the Big Time (2010) (7 page)

“
YOU LOST, KID?” THE
security guard asked, scowling.

“I'm looking for my father,” Troy said. “Drew Edinger. He's G Money's lawyer. That's his car.”

The guard looked over at the orange Porsche and raised his eyebrows, retelling Troy's story into the radio.

The radio scratched the air, then a raspy voice said, “Bring him back to the pool.”

The guard angled his head for Troy to follow him up onto the porch, through the massive front doors, and into a foyer that rose three stories. A curved stairway opened off to the left, and a fifteen-foot painting of G Money in a red three-piece suit with a fur hat towered over them on the curved wall to the right. Troy looked up at a glittering chandelier. The domed ceiling
above was painted like a blue sky with puffy clouds and angels.

“Wow,” Troy heard himself say as they passed a suit of armor and entered another enormous room, filled with furniture upholstered in the skins of zoo animals: zebras, leopards, lions, and bears. They walked through some glass doors and into the back, where the wings on either side of the house flanked a pool. It was like nothing Troy had ever seen. Instead of an aqua blue bottom with stone or wood decking, this pool's bottom was midnight blue with tiny glimmering stars. It looked as if you'd be jumping into space. The pool's rounded triangular shape made it seem to Troy as if he were standing on the deck of a spaceship from some Star Wars movie.

So fascinated was Troy by the pool that he bumped into the guard, who had stopped at the foot of a stone terrace. A handful of men sat around a circular table playing cards, drinking colorful drinks in tall, clear glasses. Most of them wore sparkling chains, rings, and sunglasses, even though it was dark. The night closed in around them, and the low lights surrounding the terrace and pool did little to battle it back. Strangely, the music that wafted up from hidden speakers was the furthest thing from G Money's rap that Troy could imagine. This music was calm and soothing: wood flutes, synthesizers, and the sounds of trickling water.

Troy's father stood up from the table. He wore only a
button-down shirt, suit pants, and his diamond watch. He removed a cigar from his mouth, blowing a plume of blue smoke into the air before enthusiastically introducing Troy around the table. Men with more tattoos, scars, and gold than Troy had ever seen glanced up to briefly say hello. One of them was the enormous bald man with the cold blue eyes Troy had seen in the dome. G Money called them his homeys, and since the men were dressed in colorful silk, leather, and suede, Troy felt silly in his sweatshirt and jeans. He looked down and swatted at the smudge marks on his shirt before running a hand through his hair and shaking his father's hand. His father pulled him close and hugged him tight, patting Troy's back.

“Hey, Drew,” said a short, fat man with a crooked Celtics hat and a face as round as a basketball, “that's your big-time ticket, right? The kid?”

Drew scowled at the man and looked to G Money, but it was the man with the bald pink head, rimless rectangular glasses, and a jaguar's head tattooed up the side of his neck who spoke.

“Bubbles, you're always talking,” the big man said, his voice rumbling like a volcano ready to blow and flashes of gold teeth appearing from the midst of his furry black beard. “I need to put a rat trap on your chin and then maybe you'd keep that tongue inside your head.”

The entire table went quiet, and Troy knew that
each one of the men was afraid of the big man, even G Money. Drew quietly excused himself to G Money and nodded at the big man. Then he led Troy down some side steps to a swinging bench seat. Heat lamps on the terrace warmed them against the cool fall night.

“Ticket?” Troy asked.

Drew waved his hand dismissively and said, “Bubbles washes the cars. He's a moron.”

“Who's that big scary-looking guy?” Troy asked.

“Just a friend of G Money's from Chicago,” Drew said. “He helped G Money get started in the business. His name is Luther Tolsky. He knows a lot of people.”

Troy nodded, then quietly said, “Weird music.”

“G Money is into Zen,” Drew said.

“Like, the religion?”

“He says it helps his rap to be pure,” Drew said, scowling at his cigar and butting it out against the lip of a large clay pot containing a lemon tree. “Have a seat. Where's your mom?”

Troy folded his hands in his lap and studied them before he said, “Home.”

“At Seth Halloway's?” Drew asked.

“No. We live just outside the wall,” Troy said, pointing in the general direction of their house.

“Wall?”

“There's a wall around the club,” Troy said. “We live in the pinewoods just outside. It's nice. I got a tire to throw footballs through.”

“And she's there?” his father asked.

Troy nodded.

“But, how'd you get
here
?” his father asked.

Troy waved his hand toward where he'd scaled the wall and said, “Just walked. I knew where G Money's house was.”

