Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "Why? Don't you like me?"

  "That's not what I meant."

  "So you do like me?"

  I didn't answer.

  She leaned forward. I could smell mint on her breath. "You know, most men would have kissed me by now."

  "I didn't know it was a race."

  "It doesn't have to be. I like team sports too."

  I grinned. "You're something else, you know that?"

  "You don't know the half of it." She leaned forward and kissed me.

  But I soon did.

  * * * *

  I was dreaming that my foot was being eaten, so I awoke. My foot was being eaten. Little Bear. The blanket thief.

  "Get off," I said.

  Little Bear dragged the blanket off, revealing a naked Bob lying face down on my bed. I groaned. What had I done? What would Bear say?

  "I'm fucked," I muttered.

  "You should be. I did my best." Bob had rolled on to her side and was smiling at me. She was completely naked. If Bear could see what I was looking at he couldn't blame me, surely?

  "So, isn't this where you're supposed to tell me your life story?" she said.

  I grunted.

  "So, it's a short story, then? Figured. You're so closed up, it's like trying to get into Fort Knox. Look, you haven't even taken your t-shirt off."

  "I have a skin condition." The last thing I wanted her to see were my tattoos and scars. It would be like giving the prisoners the keys to the jail.

  "Mental condition, more likely." She held up my left hand with the missing little finger. "What happened here?"

  "Got stood on playing football when I was a kid. The stud sliced it clean off."

  "What about that? Don't tell me that's a football injury?" She ran her toes over the white scarring on my calf, the legacy of a not so friendly meeting with a bullet from an AK47 in Afghanistan. Its brother lived on my left bicep.

  "Nah, that was Bear."

  "Your friend?"

  "Yeah, we went duck shooting when we were kids and he lost his balance. He shot me as he fell out of the boat."

  "Doesn't look like shotgun scarring. Looks more like a bullet wound."

  "Are you kidding? You'd have to be hunting ducks the size of hippos to use a bullet that big."

  "You know, I can't decide if you're the most colorful man I've ever met or the biggest liar."

  "Gee, can't I be both?"

  Bob draped her leg and arm across me and ran her hand under my t-shirt. "Right now you can be whoever you would like to be. I might be persuaded to stay a little longer if you're nice to me," she murmured, as she nuzzled my neck, and then kissed me. She sat astride me and I could feel the warm, softness of her.

  My hands automatically cupped her smooth, round cheeks. I felt myself respond and our kiss deepened. So much for extricating myself from the situation. To paraphrase, I can resist anything except temptation.

  She sat back on her haunches, reached down and held me. "I think that means you want me to stay." She smiled suggestively. "I don't care about any skin condition. Let's ditch the t-shirt."

  Her hands went under my t-shirt, pushing it up. I rolled over on top of her, kissing her hard, as her legs wrapped around me.

  My cell phone rang.

  "Are you really going to answer that?" Bob said, as I slid off her.

  She lay on her back staring up at me, her arms and legs spread-eagled.

  "Yeah, I can't believe it either but I'm expecting an important call."

  "Where's your shower then?"

  I pointed.

  Bob slipped out of the bed, still completely naked, and opened the shower door. "You're kidding, right?"

  The bathroom was tiny, barely enough room to turn around. If you dropped the soap you were gone.

  "Go crazy," I said.

  She rolled her eyes and disappeared inside.

  I flicked my cell open. No one spoke.

  "Hey, Mole. What have you got?"

  I blocked one ear after Bob shouted from inside the bathroom, "If I'm not out in two minutes send in the Jaws-of-Life!"

  "There were five players," Mole said.

  I stared at nothing, thinking.

  "So there were five nationally ranked junior quarterbacks who played in 2003 but not in 2004?" I said after a moment.

  "Correct. I ran checks on them. Two were genuine long term injuries, one moved overseas and one changed to basketball."

  "And the fifth?"

