Killerbowl, page 7
He inserts the key in a big chrome lock, twists the lock free and opens the shed’s door.
Inside is an object covered with a large gray tarp. T.K. pulls off the tarp to expose a sleek red car.
“Very nice,” Sarah says, trying without much success to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She had expected T.K.’s secret expense to be something more exotic than a car. “Like one you would see in a museum.”
“See that storage tank in the corner. I keep it filled with gasoline. Sixty gallons. Costs me almost as much to fill that tank as it did to buy the car in the first place. If I wanted to, I could drive this car right now, right out of here, right down the road and away.”
“If the environmental agencies would give you a permit. Which would never happen.”
“You’re so practical. Here, slide in.” He opens the passenger door. “I never worry about a permit out here. I grease the local sheriff, bribe a nosy neighbor or two, and away I go, the first Tuesday of every month. Next time I take it out, you’re more than welcome to ride along.”
“What kind of a car is this?” she inquires.
“It’s called a Porsche. This model is a 911T. It has six horizontally opposed cylinders, all covered with light alloy cylinder heads. It has V-patterned overhead valves and a forged eight-main-bearing crankshaft. Its SAE net horsepower rating is 129. It was probably the most efficient sports car ever built.”
Sarah plainly doesn’t understand any of what he said. “So this is where all your money goes. On running this car.”
“A good percentage of it, but not all.” T.K. slips behind the wheel. “My folks lived about seventy miles from here. Just outside the town of Armona. We rented our farm from a wealthy family in Sacramento until we finally scraped up enough to buy it outright. I grew up on it. I was born on that farm. My mother and father both died there. Within two weeks of each other. They’re both buried out back of the farmhouse, under an old fir tree.
“I was in my first season with the Prospectors when it happened. First they died. Then not a month later the government started up its agricultural combine and confiscated my farm and my parent’s graves along with it.
“I nearly went crazy. I hired teams of lawyers, poured ungodly sums of money into stopping it. Oh, the government offered to pay for having my parents disinterred and transferred to a cemetery of my choice, but that circumvented the whole point. There’s a special, unbreakable bond that grows up between farmers and their piece of the earth. My folks’ land was precious to them. I was determined to find a way they could stay on it.
“Eventually, I negotiated a compromise. The two hundred acres around the farmhouse was forfeit. I couldn’t change that. My lawyers found a way of forcing the government to give me the option of leasing the house and immediate grounds. Of course, the government put the rental fee at what it considered to be a prohibitively high level.
“It was a real dilemma for me. I had been considering quitting football. I didn’t like the brutality, I especially didn’t like the killing. But football was the only way I could make enough money to afford to lease that house. So I made my choice.
“Now I devote almost half of my income to it.
“Ironic, isn’t it? I bust my butt to lease something I can’t even get to. The government doesn’t let anybody travel through their agricultural empire. Afraid someone might trample a cornstalk or crush a soybean.
“Doesn’t matter. I know the house, the fir tree, the graves. I know they’re out there.”
He hunches across the steering wheel, peering down over the hood and out the shed door. Abruptly he straightens up. “It’s not much of an accomplishment for twelve years of getting my brains beaten out.”
Gently, understandingly, she touches his forearm. “It’s something you had to do, and you did it with honor. There’s nothing disgraceful in that. If you really want to, you’re still young enough to start a new career.”
“There’s damned little market in industry for a professional savage.”
“Surely you can do something.”
“Not and earn this kind of money, I can’t.”
“Have you ever tried looking? Honestly, now.”
He tells her the truth. “No.”
“Then maybe, subconsciously, you like playing football more than you’re willing to admit. Maybe the sport’s a form of sublimation for you, a means of proving your masculinity.”
“Don’t give me that cut-rate psychoanalytic crap. Don’t peek inside my head. If I could get out of football, I would. Football’s a murderous business, and there’s nothing good about dying.”
“Oh, but there is. It releases you from all your obligations. Dead men don’t have to keep up appearances.”
“Let’s just drop this whole thing right here.” He chops his hand down, symbolically cutting off her assault on his motivations, and, simultaneously, stemming the rise of his temper. “I didn’t tell you all this for publication. I told it to you as a friend. Agreed?”
