by Tim Green
Thane and Morty both said they were fine with sparkling water, but Uncle Gus shrugged and said he'd have a bottle of whatever fancy Italian beer they could come up with fastest.
"When in Italy, drink beer like the Italians," Uncle Gus said, nodding and winking at Morty.
When his beer came, Uncle Gus raised the bottle and said, "A toast to my nephew, a rich man, a football hero, and our success together in business."
Thane nearly choked on his sparkling water. Morty set his drink down and licked his lips, taking a piece of bread and passing the basket before softly asking what business Uncle Gus was referring to.
Uncle Gus swigged his beer before he banged the bottle down on the table. When he spoke, he was impatient and he even sounded angry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"THE TIGER'S LAIR," Uncle Gus said.
Aunt Virginia shot him a dark look, and his face and voice softened a bit.
"But we don't have to call it that," he said. "Tiger has to make the call on a lot of this, but the concept is basically a sports bar that Jets fans can go to. He doesn't have to be there all the time or anything."
Thane hung his head and his lower lip disappeared beneath his teeth. Morty puckered his lips. Ty took a piece of bread, biting into the thick, rich crust and handing the basket to Charlotte, who glanced at her father and shook her head apologetically at Ty.
"I mean," Uncle Gus said, talking even faster, "it'll help if he shows up every once in a while, randomly, to keep people guessing on when they might get to bump into him, or some of his teammates. That would be ideal, kind of a Jets hangout where regular people can go. Maybe we even have a Jets night and we charge a cover at the door. I've got plenty of ideas like that.
"We'll make a mint."
"I'll be honest," Morty said. "I don't recommend these things, bars."
"This would be a sports bar," Uncle Gus said. He swigged more beer, dampening his thick gray mustache with foam.
"Even sports bars," Morty said, buttering his bread.
"It could be more like a nightclub," Uncle Gus said.
"Or a restaurant that has a bar."
"Anything like that," Morty said, setting down his knife. "But you're...family, and I understand how that can be."
Uncle Gus smiled big, nodding his head so that a thick tuft of his hair fell in a clump, covering his forehead.
"But you need to know the standard terms," Morty said, pointing at Uncle Gus with his piece of bread.
"The way these things work. Tiger gets ten percent of everything."
"Ten?" Uncle Gus said, his smile growing so big that his crooked yellow teeth glowed in the candlelight. "I can do that. To be honest, I thought it'd be more, not that I'm saying I'd do more. Standard terms, you know."
"Ten percent is all you can expect when you're not putting up any of the money," Morty said, biting into the bread.
Uncle Gus looked confused. His mouth began to work itself back and forth underneath the eaves of his mustache.
Before he could say anything, the waiter asked if he could take their order. Ty asked for spaghetti with tomato sauce. When the waiter asked if he'd like something with it, like a veal chop, Ty swallowed and looked at Thane.
"Get it," Thane said. "We're celebrating."
The waiter took everyone's order, and they all sat quietly for a moment before Uncle Gus cleared his throat and asked Morty, "What do you mean Tiger's not putting up any money?"
"He can't," Morty said.
"Why not?" Uncle Gus said. "I'm the one doing all the work. We need three hundred thousand to get started, build out the bar, inventory, kitchen, a big sign. He just puts up the money and watches it grow."
"Maybe we should talk about it another time," Morty said. "You can come into my office and we can go through it all. I'm his financial adviser, so I've got a fiduciary duty. It's not up to Thane."
"It's his money, isn't it?" Uncle Gus said, picking viciously at the label on his beer bottle.
"Yes, but I'm managing it," Morty said. "It's a good way to do things."
"So I could manage part of it, too," Uncle Gus said.
"The sports bar part."
"The NFL Players Association only recommends licensed financial consultants," Morty said.
"Who are you? God or something?" Uncle Gus said in a loud voice. He slammed his hand down on the table, jarring the silverware and drawing the attention of everyone around them.
"Tiger," Uncle Gus said, forcing a smile, "you can tell him to do this. It's a family business."
