by Tim Green
Hunter sat waiting. He hadn't slept since Saturday night before the game, but he didn't feel tired. Exhausted, yes, but not tired. There was no way on earth he could sleep. He wondered if he'd be able to at all before he got Rachel back. He would get her back, he believed that now. He got up and went to the back window by the kitchen. It was only eight-thirty. He didn't expect Cook much before nine. He went back to the front of the house and peered out into the darkness. There was nothing there. He went back to the couch and sat down. He needed to do something, but there was nothing to be done right now except wait.
He thought about the call he'd made to Henry last night and shook his head. Why was it that it took a tragedy to bring a family together? When they were growing up, he and Henry had been best friends. There was a time when their parents had worried about them each having their own identity. That was before football. It started in high school and then went from bad to worse to even worse as Hunter went through college and into the NFL. Maybe that was why he and Henry had such a hard time for so many years, because they had been so close. After Cook left last night, Hunter had taken his car out and driven to a little Italian place called La Viola. He sat down to eat just to make a show of things for whoever was in the dark Town Car that he watched pull up right outside the front window of the restaurant. He knew that the restaurant had a pay phone in the bathroom, so after he ordered, he went back there to call his brother. Henry had answered the phone.
"Henry," Hunter had said, "I need you to help me with something."
'Time for me to pay back your last cash infusion?" Henry had said sarcastically, referring to Hunter's recent financial assistance. "I knew there would be something you'd be wanting me to do when I saw that check. Well, I didn't ask for it, Mr. Hot Shot, so don't think I've got this need to do something for you--"
"Hank ..." Hunter choked the word out past a lump that had lodged in his throat. He hadn't called his brother that since they were thirteen, and he didn't do it intentionally now, it just came out. Hunter realized that there was nothing he wouldn't do to get Henry's help. Rachel's life depended on it. "Hank, I need you. It's Rachel. She's in bad trouble, Hank. I need you bad ..."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. It gave Hunter the opportunity to think about his twin brother's words the day he and Rachel had married.
"She's the best thing about you, brother," Henry had said.
Last night he'd said it again, only in a much softer and kinder tone.
"She's the best thing about you, brother. Tell me what you need."
Hunter heard the rapping of knuckles on glass. He jumped up and looked at his watch. It was 9:47. He must have dozed off, but Rachel was his first thought and he was instantly awake and alert. He let Cook and his twin brother in the back door. Hunter stood like a zombie. Henry grabbed hold of him and hugged him hard, as though he'd saved all the strength from all the embraces he'd never given him over the years. Hunter held his brother tightly, too. Then Henry brought his hand up to the back of Hunter's head and stroked his hair.
"It'll be all right, brother," he said with emotion. "We'll get her back."
Hunter shut his eyes and tried to quell the pain. He inhaled one painful breath and then snapped himself out of it. There was business at hand. "How much has Cook told you?" he asked his brother.
"Pretty much everything."
Hunter nodded and went to the freezer and took out a large can of coffee. The rich smell hit him as soon as he removed the lid. "You'll have to shave off that beard," he said. "I brought my play book tonight and a press guide. You'll have to study both so you'll have at least an idea of who's who and what's going on. I starred the guys on the team I hang out with most. Of course you know Bert's my best friend, but he knows what's going on. I told him everything today after the team watched game film. He knew something was up anyway from last night, and I wanted him to be able to help you get through things if there's any questions or problems you have."
"Can't I just act like a total asshole?" Henry said with a smirk, trying to lighten the situation a little. Then everyone will know I'm you."
