Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (37 page)

“Oh. He said it’s cool. Ruthven did just what you said he’d do.”

Dime smiles. “We need to send that man some flowers!”

“Albert said Norm might come back with a better offer—”

“Fuck that, we’re not doing a deal with that guy, not for any amount of money. Not for a million bucks apiece.”

Billy and Mango look at each other. “A million bucks—” Mango attempts, but Dime cuts him off.

“Look at it this way, say we do the deal and Norm makes his big-shit Bravo movie, gets everybody all pumped for the war again. What happens then? I think what happens is they’ll keep stop-lossing our ass until we’re dead or too damn old to carry a pack. Well, fuck that. I got no use for a deal like that.”

Dime turns and bounds up the aisle. The Bears score to make it 31–7, and the game has officially become a rout. One of the rowdies in row 6 drops his bottle, and the sound of shattering glass sends his buddies into hysterics. “Assholes,” Mango mutters, and Billy agrees. They’re too drunk, too loud, too pleased with themselves—-more people who could use some humility in their lives?

Billy’s cell chirps, signaling a new text. He checks the screen.

“Faison?” Mango asks hopefully.

“Sister.” Billy waits for Mango to turn away before he opens it.

CALL HIM.

They r ready.

They r waiting 4 u.

Oh Jesus. Oh Shroom. What would Shroom do? What would he do if he was Billy, that is the better question, one that turns on the most intimate, pressing issues of soul, self-definition, one’s ultimate purpose in life. The two-minute-warning gun fires, which means, great, he has about 120 seconds to figure out what he’s doing here on planet Earth. Oh Shroom, Shroom, the Mighty Shroom of Doom who foretold his own death on the battlefield, how would he counsel Billy here at the
Victory Tour
’s end? He needs Shroom to make sense of the situation, to calm the neural scramble of Billy’s brain, but now the Jumbotron is playing the American Heroes graphic and the rowdies in row 6 send up a big whoop and holler, clapping, stomping their feet, the young marrieds try to shush their friends but there is just no stopping the fun.

“Brav-ohhhh!”

“Hay-yull yeah!”

“Woooo-hooooo!”

“Army of one, dudes!”

“See?” says Travis, twisting around to grin at Crack. “We’re all kick-ass patriots here, we totally support the troops.”

“Hell yeah,” yells one of his buddies.

“Hell yeah,” Travis woofs. “Listen, don’t-ask-don’t-tell, I’m totally down with that. I don’t give a shit if you guys are gay or bi or tranny or screw lesbian monkeys for all I care, you’re studs in my book. You guys are real American heroes.”

He raises his arm for a high-five, but Crack just stares, lets him dangle. “No?” Travis flashes a smile. “No? Whatever, it’s cool. I still support the troops.” He laughs and turns away, reaching under his seat for his bottle. When he sits up, Crack leans forward and methodically, almost tenderly it seems, locks his arms around Travis’s neck and proceeds to choke him out. All soldiers learn this in basic training, how a forearm applied to the carotid artery cuts off blood flow to the brain, rendering your victim unconscious in seconds. Travis flops a bit, but it’s not much of a struggle. He grabs at Crack’s arms, kicks at the seat in front of him, then Crack squeezes a little harder and Travis goes limp. Several of the rowdies start to rise, but Crack warns them off with a grunt.

“What’s he doing?” hisses one of the young wives. “Tell him to stop it. Somebody please tell him to stop.”

But Crack just smiles. “I could break this asshole’s neck,” he announces, and shifts his hold, applies some experimental torque. Travis gives a spastic kick; his friends can only watch. They seem to understand he’s beyond their help.

“Crack,” says Day, “enough. Turn the motherfucker loose.”

Crack giggles. “I’m just having a little fun.” There’s a masturbatory aspect in the way he twists Travis one way and then the other, squeezing, relenting, squeezing, relenting, probing the physiological point of no return. Travis’s face is dark red, shading to purple. A full-on carotid choke results in death in a matter of minutes.

“Damn, Crack,” Mango murmurs. “Don’t kill the son of a bitch.”

“Stop him,” pleads one of the wives. “Say something to him.”

