The Perk

by Mark Gimenez

  "How long has Slade been using steroids?"

  "As long as we've dated."

  "And when he injects, he becomes aggressive?"

  "Totally, especially when he's stacking."

  "Stacking?"

  "When he does several kinds of juice at the same time. It's supposed to work better that way. See, he pyramids—"

  "Pyramids?"

  "Yeah, he starts a cycle with a low dose then increases the dose until he peaks. Then he backs off. When he's at the peak, that's when he has bad moods. Mad moods. He calls it 'roid rage. I stay away from him, for like, two or three days, that's why I went to the movie that night without him. He gets real mean … and he punches walls. And he gets insanely jealous. He usually pumps iron really hard those days, he says that's when he can add bulk. But when the stuff wears off, he gets real down."

  "Down as in depressed?"

  "Yes, sir. Once he evens out, he's okay, but the peak days are always a rollercoaster for him."

  "And that was a peak day?"

  "Yes, sir. A really big dose."

  "All right, Ms. Ernst, so you injected steroids into Slade that Saturday morning. Did you see Slade again that day?"

  "Not until the theater. Like I said, I stay away from him on those days."

  "At the theater that night, you were talking to Julio at the counter and Slade just grabbed Julio and yanked him over the counter and started beating him?"

  "He was raging."

  "Ms. Ernst, where does Slade get his steroids?"

  "At gyms in Austin where the freaks hang out."

  "Freaks?"

  "Those bodybuilders. Slade says they're freaks."

  "Knew the girl was the weak link."

  An hour later, Quentin McQuade was standing in Beck's doorway with a rolled-up magazine in his hand as if he were looking for a dog to smack.

  "Mind if I come in, Judge?"

  He walked in without waiting for an answer. Quentin McQuade looked every bit the rich real-estate developer, oozing confidence and money. He stood over six feet tall in his expensive suit, but he didn't have his son's body mass. Being in real estate, chances were he wasn't on steroids.

  "Didn't want an official record, thought getting rid of the court reporter would fix that. Nice move, the tape recorder."

  He said it as if complimenting an opposing coach on a play call. Beck said, "I could have you charged with subornation of perjury."

  McQuade chuckled. "Good luck with that. Like you never coached a witness?"

  He had.

  "I didn't tell them to lie."

  "Coaching, lying …" He shrugged. "Semantics."

  "Mr. McQuade—"

  "Quentin. It's Beck, right?"

  "No, it's Judge Hardin."

  "Judge Hardin, then. Can we talk?"

  "Why not? Ex parte doesn't seem to mean much around here."

  "Ex parte? Is that like an ex-wife?" McQuade chuckled as he sat in the visitor's chair. "So, when will you rule?"

  "Law requires me to rule within forty-eight hours. So first thing Monday morning, since Slade's not in custody."

  "Any way to postpone your ruling?"

  "If the defendant requests a postponement."

  "He does."

  "Mr. McQuade, I don't see any reason to delay my ruling. There's clearly probable cause to send Slade to the grand jury."

  McQuade sighed like Beck had just told a corporate client his deal wouldn't close.

  "Yeah, problem with that is, grand jury is twelve people. Nine Germans, so an indictment isn't likely, but still a possibility. The more people that get involved, the harder this thing is to control, see? Never know when someone might grow a conscience. Nope, I just don't like those odds."

  "Those are the odds every American citizen faces when they commit a crime."

  McQuade smiled slightly. "I'm not every American citizen, Judge. And Slade is my son."

  "Mr. McQuade, even if Slade is indicted, what are the odds of his being convicted by a trial jury packed with Germans?"

  "Slim to none."

  "Because you came here and bought influence with the locals."

