The Jook Read online

  I followed behind the Shindar truck and started to get the tingle as we went down a narrow road. The instincts that had made me among the top five receivers in the NFL, that feeling that used to tell me where the defender was without me looking, kicked in like a mother.

  "Why you fallin' back?" Danny said, pissed. "We got to get this done so we can get Nap out of here."

  "We will, little brother, we will."

  "Don't call me that," he said in a tone that told me he wasn't bullshitting. I let the truck get farther ahead, then I went down the path. It was dirt, so I kicked up a lot of it just like the truck had. I was betting the driver hadn't noticed my ride. We went along, then I stopped and backed up. There was another tiny road leading downhill. I followed it.

  "Goddamn, this'll not only do Nap in, but us too."

  Danny was right for once. The stench from the garbage pit was strong enough to wipe out a whole team of All-Pros. I figured the road must wind around it on one side. I stopped the car.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you? Back the fuck up."

  "Stay put," I ordered.

  "Man." He shook in his seat. Nap was whimpering.

  I got out and walked down the path, walls of dirt rising up to my right and left. Suddenly I came to a driveway. It led upward and was bordered on one side by a concrete wall about my height. I walked up and stopped at the corner of the wall, peeking around. At the top of the driveway was a building with a satellite dish on the roof. The truck was parked in front of the building. My eyes were watering and my stomach was starting to roll from the overpowering odor.

  The two who'd been in the truck had gotten out. They were wearing rubber suits and gas masks like I'd seen on The X-Files. What they were doing made me forget for a few minutes the sick feeling coming over me. They had the big doors on the rear of the garbage truck open. Both of them crawled into the garbage, then came out holding onto some packages. Pieces of rotten fruit and who knew what was falling off of them. One went back into the garbage while the other one walked around the truck and out of sight.

  I kept watching the garbage diver. He put some of his packages on the ground. This cat was unloading bundles of money wrapped with brown paper and wire. I could see a couple of bills sticking out. The other one returned with a flat cart from somewhere and they stacked the packages on the thing.

  I wanted to stay and watch as they carried the shit inside the building. One of them worked an electronic combination lock, and the door to the joint swung open on hydraulic hinges. My eyes were better than anybody's, despite all the years of abusing my body But even my 20/15s couldn't see the numbers he'd punched in from the distance I was at. Plus the smell and fumes had gotten the best of me, so I hurried back to my ride.

  "What the fuck you been doin'?" Danny was pacing beside the Explorer. He didn't know what to do with his hands since he didn't have his piece.

  "You'll find out." I could barely turn my SUV around, but finally managed to do it. Mainly I hoped them clowns down the way didn't hear us, 'cause I'm sure they were packing serious heat and we'd get blazed on. I found the main road out. There were a couple of guards standing around, and they looked at us as we got closer. I waved like I belonged there and kept going. For once Danny was on point and didn't try that prison yard stare on the gun toters.

  We got back on the regular street and I took the 170 Freeway back south to the Magnolia exit, then drove down side streets until we were in North Hollywood.

  "Wake him up," I told Danny.

  "Why?" Anything to argue with me.

  " 'Cause I can't remember the street the clinic is on. And before you ask, it's a place entertainers and sports stars like your brother go when they need to, you know, recharge." I didn't say anything about how I'd been there more than once, but had always been on my back in a controlled substance haze.

  "Come on," I said with frost in my voice.

  He glared at me in the rear view mirror, but without his gun, he knew that if he tried to bitch-slap me, Nap's brother or not, I'd knock his lightweight self out. "Nap," he shook his brother's shoulder gently. "Nap," he shook him again.

  A couple of middle-aged Valley chicks with butts tight from working out on treadmills strolled by on the sidewalk. One of them had a hairy rat dog on a leash. He looked happy.

  "Yeah," the big man mumbled.

  "What's the name of the street Burroughs' Seven Souls Clinic is on?"

  "Banyon. There's a Shell station at the corner of that and Riverside."

