The Franchise (77 page)

Now it all depended on Taylor’s struggle with the horror of the void. It was his job. The hard part.

Wendy had seen him like this many times as he hunted the vast inside to confront the awe of nothingness. His facial muscles no longer formed a mask of flesh. Taylor appeared a stranger—impassive, expressionless, unfamiliar, absent, empty.

Gone away.

His eyes suddenly flared; he had again found nothing. Thin creases sliced down from his mouth. He winced in pain, trying not to turn from the terror. His face no longer slack, panic drew a mask of heavy lines. His whole body stiffened, he flinched slightly, his eyes sparkled sightlessly, black with fear. He began to flush and sweat. A violent tremor shook his shoulders and a facial tic jerked at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes watered and it was over.

He had his game face.

The rest would be easy.

Whatever it was.

B
EFORE LEAVING FOR THE
stadium, Taylor placed a call to Ginny Hendrix. One of the boys answered.

“Bobby?” Taylor asked.

“Naw, Billy.”

“This is Taylor. Is your mother around?”

“MAAAAA!” Billy squalled into the mouthpiece. “MAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Gus Savas’s huge house absorbed the screams and wails of his grandchild.

“Hello?” Ginny came on the line, breathless.

“Hi, Ginny, this is Taylor. I thought I’d call and say hello. Billy didn’t seem too pleased to hear my voice.”

“Oh, he’s waiting on a call from a boy down the block. They have a big Super Bowl party planned with a six-foot television and two VTR units for their own instant replays.”

“And I’m on the phone interfering with the planning of the party?”

“You got it. You shouldn’t be calling now just before the game. You need to be psyching yourself up, don’t you? Bobby always puked his guts out.”

“I know, I roomed with him,” Taylor replied. “Don’t worry, I’ve done the hard part. I’m just going to the stadium for the roll call and make sure everybody else does what they are told. It’s easy for me from now on.”

“Mr. Automatic,” Ginny teased. “Oh, Taylor, thanks for the rings for the boys. I’ll give ’em to them today. Maybe Billy will forgive you for bothering him on game day.”

“Those are exact scale duplicates of the rings we picked. They’re the least gaudy Super Bowl ring ever designed. Actually those are the only two in existence, plus mine; everybody else has to wait. I already played the game and we won. I just have to go to the Pistol Dome and convince the rest of my teammates and the world.”

“Taylor?” Ginny turned hesitant, embarrassed. “I can’t take this check. I appreciate it, but....”

“That’s just until we get the Union pension problem worked out. I haven’t had the time during the season. Now I know why Speedo quit this job; there’s so much to do. How did Bobby do it?”

“He worked his ass off. He believed in it.” Ginny’s voice dulled. She was not a believer.

“I told Terry that after this game I’d come to the office or talk to the pension board or whatever it took. I’m doing the same thing about Simon for the kid.”

“Where is he?”

“Down in Kingsville with Buffy’s people.”

“In a minute, Billy,” Ginny said. Taylor could hear the boy telling his mother to get off the phone. “In a minute, dear. It’s Uncle Taylor.”

Taylor heard the boy say he didn’t care.

“Taylor ... I ...” Ginny stammered; the boy was badgering her for the phone. “Taylor, I have to go ... but I ... just a minute, Billy.... Taylor, I just wanted to thank you for caring about us and ...” Her voice broke. Billy kept his verbal assault. “I have got to go. Good luck and we all love you.”

The line went dead. Billy had been hovering near and pressed down the disconnect button.

Taylor looked across the bed at Wendy. She was wiping tears from her eyes.

Taylor smiled at her. “Billy made her hang up on me so he could call his friends and plan their Super Bowl party.”

Bob Travers rapped on the door.

“Anytime.” Bob had already taken Toby and Randall to the skybox.

Taylor picked up his playbook and followed Wendy out of the bedroom door. They followed Bob to the private elevator.

In the parking garage two uniformed policemen stood by the Ford. Bob left the elevator first, then signaled Wendy and Taylor to follow him into the car. They sat quietly in back.

Bob stuck the flasher on the car roof, waved off the police and hit his siren.

At street level in front of the hotel, about fifty Denver fans were holding a pep rally hanging Taylor Rusk in effigy. They were drunk and loud and all were barechested. Men and women. It was twenty-eight degrees. They were chanting, “Die ... Die ... Die ... Kill ... Kill ... Kill ... Die ... Die ... Kill ... Kill ... Kill ...”