  "Can't buy something that's not for sale." He smiled. "Most of the public officials and businessmen in this county benefit from my development, Judge, that's true. But that's just good business, same way business is done in Dallas or Houston or anywhere else in this state or this country. Only problem with buying public officials is, sometimes they don't stay bought."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Sure you would. Lawyers know all about buying judges. When one of my companies gets sued, first thing my lawyer in Austin does is find out who the judge is and what lawyer was his last campaign treasurer—then he hires that lawyer. Doesn't matter if the guy writes wills, he wants that lawyer sitting at our table in front of that judge at trial. Now, I didn't dream up that little scheme. My lawyer did. And he used to be president of the bar association. No doubt your Chicago law firm did the same thing."

  It did.

  "So what's your point, Mr. McQuade?"

  "My point is this: I can't let the grand jury indict Slade because an indictment kills his football career. ESPN will be all over the story like stink on shit—live from the front steps of this courthouse. UT'll drop him like a fresh cow patty. No UT, no NFL first-round draft pick, no hundred-million-dollar contract, no endorsements. That makes for a bad investment."

  "A bad investment?"

  "Last ten years, I've invested a half-million bucks in the boy's career."

  "His career? He's a high school player."

  "Who'll be playing pro ball in two years."

  "So he's your investment?"

  "One of them. And he's going to pay off. Our agent's already got him in a sports drink commercial—"

  "He's got an agent?"

  "Sure. He can't get paid and still play college ball, so that commercial's a freebie, just prepping the market, getting his pretty face out there. We're negotiating a shoe deal that'll take effect the day he turns pro. He'll be a gold mine."

  McQuade tossed the magazine he had been holding onto the desk: Sports Illustrated. Slade was on the cover, bare-chested and holding a football; the byline was THE NATURAL.

  "That's a lot of pressure to put on a boy, Mr. McQuade."

  "Pressure is part of the game. He can handle it."

  "You've been prepping him for the pros since he was nine?"

  "Crazy, isn't it? But that's the way it is now. Personal trainers, passing, running, and strength coaches, nutritionists—all that doesn't come cheap. I've had the best quarterback coach in the country working with him since he was twelve, forty hours a week in the off-season, learning how to read defenses, call audibles, footwork, watching film …"

  "What about being a boy?"

  "Doesn't pay. With the kind of money in sports today, there's no time to be a boy. Sports are for the young and strong, so you've got to grab it while you can."

  "Did you ever grab it, Mr. McQuade? Did you ever play?"

  He shook his head. "I wasn't good enough."

  "So you're living out your dream through Slade?"

  "Damn right I am. He's my son. But it's his dream, too."

  "Maybe he's not good enough, if he has to use steroids." Beck gestured at the magazine. "He's not natural. He's juiced."

  "We're off the record, right, Judge?" He again didn't wait for an answer. "Slade had the same arm when he weighed one-ninety. But he can't play pro at one-ninety because he wouldn't survive the punishment today. That's what's changed in the game: quarterbacks have to be big, real big, just to survive the hits. Because the guys hitting them are bigger. Hell, Namath and Staubach, they could throw the ball with anyone today. But they wouldn't last a full game, getting mauled by those three-hundred-pound guys. Namath played at one-ninety, Staubach at one-ninety-five. What did you play at?"

  "One eighty-five."

  "College water boys weigh more than that. What did your offensive line average at Notre Dame?"<
br />
  "Two-fifty."

  "NFL quarterbacks weigh that today. Football is played by giants. I read that back in 1980 only three pro players weighed more than three hundred pounds. Today, five hundred players do. Did the human race just suddenly experience a growth spurt? And only among athletes?"

  "Mr. McQuade, twenty years ago at Notre Dame we had seminars about steroids. They work, but the side effects can be very dangerous—'roid rage is real. Right after injection, your testosterone level shoots up to that of a gorilla—and your personality turns into that of a gorilla. And when you come down, you often go into depression. It's a cycle of rage and depression, just like Nikki said. Some users have even committed suicide. And even if they don't suffer side effects, they're still damaging their bodies long term."

  McQuade laughed. "Hell, getting slammed to the turf by those big sons a bitches damages their bodies long term, too. But that's the deal you make with football, you sacrifice your body for glory and money. Time Slade's thirty, with his contract and endorsements, he'll be worth a hundred million. Took me till I was fifty."

