Titans

by Tim Green

  "You just get on that path and keep going past those trees until you see him," the kid said. "One of his foursome is wearing a pair of bright green pants, so you should be able to pick them out OK."

  Thanks," Cook said, then rolled up his window and set out down the path in his old LTD.

  He was so intent on finding the eleventh tee and not missing the green pants that he didn't notice the kids yelling at him to stop. When he rounded the bend he chugged past a foursome who were teeing off at the tenth hole. They stared mutely and pointed at him. Cook wondered if the club was restricted. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a piece of gum, not once taking his eyes off the course that stretched out ahead of him. Cook passed another foursome on the green, then another on the eleventh tee. They all gaped. He rounded a bend right before the green on number eleven. Someone had left a golf cart squarely in the middle of the path. Cook swerved frantically to avoid it, and his car ripped through some soft turf before he was able to get it back on the path.

  He was relieved when just past another group of trees he saw the bright green pair of pants. Then he saw Duncan Fellows, who was about to tee off. Cook eased to a stop behind his boss's golf cart. He waited for his boss to finish his swing before he got out. He heard the yelling before he was out of the car.

  "Hey!" came a shout from the direction in which he'd just come. "Hold it right there!"

  Cook turned to see a middle-aged man striding importantly toward him. The man wore a tweed cap and knickers. He was nothing more than a club member that took himself too seriously, Cook thought. His face was flushed and his angry blue eyes scowled at Cook from behind round rimless glasses.

  "You get your ass out of here, mister!" the stuffy club member commanded, stabbing his finger at Cook's chest. "The police are already on their way!"

  Three other men appeared behind the bespectacled man, one of whom was talking into a cellular phone, evidently to the Montclair police. Cook had to smile. He was about to tell the cranky son of a bitch that he was the police when he heard his boss's voice.

  "Cook!" roared Duncan Fellows as he stepped down off the tee. "Cook, are you mad? What in God's name are you doing here?"

  "You know this man, Duncan?" the man said incredulously. 'This maniac just went racing by us on eleven. It's a good thing we were on the green, or one of us would have been killed!"

  "I. . . are you all OK, Don? Did anyone get hurt?" Fellows was red from embarrassment. The man and his party all shook their heads.

  "But he drove right out onto the fairway!" Don bellowed.

  "Don, gentleman . . . please, I'm sorry. Go back to your game. I'll take care of this." Before the men were even out of earshot, Fellows turned his fury on Cook. "What are you doing here like this?"

  "I needed to see you," Cook explained. 'The boys at the clubhouse said to just come down this path and I'd find you. I need to talk to you! I have something that you're going to want to hear about."

  "Cook goddamn it! You're drunk or something! No one drives a car out onto a golf course, and there isn't a kid that works at this place who'd even think of telling you to do it!"

  "Christ, sir," Cook said, "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I didn't know I couldn't drive on that path. But listen to me," he continued forcefully, "I've got something that's vital to our operation!"

  "Cook, goddamn you, you're not even in the field yet! How in hell can you have anything that would cause you to do this!"

  "Sir, please, listen to me! You've got to hear me out! I saw something last night by chance. It was one in a million, but it led me to someone within the Mondolffi family who can pin the Fat Man murder on Tony Rizzo. He was there! He says Tony pulled the trigger! Tommy Keel, you wouldn't know him, he's nothing, but he was there, and he's ready to sing. I've got Tony Rizzo! We can hamstring the entire Mondolffi operation! Now do you see why I'm here?"

  Fellows turned to see if his guests had heard all this. But they had politely remained on the tee and were talking animatedly among themselves.

  Fellows turned back to Cook and in a low voice between clenched teeth said, "You get yourself home, Cook. You sleep it off! I want you out of here!"

  "But, sir! I need a team to get Keel and his girl to a safe house. Rizzo may be watching him!"

  "Cook," Fellows hissed, "if you could hear yourself talk you'd know how absurd you sound. You don't need a team, but you may need a job! You have your ass in my office first thing Monday morning, and you better have a written apology to the members of this club! Now take that damn car and get the hell off this course, Cook! And I don't want to even hear your name until Monday morning!"

