The Franchise (15 page)

The Canyon Cut was a popular place on campus. Students sat around on blankets; the smell of tobacco and marijuana filled the canyon. There was laughter and movement up and down river. Radios played rock ‘n’ roll, country, Chicano and Tex-Mex. The road and bridge were built so the campus police could patrol from squad cars.

Suddenly a Grapette bottle careened off the hood of the Lincoln. Taylor quickly put up the windows and accelerated across the bridge and up the hill.

“That was a Grapette bottle,” Wendy said. “Wasn’t it a Grapette bottle that hit you in the face after the Bowl Game?”

“It was.” Taylor grimaced. “By God, I think you’re on to something.”

“No. I’m serious ...”

“Well”—Taylor accelerated to the ridgeline—“the guy with the Grapette bottle is serious too. He’s stalking me across the country.”

Taylor took her to the stadium. The night watchman let him drive right out onto the middle of the field. Taylor had a blanket and a picnic basket in the trunk.

“Now, it’s from out here that I do my serious work.”

Taylor sat on the blanket, leaned against the side of the car. The hot catalytic converter was melting the artificial turf; the smell was nauseating and most likely toxic.

“Let’s walk the field.” Taylor held out his hand and helped Wendy to her feet. “The moon has risen over the press box.”

“You say such romantic things.” Wendy pulled loose and began to run down the sideline. The moon provided enough light, and Taylor watched her move like a wisp of smoke. She waited for him on the five.

Taylor crossed into the end zone, following Wendy. She reached the goalposts and swung around one white upright with both hands laced together. Her cotton dress clung against her as she swung.

Taylor watched her swing, feet planted on either side of the pole, leaning away, holding with both hands, her head thrown back, hair waving down, her blue and white cotton dress pressed against the delicate form of her body. The slim legs and hips, small well-formed breasts against the cotton. The looseness of her dress swinging with her motion. She moved like a butterfly.

“My God, you are a beautiful woman.”

Wendy flowed around the goal. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

“Increasingly beautiful every moment.”

“Do you love me?”

“Do you love me?”

“I asked first.”

“Does what is happening anyplace but right here really matter?” She stopped swaying and looked at him. He began to shiver like he was cold. Wendy could look deep into him when she decided to take the chance and reach for the center, probing for soft, empty places. She found them quickly.

Wendy moistened her lips. She knelt down and ran her hands across the bristled artificial turf.

“Maybe you better go get that blanket.” She began to unbutton the front of the simple cotton dress. “Hurry now. We’ll see if we can make the Polyturf move.”

The walk from the end zone to the car at midfield and back, in the bright moonlight, in the empty stadium, was the most memorable yardage Taylor Rusk ever covered.

“Why the end zone?” Taylor pulled off his boots and socks.

“It seems like the best choice. It’ll be something to compare with other experiences you’ve had or will have in the end zone.”

“Sort of a baseline?”

“Gives us both a common denominator. We got some heavy decision-making to do, so we had best get to work on our data base.” Wendy unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. She was always surprised by the size of his powerful upper body. “We should both pay close attention to any transferable type of behavior. Or is there no comparison?”

“There is only one way to find out,” Taylor pulled her to him, dragging her slender soft ankle across the Polyturf, causing a small burn. “First we choose up sides.”

“Choose me,” Wendy said again. “Choose me.”

They gripped and stroked each other, his big hands covering her small smooth body. They kissed and she pressed herself against his naked chest, ignoring the sting of her ankle. She played with pain. It was the big leagues.

“There is a certain enchantment about the stadium,” she said later. They were both covered with sweat. “All those dark empty seats.”

“Fill them full of screaming people and you really focus the mind.”

A slight breeze blew the length of the field, down one tunnel and up and out the other.

“This is the end zone, huh?” Wendy sat up and looked around. “I’m going to try harder to learn about football.”

“It takes a long time to learn your way around a football field. A long time.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

C
YRUS WANTED A
contest run on television to choose the new Franchise name.

“I want something subtle but Texan,” Cyrus told Conly, who had suggested “The Texas Pistols.” “Not something as obvious as The Texas Pistols, for Chrissake, Dick. Where’s all that goddam imagination you’re supposed to have? We’ll let the fans decide. We’ll do a promotion tie-in with all sorts of consumer products.”

