Double Reverse

by Tim Green

  Dobbins turned his attention to his immense bodyguard. The man had the seat all the way back and reclined at nearly a forty- five-degree angle but still he appeared to have been crammed into the big sedan.

  Dobbins remembered the first time he'd ever seen Zee. He'd come to him straight from prison in an ill-fitting suit and a pair of black sneakers. If it wasn't for Zee's reputation, Conrad might have poked fun at him. An associate of Conrad's who ran the south side of Memphis had vouched for his effectiveness and his intelligence. It seemed he had done some time on a technicality for an aggravated assault. The DA wanted to pin Zee for the murder of a man he bludgeoned in a nightclub, but no one ever found the body. The DA still held a grudge, so Conrad's friend said the best thing for everyone was if Zee left town. He had assured Conrad he was getting a topflight man, and his words were true. There wasn't anything Conrad had asked Zee to do that he hadn't accomplished with quick, quiet effectiveness.

  Dobbins kept watching his bodyguard as they drove. When Zee stopped chewing his cheek the tip of his purple tongue popped out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes closed briefly as if he were warding off sleep.

  "What you thinkin?" Dobbins asked. Zee was the meanest human being he'd ever known. Conrad had a dog when he was a kid that might have been meaner. It bit everyone, including him, and was known to eat its own shit. Conrad killed it with a pipe one day when it locked onto a neighbor kid's leg and wouldn't let go. But that was a dog.

  "Jus' how," Zee said languidly.

  "How you gonna do it?" Dobbins asked, knowing the answer, knowing Zee contemplated killing someone the way most people daydreamed about an upcoming vacation.

  "Mmmm," responded Zee.

  "Well I want you to bring him to me first," Dobbins said slyly. "I wanna talk to that brother. I wanna know who else is in on this shit. Might be more than just him, an' we gotta know who ... I don't mean just livin' an' breathin' either. I wanna talk to him, Zee. You got that?"

  "Mmmm-huh."

  Zee dropped off his boss, got into his own vehicle--a souped- up purple Bronco with polished chrome wheels--then went straight downhill to his own place. Ten minutes later he emerged from his grimy brown ranch with a black leather satchel. Zee took pride in his craft, and the bag held the tools of his trade. Before getting back into his truck, Zee looked up at the height of the sun and decided he had enough time for a drink or two.

  He took a left on Sunset and drove until the real estate turned squalid. He stopped in front of a crooked hand-painted sign that hung at an angle above the door: MANNY'S SUPPER CLUB. Inside it was dark and musty, and a space fan in the back blew the smell of stale beer and piss toward the open door. Zee ordered a cold shot of Absolut and sipped away at one after another while he scowled and generally scared the shit out of the handful of hardcore drunks scattered up and down the bar.

  When the plastic Colt 45 clock over the mirror read four, it was time to go. He paid for the drinks without leaving a tip. The sunlight in the street blinded him. South of the city, in an even worse neighborhood, he pulled into the dusty lot behind a body shop, exchanged a wad of cash for a stolen white phone company van, and headed east over the hills and out to Pasadena. He soon found himself in Maggs's neighborhood, an upper-middle-class development where the homes had more yard space than the places in LA. proper. Zee pulled over across the street from the Maggs residence, a pale gray clapboard colonial with a spiffy blue-and-white Cold- well Banker FOR SALE sign sprouting from the center of the front lawn. Zee climbed into the back of the van, where he could see without being seen. He unfolded a lawn chair among the tools and coils of cable and sat back to wait for some sign of life.

  At half past five Maggs's wife pulled up in a Volvo wagon with two kids in the back, one boy, one girl. Zee opened the little jackknife on his keychain and picked at the underside of his nails. Every so often he glanced up from the scrapings of yellow crud on the end of his blade to watch the kids play hopscotch on the sidewalk. By the time their daddy pulled up in his shiny white Tahoe the sun had already begun to dip below the bank of houses at the end of the street. The kids ran to the truck. A tall, lanky black man slid out of the driver's side and awkwardly bent to hug them. He took the kids by their hands and walked with an evident limp up the driveway, to the porch, and in through the front door. Dinnertime.