  Fellows turned and ascended the grassy slope that led to the tee. Cook couldn't remember the last time he had been so humiliated. He cursed to himself and as gently as he could he turned his car around before easing back down the cart path amid the stares of outraged club members.

  Fellows returned to his party.

  "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he said, 'just a little confusion with one of my supervisors of all things. Damned embarrassing I must say."

  "What was the problem?" asked Miles ZulafF, the director's first assistant.

  "Seems Ellis Cook, the new supervisor for the special task force on organized crime, needed to tell me something that couldn't wait. Then it seems one of the club attendants told him where to find me. Why on God's green earth he drove out here in his car I really don't know."

  "What was so important?" Zulaff asked, pointedly ignoring the comment.

  "Nothing really," Fellows replied. "He's not even in the field yet, it was just some crazy idea he had . . . wanted my opinion on it."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I said it could wait and I'd talk to him first thing Monday morning," Fellows replied as he stepped up to the tee.

  Chapter 6

  Well," Hunter said, turning the radio off after hearing the big announcement in the sports world, "all the waiting is finally over."

  Pop Peters had retired a few weeks after the Super Bowl. The Titans had taken their time in naming a new guy. Since the player personnel department was separate from the coaching staff, Grant Carter didn't feel the urgency that some other clubs might have felt with the draft only a few days away.

  Pop's replacement was a man named Martin Price. After a highly successful tenure at Notre Dame, where Price had brought the Irish back to their days of bygone glory, he was awarded the plum of an NFL job. Some sports pundits argued that the New York Titans job was a no-win situation. If the team won the Super Bowl again, well, they were supposed to. They were, after all, the defending champions. If, however, they did anything but repeat their prior championship season, then Martin Price just wasn't the coach that Pop Peters was. Still, all in all, it was better to come in to a program that was already on the winning track. Hunter believed in a saying that Pop Peters had often repeated: "Nothing helps you win like winning."

  "I still can't get over Pop Peters retiring," Rachel said. She knew Pop had been Hunter's favorite coach in all his years of playing in the NFL.

  "I know, me too," Hunter said. They were cruising down a rural highway, and the terrain was beginning to look familiar. "But like I said all along," Hunter continued, "the guy sure went out on top. I mean, really, that's the way to do it. He'll always be considered a winner leaving the way he did. That's the thing players never do. You never see a player going out on top. These guys always beat it into the ground."

  "Would you ever retire now?" Rachel asked, with a thinly veiled note of hope in her voice. "You're on top, too."

  Hunter chuckled. "I've got a lot more years in me, honey. I'm just finally getting started."

  Even she knew that was part bluff. He was one of the oldest players on the Titans, and getting to be one of the older guys in the entire league.

  "Besides," he added, "I can't exactly afford to quit. Especially now with my contract up. We'll be looking at some big money this year. We need it, too."

  "You don't have to play, Hunter.
We could live with less. We don't need both houses. We don't have to live in the Harbor either."

  "I know, I know that's how you feel. But I like that house. I like the place in the Hamptons. I like our lifestyle, too, and so do you, honey."

  "I know I like it. I'm just saying that if you decide you want to quit playing and give your body a rest, I could do without all that. I'd rather have you healthy."

  He pulled off the road and guided the big car up a narrow gravel drive. As they climbed the hill that led to the house, a wonderful view of the surrounding mountains unfolded. Trees everywhere were exploding in a full bloom of bright, lime green leaves. May was the prettiest month in West Virginia, and Sunday had always been the best day on this farm where Hunter had grown up. He tried to return every year. He had a break right now for a few days from the off-season training schedule before the team had to report for its annual mini-camp.

  Most of their sprawling farm was gone now, sold to developers. The earth had been stripped of its coal and the scars had never healed. But his childhood home still looked the same and the barns were still standing, though they had faded and sagged in the years since Hunter's father had them painted a brilliant red. The colonial homestead had been built atop the hill in 1758. The dozen or so trees that surrounded it, enormous oaks and maples, were centuries old. Hunter couldn't help the feeling that every year he returned, the place looked smaller. Still, he felt good.