  "You're worth a hundred million dollars?"

  "Two. I'm fifty-five now."

  "Mr. McQuade, you're his father. You should be telling him not to use steroids."

  "Judge, tell a high school boy there's a magic potion that'll make all his dreams come true, what do you think he's going to do? Steroids are the American way—using science to make your body better. No different than men taking drugs to make their dicks hard or women getting breast implants."

  "I've never heard of a woman with breast implants going into a rage and beating the hell out of someone."

  "You never met my first wife." He smiled; Beck didn't. "Look, Judge, that was regrettable. But it's also fixable. I paid the boy's medical bills, and Stutz is talking to Delgado and the boy's family right now about a settlement."

  "How much?"

  "I've authorized Stutz to offer a million."

  "A million dollars?"

  McQuade shrugged. "Business expense."

  "Civil cases are settled, Mr. McQuade, and you don't need my approval to settle a civil case. This is a criminal case."

  "D.A.'s already signed off on the deal. He'll dismiss the charges if Julio accepts the settlement."

  "The D.A. can't dismiss without the court's approval."

  "That's why I'm here."

  "Be careful—bribery of a public official is a felony."

  McQuade smiled. "At the capitol in Austin we call it lobbying. But I'm not offering you anything, Judge. I'm offering to settle with the Mexican boy so my boy can get on with his football career."

  "How? After this morning, the whole world is going to know Slade's on steroids."

  "No, it won't. That's not gonna leave that courtroom."

  "Nikki testified under oath in open court. The Austin and San Antonio papers—"

  "Weren't in the courtroom."

  "But the local paper was and they—"

  "Won't do a damn thing."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Stutz already threatened to sue them for libel if they print anything about steroids and Slade."

  "You can't win that case."

  "You and I and Stutz know that, Judge, but they don't. And they can't afford to take a chance. Small-town paper, they'd go broke just defending the case. So they caved."

  "Your money buys just about anything you want, doesn't it?"

  Quentin McQuade smiled. "Pretty much. Imagine what a million bucks can buy for the Mexican boy and his family."

  "Well, Mr. McQuade, like I said, that's civil. It has nothing to do with Slade's criminal case."

  "Judge, if the criminal case isn't dismissed, there won't be a civil settlement."

  "Julio can still sue."

  "He can sue Slade, not me. Slade owns a Hummer, and a Hummer won't pay the boy's college tuition."

  McQuade stood and walked to the door; he turned back.

  "Judge, you don't want to find out what else my money can buy."

  Beck entered the athletic club for the second time that week. He didn't notice that no one smiled at him or waved at him or greeted him with a hearty "Hi, Judge Hardin" because his mind was focused on one thing, the same thing most nineteen-year-old boys' minds are focused on 24/7.

  His eyes were searching the circuit training room for the blue butterfly. He found it. He walked toward it. The butterfly was floating up and down and up and down in a slow rhythmic motion, its wings seeming to move gracefully above … that bottom. Gretchen Young was doing standing squats on a rack fronting a wall mirror. Each time she squatted, the black shorts stretched almost to the breaking point. He broke a sweat.

  "Hi, Gretchen."

  Their eyes met in the mirror in front of her; she didn't smile at him. She was holding a barbell balanced on her shoulders behind her neck; a fifty-pound iron plate was locked on each end of the barbell. She hefted the barbell onto the rack and ducked under the bar. She adjusted the weights and whispered to him without looking at him.

  "Go away."

  "Why?"

  "I can't be seen talking to you."

  "Why not?"

  She jabbed her head toward the cardio room.

  "See those two old men on the ellipticals? They're on the school board. They see me talking to you, I'll get fired. They fired the principal for saying the Pledge in Spanish—they'll probably arrest me."

  "They fired Ms. Rodriguez?"

  "Yes. Now go away before you get me fired."

  "Why would I get you fired?"

