by David Chill
I frowned. Not being sure of how to respond, I said nothing. Sometimes the best response is no response.
"You didn't do anything bad, mind you," she said, her smile still pasted on her face. "But your focus was elsewhere. If I recall correctly, you told one of them there were three things a guy could do in college. Study, play sports and go out with girls. And you told them a guy can only do two of these things well."
"That, uh, sounds like something I might have said."
Being a starting football player at a premier program like USC meant everyone on campus knew who you were. And some people wanted to become friends for reasons not always in a player's best interest. Most often it was innocuous, simply wanting to boast that they knew someone on the team. A few had a professional interest in hooking up players with agents. And then there were the women on campus. It was hard to tell which ones were attracted to a player simply because they liked them. Some were attracted because the players had a certain level of fame -- and might also soon be earning big money if they made it to the pro ranks.
"Oh, don't worry," she said with a wave of her hand. "They got over it. They thought you were headed to a big contract with the NFL. I guess that didn't work out after the injury."
"True. I wound up at the LAPD. Thirteen years on the job."
"Most of my friends didn't marry cops."
"I don't blame them. Most women don't."
Peter smiled. "Izzy had a lot of fun at SC. Mostly driving around campus in her gold Porsche."
"Uh, maybe we don't need to divulge every detail, Peter," she said, with a small cough.
"And I'm not sure I want to hear about it either," Miles declared. "Anyways, we're here to talk about the business. This'll all be theirs one day, and I want to keep it afloat."
"One day? Dad's going to live to be 100," Isabelle smiled.
"And be behind that desk the whole time," added Peter.
"Yeah, yeah," Miles said. "I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. But we need to clean up this crap in the warehouse or this place isn't going to be here when I turn 100. It may not be here when I turn 75."
Peter and Isabelle glanced at each other with nervous expressions.
"Just curious," I broke in. "Doesn't the cable company have their own installers?"
"They do," Peter answered. "But a lot of times they get overwhelmed with work. Their business is up and down. When they're busy, which is typical, they bring us in. We're what's sometimes called a third-party installer. We do the same job, drive vans with the same logos. The customer usually doesn't know the difference. This way the cable company has a lot of flexibility and doesn't have to delay installations too long. If a new customer signs up but doesn't get installed in a few days, the customer often cancels."
I nodded. "Okay. Tell me about the problem you're having."
Peter continued. "So far we've seen a lot of set-top boxes get checked in at the loading dock and then disappear from the inventory. I estimate we've lost over a thousand units. Not to mention the access cards."
"What's your territory?"
"Southern California, Nevada and Arizona. But most of our business is done down here in L.A."
"It's that union guy, Valdez, It's gotta be him," Miles broke in. "He's been itching to stick it to us."
"You know I charge the same fee even if you crack the case," I said, jokingly.
Miles looked at me and started to say something before Peter broke in.
"Dad, we don't know that for certain," he said.
Miles face shifted into an ugly sneer. "Who the hell else could it be? Look it's bad enough the cable company is squeezing us until our eyes bug out. Now I got my own people sneaking out with my product."
"I think that's why we have Mr. Burnside here," Isabelle pointed out.
Indeed it was. And I began to sense I would have multiple bosses. Miles was my client and everyone, including me, answered to him. But this was a family business and family dynamics often get in the way. Plus, there was one other figure who mattered, and she was not here. Understandably, Clara probably had better things to do.
"Okay," I said. "You want me to go undercover to see what I can find out. What does this Valdez guy do other than head up the union?"
"He works for me in operations," Peter said. "Valdez does the routing sheets, meaning he organizes the first assignments for the installers each morning."
"Anyone else you suspect?"
"There are a few of his cronies that may be in on this."
"Does Valdez report to you?" I asked Peter.
"No, he reports to my operations director, Glen Butterworth. Glen says it's only a matter of time before Valdez slips up."
"And how long has this Glen Butterworth worked for you?"
Isabelle spoke up again. "About a year. Don't worry about Glen," she said and then turned to Miles. "Daddy I think it might help if we tell everyone Burnside works for Glen. Maybe call him a consultant."
"Fine," Miles said. "But just so as we're clear, you're really working for me."
"Clear," I said. "But I'll need access to all parts of your building. You never know where things wind up."
Peter shrugged. "I'll arrange for security clearance with Butterworth."
"Security clearance?" I raised my eyebrows.
"We've had some threats." Peter pointed out. "Goes with the territory. Anyone associated with a cable company can be a target. You'll need a badge to enter, and only special badges get you full access throughout the premises."
Miles broke in. "There's a few places you can't go. Some areas just have to be kept private."
"Okay," I said. It was Miles' company and he had the right to have the final say on things. "Anyone else you might suspect here?"
"I'll draw up a list," Peter said. "There's some ex-employees who've left on bad terms."
Miles shrugged. "Most of those punks got canned for stealing from customers. Or sleeping on the job. I don't think they're a part of this. Doing a scam of this order takes some brains."
"So what's your fee for helping us?" Isabelle asked.
Miles smiled. "My girl. Always looking out for the money."
