by David Chill
Skipping my normal pot of French roast, I took the opportunity to beat traffic going downtown and sat myself down at a Starbucks, this one across the street from USC. The sky was cloudy, so I missed out on seeing a sunrise. After downing a maple scone and spending a half-hour sipping on a grande Sumatra blend, I headed off to Ellendale Place, north of the campus. The apartment building was located just south of Adams, on a street mixed with student housing and local residences. One of my teammates lived on this block many years ago, and I remember hanging out with him one afternoon. An ice cream truck was parked across the street and it continuously played the first half of the tune of Three Blind Mice. The music would stop abruptly, wait four seconds, and then start playing again from the beginning. It took about a week to get that annoying sound out of my head, but more than 20 years later, I could still dredge it back up.
It was a little after 7:00 am when I buzzed Desiree Brown's apartment from behind the security gate. No response. I buzzed three more times before a student on his way to class absently held the security door open, and allowed me in. I walked up to Desiree's apartment and knocked. No answer. I knocked a little louder. Maybe she had the same sleep patterns as Gail and was able to block out any and every noise. Finally, the next door neighbor opened her door to see what the racket was about.
"I'm sure she's not there," said a trim, bespectacled girl with straight brown hair that stopped just above her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and she had that wide-awake look that told me she had been up for a while.
"Hi," I said, walking over and introducing myself. "Any idea where Desiree might be at this early hour?"
"Um, I don't know. Maybe in class. Her parents don't live too far away, so she could be at home. Honestly, I have no idea. Desiree doesn't spend a lot of time here."
"So I've gathered. What's your name?"
"I'm Kristy. Can I help you with something?"
I flashed my P.I. license. "I'm doing an investigation and I need to speak with her. Any way of knowing how to get in touch? Phone number maybe?"
"Ooooh," she said. "A real life private eye. That's so cool."
"Sometimes," I said. No sense clarifying things, and spoiling the image. "Can I talk with you for a few minutes?"
"Sure," she said and waved me into her apartment. I sat down. She left the front door partially open. Smart girl.
"I'm looking into what happened last week," I started. "With Desiree ... "
" ... and Xavier?" she quickly interjected.
I nodded. "Were you at home at the time?"
"I sure was."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Did I ever. Quite the soap opera," she said in a sing-song voice.
"How so?"
"The two of them fight all the time. They're like children."
"Has it ever gotten violent?"
"Not sure. But this was the first time the police showed up."
"So tell me what happened."
"Okay, so Xavier comes by and the two immediately start yelling at each other. Mostly name calling. Then I heard what sounded like a fight. Didn't last long, maybe a few punches thrown. Then Desiree started yelling at him again, yelling at him to get out."
"Go on," I said.
"And then the door slams really hard and I thought Xavier had left. But I heard more yelling and arguing, and then the sound of another couple of punches thrown. Then the door slams again. This time I was sure he had left, there was no more noise coming out of Desiree's apartment. I was about to go over and see if she was all right, but then the cops showed up."
"Do you have any idea what they fight about?"
"I think they have expectations of how the other should behave. They both want to be the star of the relationship and they think the other should be there to support them. On the surface, you know, they make the perfect couple, the big, strong football hero and the beautiful princess. Once you get to know them a bit, you realize they're just not a match. Why they've stayed together is obvious. He'll be very rich soon and she makes great arm candy. Beyond that though, I can't see it lasting."
"If they fight a lot, it probably won't."
"Okay, no relationship is 50-50 all the time," she declared and began to speak extensively on the topic. "It's usually more like 70-30. In the better relationships, the couple just take turns who takes care of whom. But sometimes you have an unusual pairing that has unusual needs. Sometimes one person wants to be doing all the giving and the other just wants to take. It's not a bad thing, per se. If it works for those two people. It just isn't working here."
"You know a lot about relationships," I smiled. "You a psych major?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I think you need to be a little crazy to be a good psychologist."
I considered this. "Let me throw something out there. Xavier says he didn't hit Desiree. Do you believe him?"
She shook her head no. "That doesn't hold. I don't know the whole scenario obviously, but I know the sound of a punch landing."
"Do you?" I asked.
"Sure. I've seen about a million movies. That's where you learn about real life. It sounds like this," she said and drew back her right fist, smacking it loudly into her left palm.
"Fine," I laughed. "Glad you have some expertise on this subject."
"So, I'm actually a film major. Getting the sound right is critical, but fight scenes are really easy to stage. I'll tell you what, though. These two have given me great material for a script. In fact, I'm almost done with the first draft."
"My, you're ambitious," I said. "Do I dare ask who you plan to cast in it?"
Kristy grinned. "I'm keeping that to myself. I just need a good way to end it."
I hoped it would be a happy ending, but in cases like these, happy endings were infrequent. "I have to say something, Kristy. You've managed to hear quite a bit. You're aware of some very intimate parts of their relationship. You know a lot about them. Are you and Desiree good friends?"
"No, like I said, I hardly ever see her. And when we speak, it's usually just to say hello in passing."
"Then how do you know all this stuff? Are the walls really that thin?"
