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  "Many times, many times, darling." She put her glass on a table with an umbrella in the middle of it. She grabbed a towel from a chair next to it and bent down. Monique dried my back and shoulders.

  "You've managed to keep your figure, sweet boy." She talked with the cigar hanging from her plump red lips. As usual she had on a fistful of mascara over her dark eyes and enough hairspray to knock out mosquitos from twenty feet away.

  "What else have I got, Monique?"

  She looked me up and down, puffing on her cigar. "You've got that right, darling."

  "Better be cool. Some of your Newport Beach customers might not dig you flirting with Mandingo."

  "They'd only be jealous. Maybe I'd have to share you."

  I got up and was surprised to find the hip had moved wrong when I was sitting. I gritted my teeth in pain. The goddamn thing was getting to be unpredictable. Guess all the stress I'd been putting my hip through lately was starting to add up. Now it looked like I was gonna have to get that operation after all.

  "You've been aggravating that condition." She touched my hip.

  "How do you know?" Irritated, I started to walk off.

  "Come with me," she said.

  "I ain't got time for no games, Monique."

  "No games."

  I followed her into the main building, which was done up like a temple you'd see on an old rerun of Ben-Hur. We went into her office. It looked like a set from Xena.

  "Here." She pointed at a shelf filled with weird-ass statues in the shape of half-animal, half-human creatures that had wings and horns and so on. Same kind of shit Nap had in his office.

  "That's real nice, Monique."

  She picked a good-sized statue off the shelf. It looked like a bear, but had long fangs and bat wings. "This is Nap."

  "You're wig hat's on too tight, girl."

  "Burroughs does illegal cremations and has the remaining ashes mixed with clay and resins, then baked into these forms. So even if the law should suspect, they'd never be able to find a trace of the missing person."

  She held the creature out for me and I took it in both of my hands. I didn't know what to say.

  "I thought you knew and that's why you came up here. But for the last three days you never said anything about it as you pushed yourself through your exercise routine. I figured it was only right I tell you. I suppose I'm just sentimental." She sat on her desk and crossed her legs, showing a lot of thigh.

  I was staring at the statue's monster face, looking for some sign that it was Nap. All it did was make me mad at Wilma again. It was her fault Nap had been shot, her fault me and my ace had tussled. I put the thing back on the shelf, looking closely at the other figures.

  "Not every statuette represents somebody real," she said, "but there's enough on those shelves from over the years."

  "Thanks, Monique."

  "Sure, Zelmont."

  I walked out and went into the sauna. Sitting there with the towel around my waist, I cried quiet-like to myself. The other people in there noticed, but nobody asked me what I was going on about. Not that I could have told them if they had.

  Chapter 17

  We are pleased to announce that Wilma Wells is the new general manager of the Los Angeles Barons. As such she will also enjoy stock options which, when exercised, will make her a minority partner in the club."

  If I hadn't been prepared to be blind-sided I might have gone straight playground while driving the car Monique lent me back to town. As it was, the announcement on the all-sports radio station, a live report from the Coliseum, made my head knot up inside. That smart bitch had jooked me good. I wondered what Danny's part was in all this. I couldn't see that roughneck hanging around in the front office, grabbing coffee and a bagel for the queen bee.

  Weems was talking, "We are of course hoping that Coach Cannon pulls through. He's undergoing more surgery today and all our prayers go out to him. We are comforted by the knowledge that one of the men responsible for his unfortunate condition has been arrested… "

  I tuned him out and kept driving. A little while later, the two clowns on the sports station took phone calls about how this was gonna change the game, how Wilma was making history as the first black woman to hold such a position in the NFL and so on, yakatty and blah. She had made history, all right. But if I had anything to say about it there was still another chapter to be written.

  I got back to town around two and went straight to the Barons' offices in El Segundo. I parked in the lot fronting the main building, putting the car way back so I wouldn't be spotted. I knew which office she'd have. It would be the one that had belonged to Stadanko. Of course she'd be redecorating it soon.

  I hadn't worked out much of a plan. My idea was to bogard my way inside, find Wilma, and beat her down until security pulled me off her. Then I'd go to jail and spend the next twenty years contemplating what I was gonna do when I got out. Eventually I'd get paroled, go find Wilma, and beat her down again until I was too tired to lift my arms. Simple but effective, as coach liked to say of the best plays.

  I sat there running that scenario around my skull but decided that even though it was late in the game, maybe it was time to get on the good foot. Whatever that meant. Instead I split and drove to the Proud Bird. I got a ginger ale and sat in a corner both, the early evening creeping in with the customers. On the TV over the bar the four o'clock news was showing the report announcing Wilma's new gig. I went over to hear it.

  "… I think this is the best move we could make under the circumstances." Julian Weems was showing his wolf teeth as he talked. Wilma was standing next to him, and Trace was in the background. One big happy fuckin' family.