I smiled back. "I charge $800 a day."
Isabelle's eyes grew big. "That's a lot."
I acknowledged her concern with a nod of my head. "Plus expenses," I added.
Both Isabelle and Peter turned to Miles like puppies looking for approval. Miles let out a long breath.
"Eh, look, you're an SC guy, which says to me you're a pro and you know what you're doing. And you come highly recommended from some of the folks at the university. The Provost in particular raved about you. I guess that fee works for me. We need to fix this mess and fix it fast. Izzy, have A.P. draw a check for Burnside for one week's pay." Miles turned back to me. "You have any thoughts as to how best to get going here?"
"Sure," I said, my mind whirring with half baked ideas. "I think the best place for me to start is to get to meet some of the rank-and-file employees. Maybe let me do a ride-along with one of your installers. Someone you've had a problem with so I can have an excuse to be nearby watching them."
Peter spoke. "I can arrange a ride-along with someone. Give me a day or two to set it up. I got just the guy."
"Good idea," said Miles. "Show you the ropes. How we do business here. I used to be an installer myself back in the day when cable was first getting going. Figured out I could make more money having people work for me, than me working for someone else."
"Smart," I said. While it goes against my nature to be flattering, it never hurts to compliment the guy paying the bills. Lengthy periods without having any income taught me that lesson.
"So if you're going in as a consultant, what do we tell people you're consulting with us on?" Peter asked, a little puzzled.
I looked directly at Miles. I had been waiting to use this line. "Tell them I'm from the government and I'm here to help."
Miles threw back his head and guffawed. "I love it. You know the score. I just kne
w we had the right guy for this job."
As if there were any doubt, I thought. "I'll work very hard for you," I told them. "If there's one thing you can be certain of, you'll get your money's worth. I promise you that."
Miles leaned back. "As a great football coach might have said," he mused with a smile, "money isn't everything."
I concurred, but sensed there was something more coming. There was.
"It's the only thing," he added with a laugh.
Peter and Isabelle were smiling. I struggled to join them.
Chapter 3
The offices for the USC football coaches were now housed in the sprawling McKay Center, newly built and named for one of the Trojan football team's legendary coaches. John McKay was an unlikely candidate to lead USC in 1960, but his unique talents, acerbic wit and the introduction of the I-formation quickly brought Trojan football back to prominence in the 1960s and 1970s. Honoring and cherishing past legends was an important tradition of the Trojan Family. And members of the community insist on using Trojan Family as our designation. Anyone who uses the moniker Trojan Nation is quickly identified as an outsider. We weren't a nation, we were a family. A squabbling family sometimes, a messy and dysfunctional one at others, but family nevertheless.
Like John McKay, and also like John Robinson and Pete Carroll who came later, Johnny Cleary was not the consensus choice to be USC's head coach when the slot opened up late last year. Though he was an undisputed expert on the X's and O's of football plays and schemes, Johnny was not the gregarious, outgoing type. He was quiet, cerebral and not one to mince words. But his knowledge of the game, particularly on defense, brought him considerable respect as a football genius. It was what ultimately landed him the job. That was hardly news to me. I knew Johnny's talents from personal experience; I played alongside him for two years in the USC secondary.
This was my first foray into the McKay Center, and I was surprised that security was tight. Unlike most buildings on campus, its doors were locked, with entree available only to holders of an access card or those allowed in by someone already inside. The security guard saw me peering into the entrance and came over and opened the door.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Coach Cleary."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes."
The guard motioned me inside and asked me to wait while he confirmed this on the phone. The interior atrium was beautifully appointed, with soft ivory tile covering the floor. A series of imposing TV monitors were mounted on the walls, some tuned to ESPN, some playing a loop of classic Trojan football moments. The vaulted ceiling soared a good 80 feet in the air, providing an open feel to a small space. A gray marble staircase, trimmed in glass and steel, wound its way to the second floor. When I was a player here, everything was located in Heritage Hall, which was a nice place, but these digs had the glitz of an opulent palace.
The guard put down the phone and ushered me into an elevator that featured a likeness of John McKay on the doors. I went up to the second floor and walked down the hallway, past a wall display showing a long list of Trojan players who made it into the NFL. Finally, I found the right office. I knocked softly on Johnny's door before pulling it open. Instead of finding the head coach though, I was met with his assistant, a young man in his 20s who politely asked how he could help me.
"I'm Burnside. I have an appointment with the coach."
"Sure," he answered and looked down at his calendar. "Which media organization do you represent?"
"Just my own."
He peered at me. "You have a website?"
"Not exactly. I'm a friend of Coach Cleary's. He asked me to stop by."
He looked down again. "Burnside, Burnside. Hmmm. What's this is in regards to?"
I sighed. "I'm a walk-on. I'm trying out for free safety."
This time he looked really confused, and fortunately a door opened and Johnny Cleary strolled out. He was wearing gray slacks and a cardinal colored hooded sweatshirt that said USC in gold lettering.
"It's okay, Sean. This guy never provided a straight answer to anyone in his life."
"That's a little unfair," I protested.