She nods her head.
“Good.” In the time it takes him to climb out of the car, he shakes the venomous residue of his outburst completely out of his system. The mark of a pro. “Let’s go inside,” he suggests jovially. “The Shaws probably will ask us to dinner. I can personally attest to the mouthwatering experience that would be.”
Sarah gets out of the car. They lock up the shed and, together, head for the house.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
“Finding out what you wanted to know was childishly easy,” Sarah says into the vidphone, “I almost feel you’re entitled to a partial refund.”
“Apply it toward the next aspect of your assignment,” says her employer. “We’re no longer thinking in terms of contingencies. We have a specific use for T.K. Mann. I want you to continue to see him. Tell him you’re expanding your article into a six part series. Gain his confidence. His intimate confidence. I don’t believe I need go into explicit detail.”
“Not so long as you keep sending money.”
The senator laughs. “You’re an unprincipled bitch, Sarah.”
“In my business, that’s what it takes to survive.”
“We have a great deal in common, my dear, a great deal indeed.” Chuckling, he breaks the connection.
KILLERBOWL XXI, THE GAME
Saturday, January 1, 2011, 12:55 A.M.
The Prospectors take the kickoff deep on Myrtle.
The Minutemen, bolstered by an advantage in manpower, smother the return at Grove.
For his first call of the game, T.K. puts Frazier on the line at right tackle to compensate for the loss of Minick and Healy. T.K. sends Howe in motion to the right. He gives to Clausen, who swings around right end. The Minutemen smear Clausen for no gain.
On his way to the huddle, T.K. notes the defense. A standard 5-4-2. Matision has shifted himself to free safety, and is juking the line. Bumbo Johnson, back in the middle linebacker slot, swings his short club menacingly. Just at the sight of that club, T.K.’s kidneys start to throb.
The situation calls for a stall. A team can operate moderately well down one man. Not down two. The Prospectors need to buy some time to give Healy a chance to recover. To do that, the ball carrier has to shake his pursuit and stay out of sight for as long as possible. Naturally, he has to keep moving forward or the referees will call a deliberate stalling penalty. He needn’t move forward very fast.
The Prospectors huddle up.
“Clausen, replace Frazier at right tackle,” T.K. commands. “We’ll run a blue series forty left.” This means the fullback, Frazier, will take the ball on a slant across left tackle. The left tackle and guard will cross block to open the hole. “Once you’re in the clear, cut into that movie hall across the street. It’s an old son of a bitch. Still has a stage with a place out in front for a band. Shag your ass down into that band place. There’s a door there that leads under the stage. From there you come out in an alley. I want everybody else to go left around the movie. Frazier, you head right when you get to the alley. There’s a bakery or something next door. Go through it and come back out here to Grove. With any luck, there won’t be anybody waiting to meet you. After that, you’re on your own. Play it loose, but play it slow. We need maybe another hour to get Healy back in the game. Got it?”
Frazier nods.
“Everybody clear?”
A series of affirmative grunts.
“O.K. On two.”
The Prospectors line up.
“Hut one,” barks T.K., “hut two.”
Brye, filling in at center, sends the ball spiraling back. T.K. hands off to Frazier only seconds before Bumbo Johnson engulfs T.K. T.K. wrestles Johnson clear and breaks away.
The play goes well. Frazier bulls his way into the theater. Dedemus and DeGeller trap his pursuit in the lobby. The other Prospectors pull out of contact and head off to the left around the movie. As T.K. hoped, the Minutemen follow.
T.K. runs with the pack. They reach the back of the movie and shag left, opposite the direction taken by Frazier. Assuming the Prospectors are on their way to give their ball carrier blocking support, the Minutemen follow closely behind.
The whole play is working like a charm. By now Frazier must certainly be vanished and gone.
Then T.K. hears the depressing sound of an amplified whistle coming from Grove.
Numbly he returns to the line of scrimmage, knowing full well what he’ll find there.
