Hangman's Game (27 page)

But this is a drill, so whether the offense moves the ball off the goal or not, I watch. I suppose if I really wanted to, I could practice waiting to come into the game. Not that I need such practice. In my years as a punter, I have become an expert on waiting—which is, in its way, the most challenging part of my work.

I have a metaphor that I often employ to calm myself on the sidelines. I tell myself that my mind is the sky, and my thoughts merely clouds drifting by, here one minute, gone the next, just passing things, always ready to blow by.

It's all a little wispy and delicate, I know, but I need something to help me detach from the situation, because I am constantly readying myself to do something that I do not get to do. On first down, I'm feeling the anticipation of running out there to punt. Then second down comes and the threat level increases. On third down I can feel the excitement in my legs as I get set to take the field the moment the next play ends.

So I get all psyched to do that. I visualize getting set, receiving the snap and having a successful step-step-step-kick. And then, more often than not, nothing happens. The offense makes a first down. Or commits a turnover. Or the coach just decides to go for it on fourth, as has been happening more and more in recent years. (All because some economics professor wrote a paper on the efficacy of teams going for it on fourth down, and one coach read it and talked about it in an interview, and now everyone does it. Thus the conspiracy to keep me off the field grows ever wider.)

The bottom line is, you mentally prepare to punt dozens of times during a game, but you actually get to kick far less than that. Imagine being a sprinter where most of the time when you get in the blocks, the words you hear are: “On your mark … get set … stop!”

It's maddening, honestly. After a certain point in the game I no longer give a goddamn about whether we're winning or what's best for the team. I want our offense to stall out because I am just dying to get on the field. Dying to do something other than stand on the sidelines and watch the clouds go by.

*   *   *

With about fifteen minutes to go in the afternoon session, Freddie ambles out onto the field. He is wearing a brimmed hat—as are most of the coaches—but the rest of his outfit is more befitting a man of leisure. He wears a mauve Oxford shirt, untucked, baggy white cargo pants, and his Oakley shades.

He shuffles along and stands next to me.

“You got that ten million you owe me?”

“I don't pay out on arrests,” I say.

“So you're waiting for Jai to be convicted?”

“I need a confession,” I say. “Without that, I won't believe it.”

“You are one cheating bastard,” Freddie says airily, head tilted back, as if he is trying to balance a Ping-Pong ball on his upper lip. “How goes your quest to find the real killer?”

“What?”

“I did a little Googling,” Freddie says. “I figured out why you stayed in Alabama. Those quarterbacks that Samuel injured, did you get them to spill?”

“No one spilled a damn thing,” I say, thinking of Herrold hoovering down every crumb of his pie.

Freddie turns his gaze toward me. “Is something wrong with you, Nick?” It is hard to tell with his Oakleys, but I think he is concerned.

“What do you mean?”

“Is your head right?” Freddie asks. “I wonder if you don't have some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. From the shooting, I mean. You were essentially in a combat situation for a few seconds.”

Longer than a few seconds, if you count the time I waited for the ambulance to arrive while Samuel and Cecil were bleeding torrents.

“That's not it,” I say. “I don't think so, anyway.”

“If you need help, I can recommend a wonderful therapist,” Freddie says. He waits the requisite beat before adding, “The massage therapist I saw the other day. She has an unbelievable ass.”

“You're an unbelievable ass,” I say. “Maybe your worries can be rubbed out that easily, but not mine.”

Freddie sullenly kicks at the turf with his white Converse low-tops. The shoes are new, so he is trying his best to pick up a grass stain.

“Someone at the funeral told me that Tanner went down to Alabama twice to visit Samuel before the draft,” I say. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” he says. “He took the family plane both times. Wanted to be all cloak-and-dagger about it, so no one would see him in the airport.”

I scan the field, searching for Tanner. He is a good fifty yards away, monitoring the quarterbacks.

I decide to reveal to Freddie what I heard about Tanner and Selia Sault. I have been wanting to tell someone.

