Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  I stood next to her. "No. They all have different backgrounds and ages. I can't find anything that ties them together. Nothing in common, apart from being male."

  "Well, that and the obvious."

  "What's that?"

  "They all had hearts."

  CHAPTER 26

  I knew I couldn't get that crazy thought I had at the school out of my mind until I checked it out. Bear was right. I couldn't let anything go. Unfortunately, he was also right about my smarts. This was one of the dumbest ideas I'd had.

  But I remembered the case of Dominic Falso and that gave me hope. Dominic is still doing fifteen years in Attica for robbing the National Bank in Pittsburgh back in 2006. Dominic is quite famous in criminal circles. Not for robbing the bank, but in the manner in which he was caught. He actually completed the bank robbery part without a hitch. He filled out a withdrawal form and gave it to the cashier. On the bottom of the form he had written I have a bomb. Give me all your money.

  The frightened cashier gave him the money and Dominic got clean away. He was sitting in his living room counting his takings when the police SWAT team burst through the door. They handcuffed him as he lay on the floor.

  "How did you find me?" he had whined.

  One of the SWAT team threw Dominic's deposit slip down on to his chest. "You wrote your address down on the deposit slip, you dipshit."

  So, while I knew my idea was dumb, my hope was that the Deckers had been dumber. I flew back to Buffalo, where the Decker's lived, hired a car and drove out to Bennett High School.

  Bennett High School was the closest high school to where the Decker family lived. You see, I had remembered what Rick Fensen, the Syracuse recruiting manager, had said to me. Decker had taken the bus to community college because they were dirt poor. If they were so poor, might he have just gone to the nearest high school to save money? Pretty dumb if you are trying to hide your identity.

  But remember Dominic Falso.

  That was the mantra echoing through my head as I walked into the school gym.

  Dominic. Dominic. Dominic

  Which was way better than dumb...dumb...dumb, which is what I felt like.

  The coach of the Bennett Tigers football team was Mitch Peters. I found him by following a group of students carrying sports bags, all of whom were big and without one neck among them. Peters' office was crammed between the men's locker room and the football storeroom.

  I knocked on the open door that had a picture of a snarling tiger on it. "You got a moment, Coach?"

  "Sure, what can I do for you?"

  Coach Peters was black, about thirty-five with a round face.

  "I'm Mark Tanner. I'm a reporter for the local paper and am doing a feel-good piece on local boys who have made it into professional sports teams. I was wondering if you could give me any information on kids you have coached who later went pro."

  Peters sat back, thinking. "You mean into the NFL? We've had a few. John Gotham is an old boy of ours and he's a linebacker for the Redskins. Craig Matthews went here in '07 and is now a punter for the 49ers. Let me think. Oh yeah, Jason Dodman went here in '09 and is now a kick returner for Miami. They're probably our most successful recently. If you want to come back later I can prepare a more detailed list."

  "Sounds good. You haven't had any quarterbacks make it into the NFL?"

  "Quarterbacks? I wish! If we had any that good we might have done a lot better recently. We've had a couple of good quarterbacks go onto colleges but none have been drafted."

  "Who was your quarterback in 2004?"

  "2004. Jesus, that's going back a ways. Let me think. That would have been Michael Stevens. He went to Texas in 2005 but I wouldn't call him anything special. I'm afraid in 2004 our baseball program was a lot more successful than the football. We won the State Baseball Championship that year. I've been doing my damnedest ever since to catch up.

  "You win the State Championship and the money comes flooding into your program. You lose and you go to the back of the line. And it was all luck! That year the baseball team had the best natural damned pitcher I've ever seen just walk in and try out. And he'd never played high school ball before! Best damn arm I've ever seen.

  "Now I've got to look at their damned photo every time I walk into the school. But we're getting back on track now. This year we're sitting third and have a real shot at the title. You should come back and do a story on that. What do you think?"

  "Yeah, that sounds a good idea," I said, as I moved towards the door. "I'll give you a ring and set something up. Thanks, coach. Appreciate the help."

  "No problem. Call me."