As he suspected, Orval Frazier is down on the street. Judging from the cockeyed angle of his arm, it appears to be broken.
It also comes as no surprise to T.K. to see Harv Matision standing over Frazier.
Grinning sadistically.
Yes, it’s going to be a very rough day indeed.
AP NEWS SERVICE—FOOTBALL—MONDAY, JULY 19, 2010—SUNDAY’S ROUND OF FOOTBALL ACTION PRODUCED A MAJOR UPSET AS THE MOBILE GREYS RUINED THE PROSPECTORS’ UNBLEMISHED RECORD DEFEATING THE SAN FRANCISCO BALL CLUB 98 TO 66. QUARTERBACK T.K. MANN, INJURED EARLY IN THE GAME, SPENT THE ENTIRE FIRST HALF RED-CROSSED. HE CAME BACK IN THE SECOND HALF, BUT NEVER REGAINED HIS COMPOSURE. TEAM OFFICIALS REFUSE TO COMMENT ON THE EXTENT OF HIS INJURIES. THE LOSS OF MANN AT THIS PARTICULAR POINT IN THE SEASON COULD PROVE A DISTINCT SETBACK TO THE PROSPECTORS’ KILLERBOWL HOPES, ESPECIALLY SINCE NEXT SUNDAY THE PROSPECTORS COME UP AGAINST THE STILL UNDEFEATED NEW ENGLAND MINUTEMEN, WHO YESTERDAY COASTED TO AN EASY 102 TO 60 VICTORY OVER THE HAPLESS JUNEAU MIDNIGHTS. THE WIN RUNS THE MINUTEMEN’S UNBROKEN STRING OF VICTORIES TO 48, ONLY ONE SHY OF THE LEAGUE RECORD. PLAYING HIS USUAL FREEWHEELING GAME, HARV MATISION CARRIED FOR 300 YARDS. HE ALSO DISPATCHED TWO MIDNIGHT PLAYERS, INCLUDING POPULAR VETERAN DURKIE BROWN.
KILLERBOWL XXI, THE GAME
Saturday, January 1, 2011, 1:15 A.M.
With stunning accuracy, T.K. bores in two short passes to make the first down.
Noticeably bowlegged but at least ambulatory, Healy comes back into the game. Frazier, his arm encased in a rigid vinyl splint, also comes back in. It isn’t the first time Frazier’s played with a portion of his body shattered, nor, probably, will it be the last.
T.K. puts Frazier at tackle, moves Pfleg over to fullback.
On the second play of the next series, Lammy Howe catches the Minutemen’s left tackle with a vicious forearm. The tackle winds up on the street, his body spread-eagled on the sidewalk, his neck hanging over the curb. His protective Plexiglas mask has popped open. Howe takes advantage of it by kicking him hard in the face. When the Minutemen’s mediman pulls the tackle’s helmet off, the tackle’s got blood running out of his ears. He’s sure to be out for the game.
Howe’s evened the odds. In appreciation, T.K. gives him a hearty slap on the butt.
No longer outnumbered, T.K. is able to take the Prospectors on a long drive, down Phillips to Irving. They fight in one end of a vacant lot and out the other, battle through several buildings to emerge on Temple. From there, the goalyard is just down the street at the corner of Temple and Dern.
T.K. keeps the snap and dashes into a department store. He takes the steps to the second floor two at a time. He finds himself in the ladies’ department. Pausing for a moment to get his bearings, he spots the fire escape and heads toward it. He almost reaches it, when someone tackles him from behind. He hits, rolls and comes up in his defensive stance, the ball tucked into the gut pocket in his jersey, his right arm, fingers extended, thumb folded under, half cocked at the elbow, his left arm straight out in front of him.
He’s facing Harv Matision.
“Say your prayers, old man,” spits Matision, the store lights gleaming off his long knife. Matision lunges.
T.K. parries with his left arm, forcing the knife up and away while at the same time hooking his left leg behind Matision’s left knee. He pushes backwards and the younger man goes down.
T.K. shoves the first items he can lay his hands on, a pile of lingerie, on Matision to tangle him up and impede him. Then, again, T.K. makes for the fire escape.