  "Toby Dyson. His team won State titles in 2001 and 2002 and he was one of the top-rated, freshman quarterbacks in the country. He didn't play at all in 2004. I've checked across the country and haven't been able to find him in any school in 2004."

  "Hold on." I pulled off my tee shirt and reached for a clean one. As I did the bathroom door opened and Bob popped her head out.

  "Towel?" she said.

  I turned my back on Bob as I quickly pulled on the clean t-shirt. I still couldn't risk her seeing my tattoo. After throwing her a towel, I stepped out of the Winnebago in my bare feet. The grass was cold and wet underfoot.

  "Perhaps you couldn't find Dyson in any school in 2004 because he was playing baseball under the name Dickson at Bennett High School?" I said. "Toby Dyson. Terry Dickson. Troy Decker. It's got to be the same person. Where's this Dyson from?"

  "Leadville."

  "Where the hell is that?"

  "It's a small town somewhere in the Rockies. The closest major city is Denver, Colorado."

  "Ah huh."

  "Why does that please you?"

  "Because that is our first positive clue."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The stalker who placed the drugs and gun in Decker's car. Remember what cap he was wearing?"

  "Broncos?"

  "Correct. The Denver Broncos."

  CHAPTER 30

  I flew into Denver that morning. Bear was going to watch Decker. Or Dickson. Or Dyson. Whoever the hell he was.

  Toby Dyson had played for the Spartans at Thomas Jefferson High School in Denver. I walked down another school hall way into another school gym. Coach Gains was watching game tapes when I walked into his office. Gains was black, in his mid-thirties and big. Ex-linebacker, I thought.

  "Hi, Coach. I'm Mark Presser."

  "Pleased to meet you," said Gains. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm a freelance writer and I'm doing research on an article about great high school football players who have fallen through the cracks. Kind of a 'what-if' piece on players that might have made it big if they had kept playing."

  "There's no shortage of them. Football chews them up and spits them out like a hungry wolf. Every year there are hard luck stories like that. You could find enough for a hundred articles like that I reckon."

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. But I'm not just looking at hard luck stories. I want to look at players that could have been great. You know, like if Peyton Manning's career was cut short in his sophomore year by a crippling knee injury."

  "There's not many as good as that. If there were, I'd be coaching college football by now."

  "I know. Players that good are rare. The reason I've come to you was that I heard you did have a gun player like that a few years back. A quarterback, lightning fast with a great throwing arm who played for you back in...2001 to 2003."

  Gains nodded. "You mean Toby Dyson?"

  "That's the name. I heard he was one of the best? Do you remember him?"

  "Not likely to forget him. The best young quarterback I've ever seen. Toby could run through a bee swarm without being stung and hit a receiver, lace out, forty yards away on the opposite side of the field. We won two state championships when he was here. He was a hell of a player. If anyone was going to make it big it was him."

  "What happened to him? Did he play in his senior year?"

  "No. I never saw him after Thanksgiving, his junior year. He just never came back. Damn shame. The boy could have been anything."

  "What happened? He was your star player. You mus
t have heard something?"

  Gains shifted uneasily.

  "Look, I don't like to repeat rumors. Especially if those rumors are going to end up in print."

  "I won't print rumors, Coach. I won't print anything I can't confirm."

  "I can't tell you anything much, anyway. Toby came from some small town up in the Rockies. From memory, he boarded with some distant cousins in Denver and went home every weekend. All I heard was that he had a camping accident, was injured badly and couldn't return to school. I never saw the boy after that Thanksgiving weekend."

  "Would you have a photo of him? It would be good for the article."

  I watched as Gains extricated himself from his chair, like a hippo climbing out of a mud wallow.

  "I think he'll be in one of these," said Gains pointing to the many framed team photos that hung on the wall. Gains moved along checking out each photo.

  "Yeah, thought so. Here he is. 2003."

  It was a traditional football team photo. Five rows of pimply faced teenagers, throwing their chests out and flexing their biceps. I looked at where Gain's big, fat finger was pointing.