“By vote,” Conly said. “The American way.”

“We’ll let them pick the
colors
too.” Cyrus snapped a look at his sardonic CEO. “Purple and white. Great choice, Dick.”

They, too, had been Conly’s suggestion.

The
Name the New Franchise
and
Pick Your Favorite Team’s Colors
contests ran simultaneously. Over a hundred thousand entries were recorded. The decision was strictly a democratic one: the most votes for the name and the most votes for the colors.

The new Texas Pistols would wear white at home and purple on the road.

When he heard the fans’ choices, Cyrus Chandler stayed visibly angry for two weeks and fired his accounting firm.

“E
XCUSE
T
AYLOR AND
me, will you, fellows?” Cyrus Chandler steered a course through the assembled press and club and league officials. The TV lights were still on; cameras rolled and shutters clicked. Taylor Rusk had just signed his $1.6 million two-year contract with the Franchise.

At the edge of the crowd was Simon D’Hanis. Cyrus had requested he attend Taylor’s signing ceremony. Simon had signed two days earlier. Cyrus signaled for the lineman to follow him and Taylor away from the press and into his office. Dick Conly, Lem Three and Richie Dixon stayed outside and got drunk with the press. It was Lem and Richie’s job; Dick Conly did it for the hell of it.

Taylor sat on the couch as Simon shut the door.

“Happy with your contract?” the owner asked his big lineman.

“Yeah,” Simon nodded.

“We didn’t have much left when Doc Webster, Taylor’s agent, finished with us,” Cyrus said coldly. “You should have gotten a better deal.”

The implication was clear: Cyrus Chandler hoped to confuse Simon—embarrass him—and teach Taylor Rusk a lesson.

“Did you read it?” Cyrus’s eyes glittered with cruel expectation.

“Not all of it, but Charles Stillman explained it to me.” Simon smiled. “It’s a fair three-year contract. I’m grateful.”

“We didn’t come here to talk contracts,” Taylor interrupted, sensing Cyrus’s intent.

Cyrus Chandler sat behind his desk and leaned back. He glanced at Taylor, then focused on Simon D’Hanis. “You
got
yours, Taylor, but Simon ...”

“Simon,” Taylor argued, “don’t you see what he is doing here?”

“A number-two choice”—Cyrus frowned—“should have done better. Stillman? Why did you choose Charlie to be your agent?”

“I don’t know. I’ve known him for a while,” Simon said, squirming, glancing from Taylor to Cyrus. “He works for the Players Union.”

“You mean he hangs around the locker room a lot.” Taylor immediately regretted the remark.

“I guess so.” Simon looked angrily at Taylor; his palms were wet.

“Incidentally”—Cyrus stuck Simon hard—“you don’t have a three-year contract.
We
have the three-year contract.
You
have three one-year contracts. You never even noticed. And of your $125,000 bonus you took $100,000 as deferred payments, right?”

“Yeah.” Simon’s eyes dropped to gaze at the carpet beneath him; he absently pulled at his lower lip. “Stillman said that and deferring half my salary for fifteen years would keep my taxes simple.”

“It should keep them real simple.” The owner laughed. He enjoyed this big man’s discomfort; he couldn’t help acting smart, bragging, beating the giant down to his knees. “You have any idea what those dollars will be worth? When and if you get them? Stillman took his ten percent up front on the gross amount, so you even got fucked by your own lawyer. You aren’t rich, you’re broke.” Cyrus paused. “And apparently dumb.”

Taylor thought Cyrus had overplayed his hand—fatally. Simon
did not
like being called dumb. It always discomposed the Big Thicket white-trash giant to be called dumb.

Except today.

“Jesus.” Simon sat down hard like he had been shoved. Taylor watched Cyrus strip D’Hanis bare.

“All those big numbers, the $400,000 that we just batted around out there for the press. That’s
for
them. Makes you
look
more valuable.”

“Simon, don’t listen to this,” Taylor pleaded. “These guys are slime.”

Simon sat frozen, staring blankly at his hands in his lap.