Matision, quicker to recover than T.K. anticipates, catches T.K.’s legs and drags T.K. down. T.K. rolls over, his first thought for the knife. He kicks at it feebly, catches it perfectly, knocking it out of Matision’s hand. The knife goes chattering across the floor and comes to rest under a counter.
Matision scrambles for the knife, but T.K. hangs on to Matision’s legs, dragging him down.
Just when it looks like a standoff, Matision squirms free, stands, tugs at a large display case nearby filled with jewelry, and topples it over on T.K.’s body. T.K. sees it coming, but can’t get out of the way. The entire weight of the case comes down on him. Try as he might, he can’t move.
The referee blows his whistle.
After extricating T.K., the referee places down a red marker. Tomorrow, a joint Minutemen/Prospectors restitution squad will come here and reimburse the store’s owner for damages. The referee then moves the ball out to the street, placing it at a point approximately the same distance from the goalyard as it had been inside.
Two plays later, literally within spitting distance of the goalyard, on a straight power push, T.K. fumbles the ball.
Matision scoops it up. On the very next play, in a brilliant display of evasive running, he streaks 600 yards for the touchdown.
He also runs in the extra point.
Score: Minutemen 14, Prospectors 0.
Dedemus and DeGeller both are knocked unconscious on the kickoff.
Zack Rauscher hustles out, pulling his white, roller mounted medical box behind him. In it he has everything necessary to provide any medical aid short of major surgery. From a compartment underneath, he pulls out two cloth red crosses, which he lays over Dedemus and DeGeller. He opens the top of the box, pulls out two capsules of ammonia, snaps one open and waves it under Dedemus’ nose. No response. He tries the same treatment on DeGeller with similarly negative results.
He gives T.K. the secret high sign, left hand, two fingers extended, to helmet. Out for at least one play, possibly the whole rest of the quarter. Both of them.
Unbidden, and definitely unwanted, a forebodingly gloomy sense of imminent defeat settles firmly over the Prospectors.
Television Program Ratings for the Week Ending July 16, 2010
Compiled by the A. C. Nielsen Rating Service, all rights reserved.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Timothy Enge Show opens, naturally enough, with a shot of Timothy Enge. He’s seated in the midst of what appears to be a large, well-appointed den lined with rows of framed journalistic awards. In his lap is a brown clipboard, the source, as regular viewers are well aware, of his incisive, frequently embarrassing, oftentimes humorous, always interesting questions. From what can be seen of it when Timothy Enge tilts it provocatively toward the camera, the writing on its top sheet is crowded exceptionally close together There’ll be no idle banter tonight.
Timothy Enge begins his show. “This Sunday, ladies and gentlemen, the streets of San Francisco will resound to the primordial clash of giants in a contest which promises to be the most exciting football game of the season, perhaps the most exciting football game of any season.” He speaks with the intrepid self-reliance of a man well aware that of all Americans watching television at this very moment, better than 85 per cent have chosen to watch him. “On the one hand, we have the San Francisco Prospectors. Tied for first place in their conference, they have to win to stay on top. On the other hand, the New England Minutemen. Number one in their conference, unbeaten in forty eight games, only one victory shy of a new league record. The Prospectors and the Minutemen. They’re playing their thirteenth game of the year this Sunday, and it’s going to be unlucky for somebody. But who? Let’s see if we can get a hint.” He swivels his chair to one side.
“On my right, I have T.K. Mann, quarterback of the San Francisco Prospectors, a well respected and experienced professional who certainly needs no introduction.” T.K. nods in the direction of the camera. Actually, at this moment, he’s nowhere near Timothy Enge. Enge is in his New York studio, T.K. at his San Francisco apartment. T.K. has no idea where Harv Matision, who is also on the show, is emanating from, most likely somewhere in Boston. Camera trickery projects them hologramically into each other’s presence, pulling the affair off so successfully that T.K. would swear Enge and Matision are actually sitting only a few feet away from him in his own living room. They’re all three given representational access to each other to facilitate correct bodily and facial reactions. Home viewers see the three seated in Timothy Enge’s den.