"Funny, Hank," Hunter said, smiling. "I got treatment on my shoulder today, and I told everyone from Price to the trainers that I'm not planning on throwing this week in practice. And I told everyone in the media that I'd definitely be ready to go next Sunday. If anyone asks, make sure you go along with that. We don't want Rizzo getting nervous about me not being in there to toss his game. You won't have to really do anything but wince and pretend your shoulder hurts when they give you treatment. Just stand around in practice and act real solemn. Try not to talk to anyone more than saying yes or no. Bert's going to tell everyone that I'm just in a really shitty mood because of the injury and what happened with Blake Stevens a couple of weeks ago. You know what? If anybody asks, tell them you've got the flu. That stuff has been going around, and every guy I've seen with it has been miserable anyway. No one will bother you anyway. Everyone knows I hate it when I can't practice, so basically be a grump.
That shouldn't be hard," Hunter added with a smile, getting in a jab of his own.
Cook was still nervous about the whole thing, so after they'd had the coffee, Hunter showed Henry to his bathroom where he removed his long, thick beard. To show him just how good it was, Hunter did a quick change with his brother, and they came back down to Cook with each other's clothes on.
"Damn, he does look like you, Hunter," Cook said.
"I'm Henry," Henry said.
Cook shook his head in disbelief. Except for their clothes and a three-day growth of beard on Hunter's face, the men were identical. Since quarterbacks aren't the type of athletes who have to do heavy weight training that would alter their physiques and since Henry had kept himself in good shape from working on what was left of the farm, their builds were the same, too.
"With your face clean-shaven like that," Cook said to Henry, "you look more like Hunter than he does."
Hunter put on an old, ugly pair of thick glasses that he'd found in a back drawer and pulled a Yankees hat on his head. Now there was no question who looked the most like Hunter Logan of the New York Titans.
"OK," Cook said, impressed. "Let's go."
Hunter had a small black canvas bag packed with some things, and he slung it over his shoulder.
"Wait a minute," Henry said, digging in an army duffel bag that sat where he'd dumped it on the kitchen floor. "I've got something for you, Hunt." Henry held out a Colt .45 automatic service revolver and said, "I thought with the kind of people you're dealing with that you might need something like this, brother."
Hunter took the weapon from Henry. He hadn't had much to do with guns since he was a kid, and then it had been mostly deer rifles. He nodded his head, though. Henry was right. A gun was a good idea with people like Tony Rizzo.
'Thanks," Hunter said. "I'll try to check in with you later in the week. Hopefully it won't take that long, but if we're not in the area, you'll be on your own. The phones aren't safe. If you have any questions about anything, just ask Bert when you see him at the complex. Remember, try not to talk unless you have to."
Hunter held out his hand, and his brother grasped it warmly and pulled him into another brief hug.
"Good luck," Henry said. "Bring her back."
Hunter nodded a final time. "I will, Hank. Thanks again."
Then he and Cook disappeared out the back and into the night.
"Listen," Cook said when they were in his car and heading back into Manhattan, "I know how anxious you are, Hunter, but it's important that you try to follow me in this as much as you can. I know how to do this kind of thing. I've done it before. To tell you the truth, I'm not in love with the idea of you toting that .45."
Hunter shrugged. 'Yeah, well, I can't see myself going around with you and running into these guys and everyone having guns except me. Believe me, I don't want any shooting to be going on, but I don't want to be the guy without a gun if it does."
Co
ok nodded and said, "You're right, but do try to stick as close to me as you can."
"I can do that," Hunter said.
When they reached the city, Cook dropped Hunter at Avis to get them a new car. He didn't want to take any chances with his own car getting hot, so he dropped it in a garage and Hunter picked him up in a dark Le Sabre. It took them only a minute to transfer all of Cook's equipment to the new car, and they were off, headed uptown to Tony Rizzo's apartment on Fifth Avenue. Hunter drove while Cook fiddled with his homing equipment to change it back over to the first disc, which was still attached to Tony Rizzo's Mercedes. The signal was coming right from Rizzo's garage.
Cook cursed. "I knew it wasn't going to be easy," he muttered under his breath.
"What's up?" Hunter said.
"Rizzo's car is in the garage. I can call up to the apartment and see if anyone answers. If he's there, we can wait for him to come out. If he's gone, we'll have to wait until he comes back. That's most of what this business is, waiting."