  "Oh, one more thing. I heard that Troy Decker came from out this way. Any truth to that?"

  "Troy Decker? Don't I wish! We would have been unbeatable if we had him playing for us. No. He's not from out here. There's no way he could have played in any team out here and not stood out like a beacon."

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. Thanks anyway."

  And that was the thing, wasn't it? Decker was too good to have played high school football and not been noticed. And if that was the case, how come no one knew what high school he went to? Not for a minute did I believe Decker's lame claim that he went to high school overseas.

  I walked past the locker room where the players were getting changed. Two boys were standing in the doorway, wearing just their padded pants.

  "Hey," said the taller. "Aren't you that guy who's just come on to the Turbos roster?"

  "No."

  "Yeah, I saw you on TV, training with Troy Decker," said his friend. "Mark someone?"

  "I know who you're talking about, but that guy's an Adonis," I said. "He's at least six-five, handsome and with shoulders out to here. Does that sound like me?"

  "I don't know about handsome," said the tall one. "He seemed dorky to me. But, now you mention it, he wasn't as skinny as you and he was a lot younger."

  "There you go."

  I walked out of the gym and down the corridor to the admin building. I stood behind a group of teenagers at the front desk, waiting to hand back my visitor's pass to a wrinkled, gray-haired lady who had threatened me with imminent death if I didn't return it. An argument developed between the students and the Nazi-office-lady, something about hall passes and class attendance.

  While I waited, I studied the trophy cabinets that lined the wall next to me. Coach Peters was right. The baseball team had been kicking the football team's collective butt. Baseball flags and trophies filled up most of the display cabinets. I could see only two football flags and the latest was in 1992. Even Coach Peters couldn't take credit for that one. Many of the photos were of the school's championship baseball teams. A framed photo, at least three feet wide, was mounted above Nazi-lady's head. 2004. The year they won the State Championship. I could see why that would bust Coach Peter's balls. A baseball team in pride of place.

  The picture showed the player's celebrating in the locker room, I assumed after their win. Some were waving their jerseys above their heads while others were jumping in the air. One guy was sitting on the shoulders of another, both grinning goofily at the camera. There was even a player hanging by his hands from a low-hanging rafter. Two other boys were holding a large trophy high in the air. One player was throwing so much confetti in the air it looked like it was snowing.

  I remembered that feeling. The exultation. The pure, unadulterated joy. The camaraderie. I had experienced all of that fourteen years ago when I won a State Football Championship. Two hours later I found both my parents killed.

  The students finally moved off and Nazi-lady eyeballed me. I went to unpin the visitor's pass from my jacket when something about the picture stilled my hand. I took a step closer.

  Originally, the raucous, unfettered celebrations had been what caught my eye. But not all of the players were celebrating. One player was slumped on the bench in front of his locker, watching the others with a small smile. He was tall, blond and lean. Something about him, I don't know what, att
racted my eye.

  "I'll take that pass." I heard Nazi-lady say impatiently but I ignored her.

  I tried to make his features out but the lower half of his face was obscured by the trophy held by the two boys. I jumped up onto the desk and I heard Nazi-lady yell something. But I wasn't listening. The blond boy's face mesmerized me.

  And then I saw them. The spots. White spots. All over his cheeks.

  CHAPTER 27

  "Why do I have to suit up? It's not like I'm going to play. Why aren't you suiting up?" I said to Decker two days later in the locker room. The Dolphins game was an hour away and Decker had just handed me my playing jersey.

  "Injured players don't suit up. Don't worry, if you ever get on during an NFL game, I'll piggy-back you back to that dump you call a home."

  "Then why the hell do I need to suit up? I'm supposed to be watching you, remember?"

  "At the moment, you're our third quarterback. If you don't suit up, it will appear suspicious. Don't worry, I'll be on the side lines feeding plays to Hastings, so I'll never be too far away."

  Players were all doing their own thing in the locker room. Brad Davis sat across from me, listening to music on his head phones. Lamar was leaning against the side of his corral, asleep. Hawk had completed twenty laps of the locker room, bursting with nervous energy.