Thane held up his hands. "I don't know enough about all this. It's easier just to have Morty do it. I just need to focus on football. I already missed three weeks of camp."
"Actually, he's got to report right away, after this dinner," Morty said.
"What about what I need to do?" Uncle Gus asked.
"Who do you think is taking care of--"
Uncle Gus stopped and shot a glance at Ty. Ty's face burned.
Thane glared at their uncle and gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
"What does that mean?" Thane said, growling.
"Nothing," Uncle Gus said with a whimper, wiping his mustache on his sleeve.
"Because," Thane said, nearly choking on his words as he looked from Ty to his uncle, then to his aunt, and finally to Morty before the next words burst from his mouth. "Because Ty can come with me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"TIGER. EASY, EASY, EASY," Morty said. "He can't go with you. You've got training camp, then the season. He needs a family, your aunt to cook and clean his clothes and all that. You're barely out of college. You're not ready for that. It wouldn't be good for Ty."
Thane clenched his teeth so that his jaw muscles rippled.
"Ty's got nothing to do with this bar business anyway," Morty said to Uncle Gus. "Right?"
"It's just a family thing, that's all," Uncle Gus grumbled, looking into his lap. "You don't even want him helping his family?"
Aunt Virginia put her hand on top of his and gave it a shake, whispering something softly to him. The corners of Uncle Gus's eyes sagged. He looked suddenly tired and sad.
"When someone needs an operation to save their life but they can't afford it," Morty said in a soft voice, "that's when you need to help your family. Believe me, I know."
"I'm sorry," Uncle Gus said, looking up at Thane. "I didn't mean anything by it. I thought it would be good for everybody."
"You'll come to my office," Morty said kindly. "We can talk about it. Let's just have a nice meal. To celebrate. If camp food is as bad as they say, this'll be Tiger's last decent meal for a while."
With his fast talking, and some harmless jokes, Morty had a way of making everyone forget about the discomfort of their conversation about money, and soon the talk turned to Tiger and how many touchdowns he'd score for the team in the upcoming season. Still, Ty kept an eye on his uncle and he could tell that the smile he wore beneath the thick mustache was strained and ready to fall the second they got out the door.
After dinner, on their way out, Thane grabbed Ty and pulled him back into the restaurant.
"You okay?" he asked.
Ty nodded his head. "Don't worry about me."
"Well, I do," Thane said.
"I'm fine."
"You let me know if you're not," Thane said. "I don't care what Morty says."
"Morty's right," Ty said. "I don't want you to end up like the guys who play for ten years and they're broke."
"Not me," Thane said, smiling and tousling Ty's hair.
Thane looked around, then reached into his pocket and took out a hundred-dollar bill and slipped it into Ty's hand.
"Hey, I want you to take this," he said. "In case you ever need something."
"I can't," Ty said, trying to give it back.
"It's just a hundred," Thane said. "Don't insult me."
"I don't want to be a mooch," Ty said.
"What did I tell you about that?" Thane said. "You
didn't ask. It'll make me feel better to know you've got something socked away, for an emergency. Don't tell them."
"I won't," Ty said, cramming the bill into the bottom of his pants pocket.
Thane gave him a hug that Ty didn't want to end, but it did when Aunt Virginia stuck her head back inside the restaurant and said they were waiting. Ty bit the inside of his cheek and told his brother good-bye.
When they arrived at Lucy's the next day, they found Mike in the kitchen hunched over a big frying pan of eggs. He grinned so hard when he saw Ty that the end of his cigarette popped up into the air, sprinkling ashes into the pan. Mike squinted at the eggs and tilted the pan toward Ty.
"Looks kind of like pepper, don't it?" Mike asked.
Uncle Gus laughed out loud.
"Hey," Mike said to Ty's uncle, "you want a donut? I can whip some up."
"Great," Uncle Gus said. "Is Lucy in?"
"Check his office," Mike said. "I'll have a batch of powdered sugar ones done before you leave."