They found a spot from where they could see the entrance to Tony's building. The street was quiet except for an occasional yellow cab racing by or an expensively dressed couple stepping from a limousine at the end of their night. This, after all, was the better side of town. Cook took his cellular phone out of his pocket. He dialed Tony Rizzo's apartment, got no answer, and returned to the car.
"He's not there," Cook said to Hunter, leaning his seat back and exhaling a big breath.
"You might as well get some sleep," he told Hunter. "I'll watch until I can't go anymore, and then I'll wake you."
Hunter tilted back his own seat. He tried to close his eyes, but his foot kept tapping uncontrollably and his mind kept racing.
"Cook?" he said, opening his eyes so he could see the entrance to Rizzo's building but still remain tilted back in his seat. "Are you worried about your family?"
Cook was quiet a moment before he said, 'Yeah, I am."
"How can you be here with me? I mean, I want you here. I could not even think about doing this if you weren't, but doesn't it get you?"
'The way I figure it," Cook said, "they're either hiding out someplace, in which case I won't find them because my Aunt Esther is a crafty old fox, or Rizzo has them or has done something with them. Either way on that one, I need to get to Rizzo just as bad as you do."
"So you're not doing this for me," Hunter said more to himself than anyone.
"I wouldn't quite say that," Cook said. "I feel responsible for Rachel. I want her back, too. I lost two people in this Rizzo business already, I don't want to lose another one."
"Cook?" Hunter said, closing his eyes. "Do you think I did something unforgivable?"
"No," Cook said. 'You did something a lot of people do. Whether it's illegal or not, gambling is something that most people do at some time or other. The thing with a guy like you is, everyone's looking at you. You can't get away with things other people can. You're a big celebrity. People like to see you fall. People like to take advantage of you if they can. You're one of those people who has to be extra careful not to fuck up. You didn't do something so bad, same as me. Rizzo's the bad guy. Duncan Fellows was a bad guy. They're the reason we're here.
"Sure," Cook continued, "you wanted to keep playing this year to make all that money, but anyone would have. Same with me. I rushed into the Tommy Keel thing because I was anxious to get my little girl out of this city and be some big shot behind a desk down in Washington. But what you and I did wasn't bad. We just got caught up with the bad ones. It happens, man. It's called bad luck."
Cook looked over at Hunter Logan. The quarterback, the celebrity, the man so many people around the world wished so ardently they could be, was deep in a heavy sleep, his brow furrowed even then from the anguish and the pain he had inadvertently brought into his life. Cook reached back into the backseat and pulled a light blanket from one of his nylon duffel bags. He opened it and covered Hunter, then took out a thermos they'd packed at the house and gulped down a cup of hot coffee before pouring a second that he would sip as the night went by.
When Henry woke up on Tuesday, he couldn't help exploring his brother's mansion. Henry had never been there before, and he marveled at the size and extravagance of the place. There were carpets as thick and soft as a sheep's coat in December, and brass and marble were everywhere. The woodwork was rich with color and texture, and little silver and crystal trinkets seemed to cover every surface without having the appearance of clutter. Henry spent twenty minutes in the bathroom trying to figure out what the bidet was before he settled on the idea that it was some weird drinking fountain for the kids.
Tuesday was his brother's only day off during the season, so Henry had all day to study his new teammates' faces and identities in the Titans' media guide. He made himself some eggs before he sat on the couch to familiarize himself with everyone. Each player had from one to five pages written about him, depending on how long he'd been with the team and how impressive his contributions had been. Some of the names Henry recognized from hearing them on the news or radio, even though he wasn't a sports fan. After two hours of players he cracked the thick three-ring binder that constituted the Titans' play book. After five minutes he decided he needed a break. He wondered how in hell anyone could make sense of all the Xs and Os interspersed between all the numbers and weird terminology. After lunch he went back at it again, but found himself rereading the same sentences over and over again. Finally he gave up on the play book and fished through some videotapes of Titans games, choosing a couple to watch and try to get a feel for the whole thing that way. After viewing the tapes and eating a pizza he had had delivered, Henry took one more run at the play book, reading it now only to try to get some of the terminology down and forgetting the complex strategy behind it all. He lay back on the couch, turned on the light, and crossed his legs to do some serious cramming.