  "Hey, rookie, feel like you're going to chuck yet?" said Hawk as he passed me yet again. His whole body was wired, ready to explode.

  "Yeah, thanks for the use of your helmet."

  Hawk glanced quickly behind him towards his gear then back at me. "That's no joke, man. No one touches my helmet, hear me?"

  "He's superstitious," said Davis, grinning. "He thinks if anyone touches his helmet before a game he won't score. He takes it home every night."

  "I think he sleeps with it," said Sam Jeffries. "If you ask me, you're too close to that helmet, Hawk. It's starting to get weird. Guys are starting to talk."

  "You can all get fucked," Hawk said. "I've scored twenty-five touchdowns in that little beauty. Let me tell you, it's helped me more than any fucking fullback. If anyone touches it, I'll kill them."

  "I take it back, Hawk. You're perfectly normal," said Sam.

  "Fucking believe it." Hawk bounced away.

  "Not really one for sarcasm either, is he?" said Sam. "How you feeling? Your first NFL game, eh?"

  "I'm just keeping the pine warm. That's all."

  "Hey, two injuries and you're out there. You never know."

  "Two injuries and I'm out the door," I said.

  "Strange attitude for a rookie. I thought you'd be itching to play. You've waited long enough. How old are you? Forty-five?" Davis smiled, clearly enjoying baiting me.

  "Twenty-nine."

  "Just nerves, that's all," interjected Decker. "Come on, there's the call."

  We filed out and stood in the corridor, waiting to be called onto the field. I found myself standing next to Lamar. It felt like I was standing in the lee of a mountain.

  Lamar peered down at me. "You want some advice?"

  "Sure."

  "Don't put chickens and snakes in the same cage." He ran ponderously down the race.

  Even though I wasn't going to take the field, it was hard not to get a chill down my spine when we ran out to the roar of eighty thousand voices. Moments like this I kept locked in a small, black box in my head. I had to separate myself from what was happening. It would be too easy to let go and think what might have been and what if.

  Might-have-beens and what-ifs would kill me.

  I stood on the sideline behind Decker as the team captains took the field for the coin toss. It was a clear, still night and a full moon perched itself, like an extra light, above the western stand. The four hundred foot video screen, The Wall, flashed evocative images of players and fans. The lights, crowd and players created an electric atmosphere. I knew if I was playing I'd be jumping out of my skin at this stage.

  "Not a bad way to come to work, eh?" shouted Coach, who was standing next to me. "Can you believe it? I get paid thousands to do this every week. You know, I'd do it for nothing?"

  "I'll pass that on to the owner."

  Coach grinned. "Don't worry about that. I tell him that every time we meet and then add on an extra ten percent!" He nodded towards Decker. "Do you still have to watch him here? Nothing's going to happen to him in front of thousands of people."

  "That's probably what Monica Seles thought too."

  His grin died. "You're an optimistic son of a bitch, aren't you?" He walked off to talk to our special teams. We had won the coin toss and were kicking off. Sam Jeffries hit me on the shoulder as he ran past.

  "Here we go, rookie! This is what it's all about," he shouted with a big grin on his face. Gone was the laid back sarcasm.

  The Dolphins ran the ball back to the forty off the kick-off and were stalled on the thirty-five by our defense. I watched Decker talking into his mike to the quarterback, Hastings, as he took the field after the punt return. Larkins, the offensive coordinator, was passing on information and plays to Decker who would convey them to Hastings.

  I thought Decker would hate this job but he seemed to enjoy helping the team. Just like that baseball photo back at Bennett High School, where he was sitting back with a small smile, enjoying his teammates' joy. If it wasn't for the spots I wouldn't have recognized him. He had changed both his name and appearance. His nose was straighter and, with the beard and dark brown hair, his appearance was significantly different. I should have clicked when Coach Peters had talked about an unknown player, who could throw like the wind, just walking off the street into the baseball team. But why had Decker played baseball that year instead of football? And why had he changed his name?