"You want to talk unfair, try dealing with the NCAA."
"Ah. Your new job involves more than getting your mug on TV every Saturday. More than getting to wear that cool headset and gesticulate wildly."
"Gesticulate, huh?" he said with a roll of the eyes. "I forgot the need to carry a thesaurus with me when you come around."
"I just like to show off my voluminous vocabulary."
"Right," Johnny said and we shook hands. He apologized again to Sean, and led me into his spacious office, replete with two flat-screen TVs, a desk covered with various recruiting documents and sketches of plays, and a table strewn with Trojan memorabilia.
"This is one sensational building," I remarked.
"It's a step up for sure. We even have an underground practice field."
"Ah yes, for those snowy days we get here in the Southland."
Johnny shrugged. "It makes for a nice recruiting tool."
"Amazing the things money can buy."
"When the team wins, the donations flow in."
"And on that note," I said. "congratulations on a great season so far. Being 9-1 is very impressive."
"Thanks," he said, as he moved a few things off the couch so we could sit down. The early afternoon sun was starting to shine through the plate glass window across the room. "This year has been a pleasant surprise. Some of our freshmen have really stepped up."
"That's the name of the game. Get the top high school recruits."
"Nothing could be more true," he sighed a bit wearily. "Frankly the hardest part of the year for me is after the season. It's a non-stop sprint to get kids to commit here. Once we get past L.O.I. day I can finally take a vacation and rest."
L.O.I. stood for Letter Of Intent, and it was the day that high school seniors signed a legal document stating they would play for a particular university. It was normally the first Wednesday in February and every college football coach in America had that target date etched indelibly in their minds.
"Things were different way back when," I said.
"Oh yeah. For us, the process was much less intense. I had offers from a lot of schools. And a few were dangling more than playing time in front of me."
"Money?"
"Money, cars, girls, you name it. SC didn't do that, maybe they knew this was my first choice."
I laughed. "SC was my first choice too. Turns out it was my only choice. Both USC and UCLA recruited me at first, but the Bulldog was the only one who actually offered me a scholarship."
Bulldog Martin was our coach back then, a tough, no-nonsense drill sergeant of a coach who spoke in a raspy twang. He was tough on us as players but molded us into men. Interestingly though, as soon as we graduated, his demeanor towards us did an about face. We became elevated in his eyes, and effectively put on a pedestal. We were the special ones who were able to successfully make it through his program. And the Bulldog always treated us like royalty whenever we came back to visit.
Johnny smiled and threw his head back. "I learned a lot from the Bulldog. Even though I played 10 years in the League, he was still the one I looked up to as my mentor. Whenever he'd call me on the phone I'd still practically jump to attention."
"I guess Bulldog didn't have to deal with the things you do now."
"It's different," Johnny acknowledged. "But some things don't change. We're still dealing with boosters and agents who slip cash and things to the players. And the agents have gotten really aggressive in trying to get kids under their wing. There's a lot more money at stake these days."
"And that's why you wanted to see me," I surmised in a lower voice.
Johnny eyed me carefully and nodded. "You were always pretty quick at picking up on things."
"I'm happy to reminisce about the good old days. But you're a busy guy with a team ranked in the Top 5 and a Rose Bo
wl bid on the line. Spending time efficiently is part of your job."
"Oh yeah. And we have the UCLA game coming up."
"Biggest cross-town rivalry in the country."
" Looks like the winner will probably go to Pasadena."
Pasadena meant playing in the Rose Bowl game on New Year's Day. That was back when there was no national championship game, no playoffs, no computer rankings. The winner of what was once the Pac-10 Conference on the west coast played the winner of the Big-10 Conference in the upper mid-west. Most often that meant USC playing Michigan or Ohio State on a balmy day in January. The rest of the nation watched while it was often bitter cold and snowy outside their homes. The beauty and warmth and serenity of the locale was not lost on these viewers. A lot of southern California transplants pointed to seeing the Rose Bowl game on TV as the seed that propelled them on their journey westward.
"I remember when we used to call the Rose Bowl game the USC Invitational."
"Yeah," Johnny smiled wryly. "But this is now."
"Tell me what's happening."
"Two things I wanted to talk to you about. One is Marcellus Williams. We call him Megawatt. Best wide receiver I've ever seen -- he's practically made of steel. He's 6'5" and goes about 230, has hands the size of catcher's mitts and he's flat out the fastest guy on the field. Never seen anything like him. And he's only a freshman."
"I've seen him. He's impressive."
"Yeah. He's changing our playbook. I'm even thinking of re-installing the square out again. And the bubble screen. With Marcellus in there, the dynamics are different."
"I know you don't like those sideline throws. Dangerous," I recalled. "High risk, high reward."
"With this guy, it's mostly high reward. But yeah, my stomach used to churn every time our O.C. used to call one of those plays. Then I became head coach and yanked them from the playbook. I don't know. If that's what it takes, maybe we install them again. The goal is to get the ball in Marcellus's hands as much as we can."
"Sounds like the kind of problem a coach would love to have."
"On the field he's great. Off the field ... " Johnny's voice trailed off.