Drew looked at his watch, then at Troy, and asked, “And she's okay with this? Walked, as in climbed-the-wall walked? Or you walked all the way around? Wait, don't answer that. I don't want to know.”

Troy's mouth fell open.

“Troy,” his father said, leaning toward him with all of the friendliness draining from his face, “don't even tell me that your mom doesn't know you're here.”

“Why?” Troy said, laughing nervously. “It's no big deal.”

His father shook his head and said, “Oh, yes it is.”

“
BUT,” TROY SAID, HIS
voice barely rising above the muted chatter of the nearby cardplayers, “you said you wanted to see me.”

“And I do,” his father said, nodding his head, “but not like this, not sneaking around. No, wait. Don't drop your head like that. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just that I don't want her to ruin it. If we give her an excuse to act out—any excuse—she'll use it. There are reasons I didn't stay with her, Troy, and none of it had anything to do with you. Like I said, I didn't even know about you.”

Troy studied his father's face: the brown eyes flecked with shards as black as tar. They whirled like hypnotic tops. Troy thought of the annoying things his mom could do, the way she managed him like a circus tiger:
cutting him off; making him sit, roll over, and jump through hoops of fire. She claimed it was all for his own good, but he knew how any little deviation from the rules, any misstep, led to consequences that were always severe.

“I know what you mean,” Troy said.

His father put a hand on Troy's shoulder and squeezed. “So, here's what we do. We get you back before she knows you're gone, and then we do this thing right.”

“But you're leaving tomorrow,” Troy said.

His father's grin reappeared, and he tilted his head. “I was supposed to, but if you think I'm leaving without getting this straightened out, you've got another think coming. Troy, do you realize how excited I am to have a son? Forget about how great a football player you are and this football genius thing. I've always wanted someone to go hunting and fishing and to ball games with—all that stuff.”

Troy felt his heart swell.

“Come on,” his dad said, rising from their seat, “let me drive you home. I can let you off on the street, where she won't even see us together.”

Troy shook his head and said, “Honestly, it's better for me to just go back the way I came. Once I get over the wall, it's a shorter walk than if you let me off at the top of my driveway.”

“Whatever works,” his father said.

“You could help me out, if you don't mind,” Troy said. “Maybe drive me to the back of the development. If you're with me, I won't have to worry about the security guards.”

“Guards? You mean G Money's guards?” his father asked.

“No, the Cotton Wood guards,” Troy said.

His father raised his eyebrows. They stopped to say good-bye to G Money, and the rapper told Troy's dad to hurry because he wanted to win back his money. Troy climbed into the front seat of the Porsche next to his father. The smooth leather and green, glowing numbers on the control panel reminded him of a space rocket and G Money's pool.

“Is this yours?” Troy asked.

His father grinned and nodded as he fired up the engine. “Brought it down from Chicago. I was itching for a road trip. Clears my head to drive a thousand miles in a machine like this.”

Troy nodded.

“That's some pool he's got,” Troy said, pointing out the way his father should go.

“A million bucks, just for the pool alone,” his father said, glancing at him. “Twelve for the house.”

“Up there,” Troy said, pointing to a maintenance road that led to a shed back behind part of the golf course.

His dad pulled the Porsche up the gravel path
through the trees and stopped in the dusty lot beside the massive shed. Tractors, golf carts, and other odd-shaped machinery lurked in the shadows cast by a single light mounted on the shed wall. Dust settled in the headlights' beams, and his father shut off the engine. Trees whispered above.

“What are you doing?” Troy asked.

“How about I go with you?” his father said.

“Over the wall?”

“I'd like to see where you live,” he said, “make sure you get back safe.”

“I have to take the ladder with me,” Troy said, warmed, though, by the thought of his father wanting to do something dangerous and outside the lines with him.

“It's not far, right?” Drew said.

“No.”

“So, you can show me, then bring me back and take the ladder with you.”

Troy hesitated and bit his lower lip.

“You don't have to,” Drew said.

“No, it's not that,” Troy said. “I was thinking, maybe I could show you the bridge.”

“Bridge?”

“The railroad tracks are back there, and there's a bridge not too far down that crosses the Hooch—the Chattahoochee River,” Troy said. “I like to go there sometimes, to think.”

“Like a special place?” his father asked.

Troy nodded.

“So, show me the way,” his father said. “I'd love to see it. I'd be honored.”

Excitement bloomed in Troy's chest. He got out of the shiny orange car, slamming the door and trying not to run for the wall. He turned to see his father taking long strides to catch up. When they reached the wall, Troy went to the left. His gramps's ladder lay tucked into the underbrush about fifty feet away. He crouched and raised it up, his father helping to brace it against the wall.