  The baseball player in the photo was Terry Dickson. Dickson only went to Bennett High School for his senior year, in 2004. Troy Decker went to Erie for just the one year, in 2005, before being picked up by Syracuse. So where had Decker come from before he played baseball for Bennett High School in 2004? And why was he so hell bent on keeping his past a secret?

  The key was those missing high school years. Find out where he went to high school and the rest would unfold. But this was a needle in a haystack job. There are twenty-seven thousand four hundred and sixty-eight high schools in the US. We needed a way to narrow the search.

  Mole and I were stuck, until Faith came up with a very simple but blindingly brilliant way to narrow the numbers down. We needed a list of the top high school junior quarterbacks from 2003. That shouldn't be as hard as it sounded, as the NFL scouting records were pretty thorough. Then we would check the same list for 2004. Decker didn't play football in 2004. If our guess was correct there should be at least one player who would appear on only one of the lists. Troy Decker or Terry Dickson, or whatever the hell he was calling himself then.

  Decker glanced over his shoulder at me as he called plays into the mike. Our eyes met. I hadn't told him what I'd found out. What was the point? He'd just deny it. And there was no definitive proof that was him in the photo. What do a few spots prove, he would say? They could be blemishes in the photo.

  No, I had to find out more before confronting him. I hadn't been keen on helping Liz at the start, but Decker had me hooked. I was intrigued and I knew I wouldn't drop it until I found an answer to all these questions.

  "Uncle Mark!"

  My goddaughters, Jessica and Lucy, were waving from the front row. Next to them sat Bear and Jade. I walked over.

  "Shouldn't you stay over there, Uncle Mark? They might need you," said Jessica.

  "If they do, they're in more trouble than I can help them with. Hi, Jade."

  Jade's long blonde hair draped over the long black coat she wore. Her hair and skin glowed in the stadium lights, and I could see all the men sitting near trying not to stare.

  "Is this supposed to be your disguise, oh-man-of-a-thousand-faces?" asked Bear. "You look like Liam Neeson doing the worst super hero of all time, Darkman."

  I w
ore a Turbos warmup coat with the collar turned up and a Turbos cap pulled low over my face.

  "Don't listen to him, Uncle Mark. You look great," said Lucy. "With the pads on you look like you're really strong."

  Bear smiled sardonically at me. "Look like is right."

  "When do you go on, Uncle Mark?" Jessica said.

  "Yeah, when are you getting on?" said Bear.

  I ignored him. "Not tonight, sweetie."

  "Oh, really? I wanted to see you play. Dad said you used to be really good."

  "Did he? That doesn't sound like him at all."

  "He also said he was better," said Lucy with a laugh.

  "That sounds more like him."

  "Mark." Bob was leaning over the fence right next to Jessica. "Are the Turbos going to win tonight?"

  I sighed. The person I least wanted to see right now. "Won't you ever leave me alone?"

  "Do you want me to?" She lowered her voice, huskily.

  Lucy laughed.

  "More than you could ever know," I said.

  "Why, Mark, you've hurt my feelings." She said to Jessica. "Is he always this mean?"

  "Mom says we should be grateful because we're the only people he's nice to," said Jessica, with the awful truthfulness and perfect memory that only kids have.

  "Is that right? You must be very special people then. I'm Bob. What's your name?"

  "I'm Jessica. Bob? Isn't that a boy's name?"

  "It's short for Bobette. Is this your sister?"

  "Yes, her name is Lucy. That's Jade and that's my dad. You can call him Bear. Everyone does."

  "I can see why. Pleased to meet you all." Bob shook hands with Lucy and then extended her hand to Bear. Bear held out his left hand and Bob awkwardly twisted her right hand to take it.

  "This one is better for shaking than my other." Bear held up his prosthetic right hand and moved the fingers slightly to show it wasn't real. He was wearing what he liked to call his royal hand. He said it looked real enough to give the royal-wave without anyone realizing it was fake. Bear was the only person in the world who had names for his hands. He was right about his hand, however. It was made of some incredible space age material and, until you touched, it appeared amazingly life-like.