Taylor watched Wendy, who had turned pale at the up-close madness.

“I don’t like the words,” Taylor said, snapping his fingers, “but I like the beat. It’s a good song to dance to.”

Bob hit the siren and hurtled into the gathering storm of traffic flooding toward the Super Bowl at the Pistol Dome.

Wendy turned for a last look at the mob.

“What would they have done if they’d seen you?”

Taylor thought a moment.

“I don’t think they meant
everything
they were saying.”

Bob laughed and hit the accelerator. With a sucking, roaring sound the car leaped ahead and slid through the traffic like a fish through water.

Kill. Die.

O
N THE FREEWAY SOUTH
of Park City, the traffic slowed and the lanes congested. Since the enthusiastic welcome of the Pistol Dome to town, things had deteriorated, and the city council of Clyde, Texas, lacked the political savvy or clout to convince a majority of voters to pass bond issues necessary to build the exits to get the high-volume traffic off the eight-lane freeway into Clyde and the Pistol Dome.

The construction costs and interest rates were astronomical, and the public learned the price of the tax-free deal Dick Conly had negotiated for the dome.

Dick Conly could have handled the Clyde problems according to the usual pro-growth formula. They were sheep and God made them to shear, but the shepherd, Dick Conly, the architect of Clyde’s healthy business climate, had moved to New Mexico.

So on Super Sunday the eight-lane freeway tried vainly to funnel thousands of cars into Clyde through only two exits and access roads.

“We’ll never make the dome.” Bob Travers shifted down. “This’ll be gridlocked in another hour.”

“Do what you have to,” Taylor said.

Bob nodded, hit the siren, cranked the wheel, pushed the accelerator to the floor and crossed three lanes of traffic.

The freeway cut through Chalk Mountain and the Pistol Dome was behind Chalk Mountain, but the first exit was another mile south. Bob figured they needed ninety to a hundred miles an hour to climb the grade that would lead them, without a road, to the dome.

“Grab the roll bar and hang on,” Bob said calmly as the car launched itself into the air. The wide, billowing trail of chalk dust looked like rocket exhaust. There was some minor sideslipping and a couple of bumps; otherwise it seemed a relatively simple achievement.

Or so it appeared to the dozens of motorists who tried to follow the white Ford up the hill.

It was a major catastrophe when measured in dollars. Eighty-one cars were seriously damaged or totally destroyed.

The three people in the white Ford were too busy searching for the quickest way to the underground entrance to the dome parking lots, unaware of the mass destruction going on in their wake.

The lots were jamming up with cars and buses and motor homes. There were tailgate parties everywhere. Crazies and drunks wandered the parking lot yelling “Kill” or “We are number one.”

The SSI guards were adding to the confusion because of their unfamiliarity with the stadium grounds. Even though SSI had the crowd and traffic control contract for the whole season, the Major’s high rate of personnel turnover and his own inability to administer the contract made every Sunday a Chinese fire drill.

Bob spotted the underground entrance that led right to the locker room door, but cars, buses, RVs and souped-up pickups jammed every drive leading toward the players’ entrance.

“Miss Chandler, if you don’t mind, I believe I am going to have to tear up some more real estate,” Bob said. “Personally I don’t think either of you should try to walk through those parking lots.”

“Let’s go,” Wendy said. “That’s why God created insurance companies.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The expert escape driver downshifted and crept slowly toward a four-lane, two-way boulevard leading straight toward the entrance. The median was about twenty feet wide, planted with two rows of young pecan trees. A white clapboard guard shack commanded entry to the boulevard.

All the traffic lanes were gridlocked.

The people were leaving their cars, wandering around with drinks in their hands. Four Mercedes stretch limos full of Arabs and Houston lawyers were surrounded by bodyguards in Hong Kong suits carrying Israeli submachine guns.

The SSI guards had lowered the gates to the boulevard. A fat man in an ill-fitting uniform and reflector glasses began shaking his head and waving Bob away. A cheap .38 in a cheaper leather holster flapped at his hip. He had bought the whole outfit from the major on time.

“Move it, mister; nobody comes in here.”

“I can see that,” Bob said, “but I wanted to ask you how I’m going to be able to get to the players’ entrance? It’s straight down there.”