"Noooo ... not exactly," she said, her smile getting a little devious. "I hold a glass up to the wall and put my ear against it. Saw that trick in an old spy movie, once. You know, it really does work."
Chapter 8
Howard Jones Field was a short, five-minute drive from Ellendale Place. It was the football team's practice field, named after a legendary USC coach from the 1930s. I parked my Pathfinder in the lot adjacent to the McKay Center. There were 10 reserved parking spaces out front and all were taken. The slot marked with the number "one" was filled by a black Mercedes coupe. Not that I had any doubt he would own an impressive car, but it was nice to see Johnny Cleary was enjoying the fruits of his success. As the head coach of a team that was consistently ranked among the top 10 in college football, he had every right to do so.
I entered the practice field from the same pathway the team used as they made their way out of the locker room. Passing through Goux's Gate, I gave it a slap, just like the players still do today. Maintaining the tradition was important to me, even though nobody was there to see me do it.
On the field, I was approached by a team manager with a clipboard who informed me this was a closed practice. I told him I was a former player, and his eyes lit up. When I mentioned I played in the same defensive backfield as Johnny Cleary, he practically genuflected. He said he'd let Coach know I was here, but I told him not to bother him right now. His time with the team was precious. I'd collar him in a little while, after practice was over.
The practice was smooth and crisp and professional. Every 15 minutes or so, a horn blew and the players moved to a different part of the field, either to scrimmage or work with their position coaches. It was orderly and everyone knew what they were supposed to do. Along the sidelines, a few visitors like myself stood around observing.
Years ago, all footb
all practice sessions were held in the afternoon, following classes. When Johnny took over, he instituted a change, deciding the players would be fresher in the morning. But afternoon practices had also become a real scene, with many dozens of people milling about. There were the usual fans and alumni, but there were also a growing number of agents and their runners. The goal was for the agents to ingratiate themselves with star players, to the extent of trying to arrange meetings, dinners, trips, or even blatantly slipping them money. Most players had the good sense to politely decline these gifts with their not-so-secret agendas attached to them, but when Johnny took over as head coach, he clamped down. Practices were now limited to a few observers. I noticed that after my conversation with the kid holding the clipboard, he went over and spoke to a man in a suit and tie, and pointed me out. Whoever he spoke with must have recognized me, as no one returned to escort me off the field.
When practice ended, I approached Johnny and walked him back to his office. He pushed a few pieces of memorabilia off his tan leather couch, tossed himself onto it and pointed to a soft recliner next to him.
"Have a seat, Burnsy," Johnny said as he stretched out across the couch.
"Your office is getting more cluttered," I observed. "Keep going to Rose Bowls and there won't be any room in here."
"A small price to pay," he said. "But I'm not looking toward the Rose Bowl just yet. We have to start by getting past Washington on Saturday and then Stanford. Would be easier if we had Xavier available."
"I got the call from Jeremy. Not sure if I can unravel this thing quickly."
"It's a tough one. We had to suspend Xavier pending the police investigation. Looks like he may get charged with assault. Until that's cleared up, he can't play. And if he's convicted, that may be the end of his football career."
I didn't bother to mention Xavier had been in contact with a sports agent, Cliff Roper, an indiscretion that could further jeopardize his college career. "I spoke to Xavier yesterday."
"What did he tell you?"
"He denied hitting his girlfriend. Swore up and down he didn't touch her. Said they just had an argument. Voices raised is all. But he couldn't explain the bruises on her face."
"This just doesn't sound good," Johnny said.
"I know. And I get the feeling there's more to the story. He wouldn't say what they argued about, other than it was about their relationship. Guys like Xavier have a shot at making serious money when they turn pro. And the girls all know that."
"Yeah, that's an interesting thing, too. Desiree's parents are professionals, father's an executive, I think her mother's a doctor. X just doesn't come from that world."
I considered this. "Okay. But even doctors don't earn anywhere near what a pro football star can. If Xavier makes it big in the NFL he can make millions every year. And there's also the fame that comes with being attached to someone in the spotlight."
"You're right," Johnny said. "But at this point the team has to plan on moving forward without him. It was tough against Oregon State, their receiver torched our backup corner for over 100 yards. Last year X held him to two catches for 20 yards."
"I believe Xavier's referred to as a shutdown corner."
"Yeah. We call him X Island. Put him out there and he can cover any receiver one-on-one. Frees up the rest of the defense, gives us a lot of options. And he's just so quick. Plenty of guys say they can run the 40 in 4.4, but he really can. Maybe even a shade faster. You just don't replace guys like X."
"I hear you."
"Unfortunately, things may even be worse against Washington this weekend. They're loaded at receiver. We've had a bunch of injuries this season and we're really in trouble at cornerback, our number two is actually a converted safety," Johnny said, and then gave a canny smile. "And you know safeties can't play cornerback."
I returned the smile. "Funny how some people think that safety and corner are interchangeable. But I could never have done what you did at cornerback. My hips didn't swivel easily, I just didn't have that flexibility."
Johnny smiled back. "You weren't as fast as me either."
"True. But safeties usually tackle better. When I got a hold of a guy, he went down."
"I could wrap someone up when I had to."
