasn't quite sure what you would call it. But, yes, we were definitely friends.

  "Yes, I know Liz," I compromised with.

  He gave me a keen glance.

  "Not too well I hope. That won't go down well with Decker."

  Decker and Liz? This was the first I'd heard about it. Not that Liz owed me. If anything it was the other way around. Liz had cared for me three years ago when I got back, wounded, from Afghanistan. I was as surly as a caged tiger with a tooth ache. She changed my bandages, fed me and put up with my moods only to get dumped. I was a real catch.

  "I'm sure Decker won't care," I offered.

  He was clearly amused. "You don't know our Decker, do you? What do you do?"

  "Apparently, I'm the Lord of the Dance."

  "You might have to be, to avoid Decker. Liz was in the kitchen last time I saw her."

  "Hey!" he called out as I moved away. "Promise me you won't tell Decker about you and Liz unless I'm there?"

  "So you can offer emotional support?"

  He laughed. "Good one. No, I always like a good laugh."

  "You're a real caring guy, aren't you?"

  "You got me."

  I moved from room to room, searching for the kitchen. Most of the men were obviously Decker's teammates. The men at the party fell into three categories; black and big, white and big and me. I hadn't been around footballers since I last played when I was fifteen. They seemed a lot different from what I remembered. My mind remembered football environments as noisy, laughing, bragging, swearing get-togethers. And that had been just the girlfriends. The men here were well dressed, scattered around in small groups, talking quietly. Despite what I'd seen in movies, I didn't see anyone doing lines off a girl's stomach or playing drinking games. Most were sipping mineral water or diet Cokes. Made me wonder what had happened to the real men of today. Oh yeah, I forgot. They were busy getting facials and lipo-suctioning a six-pack.

  I had wandered through quite a few rooms and still no kitchen. Had Davis been pulling my leg? Did rich people still have kitchens? Or had they also gone the same way as aging gracefully and monogamy? I stopped at a table to take on replenishments. Judging by the size of the house I'd need it. I ate a pigs in a blanket and gagged. Vegetables! Did they have no shame?

  Someone laughed behind me.

  "It got you too, did it?"

  A short skinny guy with glasses stood next to me holding a plate of food. Must be the team accountant.

  "Vegetables!" I said.

  He nodded. "I know. Cruel, isn't it? I had a pot pie that was filled with beans and broccoli. It's supposed to make us fitter, give us more energy. Personally, I think I'd get more energy from eating a Mars bar but what do I know?"

  I looked at him again.

  "You're a player?" I said, surprised.

  He gave a short laugh. "Don't worry. I get that a lot. I'm Sam Jeffries. I do the kicking. The good thing about it is I can eat anything I like."

  "Good luck with that." I dubiously eyed the spread of so called healthy foods.

  "Try the kitchen. There's some real food in there."

  "Is this kitchen actually in this dimension?"

  "Having trouble finding it? Come on, I'll show you the way."

  He led me through such a convoluted series of rooms I was going to need a Sherpa to navigate my way out. When we entered the kitchen, I wondered how I could ever have missed it. I could park three Winnebagos in it and still have room for a patio out the back. Gathered around a huge walnut-colored table was a small crowd. The men, judging from their size and build, were mainly players. Most had their jackets hanging on the back of chairs and their sleeves rolled up their forearms. The women were uniformly pretty, if not outright stunning, and wore evening dresses. "Real" food was spread out on the table. Cakes, pies and deserts. I should have thought of that at the start. Follow a footballer to find the food. It was right up there, along with follow a politician to find the sex scandal and follow a movie star to find the good drugs.

  A roar went up as we entered. I recognized Troy Decker immediately. Tall, with dark hair and a mousy-blond trimmed beard. His right cheek, I noticed, was bruised. Decker raised his hands in the air and shouted, "And still undefeated champion!"

  "You cheated, Troy!" laughed yet another big, black guy. I recognized him also, due to the long white dreadlocks that fell to his shoulders. Sachelle "Hawk" Hawkins, the leading wide receiver for the Turbos for the last five seasons. "How can I beat you when your damn agent is holding the stopwatch?"

  I had seen Decker's agent occasionally on the TV. Patrick Chester, a good looking thirty-something white guy, with a thatch of brown hair, as thick and smooth as a beaver pelt, tried to appear innocent. This was like Bart Simpson saying, "I didn't do it."

  "Me? Cheat? Hawk, I'm a sports agent. You know I took a vow of integrity and would never do something like that," he said, deadpan. Everyone at the table laughed.

  "Cheated? You think I have to get Chester to cheat to beat your big, black ass, Hawk? I could beat you even if your mother was doing the timing. Here." He took the watch off Chester. "Any old fool could time us and I'd still kick your butt." He peered around and saw me. "You! I don't know you, do I? Come over here and time us."

  "How do I know he's not a ringer? Who's this guy, anyway?" Hawkins had a mouthful of big, white teeth, with one very prominent gold one in front.