  "Right." I got us there in five minutes, and we helped Nap inside. The ol' cut-up Burroughs was creeping around. He was a tall reed of a white man who always walked with a stoop. Burroughs had a hook nose, and what was left of his hair was greased on one side of his large head. He had a voice that never changed expression, and the whites of his eyes were always red like he'd just finished smoking a blunt. Which was often true.

  "Ah, Mr. Raines and Mr. Graham." He touched Nap's bruises. "Another encounter with the Mistress Dandelion?"

  "Yeah, doc, things got a little out of hand and we figured it best to get him over to see you." Me and Danny got Nap into a wheelchair. I went over close to Burroughs. He smelled like toothpaste. "There's a little problem in the end zone, if you catch my meaning," I whispered.

  The old degenerate smiled with teeth belonging to a young girl. "Oh yes, I know the kind of care brother Graham requires. I'll see to it. Sign him in, will you?"

  I started to walk off to the front desk when he called to me. "How's your recovery coming, Mr. Raines?"

  "Clean and sober." I'm sure it gave him a chuckle to know I was lying. I got Nap settled in, and me and Danny headed back over the hill to L.A. His mind was on his brother. Mine should have been on my tryout the next week. Instead it was on what them two had been unloading in that hidden-away building. That's how I should have left it, just me knowing I'd seen where Stadanko brought his dough before he parceled it out for laundering. Yeah, I should have kept it to myself forever.

  Chapter 6

  Tommy Earl blew off Ward Pruitt and one-handed the ball thrown by "Hack" Hassendorn. He skated past the goal line, the ball tucked under his arm like a stuffed goose. Even I had to admit he looked good. We'd been given the Barons' uniforms to do our scrimmage in that morning. They were dark blue and teal green, Davida had called the color. The practice field in El Segundo had been some kind of missile and plane place back in the day of us sweatin' about the Russians. For the first time in a long while I couldn't get to sleep the night before, I was so worked.

  Around 4 in the morning I was desperate to bring my anxiety down and was about to have a little crank I had left from my date with Wilma, but for once I practiced self-control. I did some cals and went jogging before the sun was up. I felt good by the time I rolled up to the field, even though there'd been another message from Davida's mother telling me when the funeral was. Why did she have to mess with the focus I was trying to bring on? Can't people think of more than just themselves?

  I got past Jon Grainger, my hands up for the ball. We'd been trading off on offense and defense since early afternoon. The ball stung as I started to bring it down and turn my head towards the goal line. Then the hip decided to act up and I dropped the ball, overcompensating from the sudden pain jabbing at my fibula.

  Don Cannon, the head coach, leaned over to say something to Nolan Blake, the offensive coach. Blake shook his head like a doctor about to give you the bad news. I walked with my hands on my hips like I was getting wind, but I was really trying to massage the upper thigh.

  "Nice try," Tommy Earl said as I walked past him. He didn't try to keep the arrogant look off his face.

  We ran more one-on-ones, then scrimmaged from the 'I' formation. I went out, cut across two defenders' zone, and Hassendorn planted that pill just right. I stepped and came up on the side of my right foot, the hip responding like it should, my legs pumping. Antoine Palupo, the 310-pound, 6'5", mobile-as-hell linebacker they'd drafted from Penn State filled the
slot I was trying to make it through. I went over on my side, holding onto that ball like it was my first paycheck.

  "Not bad, old man." He pushed himself off me, giving me a hand up.

  Cannon blew his whistle. "How's the hip, Zelmont?" Him and Blake came onto the field.

  "Ain't nothing." I tossed the ball to Palupo.

  "You seemed to be favoring it this afternoon." Cannon stood close to me. He was a robust dude with heavy arms that swung back and forth while he walked. He had black glasses, flat feet, and a brown-gray beard he was forever scratching at.

  I told you, it feels fine." I lied.

  "Yeah?" He did that thing he does, looking at me over the top of his glasses, which he pushed down from his nose.

  "Everything's cool, baby"

  He looked at Blake, who was looking at me. "You been going to support groups or something like that?" Blake worked something around inside his mouth.

  "You want me to pee in a bottle after practice?"

  "What if I said yes?" Blake was gonna be on my jock.

  "Show me the way." I hoped the big vein in my neck wasn't pulsing.

