Kill and Tell Page 33

  “Yeah,” Cobb responded blindly, “how’s it goin’ with you?” He hoped there was no hand raised for a high five. If there was, he certainly could not make it out.

  Cobb remained near the door, waiting for his vision to adjust, and noncommittally returning salutations to blurry figures, all of whom seemed friendly. Gradually, he was able to see sufficiently to chance leaving his island of security.

  An arm fell heavily across his shoulders. Cobb tensed instinctively but briefly, then smiled. People shouldn’t do that to an athlete, especially during the playing season. If Cobb had been a lineman or a linebacker, the gentleman standing next to him might be flat on his back nursing some broken part of his body. All a matter of conditioned reflexes.

  “Bobby, how’re you doing?”

  “A little sore, sir. But I guess that’s to be expected.”

  Cobb recognized the voice instantly. Senior partner in one of Detroit’s most outstanding law firms. And important to Bobby Cobb, who was only a few scholastic hours and a bar exam away from becoming a lawyer.

  “Waiter,” the attorney beckoned, “get Mr. Cobb here a drink, will you? What’re you drinking, Bobby?”

  “Dewars on the rocks.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Cobb.” The waiter hurried off.

  “That last series of plays this afternoon, Bobby, that wasn’t like you, keepin’ the ball on the ground.” The lawyer, arm entwined in Cobb’s, tried to steer him off into a corner.

  “I’m not the coach, sir.”

  “So it wasn’t your idea.” The lawyer seemed gratified.

  “No, sir.” Cobb tried to communicate the impression that he could take orders, which was the truth.

  “What would you have done if you were the coach? What would you have done if the coach had given you your head?”

  “Crossed them up. The Towers were bunched up tight. The last thing they were giving us was the run.”

  “So?”

  “We needed a play-action pass. Fake a run up the middle, flare out, and hit the S receiver along the sidelines. He could easily have gone all the way. Even if he hadn’t, the Towers would have been so deep in their own territory they could never have come back and scored.”

  “You’d take a chance on an interception?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t. Not as long as I was throwin’ the ball.”

  The lawyer smiled again. Cobb had demonstrated that he was a take-charge guy with plenty of self-confidence. Just the kind of personality one might want in one’s law firm.

  In Cobb’s plans for himself was a partnership in this prestigious law firm; building and enhancing his reputation. Then a jump to the political arena. Mayor of Detroit, if that were possible without a term on the city council. Then, bypassing Lansing, on to the House, and eventually the U.S. Senate.

  It was all well within the realm of possibility. He had the talent. All that was needed was promotion. He needed every headline, every moment on camera that he could get.

  His only competition for the limelight was that damned Hunsinger. The Hun with his strong local popularity. U of M to the Cougars. A playboy lifestyle that kept him in the forefront of everything from the sports pages to the nightly news to the gossip columns. Hunsinger could catch a football. Outside of that singular accomplishment, the Hun wasn’t worth a pile of crap.

  The waiter slipped Cobb’s drink into his hand, measuring the enormousness of that hand against his own. All this was so that tomorrow he could describe to his friends, with a little embellishment, the legend of a quarterback’s mitt.

  “You’re coming up for the bar pretty soon, aren’t you, Bobby?” The lawyer turned to face Cobb.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Listen, why don’t you come see me after the season? Just give my girl a ring. Maybe we can do business together. Would you like that?” He knew the question was rhetorical.

  “Yes, sir, I would. Very much.”

  “Hey, Bobby, c’mon over here!” One of the other Cougars was calling from across the room.

  “Would you excuse me, sir?”

  “Of course.” The lawyer patted Cobb’s arm and directed at him a benevolent paternal look that carried the unspoken bromide, Be good, but if you can’t be good, be careful. “Go on, now. Have a good time. God knows you paid your dues this afternoon.”