Uncle Gus grinned at the big former football player and told Ty and Charlotte to get going. Ty dragged his supplies into the bathroom while Uncle Gus stood outside Lucy's office, quietly knocking on the red door.
Ty filled his bucket, poured in some cleaner, and went right into the stall to get that over with. He was scrubbing the underside of the seat when he caught sight of the rusty air vent from the corner of his eye. He couldn't help wondering what Uncle Gus might be saying to the bar owner. After a quick look at the door, he knelt down in the corner and put his ear to the vent.
Ty heard the sound of Lucy's TV playing. It blurred the words of the conversation, but he could just make them out.
"Stop crying, will you?" Lucy said. "You can't run a bar anyway; you'd drink all the profits. You want to make some extra money? I'll tell you how."
Lucy's voice softened, and Ty could no longer hear what was being said over the sound of the TV. He thought he heard Tiger's name once or twice, but he couldn't be sure. Finally, he gave up and got back to work. He was scooping cigarette butts out of the urinal when Lucy raised his voice so loud Ty could almost hear it through the wall. He scrambled back to his place in the stall.
"Do you know what kind of opportunity this is?" Lucy said. "Don't worry about the kid. If I ask him, he'll do it."
Ty's stomach knotted up. Whatever it was they were going to ask, he didn't want to know, let alone do whatever it was. The thought of that, or maybe something else, made him dizzy. He stood up and stumbled out of the stall, grabbing for the sink to steady himself.
Ty and Thane walked out into the dark, snowy evening, leaving the warmth and popcorn smell of the movie theater behind for the cold, stiff seats of Thane's rusty old Subaru wagon. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Thane was home for the holiday. On their way out of the theater, an old neighbor who was a big SU football fan recognized Thane. While Thane signed a napkin for his son, the man asked if speed was the thing that made Thane the player that he was.
After Thane scraped the car window free from ice and snow and climbed in next to him, Ty asked, "Why did you tell that guy speed wasn't the most important thing? Everyone says that's why you're great but you."
"And what did I say?" Thane asked, blowing into his hands before he started up the car.
"Instincts," Ty said.
"That's right," Thane said, looking over at him with a serious face, "because speed without instincts is useless. When you catch that ball downfield, there are plenty of people trying to knock you out and keep you from the end zone. I can't explain it, but you have to 'feel' where everyone is and in that same instant to know where they're all going to be when they start to chase you. Then your legs have to take you to wherever that opening is, without even thinking about it. That's instinct. It's knowing what to do, where to go, without even thinking."
"How can you know without thinking?" Ty asked.
Thane grinned at him and said, "Trust yourself. If you feel something, follow it. That's instincts. That's what makes a good player great. That's what makes you win."
Uncle Gus banged open the bathroom door, startling Ty from his daydream and sending his heart off on a gallop.
"I wanna talk to you," Uncle Gus said. "Me and Lucy."
Ty knew they were going to ask him for something, a favor. And he knew he'd have an opening to ask for something back. His instincts told him that.
He only hoped that when he saw Lucy's face and that boiling red scar, he wouldn't be too scared to ask.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TY SWALLOWED AND WASHED his hands and followed his uncle out of the bathroom and into the office on the other side of the wall. Sunlight leaked in around the edges of the window's metal blinds. The musty deer head hanging above Lucy's desk stared down at him like an old friend. Opposite the desk, the three-foot plasma TV played highlights on SportsCenter. On the wall next to the bookcase filled with DVDs, Ty saw that the calendar had a different woman in a tiny bathing suit than last week. Just beyond that, Ty could see into Lucy's private bathroom with its big glass shower, black marble floors, and fluffy towels. Ty couldn't help wondering if his instincts had been wrong. Maybe they just wanted to talk about the way he cleaned Lucy's private bathroom, too much ammonia smell or not enough sparkle in the gold faucet fixtures.
Lucy had his lips wrapped around a cigar and he squinted at Ty through the smoke. The crowbar lay across his desk.
"Sit down," Lucy said in a tone too pleasant for talking about cleaning a bathroom.