  "Get ready to run the R-9 play I went over with you." Blake walked over to talk with Earl.

  "I guess I don't need to tell you those days of chasing pussy and partying till all hours are supposed to remain ancient history, Zelmont." Cannon was making notes on his clipboard as he spoke, and didn't look up.

  "I'm cleaner than a skeeter's peter, coach."

  "Get ready to run the play." He still hadn't looked up.

  They put Earl at safety and me at tailback. I came up, then shot through the gap Gilman and Travers opened. I made the block for Earl and he got seven yards. The next down we reversed the positions and I veered right off Earl's block but didn't get two steps when cornerman Langdon slowed me up, then Malcolm Washington got me around the waist and took me down. I landed right on the hip. But I couldn't show it, I just couldn't show the pain, goddammit.

  I jumped up, playing the hit off. I trotted over to the sideline. Grainger was redoing the tape around his calf.

  "You don't look like you lost too much, Zelmont." He finished wrapping the tape, checking out his work.

  "You got something in front of you, youngster." I lifted my helmet up and chugged down some Gatorade. "I got to be on it 'cause I ain't got nothin' but the past creepin' up."

  He picked up his helmet, holding it gladiator style against his leg and wrist. "This ain't nothing but a game, Zelmont."

  I drank some more Gatorade. He put on his helmet and went in to run his series. I didn't want to face it, but he looked all right. Grainger didn't have what you call steady speed, but he made up for it in his ability to drive on tacklers like Barry Sanders used to do.

  Cannon signaled me to get ready. I snapped my helmet back into place, snuggling the mouth guard between my teeth. I chewed on the plastic, the old feelings swooping over me. In the stands I pretended there were thousands who'd skipped mowing the lawn or doing the wash, fixing that fence for Aunt Sarah, or changing the oil in the station wagon. It was live time, and I couldn't let the fans down.

  I went in and did a simple pattern toward the flat, then broke right. Trevor Grier, the cornerback, stayed with me. The ball went over both our heads. He gave me a shove and I went down.

  ''Punk.'' I got back up, walking away from him.

  "Your mama."

  "At least my mama washes under her arms. Yours got a garden growin' there." He was a born-again Christian who once, before he saw the light, got caught giving it to a 19-year-old beauty contestant in the men's bathroom of the Dallas airport. Damn hypocrite.

  The second play was a run for Blake to see how their $10 million running back out of Texas A &M, Orlando Matthews, was doing. He got six yards before coughing up the ball. But he recovered, then looked nervously over at the sidelines. Blake had his arms folded, making his jaw work like he was tasting rotten meat.

  On third and three, I beat Grier on a stutter step, turned my upper body, and easily caught the throw from Dillworth, the second-string QB. By then Grier had turned, and him and free safety Leroy Collierthe only white boy I knew named Leroy were coming for me. I faked left, but Grier was too quick. He got me, and tried to spin me around to throw me to the ground. I put my shoulder pads into his chest as Collier's arms locked around my legs. I went down on top of Grier, trying my best to make it as painful as possible for him.

  "Back off." He slapped the side of my helmet.

  Collier rolled off my legs. I laughed and gave Grier a jab with my elbow, close and tight. "That's what you get for being a pussy." I got up and trotted back to the huddle. I was on my J and everybody knew it. We had first down, and Blake and Cannon decided to keep the ball on the ground. On third and nine, Sistrunk, the second-string center, hiked. I pivoted left and went into motion, but before I could get fifteen yards, Grier came charging and upended me.

  "Motherfuckah," I hollered. Cannon was blowing his whistle as I hit the turf. I jumped up, throwing off my helmet. Grier stood there like he was bad. I leaped on him and we started trading blows. Hands were on both of us, people yelling at us to stop.

  As Grier was being pulled back I got a punch in under his chin strap. His head jerked back like he'd gotten whiplashed. Then Cannon got in my face.

  "This isn't how I run my team, Raines."

  "Tell him, he made the illegal tackle."

  "Don't tell me how to deal with my men, Raines. You haven't earned your spot yet." His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he was snorting air through his nose. "Go sit down."

