Merlot (10 page)

“Wild Card, Wild Card.” Dickie and the crowd
roared in unison and young Jerry Cardy Jr. began raising his arms
in unison with Dickie and his stadium of followers. “Wild Card,
Wild Card!” the chant thundered round.

“Hey, hey,” Dickie called, then whistled to
the beer vendor, “any of you guys ready?” Knowing no one was more
than half way through their beer.

“Just give me two.” Things pretty much went
downhill from there.

While Jerry Cardy was quick and had a
definite talent for outwitting his defenders, there was one slight
problem; he couldn’t catch. It was on the third Viking possession
that things turned from unpleasant to downright ugly.

Twenty-one to nothing, toward the end of the
first quarter. The Vikings back on their own twelve-yard line. It
was third and twenty-six, and the play called for a screen pass to
number thirty-five. Seattle more than willing to allow a few yards,
were playing deep. Truth be known, Seattle wasn’t really covering
Jerry Cardy anymore. He’d already become a nonfactor.

The signals were called, everyone made their
assignments with just enough of a performance to give one hope that
maybe, just maybe, the boys had finally shaken the preseason
jitters. The quarterback stepped into the pocket, looked around,
spied number thirty-five open and drilled him, right on the
numbers. Jerry Cardy, the Wild Card, hung on, spun full around, set
his jaw, put his head down, and ran.

They were in pursuit, Seattle players to the
left and right. Jerry Cardy, with no one to depend on but himself,
kicked it into overdrive, and ran like he’d never run before. He
was vaguely aware of the roar of the crowd, and he couldn’t believe
how quickly he had been able to cover the ground. He dashed toward
the end zone and tossed the ball up into the air just as he crossed
the line, freeing both hands so he could begin his dance.

Unfortunately, after Jerry caught the screen
pass he had spun around. A full three hundred and sixty degrees. He
ran like he’d never run before. In the wrong direction. But the
worst was yet to come, he hadn’t quite crossed into the end zone
when he threw the ball into the air to begin his dance. Seattle’s
defensive end, Marcus Beedle, caught Jerry Cardy’s discarded ball.
He stepped into the end zone directly behind Jerry, adding an
additional six points onto what would later become the worst defeat
in the Viking’s history.

Jerry was barely into his touchdown dance
when the first purple jersey, number nine, slammed into him full
force. That was just before the Wild Card blacked out, thinking,
“Gee, they sure pile on rough in this league”. It took the referees
and players from both teams to stop the blood frenzy as Viking
players viciously attacked their teammate. Jerry was still
unconscious when they carried him from the field. The sold out
crowd rose to their feet again, this time screaming for blood.

That was the beginning of the end for Dickie.
He grabbed the nearest beer vendor, handed him a crisp fifty.

“Stick with me,” he said, and began drinking
beers as fast as the guy could open and pour.

“You guys want any beers,” he yelled from the
bottom of another empty cup, oblivious to the catcalls and debris
beginning to be fired in his direction.

“Maybe we should leave?” Victor suggested.
The couple next to him stood and crawled in the opposite direction
down the length of the row, excusing themselves past twenty-five
complete strangers rather than walk ten feet past Dickie.

“I don’t think we stand a chance of making it
out of here,” Wiener said

“Oh yeah, fuck all of ya, you hear me, fuck
all you bastards!” Dickie roared back to the stadium. Another
deluge of cups and debris rained down in their direction.

“Sit tight, someone’s bound to come and get
us, they can’t just leave us here. Can they?” Merlot scanned the
aisle for police protection.

Security was coming down the stairs, and it
wasn’t usherettes. Merlot counted ten large, muscular guys, five
cops behind them. They were coming to escort Dickie out of the
dome, in fairness, for his own safety. He turned, dropped his plaid
shorts and custom-made boxers to the ground, and mooned the bunch
of them. It was a solid three hundred plus pounds of broad, hairy,
Dickie backside.

“This is for you!”

There was a gasp from the middle of the
stadium as people shielded their eyes in horror. The beer vendor,
already fidgety from the insults and debris being hurled, poured a
final beer, grabbed his case, and ran off with Dickie’s change.

“Break to commercial, break to commercial,”
the director screamed into his mouthpiece.