"Sure," I acknowledged. "But that's not what makes a great cornerback. All of you guys get beat at some point. The good ones can make up the lost ground and break up the pass play. A safety's job is to prevent a touchdown when the corner gets beat. We're the last line of defense."
Johnny gave me a strange smile. "You haven't forgotten much."
"Some things stay with you forever."
"They sure do. Maybe you can try calling defensive schemes on Saturday. I remember when we were playing. You used to give the Bulldog suggestions. He sure loved that, didn't he?"
Gus "Bulldog" Martin was head coach at USC when Johnny and I played together. He was a gruff, no-nonsense drill sergeant of a coach. Smart as a whip and tough as nails. He got his nickname as a young man, when a very large, very angry, unleashed dog attacked him. Coach got hold of the dog by the scruff of his neck and wouldn't let him up until he started whimpering for mercy. Both survived unscathed, but Bulldog became his new name and it stuck forever.
"I recall giving the Bulldog some ideas on play calling," I mused. "And I especially recall when I told him we should use the corner blitz more. Let you cornerbacks attack the offense for a change. Let the safeties cover the receivers. Not be so reactive all the time."
Johnny started to chuckle. "Yeah, I remember that one. Telling Coach to use the corner blitz. One of the riskiest plays in football."
"The Bulldog just stared at me," I laughed. "Didn't say a word for like 15 seconds. Talk about an intimidating moment. Coach finally jabbed a finger in my chest and told me to stick to playing safety. And to let him worry about calling the damn plays."
"I thought he was going to smack you for even suggesting it," Johnny said. "That play's great when it works, but it's a disaster when it doesn't."
"It takes special circumstances," I said. "And special players."
"You know, every once in a while I wonder how you'd do as a football coach. Given our pass defense lately, I may need someone to coach the defensive backs next year."
"You're kidding," I said.
"Not necessarily. And I remember that speech you gave to the team last year. It was a thing of beauty. The players were really fired up. You've got that touch with the kids."
Last year Johnny had invited me to address the team and lead them onto the field before the UCLA game. It was a wonderful moment for me. The fact that we won the game big made it even better. But I perceived that as a joyous one-time event, not a prelude to a full-time job.
"We've been through this before, Johnny. I get more satisfaction out of cracking a case."
"People change," he said. "Circumstances change. You're going to be a father soon. And a homeowner. With that new house comes a big mortgage. Private eyes only make so much. Assistant football coaches these days? Their salaries can go way into six figures."
I didn't know whether Johnny was serious or just exhibiting frustration over a too-close game last week. But I had some other, very immediate and more pressing business to deal with. I needed to put this out of my mind for now. But I knew Johnny Cleary didn't become a major college head coach by taking no for an answer, and that this subject would rear its head again.
"Fine," I lied. "I'll give it some thought."
"Fair enough. How far along is Gail?"
"Seven months. Due around Christmas."
"Best present you could ever get."
"I think so, too."
Johnny leaned back. "You know, this is going to be a challenging time for you."
"How so?" I frowned.
"New moms focus all their attention on the baby. Not much time left over for dad. You may find yourself looking around. Maybe not seriously, but you'd be surprised at how one thing can lead to another. Keep that in mind. I've se
en marriages break up this way. Might sound surprising, but it happens."
"I know I'm lucky to have what I have," I pointed out.
"Good to hear," he said.
"Look, I'm not 22 years old, Johnny. I like to think of myself as more mature than that."
"I know," he said. "But there's a saying that behind every successful man is a woman. And behind the fall of many successful men is usually another woman."
I thought back to my brief flirtation earlier this year with Cliff Roper's beautiful daughter, Honey. If I could resist her, I could resist anyone. But it also got me thinking about my cases. And I thought about something interesting. Maybe there was another angle I needed to look at.
*
It was getting close to lunchtime, and I grabbed a banana and a green apple at one of the kiosks near the Student Union. The off-campus fare was fine when I was a student, not so fine as a middle-aged man. My favorite meal back then was a unique creation called the Garbage Burrito that was only served at a local joint called El Rey's. Years later, I managed to talk my LAPD patrol partner into stopping there for lunch one day. What I had once recalled as a great mix of tasty ingredients, no longer felt so great. The football-sized burrito started with a king-sized flour tortilla and was loaded with ground beef, spices, rice, beans, vegetables and some other things I couldn't fully recognize. The outsized meal stayed with me all day and all night. After that, I let my partner pick the lunch spots.
When I arrived at Governor Palmer's campaign office, the place was a whirlwind of nervous activity. I could feel the anxiety the moment I walked off the elevator, as staffers were darting around quickly, and shouting at each other down the hallway. No one bothered to ask who I was, so I sauntered in and found Shelly Busch sitting at her desk, clenching her phone tightly, and screaming into the mouthpiece.
"I don't care if you have to pay your programmers extra! I want another poll in and out of the field tonight. I want tabs in my inbox by 7:00 am tomorrow ... So have him go buy another list, do I have to do everyone's job for them?! ... Yes, I wrote that questionnaire... Yes, I know what a push poll is, you moron ... That's the campaign's decision, not yours ... Look, if you want to see any more business, you better get this done!"