  A tall, lean blond haired player with a big, happy smile. I leaned closer until I was only inches away. Was it Decker or Dickson? The nose was slightly crooked like Dickson's, Decker's was straight. The build was similar and he was blond, but I had never seen Decker smile like that. And it was nothing like the small, reserved smile that Dickson wore in the baseball photo. This kid appeared happy, extroverted, fun loving. I could see nothing of Decker in that smile. But his other features, the chin, the eyes, the way he held himself, that was Decker.

  I began to move away, and then stopped. Not because of what I saw but what I didn't see.

  Spots. There were no white spots on the boy's cheeks.

  CHAPTER 31

  I left the gym and cut across the lawn towards the school library. It was a clear day but you could cut the brisk air with a knife. Students wore coats, gloves and hats. A small, wispy-haired man in overalls and coat was raking leaves dropped from five or six huge sycamores over an area the size of a hockey rink.

  "Big job. Ever thought about getting a ride-on?" I said to him.

  He leaned on the rake. His hands were sun-blotched and gnarly, his face brown and weathered. Stitched on his lapel in red letters was the name Ted.

  "What do you think that is over there?" Ted nodded toward something behind me.

  A ride-on leaf catcher was parked at the side of the gym.

  "Not working?"

  "Yep. Damn thing breaks down every month."

  "You been working here long, Ted?"

  "You're looking at me. What do you think?"

  "I think you've been here as nearly damn long as those sycamores."

  Ted grinned. He was missing two front teeth.

  "These days I feel like it too," he said.

  "Wonder if you could help me, Ted? I'm trying to find out something about an ex-student. He went here in 2003. Toby Dyson. He was the quarterback for the football team."

  Ted nodded. "Yeah, I remember him. We won the State Championship when he was here."

  "That's right. Two of them."

  "Yeah. It took me dang nearly two days to clean up after. Toilet paper, bottles, confetti. You wouldn't believe the mess."

  "Yeah, I can imagine. I'm writing an article about Dyson. Do you know why he didn't come back to school after Thanksgiving or return the following year?"

  "You talk to Coach Gains?"

  "Yeah."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said Dyson had some sort of camping accident which stopped him returning."

  "Accident? Well I guess you could call it that."

  "What do you mean?"

  Ted glanced away, thinking. "It was a long time ago. Not sure about the details exactly because it happened a long way away. Somewhere up in the mountains, as far as I can recall."

  "Yes, but what do you mean, you guess you could call it an accident?"

  Ted shrugged. "What else do you call it when someone gets killed?"

  "Who got killed?"

  "Can't remember. Like I said, it didn't get much coverage here because it happened a long way away. And, like Coach Gains said, it was just a hunting or camping accident, can't remember which. Dang memory is as sharp as warm butter these days."

  "How was Dyson injured?"

  "No good, young fellow. Too long ago."

  "Did Dyson have any friends?"

  "Yeah. He was very popular. I always saw him hanging out with friends. He was never on his own."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  "Yes, now that you mention it. He used to always be with two other boys from the football team. They were always either throwing a football or skylarking about. Cheeky rascals. I remember, one time they took my mower and cut school sucks into the grass. Got suspended for that, they did. But only for a day. No one wanted that Dyson boy to miss a game."

  "Can you remember their names?"

  "Sorry. That's gone along with most of my hair."

  "If you remember anything give me a call?" I handed him one of my cards.

  I was walking up the stairs to the school library when Ted called, "Hey!"

  I turned. "Yeah?"

  "He wasn't the only one."

  "The only one what?"

  "Dyson. He wasn't the only one who didn't come back. None of those three boys ever returned to school after Thanksgiving."

  "You sure?"

  "Yep. Kinda makes you wonder what happened on that camping trip, doesn't it? Must have been a hell of an accident."

  CHAPTER 32

  The school librarian appeared almost as young as the students sitting at the tables. She had long red hair and a pretty elfin face. Times had changed. When I was at school there were three rules that all librarians followed. They had to be middle aged, poorly dressed and have a sore-tooth disposition.