The phalanx of security engulfed Dickie,
swarmed over him, keeping away from his massive rear end. They not
so gingerly handcuffed him, pulled his plaid shorts up, then
glanced over as if to ask, “You guys want some of this action?”

Merlot surrendered his hands palms up,
suggesting they didn’t even know Dickie as he was escorted
handcuffed, up the steps and into the bowels of the Metrodome
giving the fans something to finally cheer about.

“Did you know that guy?” Wiener yelled to the
couple seated behind him.

“No, we thought he was with you.”

“No, he just sat down over there,” hoping
they’d pass the information on.

It was early in the fourth quarter before the
Vikings finally managed to get on the scoreboard with a field goal
making it 63 to 3. They joined the mass exodus leaving the dome in
absolute disgust, trying to blend in as much as possible.

“So much for purple pride,” said Wiener.

“Shhh, keep your voice down,” cautioned
Merlot.

“We have to get him out of here,” Victor
said.

“Get him out of here, how? You plan on using
a crane?” asked Wiener.

“No, I mean it. Look this thing’s going to be
national, he doesn’t need an arrest photo and all of that. He could
loose his job.”

“His job, Christ, we’re lucky he didn’t get
us all killed!” Wiener whined.

“You mean we bust him out?” Merlot said.

“Not like that. Andrew, will you represent
him?”

“Against my better judgment,” Andrew
said.

***

They entered the security area down in the
lowest level. It had that damp concrete smell, like fresh air or
sunlight never ventured this close to hell. Merlot’s restaurateur’s
nose caught the hint of mold lurking just beneath the chemical air
freshener. They waited patiently in an outer area for forty minutes
before being ushered in.

There was a Minneapolis Police sergeant on
duty, seated at a cheap chrome and wood-grained Formica desk,
elbows on the desk. The desk bare except for a phone and one thin
manila file. The file was labeled,
Ulmbacher, Hans
in
handwritten red letters.

The sergeant read Andrew’s card completely
unimpressed. He glanced at Andrew, back at the card, then glanced
at Victor.

“You’re a lawyer, too, I suppose?”

“Yes sir,” Victor smiled, reached into his
pocket to produce a card.

“No thanks, that won’t be necessary.”

He was an older guy, late forties Merlot
guessed, gray crew cut, blue eyes and a skin pallor that suggested
he perhaps lived down here.

“Um-hmm, your firm’s seats?” he asked,
Andrew.

“As Mr. Ulmbacher’s legal counsel, it’s my
duty and frankly my concern that…”

“Look, save it, Clarence Darrow, this ain’t
the courthouse. Before you get too far ahead of yourself, let me
remind you that your, Mr. Ulmbacher’s behavior was beamed across
all fifty states on national TV. He was handcuffed in an effort to
secure his own safety,” he sighed.

“Prior to the arrival of our security people
he was filmed committing an act of indecent exposure. Indecent
exposure in front of minors, I might add. I’m sure you two legal
beagles are aware that’s a level four sexual offense in the State
of Minnesota. As you might guess, we are not exactly lacking for
witnesses.”

“Now, quite frankly I really don’t care what
happens to Mr. Ulmbacher,” he drew out Dickie’s last name, making
it seem somehow obscene.

“But I also don’t want to have to transport
him, fool around with booking and everything else tonight. I’ve got
a sister living up in Chisholm and I had it with that damn Wild
Card nonsense weeks ago. Mr. Ulmbacher and I had a little
chat.”

“Without representation?” Andrew
interjected.

Victor elbowed Andrew, mouthed the word
“blind” to the Sergeant, then added, “excuse us Sergeant, you were
saying.”

“Yeah, as I was saying, once he had some time
to cool down, I had a chat with Mr. Ulmbacher, so I’m citing him
for indecent exposure, public intoxication, and we’ll let it go at
that, provided,” he shook a finger at all of them. “I don’t see any
of you in the Metrodome for the coming year.”

“I’ll remand Mr. Ulmbacher to your custody
but I recommend you remain out there in the holding area for maybe
another hour or two before heading out of here tonight. His fat
butt spread across the dome screens won’t be easy to forget but it
wasn’t the only disgusting thing out there this afternoon. And now
we’ve got an ugly crowd on our hands. It would be like sharks to
blood, a regular feeding frenzy. Frankly I couldn’t guarantee your
safety if you decide to leave now. Good God, 63 to 3, Christ on a
carpet!”