Ty sat in one of the leather chairs facing Lucy's desk, and his uncle took the other one.
"Your brother," Lucy said with a smile, clicking off the TV with his remote and picking up the crowbar, "we're all proud of him."
Ty nodded along with his uncle.
"Your uncle says he's not interested in the bar business," Lucy said. "And that's fine."
Ty relaxed a little.
"But your uncle, like every other red-blooded American," Lucy said, "wants to take advantage of the opportunity that all of a sudden he's got this nephew who's this big football hero and he's playing for the Jets. So, I got an idea that doesn't cost anyone anything."
Uncle Gus nodded his head, smiling hard.
"It's fantasy football," Lucy said, waving the crowbar. "People are crazy for it. It's all for fun, but they pay big money if they can get any edge at all. Injury information. That's a big thing. Stuff the average guy can't get. Stuff he'll pay for."
Lucy raised his eyebrows, but Ty could only shake his head. He knew about fantasy football, getting a bunch of friends and making your own league, picking players all over the NFL for your own team, then assembling a starting roster online. You got points based on each of your individual players' statistics for that week's performance in their real game, but Ty didn't get how injury information had anything to do with it.
"Come here," Lucy said, motioning with the crowbar for Ty to come around the desk.
Lucy opened the newspaper to the back of the sports section.
"Injury reports," Lucy said, laying the crowbar down and running his finger along some of the fine print in the box scores. "Who's going to play, who's not? They post these reports even for preseason games. Look, here. Thomas Jones, the Jets running back. It says 'Elbow. Questionable.' Probable means twenty-five percent chance he can't play. Questionable means fifty percent. Doubtful means seventy-five percent chance he won't play. If it says he's out, he won't play at all."
Lucy looked up, and Ty nodded that he understood.
"Good," Lucy said. "But half the time these things are bogus. The team says probable even when they know a guy isn't going to play. Or doubtful when they know he is."
"Why?" Ty asked.
"Strategy," Lucy said. "If the other team knows Jones isn't playing, they know the Jets will have to try and throw the ball more. They can spend more time working on their pass defense. It's a little edge like that that can make the difference in the ball game. For the fantasy players, if they
start a guy who's going to be out, they're sunk. Let's say they put a quarterback onto their roster for that week who doesn't even play. It's almost guaranteed that they'll lose. These mokes will pay good money to know who's really going to play and who isn't."
"How could I know?" Ty asked.
"You ask your brother," Lucy said, grinning. "You go see him, say, on Friday after school or something and you get the rundown."
"He's going to want to know why," Ty said. "I don't know if he'll like it."
"You just tell him you're in a fantasy league with some of your buddies in school," Lucy said. "Your brother will love it."
"But I can't lie to him," Ty said, seeing the opportunity in Lucy's churning dark eyes. "So, I'll have to just get into a league."
"Yeah," Lucy said, nodding. "You do that, kid."
"Problem is," Ty said, sighing, "the guys who do it are all on the football team. They won't let me in if I'm not on the team."
"So, you'll get on the team," Lucy said, his voice turning into a low growl, obviously annoyed with the details.
Ty looked at his uncle, who nodded so fast that it reminded Ty of a bobble-head.
"That's up to Uncle Gus," Ty said, staring at his uncle.
Uncle Gus's head slowed down, and his eyebrows knit into a V beneath the bulging vein in his forehead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"I'D HAVE TO GO to work late," Ty said, still looking at his uncle. "If I'm going to be on the team."
"So you go to work late," Lucy said, scooping up the crowbar, glaring at Ty, and then at his uncle. "Am I missing something? This is important."
"No," Uncle Gus said, relaxing his face and sniveling to Lucy. "He can do that. He can play."
"Maybe we should have it that I can have dinner with Thane on Friday nights," Ty said. "To get the latest on everyone's injuries."
"Perfect," Lucy said.
Uncle Gus's face contorted, probably at the thought of cleaning his own toilets on Friday nights again.
"Right?" Lucy said to Uncle Gus with that growl of his, pointing the crowbar.