  Zee grunted quietly to himself at the thought of something to eat now that the vodka was starting to wear thin. Someone had left a paper bag of little white powdered doughnuts on the parts shelf. The half-moon cellophane window told him the bag was still half full. Zee popped the doughnuts into his mouth one by one, then licked his fingers until the only trace was the white powder lacing his lips.

  If Maggs went out, Zee would follow, looking all the while for the right time and place to snatch him. If he stayed put for the night, Zee would go in and get him, and that's why he needed the leather bag that contained the appropriate drugs for a job like that. He hoped that would be the case. There was nothing like going into someone's home while everyone slept. It was like invading another person's dreams. The feeling of power was complete. To look down at the sleeping face of a child or a woman, or even a man, and know that you could crush their windpipe and see the terror in their eyes as they became briefly conscious only to piss themselves before dying.

  At eleven the lights went out, at twelve-thirty he moved the van to the front of Maggs's house, and by one Zee was on the move with his bag slung over one shoulder and his stomach growling angrily. His first stop was the phone box. It stood erect at the edge of the lawn. With a screwdriver and some wire cutters from the pack he quickly severed the phone line before marching straight up the driveway. If there was an alarm, it would call in to the security company when he went through the door. Without the phone line, no one but he and the Maggses would know they had a visitor.

  As he approached the house, Zee heard the comfortable hum of air-conditioning units from the windows above. Nothing made a job easier than a good supply of white noise. When Zee was a kid they'd always go for the homes with air conditioners protruding from the windows. That usually meant that anything short of a gunshot wouldn't wake a soul. With a jimmy Zee quickly opened the side door to the garage, then with the same tool he quickly sprung the door into the house. Sweet silence signaled the lack of an alarm.

  Zee crept upstairs and into the little girl's room. He set his pack on the floor and removed a Ziploc bag stuffed with a white rag that had been soaked in sevoflurane as well as a nose dropper full of Versed, a strong amnesic. Zee had no idea how or why the drugs did what they did; he just knew they worked, and he used them the way a simpleton might use a surgeon's scalpel to cut a slice of toast.

  He stood over the little girl for several minutes, simply watching her breathe and timing it with his own. Then without any warning he broke the peaceful moment. From the plastic bag he removed the damp rag and with his big hand he clapped it over her mouth. Her eyes shot open, wide with horror at the sight of his huge face and the fetid smell of his toothy grin. This was the part he lived for. But in four seconds it was over. She was gone.

  He let the sevoflurane rag lie over her mouth and nose for half a minute more before stuffing it back into the bag and sealing it tight. Then carefully he bled several drops of the Versed into her nose. She would wake up in the morning without any capacity whatsoever to remember the big dark bogeyman of her dreams.

  The little boy was next, then came the tricky part: two for one, and the wife was facedown. Zee drew forth the rag with his head turned to the side. There was no odor, and he knew if he drew in much more than a whiff he'd be out cold himself. Carefully he laid the rag across Maggs's face. The former player emitted a quiet little moan and shifted his head ever so slightly before going comatose. Zee looked at his watch. He let Maggs breathe the drug for a good forty seconds before removing it.

  Now he could do anything that he wanted to with the wife, and that made his heart race. The last one in a house was always the best.
In this middle-class home, amid the narcotic hum of the air conditioner, he could create his own little version of hell. He could strip her and do things to her, make her afraid, make her beg, even make her scream, with no one who could help her. He actually sat down on the edge of the bed to turn the whole thing over in his mind, imagine it.

  Of course, it was something he wouldn't do. He had a job and the job came first. A ravaged woman would prove that something violent had happened. The job called for wife and kids to wake and wonder where Dad had run off to. Zee let out a heavy sigh and took the rag from its bag once more, holding it at arm's length. With his free hand he began to rub the wife's leg. A little fun within the rules couldn't hurt. She slapped at his hand in her sleep like it was a mosquito. Finally she rolled over, sat up, looked right at him with eyes as wide as saucers, and screamed.