Billy thinks he might be sick to his stomach, but part of him wants Crack to go ahead and do it, just to show the entire world how fucked the situation is. But finally Crack relents; it’s as if he loses interest, the way he turns Travis loose with a casual slap to the head, and Travis sags into his seat like a broken crash dummy. In short order the rowdies decide it’s time to leave. They brace up their woozy friend and file out of the row, careful to avoid eye contact with the Bravos. “You guys are crazy,” one of them mutters as he sidles past, and Sykes shouts Hell yes we’re out of our motherfucking
minds!
, and adds a burbling Valium laugh that in fact sounds pretty batty.

Dime returns in time to watch the rowdies hurry up the aisle. He rubs his chin and regards his suspiciously silent squad.

“Something I need to know about?”

The Bravos manage a weak
brah
. “Mofo kept mouthing off,” Day says. “So Crack give him some, uh, training guidance.”

Crack shrugs, forces up a smile. He seems chastened and at the same time deeply satisfied. “I didn’t hurt him, Sergeant,” he says in all modesty. “Just messed with his head a little.”

Down on the field, the final two minutes of play have resumed. Dime looks at his watch, looks at the scoreboard, then has a moment’s communion with the storming sky. “Gentlemen,” he says, turning back to Bravo, “I think our work here is done. Let’s blow.”

The squad sends up a lazy or possibly sarcastic cheer. Josh says they’re supposed to meet their limo at the west-side limo lane, and he will show them the way. For the final time Bravo trudges up the aisle steps, Billy fighting the tug of all that horrible stadium space. As soon as they reach the concourse he pulls out his cell and texts Faison—

Can u meet west side limo lane? Look for white hummer limo

Bravo falls into line and follows Josh through the concourse. Sykes and Lodis have managed to hang on to their autographed footballs all this time, while the rest of the Bravos have only their swag packets, precious mainly for the cheerleader calendar and those trophy-cleavage photos. It’s going to be a long, lonesome eleven months in Iraq, long and lonesome being best-case scenario. On this final walk through the stadium no one stops to thank the Bravos for their service, to harry them for autographs or cell phone snaps. Cowboys nation is in full retreat; cold, wet, tired, whipped, they are bent on getting home as fast as possible, the hell with geostrategy and defending freedoms.

Oh my people. When they come in sight of the gate Josh leads them over to the side of the concourse, out of the traffic flow. “We’re supposed to wait here,” he tells Bravo. “Some people are coming down to see you off.”

Who?

Josh laughs. “I don’t know!”

The Bravos look at one another. Whatever. Presently there’s a surge of bodies into the already packed concourse, and from this Bravo infers that the game has ended. The fans move in a toilsome mass toward the exit, and in their numbers and necessarily shambling step they seem to take on allegorical weight, as if their gloom, their air of bedraggled wretchedness, is meant to conjure up the ghost of every tribe that ever bestirred itself to leave one place and journey toward another in hopes of a life of lesser evil. Billy thinks, in other words, that they look like refugees. His cell buzzes, and he turns to the wall before daring to look. It is a two-word text from Faison.

Coming. Wait.

His eyes close, and his head tips forward and clunks the wall, his silent thank-you released as a pent-up breath. Then he’s nervous. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’s got no training for this, no drill, nothing to fall back on. He can visualize himself and Faison at the ranch, but the transition, the getting there, his mind won’t grant him that. Maybe if he actually
rams
his head against the wall? Suddenly Albert and Mr. Jones appear, popping out of the crowd in a cartoon sort of spurt.

“Hah,” Dime screeches in his Will Ferrell voice. “Like a
dog
returning to his
vomit,
here he is!”

Albert grins, he seems perfectly cool with the greeting, though he’s careful to keep some distance between himself and Dime.
Albert, Albert, Albert,
the Bravos woof, making a kind of song.

“What about our deal?” Sykes cries.

“Guys, I tried. Believe me, I tried like hell, and I’m going to keep on trying, you can count on that. If there was ever a story that’s made for the movies, it’s you guys’, and I’m fully committed to making that happen.”