The next morning, Henry awoke in the same position. When he first opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. He hadn't spent many days off the farm where he'd grown up, and the surroundings he was in at present seemed much more like a dream than anything else. Henry made coffee but didn't eat. He was too nervous.
Bert met Henry outside the Titans' compound and walked in with him. After introducing himself quietly, Bert asked how Hunter was doing and if Henry had any word on Rachel. Henry said no. Bert led him into the locker room, talking in low tones without much formality. Basically Bert was trying to cram as much information about the team into Henry's head as he possibly could. The result was that Henry didn't remember a bit of it.
"So," Henry said, looking at his brother's Rolex, which now hung on his wrist, "where's the training room? I've got to be in there by eight-thirty. Hunter said those guys don't mess around, even for a big star like him."
Bert nodded knowingly and pointed out the door that led to the training room, where the players got treatment to help expedite the healing of their various injuries. Henry hung his shoulder down ever so slightly and rubbed it with the care of a newborn baby as he walked into the training room.
"Very funny," said Jerry, with a disgusted smile.
This hit Henry like a blast of cold air. He looked around to see if there was a clue to Jerry's words.
Then the trainer said, "How's the shoulder?"
Henry grimaced as best he could and rubbed it tenderly. "Sore," he murmured.
A couple of beefy linebackers in the hot tub snickered loudly at this. Jerry nodded his head angrily as if to say he could play that way too, and turned to prepare a table so that Henry could lie down while he applied ice and the high-voltage machine to the quarterback's shoulder.
"How's the throwing action?" Jerry said without looking up from the machine he was so carefully bent over.
"Huh?" Henry said, not having a clue as what he was talking about. There were more snickers from the hot tub.
Jerry turned and said sarcastically, "Do we think we'll be well enough to throw the football today?"
"O
h, uh . . ." Henry instinctively started rolling the arm connected to his throwing shoulder and realized all at once his mistake. He had been babying his left shoulder, and it was his right that was supposed to be hurt. He grinned foolishly at Jerry and looked as contrite as possible.
"No, I, uh . . . it's too sore for me to do anything. I better just give it a rest so I'll be ready Sunday."
Jerry twisted his lips thoughtfully and said, "Get up on the table."
After treatment, Bert guided Henry through the different meeting rooms he would be in during the day and told him how the schedule went. When they got out onto the practice field, Henry spotted the black Town Car that he'd seen following him to the compound. He couldn't make out the person sitting in the front seat. He was parked in an obvious spot, lengthwise in the parking lot adjacent to the practice field, as if to make a statement. It was where everyone could see it, but only Henry seemed to notice.
During practice, Henry felt silly and self-conscious. He just stood around in a sweatsuit and tried to nod as knowingly as he could at all the instructional asides he got from the offensive coordinator during practice. At one point the coach stopped and said, "Hunter, what's wrong? Are you getting all of this?"
"Yeah," Henry said, "I'm just a little sick . . . flu."
The coach nodded knowingly and went on.
Finally the day ended. Henry could remember few other times he had been so relieved. He was tired of looking down at the ground and telling people he didn't feel well, tired of being on edge and wondering every moment if someone would find him out.
He said good-bye quietly to Bert, who talked loudly to him about going out for dinner with the wives and said Hunter's name in what Henry thought was a slightly overdone way.
Henry was almost out of the building when Dozer, the equipment man, tapped him on the shoulder and said above the noise of the locker room, "Hey, Hunter, they want you upstairs!"
"Who?" Henry asked. "Who wants me?"
Dozer shrugged and said, "Carter's office, but I don't know, he isn't supposed to be around today. Hey, Hunter, are you OK?"