  He pinned her under the covers and grabbed at her while laughter rolled up out of his belly and accompanied her shrieks of terror. He struggled to get the rag over her mouth with her fighting him like a hellcat, and soon his laughter gave way to anger and he had to check himself from smashing in her pretty face. Another minute of battle and he had her. Breathing hard, he got up off the bed and put away the rag before giving her several drops of Versed and tucking her back beneath the covers.

  Without any additional nonsense he scooped up his black bag and crossed to the other side of the bed. He took out a roll of duct tape and used it to wrap Maggs up like a fly in a spider's web. As he shouldered the former player's angular body, Zee proudly figured that Trane would say it resembled the way someone would handle a rug. With Maggs's head thumping against the walls and doorways of the house Zee made his way back outside, locked up behind himself, and loaded up the van.

  Chapter 10

  After breakfast, Madison attended a roundtable discussion about media relations during a criminal trial, then delivered the closing remarks to the entire conference at eleven before heading back to her hotel. She changed into a faded pair of jeans and a short-sleeved black cashmere sweater, packed quickly, and checked out. A car took her south of the city to a restaurant just across the street from the beach. The theme was Tahiti: thatched roof, bamboo posts, war gods. On the second floor, in the open air, Madison found Clark Cromwell waiting patiently and alone. Sun and a breeze spilled in from the beach. He rose when he saw her and extended his meaty hand.

  "You look happy," she said, at the same time signaling to the waitress so they could order.

  Clark's big grin matched his blush. His long hair spilled around his bare, tanned shoulders. Dressed in a blue tank top, cutoff shorts, and sandals, and with muscles and veins bulging everywhere, he looked like a cross between a bodYouilder and a surfer. He wasn't an overly handsome man, but there was something endearing about his ingenuous grin and his striking dark blue eyes.

  "I'm always happy," he said, looking at her directly.

  After they'd ordered, she said, "Strong words for a man who's been cut from his team after having his neck fused together."

  Clark shrugged in agreement, but couldn't stop smiling.

  "Well, I know you're not smiling about this contract situation, so you must be in love," Madison said in an offhand way.

  Clark's face went from a slight blush to beet red. He looked down at the place mat in front of him and fiddled with his silverware.

  "How bad is it?" he said.

  "The blushing or the contract?"

  "Contract."

  "I didn't want to leave it on your machine," Madison explained, "and I'm sorry I've been tied up with this conference. As I said, I met with Armand Ulrich on Thursday evening and we worked out a deal I think you'll-- Well, not that you'll be happy with it. I know you were planning on about two and a half million this year, but given the circumstances. . . Ulrich pretty much wanted to stay with three-fifty, but I convinced him that with Trane Jones in their backfield, they'd need you as much for moral balance as they would for your blocking abilities. Anyway, I got him up to seven hundred and fifty thousand on a one- year deal."

  Madison eyed her client carefully. The color in his cheeks had begun to dissipate, but his eyes had that incandescent quality that just didn't match the news of a substantial pay cut.

  "That okay with you?" she said.

  "A lot better than minimum," he pointed out.

  "Well, it cost me a favor. I want you to know that. I wouldn't do it for everyone."

  Clark knit his eyebrows and looked at her with concern.

  "Don't worry," she said. "I didn't have to give up my firstborn, just a future 'favor,' whatever that means. Nothing illegal; I got that out up front."

  "You didn't have to do that," he said.

  "I wanted to do it, Clark," she told him. "Like I told Ulrich, you're the kind of person that's good for sports. It's getting worse, and I think any of us who are in the business should do whatever we can to perpetuate the career of someone who can play in the NFL or the NBA who's still a decent human being."

  "Well, thank you."

  ""Vbu're welcome," she said. "So, you going to tell me about Miss Right?"

  Clark looked up at her, grinning again. "I've never felt like this," he told her. "I've had girls that I really respected and liked, and I've known women who ... I don't know, who got me feeling . . . You know what I mean?"

  "Got your blood up?"

  "Well, I don't want to say lustful. . ."