“But dude—”

“I know, I know, it’s a huge disappointment, I really wanted to nail this thing while you were here. What can I say? We gave it our best shot, but it’s not over, hell no. I’m gonna keep working this deal till it happens, I promise you that.”

Monklike murmurings rise from the Bravos,
thankyouthankyouthankyou
. A car is waiting to take Albert to the airport; he’s flying back to L.A. tonight. Even though his option extends for an entire two years, this feels like the end of something, with all the nostalgia and melancholy natural to endings. Albert says he’ll walk out to their limo with them; evidently Mr. Jones is coming too, perhaps to ensure Bravo departs without further insult to the Cowboys brand. They join the weary masses moving toward the exit. A kind of drone, a bottom-register vibraphonic hum emanates from somewhere up ahead, from the threshold, Billy realizes as they draw near. It is the ongoing moan of successions of fans as they step onto the plaza, a windswept barrens of icy concrete with nothing between here and the Arctic Circle but thousands of miles of recumbent plains. The Bravos curse, lower their heads, jam hands in pockets. The sleet gouges micro-divots in their faces and necks. Josh calls the soldiers to him and does a head count, then leads them across the plaza toward the limo lane, limos lined into the murk as far as the eye can see, and, oh Lord, just among these dozen in plain sight Billy counts four in the snow-white Hummer style.

“Billy.” Albert has fallen into step beside him. “I think your sergeant is mad at me.”

“Well, he’s kind of a moody guy.” Billy wishes Albert was on his other side, to block the wind.

“Listen, you’ve got my e-mail, right? And I’ve got yours. Let’s stay in touch.”

“Sure.” Billy is scanning the line of limos. How Faison is ever going to find him out here . . .

“I admire Dave a lot, but sometimes I wonder how reliable he is. So how about this, whenever I can’t get up with him, I’m going to contact you. You’ll be my point man for the rest of the squad.”

“Fine.” Billy raises his windward shoulder, digs his chin into his chest. The wind cuts across the plaza like an unmoored guillotine.

“Listen,” Albert says, lowering his voice, “you’ve got the most sense of all these guys, you and Dime. I trust you. You’re developing into a real leader. I know I can count on you to keep the communication flowing in a positive way.”

“Sure.” Billy is thinking if Faison hasn’t showed by the time Bravo is ready to leave, he’ll just bail, go AWOL right then and there. He’ll say he’s got to take a whiz or something, duck out of the limo; he’ll be as good as committed then, more so once he locates Faison and spills his guts at her feet.

“I meant what I said about the deal,” Albert is saying. “I’m going to keep working it. Sooner or later it has to happen, it’s just too good not to.”

Billy looks at him. “Really?”

“Well, sure. With Hilary basically attached, it’s only a matter of time.”

The plaza is lit like a prison exercise yard, all glaring white lights and jabby shadows. Billy turns to scan the area for Faison and almost at once registers a pattern within the crowd, a kind of rippling or cross-current aimed this way. There’s a blank moment, then Billy is opening his mouth, he knows what’s coming an instant before his mind forms the thought. He’s actually shouting as the roadies step from the crowd, then all he knows is that he’s down in a fetal curl as a ball-peen sort of thumping pummels his back. He realizes that’s himself he hears grunting with every whack, not that it hurts, it’s pressure weirdly stripped of pain, and about the time he figures out someone is kicking him here comes Mr. Jones stepping into the light. At this point time doesn’t slow down so much as congeal into a series of overlapping blocks. Here is Mr. Jones standing upright, pulling his gun from his suit jacket, then the massive body slam from behind that sends him flying, and the gun—a Beretta Px4, in the freeze-framed moment Billy sees it quite clearly—launched with great force from Mr. Jones’s hand. It takes off like a skate across the ice, skittering, spinning just beyond Billy’s reach, away it goes and he twists around despite the foot in his ribs because he has to see where it’s going—

Straight for Major Mac, as it turns out. With a veteran goalie’s timing and economy of effort, the major lifts his toe a couple of inches and traps the weapon under his shoe. He scoops up the Beretta, checks the safety, and chambers a round while holding the weapon down and away from his body, then with the elegance that comes of many hours of practice, he raises his arm and fires straight overhead,