Titans

by Tim Green

  "Well," he began, "it's eight-thirty. Good of you to rise from the fucking dead. I got news for you. If you want dinner, you can have what's left over from our Chinese. I got fucking hungry waiting for you to decide it was time to get your ass out of bed, so I ate with these guys."

  His cronies smirked nervously. Camille's smile turned bitter.

  "I wasn't in bed," she said coldly. "I've been getting ready."

  "Yeah, well, you missed the fucking boat tonight, sister," Tony said with a yawn and a wink at his friends, "'cause my ass was up for work this morning, unlike you, who slept all fucking day."

  Camille removed her hand from Tony's neck and picked up the phone.

  "Yes," she said, "I'd like you to call car service for me and have them send a car. . . How long, do you know? Fine."

  Tony chuckled at his friends, who looked on with embarrassed interest. Each of them sensed an impending storm as surely as an old man with a crooked leg. Mikey began to shuffle the deck of cards. Carl picked furiously at the label on his bottle. Even Angelo began to look around the room at interesting objects he hadn't noticed before.

  Tony picked up the phone himself.

  "Darren, this is Tony Rizzo. Cancel that car, thank you."

  Tony gently replaced the phone and looked up, smiling at Camille. She'd made him wait, now he was going to do the same to her. He'd take her out when he was damned good and ready, and maybe not at all. He chuckled to himself at the thought of keeping her in after she'd gone to all the trouble to dress and primp herself.

  "I'm going," Camille threatened, "with you, or without you."

  Tony got angry. He was used to Camille's smart-ass remarks. He knew by now that she'd piss him off on purpose just to get him to play rough with her when they got to the bedroom. But he didn't go for that shit now, not in front of his friends. He'd told her that. He'd warned her. She was out of line.

  "You ain't fucking going anywhere. I said I'm tired. I'm gonna play some cards with my friends, and you're gonna go back in that bedroom and wait for me."

  "You can't keep me here. I'm outta here . . ."

  Camille began to move for the door. Tony was up quickly and grabbed her wrist. Camille flung her drink at him, glass and all. The heavy crystal thudded off Tony's temple and smashed on the granite coffee table, spraying vodka and ice and glass everywhere. Tony swung his free open hand and cuffed Camille in the ear, knocking her off balance while he held her wrist tightly.

  "You fucking son of a bitch!" she shrieked, swiping furiously at him with her claws and kicking violently at the same time with her high-heeled pumps.

  Tony stepped back and dabbed the blood from the crimson tracks that marked his cheek. Camille scrambled to regain her balance, hair and make-up now disheveled, one breast almost hanging out of her dress. She was beautiful in her rage. She started for the door, turned back once, then grabbed the knob. That was when Tony lunged forward and put her in a headlock from behind with his knee in the middle of her back and his chest pressing against the back of her head. Tony closed his eyes and endured her slashing while he counted to six. At six, Camille went limp in his arms and he let her drop to the floor.

  "Fucking A," Carl said, unable to contain himself. "He fucking snuffed her."

  "Nah," Mikey said, trying to continue his shuffling of the deck as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, "trooper's choke hold. Cuts the oxygen to the brain and ba-bing! out like a light. But not snuffed."

  "Angelo," Tony said, "help me get this bitch into the bedroom."

  The two of them dumped Camille's limp body facedown on the bed.

  "Thanks, Ang," Tony said, loosening his de. "Get those guys the fuck outta here. I'm gonna play with this bitch for a while, work on her fucking manners."

  Angelo nodded and left.

  Tony went to his drawer and took out some cut lengths of old panty hose. He'd used them before with Camille, but never like this. Tony smiled wickedly to himself. She was always getting off on excitement. He'd give her some real excitement and teach her a lesson in etiquette at the same time.

  When Camille came to, Tony was sitting beside the bed dressed only in a silk robe. He had a drink next to him on the nightstand, and he was spooning cocaine into his nose. Camille began to shriek with rage and fight against the bonds. She had been tied up before, but at her own urging, never like this. She began to curse and cry.