* * *

It was another hour before Dickie joined
them, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Guys thanks for hanging in here with me. I
don’t know what I’d do without you. Did we win?” he whispered
looking up.

“Win? Are you fucking kidding? No, Dickie, we
didn’t win.” Wiener said.

“Any news on the Wild Card? He okay?” Dickie
asked.

“I think right now there are a couple of
other items you should probably be focusing on,” interjected
Andrew.

“Yeah, ‘spose so. Like I said, really
appreciate you guys hanging in there with me, sorry if I caused you
any problems.” He stared down at the floor again.

“We need to just sit tight for a bit longer,
let things calm down out there. Then Dickie, neither Victor nor I
can handle the charges against you. But, you should get legal
counsel, and fast,” Andrew said.

“We can give you some names. Just don’t say a
word to anyone, and I mean anyone, including all of us, until after
you’ve talked to your attorney,” added Victor.

“Look, guys, I didn’t mean…”

“No, not another word!”

They sat in virtual silence for another hour.
Dickie occasionally shifted his massive bulk, creaking the
steel-frame chair. Otherwise he just stared at the floor, and
except for the odd sniffle, never uttered another sound.

“Okay fellas,” the sergeant poked his head
out. “You can go, but I’d head right out of town. Anyone recognizes
you we probably couldn’t respond fast enough.”

“Thank you, officer,” Victor said, taking
Andrew by the arm.

“Wiener, Merlot, you guys get on either side
of Dickie.”

They climbed up two different stairwells and
then a long ramp to reach the main floor. The wide hallways were
devoid of anyone except the cleaning crews pushing broad brooms,
sweeping up remnants of the day’s disaster. They waded through
cups, napkins, crumpled programs, wrappers, peanut shells. The
debris of a dashed afternoon.

A couple of the cleanup personnel pointed at
Dickie as he waddled past. It was pretty hard not to notice him,
still in his plaid shorts and number thirty-five purple jersey,
eyes downcast, carbonless copies of his citations clenched in his
fist.

They made it to Victor’s car unmolested,
drove out the Sixth-Street exit, east onto I-94, back to St. Paul.
They all wanted to just get home and put some distance between them
and the sordid afternoon.

“I hate fucking Minneapolis,” Dickie said
softly, the only words he’d uttered in the past hour and a
half.

Cindy’s alarm went off at 4:30, kicking off
the week from hell. Amazingly, given the fact she had spent
virtually the entire Sunday in bed, she was still tired. She took
comfort in the fact that the pounding in her head had stopped, her
tummy had stabilized, and after a hot shower and a microwave
breakfast of cheese pizza she mustered the courage to face the
workday.

By 5:45 she was on her knees pulling out bag
after bag from the stuffed night-deposit vault. She had to verify
each deposit, enter it, get the currency sorted accordingly for a
mass counting and banding before packing it all for transport to
Central. Then deal with the onslaught of customers that was bound
to wash over them.

When the lobby doors opened at 9:00, a dozen
people swamped the teller area. From there things grew to a nonstop
roar, a continual line of customers with overflowing bags of
cash.

* * *

By noon the temperature was in the upper 90’s
and climbing. The armored car couriers were sweating in the heat
and humidity.

Billy Truesdale looked dejected as his
helper, Trevor, complained.

“Jesus Christ, this is the Dark Ages meets
convict labor, that’s what this shit is. You kidding me?” He hefted
a trash bag out of the grocery cart and swung it into the back of
the armored car.

“Ugh, man, couldn’t they come up with a ramp
or something? I mean, you want a ramp, I can design you a ramp,
man.”

Billy checked off the bag on his manifest,
then set the clipboard down before he smashed it over Trevor’s
head.

“God, Billy, I think I threw my back out.
Man, this is barbaric. These bags must come in at about seventy
five pounds.”

“More like fifteen. Climb in there. Move some
of those bags out of the way.”

Once Trevor stumbled in Billy locked the
door. Then pushed the grocery cart back to the bank and knocked. A
bank officer named Sidney opened the door and wheeled the cart
in.