  Cobb inched his way across the room. With the wall-to-wall crowd, each person was a new obstacle. Almost everyone wanted to talk to him. Several asked about the conservative play of that last series. Each time, he passed the question off with a brief, flip explanation. The only person in the room entitled to a detailed explanation was Cobb’s future employer. And he had already received the full commentary.

  As he crossed the room, women, oblivious of their escorts, rubbed seductively against Cobb. He raised his eyes to heaven. So many women in the world and so little time. But he needed neither the complication nor any trouble with any of their companions. Like as not, some hotshot with too many drinks under his belt would seize the occasion to prove he could take the great athlete. And there he would stand with no pads, unprotected against some drunk who had nothing to lose but his teeth. With his luck, Cobb figured the best that might happen would be that he’d break a hand and be out for the rest of the season. So he graciously apologized to each woman who airily threw herself at him.

  At long last, Cobb reached the man who had called to him. “Hey, Bobby, I thought you needed some action.” It was the Cougars’ center, an amiable gentleman built like the proverbial brick house. Mercifully, he had reinserted the bridgework he went without during games.

  “This where it’s at, Spud?”

  “Shit, yeah, Bobby.” The behemoth grinned. “It’s about time, don’tcha think? I got this little fox for me and I got this one for you.”

  Cobb inspected the foxes. Spud held one under his arm. Her feet were not touching the floor. Cobb thought Spud neither knew nor cared about that fact. The other young woman Spud held around the neck. He thrust her toward Cobb. Both women had fixed smiles as if they had been cast from plaster of Paris.

  “Not tonight, Spud. Have you seen Niall?”

  “The little guy? Yeah; he’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms. But I don’t think he’s asleep yet.” Spud roared at his venture into humor. He then scrutinized both women, the one in his hand and the one under his wing. Deciding to take them both, he moved them off toward the rear of the mansion.

  Cobb hurried up the stairs, nodding at and brushing by those he encountered on the staircase. He tried two rooms before he found Murray in the third.

  The young Irishman was seated on the side of a bed, which was covered with a red satin quilt. Stretched out on the quilt was a young woman in a white slip.

  Actually, Murray was more slumped than seated. He seemed transfixed by several lines of white powder spread out on a piece of wax paper on the nightstand. He looked up momentarily when Cobb entered. “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here now?”

  As Cobb approached, the girl moved apprehensively to the far side of the bed. Murray’s concentration returned to the neatly arranged powder.

  Cobb quickly and expertly appraised the woman. Neither a con artist nor a whore. One more groupie wanting to know firsthand, as it were, if all those muscles were genuine. This one obviously was abashed at Cobb’s expression.

  “Has he had any yet?” Cobb nodded toward the powder.

  The woman shook her head. She did not blink. Nor did she remove her gaze from Cobb’s face.

  “Hey, Niall, babe, what’s happenin’?”

  “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Had a little bit to drink, have you, babe?” Cobb could smell the sweet odor of bourbon.

  “Some.”

  Cobb shoved lightly; Murray fell back on the bed. “The trouble with you Irish is your image. You’re supposed to be great drinkers, but you can’t hold your liquor.” Cobb slid Murray’s loosened tie up to his neck, closing his shirt at the collar.
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  “The trouble with you coloureds,” Murray’s speech was slurred, “is your image. You’re supposed to be sex maniacs. And you are as well.”

  Cobb pulled Murray to his feet and got him into his jacket. “You don’t want to get that white stuff up your nose, Mick. With or without booze. With booze, it could kill you. Any which way, it’s gonna scramble your head. Next thing you know you won’t be able to find the goalpost and you’ll be kickin’ my balls instead of Wilson’s. Then you and me, but most importantly me, will be the laughingstock of this city. And I don’t intend for that to happen. I intend to own this city for starters.”

  It was obvious that Murray was understanding none of this. Cobb was handling him as if he were a ragdoll.

  “Who got you started on coke, anyway?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, who got you started on coke?”

  “Oh, the Hun.”

  “It figures.”

  “Huh?”