“Hey, that’s your problem. Don’t tell me your sad story.”

“Well”—Bob continued talking while his eyes studied the guard shack and the layout of the median and the brand-new pecan trees—“I have Taylor Rusk in here, and if I don’t get him inside ...”

“Taylor Rusk, huh?” The fat guard looked into the back.

Taylor nodded at the rude, coarse man.

“Yeah, you’re him all right, but it still don’t cut no ice with me.” He stepped back. “Get it out of here, pal,” he smirked again, “Besides, I bet a whole month’s pay against you guys. Ain’t no way you’ll beat Denver by sixteen points.”

“It’s guys like you that make me believe in God.” Taylor looked at the fat man who was trying to hold power. “A whole month’s pay? I love it. You look like you could afford to miss some meals.”

“Wait a minute, buddy.” The fat man moved toward the car. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“He didn’t mean it, Officer,” Bob interrupted, knowing the guy loved being called officer. “We’ll be moving on.” Bob studied hard on the guard shack.

“Well, goddammit, git before I run you all in.” He hooked a fat thumb on his gunbelt.

“Is there anybody in the guardhouse?” Bob pointed at the wooden shack.

“Naw, the dumb son of a bitch I’m working with came in drunk and is off trying to find a bathroom.”

“You don’t have a bathroom?”

“Or heat! Not a damn thing in there; they just set it down on the grass. Four walls and a desk. Now, get that goddam car outta here.”

“Thanks, you’ve been a great help.” Bob put the Ford in gear. Bob hit the gas and the car leaped forward. The fat man was too clumsy to move and fell over. Anticipating the fall, Bob swerved around the terrified scrambling fat man, drove right through the guard shack and straight down the median, mowing down pecan trees and dodging drunks who failed to hear the siren or see the flashing lights.

At the Cyclone fence separating the stadium from the parking lot, the median stopped. The white Ford didn’t, tearing through the fence with amazing ease.

“I figured the Cobianco Brothers Construction Company would use subspec fence,” Bob said, cranking the wheel to miss a corny-dog stand and three guys selling Super Bowl programs. Steering toward the entrance to the locker rooms, Bob had to tear through another fence. He shut off the siren and started to slow as they came around a curving runway.

“Oh, Jesus!” Bob said. “Look at this!”

Ahead was the network crew shooting coverage tape for use if the game was the yawner the point spread promised. The three personalities in front of the camera wore big cowboy hats on little heads. The talent—in network jargon—were making extemporaneous remarks written on giant cue cards.

“I can’t stop,” Bob said calmly.

“Hit the talent.” Taylor wasn’t even looking; he was watching off to the side into the parking lot, craning his neck back at a big Winnebago motor home. He thought he saw Lamar Jean Lukas laid out on a chaise longue. Taylor decided it couldn’t be Lamar and turned back to see if Bob was steering for the talent.

Wendy’s eyes were wide; her grip on Taylor’s arm was pure-white knuckle. Bob was doing some fast calculating on the distance between the technicians and the talent.

Taylor had taken a quick look and figured it himself. “You got six inches to a foot to spare.”

“They haven’t seen us yet. If they do, they’ll react. And if anybody moves, I lose my six inches and up go my insurance premiums.” Bob hit the accelerator.

“Pour it on,” Taylor agreed. “Go faster to get out of trouble.”

The white car shot toward toward the crew.

Taylor heard the word
Hornung
or
horny
as the white Ford shot between the camera and sound crews and the talent with eight inches to spare, two on the driver’s side, six on the other.

Bob pumped the brakes hard, downshifted, setting the car up into a drift, then slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires screamed and smoked, biting into the concrete, plunging the car straight down the ramp. A crash dive beneath the stadium.

Taylor could still smell the burnt rubber as Bob pulled up next to the locker room door.

“Leave it here a minute,” Taylor said. “The bus with the rest of the team isn’t scheduled to leave for another thirty minutes. Wendy, you’re going to have to find them a helicopter. I’ll call Red.”

“I have more helicopters than I have cars.” She stalked into the Pistols’ locker room and on through to Red’s private suite.

“You better get one for Denver too,” Taylor suggested. “But try and find them an ex-Air Mobil pilot from Vietnam who’s been crop dusting and drinking ever since.”