“Feel like I'm twelve myself,” his father said under his breath as he steadied the ladder and Troy climbed up.

When he reached the top, Troy said, “Now you come up, then we'll pull the ladder over.”

It took several minutes, but soon Troy was leading his father down the tracks toward the steel trestle spanning the river. He had so many questions—questions that had haunted him for years—and now, finally, it looked as if he might have the chance to get the answers.

TROY SHOWED HIS FATHER
how he and Tate sat, with legs dangling in space. The river below slogged along, reflecting the ghostly tatters of clouds above as they swept across the starry sky.

“Nice spot to think,” his father said, swinging his legs and bracing his arms against the metal beam above so he could lean out over the empty space.

“Can I ask you some questions?” Troy asked.

“Shoot.”

“Do you have any other kids? Do I have a brother or sister or anything?” Troy asked.

“Nope,” Drew said. “I was married for a bit, but that didn't work out, and we never had kids. She was too busy. That's why it never worked. My own parents are
gone, and the one sister I had died in a car accident about a year ago. So, it's just me. That makes finding you even more special.”

“And you live in Chicago, right?” Troy asked.

“Got a condo in Lake Point Tower,” his father said.

Troy gave him a confused look.

“It's the top place in Chicago,” his father explained. “Downtown high-rise, right on the lake. I can walk to my law office. You'll come see it.”

“There's a train that Tate calls the Midnight Express,” Troy said, pointing to the other side of the trestle and the tracks that extended as far as they could see. “Atlanta to Chicago. I hear it sometimes at night and I'd always think of you, even though I didn't know you.”

His father seemed to consider the northbound tracks but didn't say anything.

“And you played football, right?” Troy said.

“Pretty well, too,” his father said with a chuckle, “until I broke my neck. Oh, it wasn't that bad. I got lucky, actually. They said another eighth of an inch and I wouldn't be walking. They fused two vertebrae together, and it healed pretty good—but not in time for anything in the pros. I missed my train, so to speak. A lot of people do.”

“That's what I want to do,” Troy said. “Make it to the NFL.”

“Maybe you will,” his father said. “I'm actually in the Auburn record books myself, so you got the genes, the speed, the athleticism. Now all you need is a little luck. Tell me about this genius thing.”

“My gramps told me you were a math major,” Troy said. “Kind of weird for a football player. I was wondering if you can kind of do what I can do. I can't really explain it, but Seth says it's about probabilities based on the variables in the game. That sounds like math to me.”

His father turned his head and studied Troy's face in the dim light. “Seth, huh?”

“He's been pretty good to me,” Troy said.

“Like a father?”

“No, more like a friend,” Troy said.

“Good,” Drew said, his teeth showing in his smile. “It's funny you said that about how you can't really explain it. That's how math was for me. I really wasn't big when it came to school. I never really applied myself until law school. But I could take these advanced math classes and just…know it. I didn't even really like math. It all just made sense to me: the formulas, the theorems, the way numbers can predict not just lines but curves, even waves, even across three dimensions. Are you good in math?”

“Nope,” Troy said. “My mom says I'm a savant. Pretty normal except when it comes to football. That's
why they say ‘football genius.'”

“A prodigious savant,” his father said as if to himself.

“What?” Troy asked.

“Not a savant, really,” his father said, reaching out and putting a strong hand on Troy's shoulder. “I mean, you are, but you're more. It's savant syndrome, and almost everyone who has it also has a developmental disability—autism lots of times—except for one narrow area where they're so smart, they're off the charts. A prodigious savant is extremely rare. That's a person who's normal in every other way—no disability, no brain injury, nothing; just a prodigy. ‘Genius' is a good name for it—in some narrow area. Wow.”

“And it's a good thing, right?” Troy asked.

“Ha!” his father said, shaking his head. “Good? It's great. Look at you: a normal kid, but you can predict plays in an NFL game? Troy, my biggest concern is that no one takes advantage of you.”

“Who'd do that?” Troy asked.

His father sighed and shook his head, the wind ruffling his shaggy brown hair, the strong bones in his face carving out shadows even in the weak starlight. “The world is a vicious place, Troy. Trust me. The things I've seen.”

“But you can help me, right?” Troy asked. “I mean, you want to, right?”

His father tightened the grip on Troy's shoulder and
said, “Of course I want to, and I'm the perfect person to do it, with everything I've seen, knowing sports, knowing the entertainment industry.

“But there's just one problem.”