  "Home," he murmured.

  "What's that, honey?" Rachel asked.

  Hunter smiled at her. If no one heard her accent, they'd think she was born in these hills. She wore cowboy boots and one of his plain white T-shirts tucked into her faded jeans. Her glossy black hair was pulled back in a blue bandana. She had removed all her jewelry except for her wedding band. One thing about Rachel was that she could fit in anywhere. Before Hunter knew it, she'd be in the kitchen with his sisters and his mom and they'd all be clucking away like hens.

  "I was just thinking that it feels good to come back here," Hunter said.

  "Even though things have changed?"

  "Yeah, I was thinking about that too. It would be nice if the whole farm was still together, but. . . well, things change, you know. I was thinking that it's good that the house is still here."

  Thanks to you," Rachel said.

  "Honey ..."

  "I didn't mean it badly, you know that. I just meant that you should feel good about what you've done for your family. In a way, you really kept them together."

  Thanks, Rach, it's nice to hear you say that."

  "Well, someone's got to," she replied as they pulled up to the house.

  Hunter turned off the engine. Sara jumped out and headed for the barn, where she knew she would find her cousins and their new kittens. Hunter remained still.

  "Let's just not get anything started, OK?" he said. "We're only going to be here for two days, so let's make it smooth."

  "Hunter, I won't start anything. I never do. But I won't let your brother lay a guilt trip on you either."

  "Honey, admit it, you just don't like Henry."

  That's not true. I do like him, but he makes me feel strange. It's more than being your twin," she said.

  No matter how much Rachel prepared herself, she could never get used to the odd feeling it gave her to look at Hunter's brother. Besides his clothes and full, thick mountain beard, the two of them were indistinguishable. Even Henry's build was the same. Working around the house and barn whenever he had a free moment had kept him in just as good shape as Hunter's weight lifting and running for football. In fact, part of Rachel's uneasiness with Henry came from the last time they had visited. She'd come up from behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, thinking he was Hunter.

  Henry had been born three minutes before Hunter, and for that he had always been the older brother. In a family whose English ancestors had been among the first white men to settle this region, being the older brother meant a lot. It was Henry who had inherited the farm, as other Logans had for over two hundred years.

  "Sometimes I feel bad for him," Hunter said. "I know it's hard for him, seeing how different our lives are."

  "My gripe is this," she said. "You were the one who saved this place. Your hard work. Your money. Everyone, even your mother, fails to recognize that."

  "Honey, it's different. My family is different. I know you don't understand, just like I don't understand a lot of things that go on in your family. But it's just that what I did isn't something you talk about. It's what was expected. It's what any of us would have done for the others, especially with my dad gone."

  "I know that," Rachel returned, "and I don't expect them to fall down and worship you. I don't even expect them to thank you anymore. But I can't let your brother lay everything bad that's happened to this family on you when he's the one, if there's anyone, who's to blame, and when you were the one to save this house where he lives."

  "OK, OK, look," Hunter said, throwing his hands up and bringing them down hard on the steering wheel. "We can't get into all this again right now. I'm not going to start arguing with you just because you're looking out for me. But, Rach, I'm a big boy. I can look out for myself on this one. Please. Please, just don't say anything. For me?"

  They sat looking at each other. Hunter smiled. Then Rachel smiled. "OK Let's go in," she said.

  Sunday was Vincent Mondolffi's favorite day as well. It was the one day when things were quiet and relaxed in the city. He rarely conducted business. Everyone knew that whatever had to be done could wait until Monday. Sunday was a day to talk and eat and laugh and be with the family. So when Ears told him the phone call was urgent, he looked surprised. Family members up and down the table were suddenly silent. He pulled the white linen napkin out from his collar and dabbed a bit of red sauce from the corner of his lip as he rose from his place with a frown.