  "I don't know. He could be the mother-fucking pool man for all I care. So long as he's got a fucking opposable thumb is all that matters at the moment. Hey, buddy, you do have an opposable thumb, don't you?" Decker handed me the stopwatch. "Start when the knife hits the table the first time and stop it when it hits the table the twenty-first time. He's got to go over and back twice. Think you can do that?"

  Liz was dating this guy? Normally after girls stopped dating me they could only do better. Decker raised one eyebrow at me. Neat trick.

  I'd always wanted to be able to do that. Give me a more sartorial air. But when I'd tried it in the mirror I looked more like someone with a lazy eye.

  "Can you run that by me again?" I said mildly. "My short term memory only runs to two things at a time."

  "Here," Decker said, ignoring me, and handing a plastic knife to Hawkins. The kind they give you at cheap barbecues or kids' parties that couldn't cut an over-ripe banana. Hawkins took the knife and placed his left hand on the table with his fingers splayed out. He held the plastic knife inches above his hand and stared at his hand like he was about to perform open heart surgery.

  "Careful, Hawk, remember you have a game this week. You wouldn't want to hurt a hand and not be able to play. Don't you need four more TDs for a bonus? You hit a finger and you lose." Decker smiled but it wasn't a playful smile. I realized that this was Decker's game face
. Whether the guy was playing in the Super Bowl or tiddlywinks, he just had to win.

  "Just watch this, you skinny, white, bean-pole," said Hawkins.

  Decker was hardly skinny. He was about my height, six-foot-three, with long, ropy muscles.

  Hawkins held his breath and moved the knife until it was hovering just outside his left thumb. He jabbed down and I started the stopwatch. Blindingly fast, he jabbed the knife between his fingers, thumb to outside and back again. The knife skipped across, sounding like an emergency Morse code transmission.

  "Three point five seconds," I said.

  "Hah! That beats your best time, Decker. You may as well give it up now." Hawkins taunted Decker with his big toothy, pirate smile.

  Decker picked the knife up without speaking or glancing at Hawkins. In fact, his eyes had become distant, as if he wasn't even aware of Hawkins' continued taunts. He had a dreamy, half smile on his face as he bought the knife over his hand.

  "Warmup," he said casually and commenced to dance the knife lightly between his fingers barely touching the table. I had thought Hawkins fast, but even just practicing, Decker's knife was a blur. The sound of the knife striking the table came so quickly, I almost felt like looking underneath so see if someone was tapping on it.

  "Ready," Decker whispered without looking up, his knife poised above his hand once more. His hand was unnaturally long with fingers you might find on a pianist. Across the back of his fingers were tiny, white spots as if he had been painting and forgot to clean up.

  His hand moved like a cobra strike. A brief staccato and I stopped the watch.

  "Three point two seconds," I said.

  His teammates exploded and Decker held his hands up in mock appreciation. Hawkins leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

  "You're a fucking freak," he said.

  "That's why I get paid the big bucks, Hawk."

  "No, you get paid the big bucks because you're white, can run without falling over and willing to kiss the ass of all those white corporate fat cats."

  "You need to have a sit down with Chester, Hawk. He might be able to set you up with some deals that suit your image. Like selling used cars or KFC."

  "At least I have people wanting me to endorse their products. What about you, Donald Duck?"

  This seemingly innocuous comment stilled the conversation around the table. Everyone looked at Hawkins like he had just announced at a kid's party that there was no Santa.

  "Come on, Troy, Hawk didn't mean anything by it. Did you, Hawk?" said Chester.

  Judging by the look Decker gave Hawk, there wouldn't be too many throws coming Hawk's way on the weekend. I raised a puzzled eyebrow in Sam's direction, who ignored it. Okay, it definitely needed more work.

  "Did you know Donald Duck's second name was Fauntleroy?" I said into the tense silence. The oil in the social engine, that was me. "In fact, not many people realize Donald Duck was banned from Finland because he didn't wear pants."

  Decker scrutinized me. "Who the hell are you?"

  "While still holding grave reservations about my role, apparently, I'm your dancer."

  Decker's attention focused sharply on me.

  "You're Mark, Liz's friend?"

  "Yes. Is Liz around?"

  "Liz said you were coming." He paused, considering me. "Care to have a go at the champ?" He spun the plastic knife in the air and caught it by the hilt, then held it out to me. "Ever used a knife before?"

  "Me? No, too busy dancing up a storm to be fooling around with knives."

  "Come on. Liz said you were in the Army. Our troops aren't getting soft, are they? Surely you've used a knife."

  "Leave it, Troy. Can't you see he doesn't want to?" said Sam.

  "That's all right, Sam. I was in the Army but I was just a cook. We didn't have any plastic knives but we did have some like this one." I reached past him to a chocolate cake sitting in the middle of the table. From the middle of it I pulled out an eight inch steel knife. I held it up. "Yep, I'm pretty sure we used knives like this one. You know, for cutting the quiches and pastries we made. The troops could never get enough of my jam tarts after a good battle. Packing dead bodies in caskets really works up an appetite, you know. Damn good knife. Here, Troy. You hold it. What do you think? Care to give it a try?"

  Decker took the knife and held it up. He licked his lips and regarded me.