  "I'll fucking kill you, Tony! You let me up, you son of a bitch! My father will fucking kill you! I'll tell him if you don't let me up. He'll have you squashed like a fucking bug!"

  Tony began to laugh maniacally. "I call the shots with your fucking old man, you bitch!" he bellowed. "And I call the shots with you! I can end his world with a phone call. I can take his precious fucking team from him in a week!"

  Tony stood and spooned another mound of powder into his nose.

  Then he opened his robe so she could see him and see what was coming to her. Camille fought ferociously as Tony climbed on top of her.

  Chapter 21

  Hunter lurched from his bed. The buzzing alarm had ripped him from a sound sleep. It was seven o'clock. Bert was still a lump under his covers. He had wax earplugs that cut out all the noise, even the alarm. Hunter crossed the tiny dorm room and shook his friend. Bert moaned.

  "Come on," Hunter said, "get those damn things out of your ears, and let's get some chow."

  "Whadya say?" Bert said, removing the yellow-stained globs of wax.

  "Let's eat," Hunter said. "What would you do if I wasn't here to get you up?"

  Bert smiled from behind his sleep-swollen face and said, "You're always there, Hunt, you know that. You're the guy everyone counts on."

  "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of sometimes."

  "What's that mean?" Bert asked, standing and pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

  "Nothing. Can we go now?"

  The two friends lurched and limped out of their room and made their way downstairs to the dining hall. They were both plagued with the aching muscles and joints of a long, hard training camp. Bert, loaded his plate with eggs, bacon, and grits. Hunter had some cold cereal and fruit.

  "Better eat something man," Bert said through a mouthful of eggs when he saw Hunter's tray.

  "Nah, I'm trying to keep my weight down. Besides, I've got to start getting used to eating better so when I'm done with this game I won't balloon up like Metz or something."

  "Metz was a fat slob to begin with, though, wasn't he?" Bert said casually.

  Hunter shrugged. "Guess so."

  Someone had left a newspaper at the end of the table, and Hunter fished through the stack for the sports section.

  "Besides," Bert continued, "you're not leaving this game so fast anyway. You got a lot of years left in you, at least until the end of this big contract you've got. You're the life of this team, man. You're the world champion quarterback."

  "Well," Hunter said, looking up from the paper and rubbing his aching shoulder, "right now I wonder if I can get through this season, let alone the end of my contract. The way I've been playing in pre-season's got me wondering if they'll even keep me around for the money they've got to pay me."

  "You're crazy, Hunt," Bert said. "So you've had a few bad throws. You haven't even had a chance to get into a groove. They only play you in the first quarter of these pre-season deals. Everyone knows you're saving the good stuff for the regular season."

  "I hope that's what it is," Hunter said, "me saving it. I'd like to think so anyway, even though if you'd have asked me, I would have told you I was giving it my damnedest. The truth is that all I want to do is get this camp over with and get home. In a way, I don't even give a shit about football right now."

  "Yeah, well, everyone feels like that now," Bert said, "but camp is as good as over. After this week we go home. When the season gets going, you'll start to rock and roll."

  "I can't wait," Hunter said almost wistfully. "I miss Rachel and Sara badly. It hurts, I miss them so much. It's e
nough for me to think about making this my last year."

  "Ah, bullshit," Bert said through a mouthful of bacon.

  Hunter shrugged and went back to his paper. Bert chewed and watched his friend. He saw Hunter's face drop. He read on for a while. Bert watched with interest.

  "Holy shit," Hunter said quietly, tapping the paper with his fingertips. "Did you see this?"

  "How could I see it? You're the one reading it."

  Hunter said nothing, but Bert could see the distress on his face as he continued to read.

  "What?" Bert said. "What's in it?"

  Hunter had a blank look on his face.

  This guy in San Diego. A lineman named Chadwick ..."

  The All-Pro end?" Bert said.

  "Yeah, he's gonna get banned from the league for life."

  "Life?" Bert screwed up his face as though this was something too horrible to be true.