  Weems was talking. "Ellison Stadanko has graciously stepped aside to concentrate on his current legal battles. In that void the team owners, who I brought together in an emergency meeting, have unanimously selected a sterling individual with a keen mind and impeccable credentials. I can only add that it's about time we did the right thing and handed the reins of power to a young woman who represents the future."

  The clip ended. Some dudes sitting at the bar started yapping about whether this was good or bad for the Barons. I went back to my corner.

  Eventually I headed back to the apartment. It was as neat as I'd left it. Chekka hadn't had a chance to toss it, plus they knew I wasn't stupid enough to leave several million laying around like stank laundry The couch looked good and I laid down, wondering how I was gonna get my share. After a while I got up and drove over to the Locker Room. The place was open and I walked inside.

  ''Danny around?" The bouncer had his back to me and was talking to a couple of honeys in straining tops.

  "Who's that, sir?" The dude had turned around, and I got a real good look at the flaming cross tattooed on his cheek.

  "The brother that owns this place."

  "I wouldn't know about that, sir."

  "Then how is it you're doing duty here?"

  "That would be on Mr. Trace's say-so, sir."

  "Oh." I went further inside, expecting things to look and sound different, but they didn't. There was bumpin' music on the speakers, booze at the bar, and fine mamas flowing about the joint. Then I spotted a big man with his back to me at the top of the stairs, standing where he always did by the rail.

  "Nap," I said to myself, gulping hard.

  The man saw me and waved so I walked up there, everybody around me moving in some other dimension. Had everything been a dream? Was I laying on the field in Barcelona, a concussion ringing the bells in my head? Naw, the truth was scarier.

  "How's it going, Zelmont?" Trace was G'd up in a crisp new Hugo Boss suit and polka dot tie. He touched the flaming cross on his cheek.

  "Where's Danny Deuce?"

  "I understand he had to leave the hereabouts in a hurry." Trace looked at a chick walking past us in a very un-Christian way. "It seems that the younger Mr. Graham is wanted by the authorities for a possible connection in a murder. A rumor has been going around that he had his b
rother killed to take over the club. Something to do with Stadanko and his illicit affairs."

  I knew, and maybe he knew, the cops could have only got that 411 from Wilma. But what did it matter? She'd had this worked out from jump street.

  "So Weems has taken over this place?"

  "Miss Wilma has. I'm considering a new direction."

  "I guess you would be. But don't you want to get back at her for what she did to your boy at the cabin?"

  Trace jerked his head like he was shaking off a fly "Let's just say I got an understanding of the order of things since that time."

  "Ain't that something?"

  "Yes, I believe so." The bouncer came up the stairs and whispered something to Trace. I might as well have been invisible. He wasn't mad about Wilma capping his buddy, wasn't upset at having to dig the grave for the dude, and he could care less about me. He was in tight. I guess the Lord had told him night clubbing was his calling. Or maybe Wilma would turn the joint into one big 24-hour gospel-and-grits diner. I left, not knowing what to do.

  If I hung around town, Fahrar or some Joe Friday wannabe was gonna clap cuffs on me for sure. But the thing was I had to get to Wilma. She must have used the money we ripped off to buy herself into the GM/part owner position. Shit.

  I drove by her pad, but like I expected there was a for sale sign stuck in the lawn. I peeked in a window between a gap in the shade. The joint was stone dark and it looked like she'd never be back. I got in my ride and drove around some more, lost in a city I knew by heart.

  Time passed and I took to the hills that led to my pad. The home I used to have. That house too was quiet and shut down. No one lived there either. With Candy and Dandy gone, the place looked like any square's crib. Fuck it. I broke in by going over the rear wall and through the side door that never did sit right in the frame. I messed up the knob and the lock, but that was someone else's worry. Naturally the real estate people wouldn't be keeping up the subscription to the alarm service.

  Most of my stuff was either in storage or, like my bumpin' music system, had been sold off. There was some mail on the kitchen counter. One was a letter from Terri. Having nothing else to do, I opened it. She'd sent a note saying maybe I should come down there and see her and the baby. That my sending her that dough must have meant I was ready to be a father. She'd tossed in a picture of her and the baby, and I held it up to a window to get a better look in the moonlight. Terri was still fine, just about busting out of the stretch top she had on. Then there was that kid standing in front of her. He was taller than a regular six-year-old, with wide shoulders and a smile of teeth. Good lookin' kid. He was my son. My son.

  I stumbled through the house, holding the photo in one hand, then crumpled it 'cause I was angry at myself and angry at Wilma. There was no couch in the front room anymore. I made a pillow of my shoes and curled up on the floor. People think it doesn't get cold at night in Los Angeles. It gets plenty cold.

  In the morning I snuck out and went down to Hollywood Boulevard to get some food at a little cafe where the owner knew me. Then I went back to the Locker Room. I parked on Georgia to have a full view of the place. Around a quarter past eleven, Wilma pulled into the lot in her Phaeton.

  "Where's my cut, Wilma?" She'd been getting something out of the trunk when I came up behind her.