  "Hey, look"

  "Go sit down." He pointed towards the bench. I was gonna argue, but I was in a weak position.

  Blake was talking to Grier, who was glaring at me like I tripped his grandma going to the store. Walking over to the bench, I could see Stadanko had come out onto the field. He was talking to somebody with his back to me. I knew that funny hat. Fahrar.

  I got close to them to show him he couldn't get to me and mess with my flow. Be like Clinton and deny everything. The cop shook hands with Stadanko and started to walk off, pretending like I wasn't there. I was about to call him but thought better of it. I sat down, stretching out my right leg. It seemed to be okay as long as I was moving, but once I rested, I didn't trust it not to lock up.

  When scrimmage ended we ran some laps and hit the weight room. Cannon called me into his office.

  "You've got some convincing to do with me, Raines." He sat behind one of those executive desks, the playbook open on it.

  "I looked good, didn't I?"

  "Attitude is a big part of how I see a team coming together."

  In the old days I'd have made a crack, then walked out and found some honey to curl up with for a few hours while the front office argued about how much they had to pay me and how I was worth the hassle. Then some college boy would mention how much gate I brought in, how I delivered on clutch plays, and they'd shake their heads and get on with how'd they have to put up with me 'cause I put butts in the seats. But those days were behind me.

  "I realize that, coach." I hoped that satisfied him.

  "You realize what?"

  "That it's your team and your rules." Like your ass can't get replaced anytime Stadanko thinks you're dragging his profits down, clown.

  "You don't sound sincere to me." He put his hands together, leaning his elbows and hairy arms on the desk. He bored in on me, waiting for the right response.

  "I'm for real about wanting to play ball again." Take it or shove me off, there's only so much ass I can stand to kiss.

  Cannon pulled his big frame back from the desk, measuring me. "Go on and get your gym time in. We'll talk again in the next few days."

  "Okay"

  After my two full sets of weights and a whirlpool with me and Grier staying out of each other's way, but looking at each other like we molested somebody in the other's family I headed out into the parking lot. Grainger came up beside me.

  "So wha
t do you think, man?"

  I wanted some crank, that's what I thought. "We'll see," I said.

  "You was haulin' out there today"

  I figured I was supposed to give him props too. "You looked good too, Grainger. Take it slow or any way you can get it."

  "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Yeah." I got in my ride and away from that Cub Scout. Dude was all worked about being sportsmanlike. That wasn't my trip. You come on the field, it's dog eat motherfuckin' dog. You gotta do for yourself and get your thing in order. Only thing I was concentrating on was how bad I was gonna make Grier look when we hit the field again in the morning.

  As I pulled out of the parking lot, Wilma's Phaeton was about to pull in. I almost drove past her, but she'd stopped and let down her window.

  "'Zup?"

  "You." She was wearing deep red lipstick, and when she smiled I got that feeling you know where. "How'd it go today?"

  "All right."

  "I talked to Napoleon today, he's doing better."

  So she and Nap were talking to each other. Could they be bangin' a girlfriend or boyfriend together? Maybe that halo consultant queen Pablo. "He's too tough to stay down long." A car pulled behind me and honked. I didn't glance back.

  "That's what I figure about you, Zelmont." She gave me a look to make a man forget his own name. "I'm sorry about what I said." She put her car back in gear. "But not about what I want to do.'' She drove into the lot as the car behind me went around. It was Grainger, and he looked pissed.

  All the way to the pad I should have been reviewing the plays I was gonna have to run again tomorrow. Or maybe wondering about Fahrar talking to Stadanko. Instead, I couldn't get Wilma Wells off my brain. Damn.

  By the next day I really was back in the groove. Even Stadanko had to nod as he stood on the sidelines, trying to be all that. I zagged on Grier, and though Pruitt was ten years younger than me, I got past him too. If I didn't at least make the exhibition season then God didn't make titty rings.

  "How you like me now," I capped. Grier stood there, hands on his hips, tucking in his bottom lip. He had a four-year, $20 million package plus shoe and gear endorsements. I knew his agent had probably been on the phone to him yesterday soon as he heard about our set-to to let him know he had way more to lose than me if he wanted to act out.