  "You didn't. I did."

  "Okay, well, whatever it is, that physical attraction. The thing that just gets you . . . excited. I'll say that."

  "Okay, so she's got your blood up," Madison said with a mischievous smile. She respected Clark's religious convictions, but she liked to tease him. It made him seem more human when she loosened things up a little.

  "But I like her, too. It's what I've always wanted. But I just met her and I know that you can't... I don't know, is there love at first sight? Or second sight? Is that crazy?"

  "People have been pawning it off since the beginning of time, so I think there's got to be something to it."

  "Madison, I know you're my agent, but you're a woman. I mean, is this for real? Do things really happen like that? Did you feel that the first time you saw your husband?"

  "Which one?"

  "Oh," he said, flustered. "I didn't know. I just knew you were married . . ."

  "It's okay," she said warmly, reaching over the table and patting the back of his hand. "My first husband, I fell in love with him pretty much at first sight. In fact, it was pretty much downhill after that, but I didn't know any better, despite being at the top of my law class, despite being determined to be a tough, sharp female attorney. I got burned. My first husband was ... he was a bad person. No, he wasn't. He wasn't a person at all. He was an animal.

  "Now, my second husband, he's a sweetheart, and I guess I fell in love with him at first sight, too, even though I didn't want to. In fact, the first time I saw him we argued--"

  "But you felt that double thing I'm talking about," Clark said hopefully, "the excitement, but also that thing like, 'Hey, I like this person'?"

  "Yeah," Madison said, looking past him into the hazy blue sky, remembering. Cody was a player himself then, handsome and with muscles like taut cables beneath his typically faded clothes. He was quiet and brooding, with a hint of danger about him, but even then Madison thought there was something softer underneath. He was the kind of man people talked about, but at the same time no one really seemed to know him. Her face softened with the nostalgia. She closed her eyes briefly against the brightness of the sun, then opened them. "I guess I did feel that with him."

  "And you still do," Clark said, mangling a spoon.

  "feah, I do. That's why I'm going to eat this salad fast and get on the road," she said as the waitress arrived with their food. "If I miss the two o'clock to Dallas, I won't get home tonight, and I've been gone since Thursday."

  Clark raised his water glass. "Then here's to true love at first sight."

  "Yeah," Madi
son said, raising her glass to his. "Just like the second time."

  Chapter 11

  The sun was a brilliant disk of heat in the cloudless sky. The air was thick from the smell of cut grass baking. It was the first day of minicamp. Beads of sweat broke out on the players' foreheads as soon as they began to stretch their hamstrings, doubling over, touching toes. They wore no pads, only shorts and purple mesh practice jerseys. Beside each man was his unbuckled helmet. The weight coach, dressed like the other coaches in tight purple shorts and a gray T-shirt, barked at them from the fifty-yard line. The other coaches wandered among the players, who were lined up in columns seven or eight men deep like soldiers at reveille. In this martial setting, even Trane Jones looked like he was part of a team.

  When the stretching was over, the helmets went on and the team broke apart into smaller groups to run through drills specific to their positions. Linemen attacked padded sleds with mindless anger. Receivers made silent diving catches without bothering to celebrate. Quarterbacks threw whistling balls among themselves. And the runners blasted through the tickler, a cage of thick rubber appendages attached to industrial-strength springs that stung like mallets if you went through too slowly. The rookies always did. The second day was always their time to compare nasty purple welts in the shower.

  Kemp, the running back coach, blew his whistle and barked the order to begin. Clark Cromwell led the way with a snort and pawed at the earth with his cleats when he was through. Trane Jones came next. He seemed to glide, moving so swiftly through the tickler that its bright orange fingers resembled flower petals in a breeze. Gulliford, who was now the backup tailback, banged through, then Wales, then Ossenmeyer. Then came Ike Webber, the fifth-round draft pick from Bowling Green, leading the rookies. The tickler tripped him up and battered his arms and legs as he staggered through, falling out the back end onto the hot grass. While Trane snickered, Clark helped the rookie to his feet and gave him a pat on the rump.