  "Because they say you're going to ruin their football season. One of the teachers, her husband works at the courthouse. I told her we were going out Saturday—she said to stay away from you."

  "They won't fire you. You're dating the judge."

  "No, I'm not. Beck, I'm sorry, but I need my job."

  "But you have needs."

  Her face softened, and she sighed. "Tell me about it."

  Then she, her butterfly, and her bottom walked away. Beck stood there, staring and stunned.

  "Fickle, aren't they?"

  Jodie again.

  "Who?"

  She nodded toward Gretchen. "Children."

  TWENTY

  The sounds of Oma & The Oompahs filled the Marktplatz in downtown Fredericksburg. The town was celebrating Oktoberfest, the granddaddy of all German festivals. The grounds were crowded with white tents and tourists. Authentic German beer, food, music, crafts, and costumes harked back to the old country. The autumn air was crisp and cool, the tourists were drinking and buying, and the locals were speaking German and making money. All was well in Fredericksburg, Texas, that Saturday morning.

  But not with Beck.

  "What'd you do?" Luke said.

  Beck had brought Luke and Meggie to Oktoberfest. They were now eating lunch at a picnic table in the open-air Adelsverein Halle surrounded by unfriendly locals. Beck felt like Custer at Little Bighorn—but with dark German glares instead of sharp Sioux arrows being shot his way.

  "What do you mean?"

  "No one's talking to you. And I heard people say you're ruining the football season. You did something. What?"

  "Slade beat up a boy. I might have to put him in jail."

  Luke dropped his Kraut dog onto his paper plate and looked up at Beck in disbelief.

  "Great. You move me here and put me in school with a bunch of cowboys and now you do this."

  "I'm trying to do the right thing, Luke."

  "I'm trying to survive fifth grade."

  "Luke, I …"

  "I wish we had stayed in Chicago. I wish Mom was here. I wish you had died instead."

  Luke's words cut him, but Beck didn't take his son's words to heart; he had said the same words to his father when his own mother had died.

  "Mommy's coming back," Meggie said.

  Beck patted her and said in a low voice to his son, "Me, too, Luke. It would have been better that way, for all of us. But she died, and I'm all you've go
t."

  "I've got J.B."

  Beck turned away from his son and saw Aubrey limping toward their table. He was obviously drunk. He was working the cane with his right hand and carrying three cans of beer in his left hand. When he arrived, he placed the cans of beer on the table and sat down next to Beck. He leaned his cane against the table, popped the top on one can, and drank from it. He didn't notice that Luke had tears in his eyes.

  "You ain't exactly the most popular judge in town."

  "Yeah, but I'm the only judge in town."

  "Didn't see you in the stands last night."

  "Figured I might not be welcome."

  "We won. Slade threw for seven touchdowns, ran for two."

  "I heard."

  "Did Kim know anything about Heidi?"

  "Did you know Slade was using steroids?"

  Aubrey turned to the bandstand at the other end of the pavilion and stared at the dancers wearing traditional German costumes and dancing a polka like pros. He finally turned back.

  "Can we talk about Heidi instead?"

  "After we talk about Slade. Did you know?"

  Aubrey took a long drink. "Figured."

  "You didn't ask him?"

  "Like I said, he don't answer to me."

  "What about other players? Are they using?"

  "Possibly … probably."

  "The school district doesn't test?"

  "Yeah, we've had a random drug testing program for a few years now. But we've never had a positive for steroids."

  "Has Slade ever been tested?"

  "Nope."

  "What about the other football players?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause the same boys are picked for every test—Mexican boys that play soccer."

  "Doesn't sound random."

  "It ain't. Hundred-thirty-pound Mexican boy sure as hell ain't juicing, so he gets tested. We tell the parents our boys tested clean, they're happy. That's what they want to hear. Long as they don't know the truth, they can still believe it's all good here."

  "Who picks the kids that get tested?"

  Aubrey looked away.

  "I do."

  Beck stared at his old friend. Aubrey drank from his beer.