Freddie blinks his eyes in disbelief and says, “Wow.” After a further pause: “Good for him. Is she hot?”

I am confiding in an idiot. “She's nineteen,” I say.

“So … yes? Are there pictures of her online, you think?” He is already reaching for his iPhone.

I shake my head and walk away a few steps, even though I have nowhere to go.

“Holy shit!” Freddie shouts, one hand pointing at me, the other hand over his mouth. “You think Tanner did it!”

I whirl around and look about to see if anyone has heard this cry, but no heads are turned. I walk back to Freddie, if only to lower the volume of his babbling. “What's your theory, Hangman?” he says. “She was going to move up here with Samuel and get up in Tanner's business, so he commits drive-by murder to keep her down in Alabama. Do you actually believe that?”

“No,” I snarl. “And shut up.” I am actually feeling guilty, now, for having ratted Tanner out. Not that he doesn't deserve grief, but I would hate for the story to come back to me. “Don't tell anyone I told you this,” I say. “Please.”

“I don't know, Hangman,” Freddie teases. “You seem to be asking an awful lot. What do you ever do for me?”

“Just don't say anything.”

Freddie shrugs his shoulders, smirks at me, and walks away. He strolls up the sideline and settles next to Clint Udall, who is watching the drills attentively. Freddie begins talking animatedly at our general manager, and Udall nods, occasionally saying a few words in response, all the while keeping his eyes on the action. Freddie glances back at me and grins. He knows I am watching him, and he is messing with me. At least, that is what I hope he is doing.

 

CHAPTER 20

I
T IS THE
night before the last day of minicamp, the night before my last chance to demonstrate to the Sentinels that I am the calm, centered, businesslike veteran they want as their punter.

It is the veteran's voice that whispers to me, telling me to stay home and rest. It tells me not to pick up that phone.

“Hello. Melody?”

“Nick?” she says.

“Yup, it's me. I know I said I would call when minicamp was over, but I feel like doing something tonight. You free?”

“I am,” she says brightly. “Just here at home.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Can I swing by?”

“Umm … sure,” she says. “Are we going out somewhere?”

“That would be the civil thing to do, I suppose.”

In the early dusk of one of the longest nights of the year, I climb into my Audi and drive north. One nice thing about Melody's grimly quiet neighborhood—no shortage of street parking. On her block it's just my car and the same new red F-150 that was there before. I press her doorbell, a pale orange circle, and don't hear any sound, so I knock my knuckles against the door's worn metal frame.

Melody answers quickly, as if she was waiting by the door. Her smile broadens when she sees me. She has a band in her hair, made from a glittery dark green thread that accentuates the color of her eyes. She is dressed in jeans and a dark blue top with a ruffled neckline that plunges deeply, exposing enough curvature to immediately give the evening a PG-13 rating.

“You look nice,” I say. I wonder if I should shelve my questions and make this the kind of date Melody thinks it is.

“Come inside for a moment,” she says. “I have someone who wants to meet you.”

In the narrow space that is their living room, a scrawny man in his forties sits on the worn arm of a floral-pattern sofa. He has unkempt long brown hair with streaks of gray, and he is wearing a Sentinels T-shirt whose shade of brown is slightly off, suggesting the shirt is an unlicensed knockoff. He has the same pale coloring as Melody, and he shares her green eyes as well.

“This is my uncle,” Melody says. “Vaughn.”

Uncle—good. Though Vaughn's smile is unsettling, both for its nervous enthusiasm and because his teeth remind me of a poorly hammered garden fence. His bloodshot gaze corroborates the scent of marijuana about him.

“I'm a big fan, man,” he says, his voice both raspy and boyish.

He comes forward to shake my hand. I squeeze firmly and find that Vaughn has the grip of an old rag doll.

“That hit you put on Dez Wheeler in the Atlanta game last year, that was awesome,” he says with a breathless smile. “That has to be the coolest punter highlight ever.”

“Thank you so much,” I say. “That's very kind of you.”