  That's what it says. It says he was doing those off-season junkets to Vegas and I guess getting put up and taken care of all the time. Says he got in with the wrong crowd, made a lot of money, but then lost it all. Then he started giving these guys from Vegas information on his team, you know, injury reports, player morale, stuff like that, to help them with one of those nationwide gambling services that people call for good bets. It says he did it to help pay off his debts, which were--" Hunter looked back down at the paper--"four hundred and seventy thousand ..."

  Bert whistled. "Can you imagine gambling away that kind of cash?"

  "No," Hunter said.

  "Well," Bert said, "I'd have hated to be in Chadwick's shoes."

  "It says he did it for them all last season. They caught him when the FBI busted some big shot in Denver for tax evasion. It says the guy blew in this whole gambling thing. One thing led to another and they pulled Chadwick right off the practice field. The league says if it's substantiated, he'll be barred for life."

  "Let me see that," Bert said, grabbing the paper from across the table.

  Bert scanned the page, murmuring, then he read, "the commissioner said, The league will not tolerate any member that calls into question the integrity of even a single game.' He went on to say that 4even the appearance of impropriety on behalf of a player will result * in expulsion, and each player is warned of the seriousness of such conduct every year as part of a mandatory meeting during preseason camp . . .' Holy shit! Can you imagine that! It's just like that guy was saying the other day. Remember that guy, Hunt? Hunt?"

  "Huh? Oh, yeah, I remember," Hunter said, his mind a million miles away. It was as though he had almost been in a deadly car wreck but avoided it in a last-minute swerve that was caused by some stroke of luck totally unrelated to him. It was just luck. Hunter had been so close to making that call to the FBI and certainly ending his career. If he kept his mouth shut and something like what happened to Chadwick happened to him a year after the fact, he'd already be at least three or four million dollars richer. Things wouldn't look so bad with that kind of cash in the bank. The thought of ending his career--something he had referred to casually just moments before--now gave him a chill. He could actually see that Pittsburgh alumnus and hear his words. "When in doubt, do nothing." When this was all over, Hunter would have to look the guy up and tell him how valuable his advice had been.

  Cook listened intently. He was sitting at a conference table in his office with Duffy and Marrow. Marrow was giving him the latest progress on the team's pursuit of Rizzo.

  "So," Cook said when Marrow was finished, "besides a possible tax fraud, which you seem to think is nothing more than an accounting oversight, we've got nothing on Rizzo? I can't believe it, John."

  Marrow shrugged and looked to Duffy for help.

  "Sir ..." Duffy began, addressing his friend formally since they were in the office and Marrow was there, "I know you don't want to hear this, but I think maybe we should drop Tony Rizzo and shift our focus to Mondolffi himself, maybe even Angelo Quatrini. He's the dirtiest guy in that whole family."

  Marrow nodded in agreement and said, "We could put our surveillance on Quatrini and probably come up with any number of felonies within a week. Then we could put the squeeze on him and maybe get to Rizzo or the old man."

  Cook met these suggestions with a neutral expression. He seemed to consider his men's words. Finally he spoke.

  "Angelo Quatrini is from the old school, he'd never talk. We'll continue to keep Rizzo under surveillance. He's got fresh blood on his hands from Tommy Keel, and he's up to something with this Carter girl. He'll slip up. We just have to make sure we're there when he does."

  Cook stood up, signaling an end to the meeting. Marrow shrugged and began to stuff papers back into a folder that lay in front of him.

  "Duffy," Cook said, catching him just as he walked out, "come back. Shut the door."

  Duffy did and sat back down at the table.

  "Why?" Cook asked.

  "Because I want to see you succeed," Duffy said.

  "Why did you say that in front of John?"

  "Because every time I bring it up when we're alone, you just brush it aside. I want it on record. I want you to drop Rizzo.

  "I know about the calls you've been getting from D. C.," Duffy said. "I know the pressure's on."

  "How's that?" Cook asked, looking intently at Duffy. "How do you know?"

  "I don't know what's been said, but I've seen the calls coming in. I see all that kind of stuff."