  “That bastard! He’s got a knack of corrupting everything he touches. He’d pull the rug out from under me if he got the chance. Only he ain’t gonna get it.”

  Cobb supported Murray and began walking with him. Actually, Cobb virtually carried the Irishman. They would leave the mansion as close as buddies ever get, eliciting from other guests hopeful observations on racial harmony. Cobb would deliver Murray, untouched by alien hand, to the forgiving arms of his wife.

  “Hun a bas’ard,” Murray slurred as he was inserted into Cobb’s car.

  “That’s right, little Mick. You just learned a lesson that could save your life. But it won’t do much for the bastard.”

  Everywhere he looked, there was Hank Hunsinger. That was because his three walls were mirrored, top to bottom. The fourth wall was a picture window.

  He removed his jacket, wincing as he did so. He was growingly aware of this afternoon’s slings, arrows, and pummeling fists. Football commentators are fond of stating that when receivers leave the ground to catch a pass, they are “vulnerable.” And when they’re tackled midair, they “pay the price.” Unless the commentators have undergone the experience firsthand, they would have no notion of just how high that price is.

  Hunsinger entered the large walk-in closet. Neatly displayed was an extensive wardrobe of expensive jackets, coats, and foul-weather gear. He arranged his jacket on the appropriate hanger in the section reserved for green and green coordinates. A place for everything and everything in its place. He made certain the jacket he had just hung and the ones on either side of it were hanging free of each other so that no wrinkles would be inflicted.

  He crossed the living room to the kitchen. Both rooms were outstandingly large. But then his entire apartment was several times more spacious than the average apartment. He had money and, being of sound mind, had decided to spend it.

  He opened the liquor cabinet. Everything. Well, perhaps not everything. The best of everything. He selected a Scotch and poured it generously over several ice cubes.

  He returned to the living room and stood by the window, swirling the Scotch gently

  The Detroit River, vital artery of the Great Lakes. And Belle Isle, jewel-caressed on either of its shores by the river that separated Canada from the United States. Hunsinger never tired of the sight. Few did.

  He sipped the Scotch. Cold to the taste, it spread warmth through his body. His memory broke free and returned to the antithesis of all this—his youth.

  Growing up in Detroit’s southwest side. Poor. Although he hadn’t known they were poor. They always had food. Not top grade, but enough.

  He remembered 1954. He had been just seven years old when his father died. From then on, it was just Hank and his mother. She had gotten a job as housekeeper in the extensive convent that housed the nuns who taught at Holy Redeemer parochial school. Tagging around after his mother, he had become somewhat of a pet to the childless nuns—which largely accounted for the sufficiency of average food at his disposal. The nuns could not afford top-grade food, but with what they had, they pampered this growing boy.

  Oddly, he had attended public, not parochial, school. His mother told the nuns this was in accord with the wishes of his late Protestant father. She then confessed her lie to the priest, but could not bring herself to tell the nuns the truth: that with the little they paid her, she could not afford even the modest tuition at Holy Redeemer. What did the nuns know about it, in any case? Shielded by their vows of poverty, the trifle they were paid went to their religious order, not to them individually.

  All in all, it was a pleasant enough life. The first time Hunsinger realized they had been poor was when as a young man he saw pictures in the newspaper of poor homes, and recognized them as being identical to that of his old neighborhood. The houses of the poor were easily relatable to the home in which he’d grown up.

  He had liked the nuns. Through and because of them, he had stayed at least nominally close to his Catholic faith. And his mother’s place of employment gave her the opportunity to become a fanatical Catholic, attending several daily Masses, novena devotions, taking communion daily, and going to confession weekly.

  As for Hunsinger, outside of his close and uncluttered relationship with a lot of doting nuns, he became a creature of the streets. He grew quickly into a very big boy, and kept growing. His personal maxim—Do unto others, then split—was a drastic paraphrasing of the gospel admonition. He was conscious of that. Very early, long before it became a popular credo, he had become primarily, indeed exclusively, concerned about Number One.