“Look at you, Nick,” Melody says, playfully tapping my elbow. “Mr. Superstar.”

“Have a good time, you two,” Vaughn says, seeing us to the door.

I drive out of Melody's neighborhood, back toward the Interstate. Melody rolls down her window and lets the breeze tousle her hair. “So where we going?”

“How about the Winking Oyster?” I ask.

She clucks her tongue a few times. “If you want to go to a strip club,” she says, “I know a couple in town that are pretty good.”

Really? I have never done that on a date before. I have a hunch Melody would be the right girl to try it with.

“Let's just go to Penn's Landing,” I say.

“Sure,” she says. She sounds cheery, expectant. “Is there a bar down there or something?”

“We could just go for a walk by the river.”

“A walk by the river,” she repeats delightedly, in a soft sing-song voice. “I knew you were the romantic type.”

Soon we are there. The Penn's Landing waterfront has a maritime museum and a few historical sailing ships that visitors can tour during the day. During the winter, the city sets up a skating rink here, and in the summer it hosts concerts and ethnic festivals on the weekends. Tonight, though, the only noise is coming from the one restaurant in this stretch, which is on a retrofitted historic boat. From its large outdoor deck, I hear the boisterous sounds of young people enjoying the night. I would bet half those people haven't even figured out what they want to do with their lives. I feel a generation older than they are.

I lead Melody along a brick walkway that juts out into the Delaware River and then turns right and runs parallel to the shoreline. The walkway goes a couple hundred yards down the river until it dead ends. The view ahead is of a large condominium, built on the water, whose shape is supposed to resemble a clipper ship. A large banner with a phone number advertises vacancies.

We reach the end of the walkway. I push myself up to sit on the low concrete railing, and Melody pushes herself up, too, sitting alongside me, her bare arm flush against mine. In the glow of the walkway lights, her lips look particularly pillowy.

She places her hand on my left thigh.

“Wow,” she says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I don't think I've ever said this to a man before, but nice legs.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I've done a few thousand squats a week for the past half decade. I'm glad I have something to show for it.”

Her hand is now massaging my thigh—after we have been here for all of one minute.

“I suppose you heard about Jai being arrested?” I ask.

“I did,” Melody says, without any enthusiasm for the topic. “Crazy, huh?”

“Very crazy,” I say. “Especially since he didn't do it.”

“You still think he's innocent?” she says, her massage slowing. “Even with the rifle they found?”

“I think he's being framed,” I say. “What do you think?”

She purrs and raises her hand to my chest. “Do we really have to talk about this?”

I remove her hand. She sits upright.

“Here's another subject to talk about,” I say. “What exactly did you do at the Winking Oyster?”

“I was a bartender,” she says sourly. “I told you that the other day. What's up with you?”

“I ran a search on the Winking Oyster and I came across this story about how it had been closed down by the police,” I say. “I was just wondering, were you part of the drug business there? Or the prostitution?”

She pushes herself off the rail and straightens her shirt.

“I don't like you looking into me,” she says, her back to me. “Maybe you should just take me home.”

I don't move and after a couple of seconds of silence she stomps down the brick walkway, without looking back. I slip off the rail and catch up to her.

“If you think you're better than me, I've got news for you,” Melody says, quickening her pace. “You're not.”

“I don't care about the Winking Oyster,” I say. “That's your business. But you need to tell me what you know about the shooting.”

“I don't know anything about it,” she snaps, glaring at me. But she also stops walking.

“Samuel was killed after leaving Stark's. Jai was framed while he was eating there. You were there both nights. You're telling me you can run your little misdemeanor ring or whatever you called it, but you're in the dark about this big thing that happened in your own shop?”

“I only know what I read in the papers,” she says acidly, folding her arms and looking off to the side.

She's holding something back. I can feel it.

“Please, Melody,” I say. “My agent was shot, one of my teammates is dead, another is in jail. I don't want to make trouble for you. I'm just trying to figure out what happened.”