  I read her name tag. "Hi, Sarah."

  "Hi, can I help you?"

  "Yeah, can I look at your yearbook for 2003? I'm doing a story on an ex student."

  "Certainly. You will have to look at it here though. They're not available for loan. Have a seat and I'll find it for you."

  I sat down at one of a dozen tables along the wall. A skinny kid with glasses was sitting at the table next to me, working on a computer. He glanced at me, and then turned slightly so I couldn't see his screen. He was playing some sort of combat game. There was a laminated sheet of rules stuck on the wall in front of me. Number three, I noticed, was no computer games.

  I studied the kid, who turned even further away from me.

  "Hey, kid."

  He started, guiltily.

  "Don't worry. I'm not a teacher."

  He nodded, unsurely. Didn't trust me. Smart kid.

  "What you playing?"

  He glanced around, and then whispered, "Recon Platoon."

  "Can I play?"

  He took another quick peek around before weighing me up. "Okay. But don't let Miss Ames see you. We're not supposed to play games in here." He passed me his laptop.

  "Rule three?" I said. "Don't worry, I know all about it. If I get caught I'll take the fall. I don't care what they do, they won't get any names out of me, okay? Anyway, Miss Ames and I are old friends. To me, she's Sarah."

  "Do you know how to play?"

  "Know how to play? I did three tours of Afghanistan." I played for a minute.

  He moved closer, watching over my shoulder.

  "You need to shoot in shorter bursts or you'll run out of ammo," he said after a while. "And use the laser scope. It's more effective for long range shooting. That's it. Hide behind that building. No, don't stand up. Crawl. See? You've been wounded. Stay low here. That's it. No, no! You've got to check your rear. You can't move into a hot area without scanning. See, you're dead now."

  "What's five times nine?"

  "Huh?"

  "Thought so."

  "Did you really fight in Afghanistan?" He sounded sk
eptical.

  "Yes."

  "Did you get shot?"

  "Twice."

  He nodded. "Thought so."

  "No one likes a smart ass, kid."

  "Mr. Presser, you shouldn't be encouraging the students to break the rules. We don't allow computer games at school." Miss Ames was standing behind me. I'd forgotten all about rule number four. All librarians move like Navy SEALs on a search-and-destroy mission.

  "Sorry, Miss Ames," I said.

  The kid snickered.

  "Here's the yearbook you wanted. 2003."

  "Thanks."

  I flicked through it and stopped at the center. One photo filled the whole page. Three boys about sixteen years old, with their arms over each other's shoulders, were looking at the camera with big, goofy smiles. They were standing in a locker room and wore only padded football pants. I read the caption.

  Matt Maxwell, Toby Dyson and Ryan Franklin after the Grizzly game 22 November 2003.

  These were probably the friends that Ted, the gardener, had mentioned. They seemed like they didn't have a care in the world, happy, young and wild. Five days before Thanksgiving. They never came back.

  I waited until Miss Ames was checking a book out, coughed and pulled out the center page.

  "You're not allowed to do that," said the kid.

  "You keep quiet and I'll let the computer game slide."

  "Miss Ames thinks you did that. Give me five bucks and I won't say anything."

  I was being blackmailed by a fourteen-year-old.

  "You think I'm scared of, Miss Ames?"

  He just stared at me. Five bucks lighter, I left the library after returning the year book. The bell rang and kids flooded out of the buildings. My cell vibrated in my pocket. I checked the caller ID.

  "Yes, Bear?"

  "How's it going?"

  "It's getting interesting. Terry Dickson was really Toby Dyson. He went on a camping trip over Thanksgiving in 2003 and someone was killed. Toby never returned to Thomas Jefferson."

  "Who was killed and how?"

  "Don't know yet. I'm going to the main library to check their newspaper records."

  Bear grunted.

  "Anything new there?" I said.

  "You could say that."

  "What?"

  "Fulton rang me. They were doing more tests on the heart they found in Symonds."