  "I didn't know part of your electronic surveillance included this office," Cook said sternly.

  Duffy raised his eyebrows and said, "It was you yourself who said someone in this office was dirty. I'm just keeping an eye out."

  "I'm sorry," Cook said. "I didn't mean to sound as harsh as I did."

  "I know how this stuff works," Duffy said. This operation is unprecedented. They want results yesterday. The Bureau doesn't like to do things differently as it is. Ellis, I think you're being emotional about Rizzo. There are other ways to assail this organization. Rizzo is like a cause with you. It's obvious that the reason you're on to him is more than him being our best shot at the Mondolffis. He's not our best shot. We know that now. We're coming up dry with him. You need to come up with a new strategy. That's why I said it."

  Cook thought about what Duffy said. It was true he wanted Rizzo. It was true he was emotional about it, yes. But he did genuinely feel that it was because Rizzo would slip up. He was too arrogant, too violent and volatile. Cook knew if he just hung with Rizzo, it would pay off. On the other hand, he had sat here in this office that had been specially constructed for him and his team, expending Bureau resources at an enormous rate for more than three months now, and had nothing to show for it other than a possible fine for an incorrect tax return. It was a joke to call it fraud; it was simply a mistake. Cook wondered if he, too, wasn't making a mistake. Duffy was right about the pressure, it was there. People high up wanted progress.

  "All right," Cook said, "we'll pull back on Rizzo. But I still want the taps going. I want you to stay on top of him as much as you can, Duffy. I'm going to go ahead myself and see what I can come up with. I'm going to have Fellows set up that meeting with Grant Carter and follow up what I can on that end of things. I'll take the rest of the men and let John do what he thinks best. Let me see the new surveillance plan before you do it, though.

  "You're right," Cook said, shaking his head and casting his eyes down to the floor, "my judgment has been clouded."

  Then he looked up. "I have to make this work, Duffy," he said almost desperately. "I have to."

  Duffy stood and put his hand on his friend's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "You will, Ellis," he said. "Something will happen."

  Chapter 22

  After the Titans' final pre-season game, the seemingly relentless "Iceman" finally gave his team a reprieve. The game had been on Friday night against Denver in New York, and afterward the Iceman told his players they were free until the following Tuesday. Elation was an understatement. Hunter went straight home af
ter the game, and only Rachel's insistence on not waking Sara could dissuade him from jumping in the car and heading straight for the Hamptons. Hunter tossed and turned until about three and then woke at seven with his wife and daughter, anxious to get on the road.

  "We'll stop at the deli and eat in the car," he told his wife as he pulled on a pair of jeans.

  After a restful day on the beach, they decided to go out for dinner. Hunter insisted on going out alone with Rachel on a date, as he called it, but he was equally adamant that he be the one to put Sara to bed. That wasn't until eight-thirty, so after he'd read to her and tucked her in, they turned the house over to Rachel's mom and dad, who were more than happy to keep an eye on things and give the young couple some time to themselves.

  The Rococo was built on piers that overlooked one of the inland waterways of Quogue. It was an exclusive place, so much so that Hunter could look like himself without concern for interference from some sunburned fat guy in flowery shorts who wanted to congratulate Hunter on a fine season last year, would pull up a chair as he did so, and then mull over this year's possibilities. Dinner would cost them at least four hundred dollars. The tables were set apart in different bay windows overlooking the water. The service was impeccable, if a little snobby. A string quartet played Vivaldi and Pachelbel. The people who went there were Hampton old money who would never stare at a professional athlete, let alone ask for an autograph. Anyone having dinner at the Rococo usually considered themselves too important to get excited about anyone but themselves. It was the perfect place for Hunter and Rachel to have a romantic evening alone.

  After a full meal and two bottles of wine, Rachel drove them back to their beach house. Her parents were asleep on the couch and awoke as Rachel and Hunter walked in. They shuffled out the door, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Rachel checked Sara while Hunter stripped himself and flopped naked and drunk onto the bed.

  "I'm gonna be sorry tomorrow," he said when Rachel appeared and then stepped into the bathroom.