“Stillman was so anxious to fuck you and make us happy that we didn’t have to buy him off.” Cyrus grinned and saliva formed at his mouth’s corners. “He wants to do more business with us, and we are going to be around for a long time.
You
are just passing through.”

“Simon,” Taylor interrupted, “come on, let’s get out of here. You don’t have to take ...”

“He damn well does!” Cyrus yelled. “And you are next, Mr. Hotshot Crotchkey. I’ll get to you after I finish with the boy here.”

Simon flushed red, embarrassed, frightened. He clutched the arm of the chair. Knowing they suckered him so easily scared him.

I am dumb!
Simon thought as he looked at Taylor slouched on the small couch, watching from the corners of his eyes. Simon hated him for being there.

Cyrus continued, “I’m telling you these things now because I like you and I expect great things from you as a football player. Taylor is going to be the Franchise. It’s good PR, but building blocks like you are the reality. I will take care of you, but we don’t deal with agents. We’ll renegotiate your contract next year. Just you and me.”

“Simon, don’t you see what’s happening here?” Taylor said to his confused, distraught friend. “He and Conly and Stillman have been lying to you from the beginning. He screwed you then and he’s lying to you now. Take your lumps and walk; don’t make him another deal. Fuck him.”

“You got yours, Taylor,” Simon said softly. “I want mine.”

“I didn’t get mine out of yours, Simon, so don’t let him.”

Simon stood to leave. The movement caused Taylor to tense.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Chandler.” Simon walked out.

“Jesus! Simon!” Taylor knew his friend’s mind was made up. Further arguing was useless.

Cyrus looked sourly at Taylor, then smiled at the closing door, elated by the ease with which Simon was intimidated, scared and humiliated.

“That was nice, Cyrus,” Taylor said. “You should carry a cattle prod.”

“You’re next.” The owner turned to Taylor Rusk. “Your order is just as simple. You stay away from my daughter. I have plans for her and do not want the kind of grief you would cause my family. You are property of the football franchise, that is
all.
Junie goddam near drove me nuts during Water Carnival. I already told Wendy. Now I’m telling you.”

“What did Wendy say?”

“None of your goddam business. My plans for her don’t include you. It’s my family and my franchise. Do you understand?” Cyrus pointed at the door. “We can just as easily step right back out that door and pop your little bubble quicker than we pumped it up. You understand the bottom line? I want your word or you are through with this football team.”

“Well, Cyrus, I have plans that don’t include you or the Franchise.” Taylor smiled slightly. “So let’s go back out there and tell the newspaper and TV folks you have changed your mind and I’m
not
the Franchise nor the greatest quarterback ever. It was a mistake giving me the Heisman Trophy. See what Red Kilroy says when you tell him what you just did to Simon D’Hanis. You don’t know anything about football or the men it takes to play and win. Simon’s supposed to keep killer niggers off me and you fuck him into resenting my salary!”

“It’s a tough life, kid. This is show business. Guys like him are cheap.”

“Well, guys like me aren’t, as you well know,” Taylor said. “Your inability to judge talent is astonishing.”

“Stay away from my daughter!” Cyrus looked at Taylor. “You fuck up on this and you’ll never work in this business again.”

Taylor glimpsed something missing in Cyrus’s lined face, something dangerously absent:
discipline.
Not even the slightest trace.

“Since my first day on a football field,” Taylor said, “people have been threatening to stop me from playing. It comes with the turf. Threats are the language of sports. You don’t scare me.”

“It’s true.” Cyrus’s voice rose to a screech. Flecks of saliva flew from his mouth. “You fuck with me and you will never work again.”

“Are you going to
get me
for dating Wendy?” The quarterback looked around the richly furnished office. “A cement overcoat? I doubt it. You
might
be able to carry out your threats, but
first
you got to get out of this room. So you better just get Dick in here before your alligator mouth overloads your hummingbird ass.”

“I can put you on the
list!”
Cyrus’s squawl broke to a whine. “We can keep you from ever playing again!” His hand shook as he mashed the intercom call button.

“I’ve heard that before.” Taylor turned toward the sound at the door. “Damn, this is the big leagues; let me see you actually do it.”

Dick Conly walked into the office and headed for the wall concealing Cyrus’s alcohol.