  He perceived early on that excellence in athletics could lead to a life in the fast lane not only for poor black kids, but for big white kids too. So he applied himself. He won all-state honors in basketball, baseball, and football at Western High. He was awarded a full scholarship at the University of Michigan. Drafted in the first round by the Cougars in 1969, this was his sixteenth season with the club. He was well past his playing prime. Each year it became increasingly tempting to hang ’em up. But each year the contracts got sweeter and more irresistible.

  However, the end could not be far off. Another season or two at the most. Even now, he had lasted longer than any other tight end in the history of professional football. He survived now mostly through a host of illegal, dirty tactics that he had mastered over the years.

  He was hated. He didn’t care. He would not now compete, nor had he ever competed, for Mr. Congeniality. Even members of his own organization hated him. Well, that was a concomitant when one was exclusively concerned with taking care of Number One. It didn’t matter. After all these years, he was quite good at taking care of himself and protecting his rear.

  Thinking of the care and feeding of Number One, he glanced at his watch and returned with a start to the present. It was nearly time for Jan to get here. She was becoming an expert in the care of Hank Hunsinger. He must prepare himself for her arrival.

  He set his glass, empty save for the remains of the ice cubes, on a nearby table. He had not been aware of having finished the Scotch. He noted that he was a bit lightheaded. It had been a long time since he had eaten. No matter; it might even add a dimension to the upcoming wrestling match with Jan. Booze had helped him in the past.

  He turned on the television and, after making a few adjustments, slammed a cassette into the Betamax. It was a movie featuring two, then many more evidently consenting adults, engaged in explicit sexual activity. It had no redeeming social value whatever. The Hun had been delighted to discover that Jan seemed to find voyeurism stimulating. Hunsinger certainly did. He turned down the volume; they could provide their own moans and groans live.

  He moved to the bedroom. Again mirrors—wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and ceiling as well. Lest there be some lingering doubt as to what was intended as the focal point of the room, the large circular bed was mounted on a platform.

  Hunsinger removed his clothing, placing each item precisely in its appointed place, making certain that when trousers and shirt were hung, adjacent garments w
ould not be wrinkled.

  He stood naked in the center of his bedroom examining the multiple images of himself. The muscles were not as sharply defined as they once had been. But they were still evident. His six-foot-four, 232-pound body still resembled an ancient sculpture of an Olympian. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper brush cut. Almost no one wore his hair in a brush cut any longer. Hunsinger did it for the sole purpose of extending the image of a Hun that he carefully and profitably nurtured.

  Life was good. And in a little while it would get better.

  He removed his contact lenses and placed them in the Bausch & Lomb disinfecting unit, switching it on. He could still see, but fuzzily. A combination of nearsightedness and astigmatism blurred his vision.

  He entered the bathroom. There were neither shower doors nor curtains. Not even a stall. The shower was an adjunct of the enormous sunken tub. He turned the powerful jet of water on and waited until it became very hot, then slipped into it. It beat against his head, back, trunk, buttocks and legs. He moved slowly back, forth and around in the spray. So much better than the shower at the stadium. There it was crowded, hurried, and invariably followed by further perspiration as one dressed while others were showering. The steam kept pouring into the locker room. Then there were those damn television lights that further heated the area.

  This was nice. He could feel tight muscles loosen and relax under the relentless beat of the waterjet. He was in no hurry. Jan could join him in the shower when she arrived. It had been too long since they had started an evening by showering together.

  He reached for the shampoo, second container from the left on the shelf beneath the shower head. He could not read the label, but it didn’t matter. It was the correct shape, and besides, he always kept the shampoo second from the left on the shelf.

  He unscrewed the cap of the plastic bottle, poured a generous measure of shampoo into his left hand, and replaced the open bottle on the shelf—second from the left.

  He let some of the shampoo flow from his left to his right hand, and then began to rub it vigorously into his hair and scalp. With his brush cut, he was able to get the liquid to his scalp quickly.