  "I'm going to take care of you, Zelmont." She straightened up slowly and turned around. Wilma was clicking in a long skirt and loose silk top. She looked like new money and smelled of flowers.

  "Uh-huh, like you took care of Danny."

  "He was tripping, Zelmont. He was threatening me in public, blabbering on about what we'd done," She closed her trunk quietly, holding the leather case she'd gotten out of there. She was ready for business. "He was a liability. He had to be dealt with."

  "This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

  "Yes." She didn't say it like a challenge, just a fact.

  "And you never meant to make good to any of us."

  "That's not true. The money is safe. Chekka is fighting his own crew for control of Little Hand. And Fahrar has his suspicions about the hijacking. But so what?"

  "Where do I fit in?"

  "However you want."

  I knew she was bullshittin', but it sounded good to hear her say it. "I want what's mine."

  She got close. "That can mean a lot of things." She kissed me.

  "The money," I said, pulling away from her. Maybe I'd get a plane ticket and go see Terri and the boy Do something right like Nap wanted.

  "Very well."

  We met that night at the Coliseum. I'd been looking at the headless statue with the torch in front of the peristyles when she drove up. She got out of her car, hefting a gym bag.

  "What will you do?"

  She handed me the bag. It felt heavy. I opened it. The dough was in there. "Make a few things right." I zipped the bag back up and walked up the steps to the peristyles. I looked out over the field. In some corner of my head I could hear the crowd. Wilma came up behind me.

  "You and Weems were partners in this, weren't you?" The field was a beautiful, sparkling green in the low lights they kept on along the edge of the dome. You could run forever on a field like that. I walked down toward the grass. I didn't care what her answer was.

  "That's not how it started out, Zelmont." She kept up with me, a few steps behind. It was probably the first time she had ever followed a man. "But Julian had his investigation of Stadanko going too."

  "That's why he sent Trace and Randy up to the cabin, to look for what we were looking for." I stopped halfway down, taking in the view. The crowd's energy was starting to build. Just win, baby. "But when you capped Randy, that was a message to him you weren't gonna ride the pine." I glanced back at Wilma. Her skirt and blouse were fluttering in the wind. Man, what a sight.

  "Yes. Julian and I met after the cabin incident. I convinced him to lay in the cut, as you'd say, and let me take the risk of getting rid of Stadanko and Chekka rather than him."

  I walked down to the field. She was still behind me. It was on the field I would be free. "You don't give a shit about the money, do you, Wilma?"

  "Nine million is barely enough to keep the club in jockstraps and shoulder pads, you know that."

  "But you needed the robbery and the files as a way to expose Stadanko." We were walking across the dirt track surrounding the field. To my right was the tunnel the Barons came out of at home games. The ghost people in the stands were cheering again. Zelmont Raines was back in the formation.

  "That's true, Zelmont."

  "You can't trust Weems." It felt as if I was standing outside of my body, watching the two of us. "He'll turn on you faster than a pit bull that's been poked in the eye now that you've done his dirty work."

  I heard her pull the gun from her handbag. It was probably the piece she'd killed Randy with at the cabin. Later she'd no doubt link it to Danny "Let me worry about that, darling."

  "Looks like you don't need your old partners, huh?"

  "You won't run away run like Danny or be scared shitless like Ysanya. And I know you can't be confused like poor Pablo."

  "Ysanya must be terrified. Nap ain't around and her old man is going down."

  "She got a call in the middle of the night and ran off with whatever she could carry."

  "The only thing I'm running for is the glory, Wilma. The Locker Room should be mine along with a piece of the Barons' action. I deserve that much for all the hell you put me through."

  She raised the gun. ''You're right."

  The crowd was chanting my name, the sound filling up the stadium. I turned away from her and took off down the field. I weaved and dodged, both my hips churning like well-oiled rocker arms. I threw the bag in the air and leaped up, spinning like I'd done in the Super Bowl. In midair I caught the bag with one hand, my other arm cocked at the elbow so I could twist and set my body right.

  Wilma's bullet caught me dead center in the chest and the impact screwed up my landing. I was coughin
g blood even as I hit the deck. I could hear Wilma's high heels echoing on the stone steps as she walked up to the peristyles and out of the Coliseum.

  I still had ahold of the bag, and through a haze I could see the goalposts. I got up, staggering. Then somehow my second wind kicked in. I felt great. Head up, shoulders forward, I was a human freight train. In the stands my mother was clapping. Terri had brought our child and Cody was laughing with joy at his father. It was beautiful. This was the way football was supposed to be, clean and pure like when I was eleven and played Pop Warner just for the love of the game. Before the scouts, the slaps on the back, the classes you were allowed to skate through, the coach in high school making his dreams yours, the alumni big wheels, the agents, the hangers-on. This was what the sport was all about, you and the ball and the goal line.

  The crowd was on their feet, urging me on. They were chanting my name over and over again.

  It was so beautiful.

  I fell to the field, breathing in the fresh watered grass. I was gonna hold onto that bag forever.

  Gary Phillips

  ***

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