  "Mr. Mondolffi" came a voice over the phone that Mondolffi recognized as one of his many sources for valuable information. "I have some important news for you."

  "Yes . . ."

  "Yes. It may require some action today, otherwise, of course I wouldn't have bothered you at your home on a Sunday."

  "Go on."

  "Your nephew Anthony, he has a friend by the name of Tommy Keel?"

  Mondolffi thought for a moment. "Yes, Tony has a friend by that name."

  'Yes, well, it seems that your nephew is a little careless in choosing his friends. This one seems to be quite willing to talk to people who are not what you'd call sympathetic to the family. In fact, he had a visitor yesterday from a certain federal agency. This visitor's not tough to spot. He's black."

  "What kind of things could Keel have to say? He is nothing."

  "Wasn't he with Anthony when a final call was paid to the Fat Man?"

  The Fat Man! Was he?"

  That's how I understand it. And Keel is ready to take a long vacation--maybe to someplace safe, where you might not be able to find him."

  "I realize the importance of this information," Mondolffi said in an uncharacteristically thankful tone. "It will not go unrewarded."

  "It hasn't so far, Mr. Mondolffi."

  "Would you also like to take care of this problem?"

  "Now, Mr. Mondolffi, you know I don't involve myself with those types of things."

  "Of course not," said Mondolffi with a jovial laugh, "but I like to ask you just to be polite. I thought you might like some extra work."

  "Mr. Mondolffi, our current arrangement is more than satisfactory. I thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Mondolffi."

  Mondolffi hung up and right away dialed another number.

  "Angelo?"

  "Yes . . ." said a heavy voice that immediately came to life. "Yes, Mr. Mondolffi!"

  "Angelo, I have something I need you to do . .

  When Cook finally awoke, he cursed himself. Sunlight had filled his bedroom long enough to make him sweat under the covers. His tongue felt swollen and hairy. His mouth was dry and his head pounded. An empty bottle
of Jim Beam lay on the floor. Cook felt sick. He stumbled to the bathroom and retched. Nothing came up. Natasha and Aunt Esther were gone. He assumed they had gone to church, and he returned to bed.

  Cook had gotten home the day before in time to take Natasha out to dinner. Afterward they rented The Little Mermaid, her favorite movie. He botched the night, though. He was completely distracted throughout dinner and during the movie. His mind just would not let go of the humiliating scene on the golf course, and the danger he sensed Keel and his girlfriend were now in. Natasha was perceptive enough to sense his withdrawal, and when the movie was over, she kissed him quickly and ran into her room. Instead of making up for leaving her during the day by being attentive, Cook's remoteness increased the distance between them. He was too upset to go after her and try to explain. Instead he got a bottle from the cupboard and sat with it on the couch, staring blankly at the wall.

  He had to do something. Getting out of bed, Cook shuffled to the kitchen and phoned the office. "Swanson? This is Cook. Look, I need Fellows's home phone. I've got an emergency--"

  "No can do, Cook," said Swanson.

  "What the hell does that mean? I've got an emergency and I need to talk to the boss! You're on the desk, so give it to me, damn it!"

  "Sorry, Cook. I already got the word that you'd be calling. Boss said you don't get his number."

  "Shit!" Cook slammed down the phone.

  In the shower he cursed Fellows and the entire Montclair Country Club. He would have to wait until Monday to talk with the son of a bitch. Cook dried himself off and washed down four Advils with a big glass of juice. Relief was now only twenty minutes away, but they were always the longest twenty minutes of his hangover.

  He needed to do something, but he had to be careful. The less contact he had with Keel, the better. But he also needed to let Keel know that it would be another day before he could get him out of that apartment. He considered moving them himself, and possibly even bringing them back to his own small place until he could talk some sense into Fellows. He imagined Aunt Esther's face.

  If something went wrong, though, he'd look like a real ass. He didn't exactly blend in down there on South Street. If he was seen, he could get them killed. If he'd known how explosive Keel's information was, he'd have taken care of the details instead of going there yesterday.