  "Troy, don't be an idiot. You're in the middle of the season," said Chester, who tried to reach past him and take the knife off him. Decker shrugged him off.

  I held my hand out. "Sorry, Troy. Didn't know you were in the middle of a life and death football season. I thought you only needed one hand to throw?"

  Decker surprised me by pulling the knife away from me. "Okay. I'll give it a go, if you will."

  "Troy, don't be an idiot. If this guy gets injured it might cost him fifty bucks. If you get injured it will cost you millions." More important, by the expression on Chester's face, was that it might cost him his fifteen percent. And how had Chester seen my tax file?

  "Shut up, Chester. I can do it."

  "Don't be fucking nuts, Troy. You don't need to prove anything," said Hawkins.

  "I'm not proving anything to anyone but me." He stared at me, hard. "We doing this?"

  I wondered what Liz's reaction might be if I got her boyfriend's finger cut off. It probably wasn't why she invited me over. I thought he'd back down when I produced a real knife, but he wasn't the blowhard I took him for.

  "We don't have to," I said.

  "Yes, we do."

  I saw the challenge in his eyes and wondered what Liz had told him about our past. Did he know about us? Or was this something else. A macho, alpha dog thing. Either way, neither interested me.

  "I think he must have danced in the Army too. He's too scared to do it, Troy," said Hawk.

  On the other hand it might be fun. "Do you want me to go first?"

  "Yeah, make him go first, Troy. He's just as likely to back out after you do it," said a tall, red-headed guy.

  "No, I'll go first. I don't think Mark's the kind of guy who would back out, are you, Mark?"

  I grinned at him, but without an ounce of humor. "I suppose you'll see."

  He nodded. "I suppose I will."

  "Troy, this is fucking crazy. You can't do this." Chester was having kittens at the thought of losing his golden goose.

  "Shut the fuck up, Chester," Decker said. "Here, Sam can time us. Is that okay with you?"

  I shrugged. "Sure."

  "Man, I thought you were just after a sandwich?" Sam said as he took the stopwatch off Decker.

  "I still might. I've always been partial to finger sandwiches, you know."

  Sam grinned and shook his head. "You're a crazy fucker, aren't you?"

  "I'm not watching. This is crazy," said Chester. He knocked over his chair as he suddenly stood up and walked away. "You know if you injure yourself you're not covered by insurance? This little prank could cost you millions." He slammed the door behind him.

  "Any money he's running straight to Sanderson," said Hawk.

  Everyone laughed. I glanced inquiringly at Sam.

  "Sanderson is the team manager," Sam explained.

  "Okay, let's do it before Chester gets Sanderson. You ready, Sam?" said Decker.

  Everyone around the table fell deathly quiet. Decker gently placed the point of the knife above his left thumb. Again he held his breath and his eyes focused like gun barrels on his hand. I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock. Everyone around the table was leaning forward, staring at Decker's hand.

  The knife dropped. Across and back, across and back it flew. A guttural roar from his teammates echoed through the kitchen as Decker finished and, with a flourish, stabbed the knife into the table. It stood there, vibrating back and forth, as everyone clapped and patted him on the back.

  "Three point five seconds," Sam announced.

  "Beat that, Dancer-Man," said Hawk.

  He was quick. I had to give him
that. Not as fast as with the plastic knife but only crazy people were. Decker held the knife out to me hilt first.

  "Your turn" he said. I noticed he had the same faint sprinkling of white spots on his cheeks, barely visible through his beard, that were on his hands.

  "That was very good. You have fast reflexes," I said.

  "Thanks." He appeared slightly abashed for a moment. "You really don't have to do it if you don't want to. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

  "That's decent of you. And you're right. I really am not very good at this game. I tried it once before and look what happened."

  I held up my left hand which was missing the pinkie. The conversation around the table stopped and everyone stared at my hand as if it had just spoken.

  "But a promise is a promise and I do have another nine. I don't really miss my pinkie anyway so what's one more, eh?" I took the knife from Decker. "But I suppose it wouldn't be fair if I used this hand, would it? Only four fingers after all. Guess I'll have to do it left handed, eh?" I changed hands and the knife dropped with a bang to the table.

  The girls visibly flinched and a pretty Asian girl covered her mouth with her hand.

  "Oops, sorry about that. I'm really clumsy with my left. Okay, Sam, are we ready?"

  Sam cleared his throat. "Sure." The word came out hoarsely.

  "Okay then. Better stand back ladies. I remember when I sliced my pinkie off the arterial blood squirted out like a fire-hose."

  The girls sat back as one and the pretty Asian girl pushed her chair noisily away from the table until Hawk stopped her.

  "He's just pulling your leg," he reassured her, but then spoilt it by saying, "Aren't you?"

  I grinned at him. "Give it a couple of seconds and you can make up your own mind. Ready, Sam?"

  I placed my right hand on the table and held the knife in my left. Then without thinking about it I jabbed the knife as fast as I could between each finger. When I finished there was complete silence until Sam spoke.

  "Two point nine seconds," he said slowly.

  I handed the knife back to Decker who studied it. "Have you really done this before?"

  "No."

  "How come you were so much faster than me then?"