Ruffians Page 9

  "You guys fags or something?" Max asked with his most serious look.

  "Motherfucker!" Pike said, throwing down his towel and coming toward Max.

  "Hey! Put your damn clothes on, Pike!" Max yelled. "I ain't no fag. If you want to wrestle or some shit like that, at least put some damn clothes on."

  All the players in Max's row, even Sick, laughed at the way Pike stopped in his tracks, looked down at his naked body, and turned beet red. Subdued by the laughter, Pike just cursed and returned to his locker to dry off.

  The locker room was half full with players either drying off from their showers or getting dressed to work out. Besides the few remaining draft picks who had yet to sign a contract, and the even fewer veteran players whose contracts had expired and were yet unsigned, almost the entire team would pass through the locker room at least four times a week. Some, like Max, were there up to six times a week, lifting weights, running, stretching, and doing various agility drills that would prepare them for the season. Most teams around the league had summer workouts that took place prior to training camp, but they had to be voluntary as a matter of league policy. Vance White, however, had written each of his players a letter that basically told them if they planned on having a job next season, they would be volunteers.

  Max remembered the response of some of his teammates. The three of them had been sitting on stools in front of their lockers, toweling off after a running workout.

  "You doin' it?" Paul Dugan had said. Doogie was a burly veteran defensive tackle whose nose was smashed across his face.

  "What?" said Max.

  "You know, this workout program. You gonna stay here the whole fuckin' summer?"

  "Damn right," said Max.

  "I was gonna go up to Alaska for a bear hunt," said Sky, a hare-lipped six-foot-eight country boy from Kentucky who played defensive end. "Not now."

  "I can't believe this voluntary-mandatory bullshit. They can't do that. They're only supposed to be able to make us come to one three-day mini-camp," said Doogy.

  "You don't have to stay," Max said blandly. "But for me, I think the more guys here, the better we'll be next year."

  Doogie rolled his eyes. "Holy shit," he said, "you bought the fuckin' farm."

  Max shrugged. "You guys want to get a beer?"

  "Nah," Doogie said, "I gotta get home to my old lady. She's already bitchin' about me bein' here all day."

  "Me too," murmured Sky.

  Then, to himself Sky shook his head and mumbled, "Sure did want to get me a grizzly."

  "O. K., see ya," Max said, and he'd gone without the two dummies.

  As an incentive to comply, the players could rest assured that Vance White would make random appearances in the weight room, or on the owner's terrace overlooking the playing fields, to monitor the work habits of his men. As a reward for their efforts White would walk among his team as they trained and bestow a silent nod of approval to those players who exhibited extraordinary effort. Among themselves, the players called themselves the chain gang. They despised the rigid atmosphere and would secretly mimic White by pulling their shorts up to their armpits in honor of the unusual way in which he wore his own pants. But even the most mildly deviant behavior stopped after White walked into the locker room one day and overheard Marcus Gash, a defensive back, complaining about the rigorous work and his preference for being back home during the summer chasing skirts.

  White hadn't said a word to Gash. He just stared until the whole locker room fell silent and the player, tipped off by the silence, turned to meet his icy stare. Then White turned and walked out. Max had never seen Marcus after that day, although he heard from one of Marcus's closer friends that he was later called into the owner's office, where White and Lyles had told him that if he was seen anywhere near the facility or any of their players, they would have him arrested for trespassing. Max doubted that such drastic action would have been taken against one of the better players. Marcus had only been a backup. The general consensus was that White had strategically made an example of an expendable player, but no one Max knew was up for finding out.

  Max knew that many of his teammates were using the same drug he was. It wasn't hard to see who was making outrageous strength gains and who was unusually short-tempered, but he didn't talk about it with anyone, even the guys he was one hundred percent sure were on Thyall. White had encouraged him, and he assumed everyone else too, to keep the business of the drug to himself and just work hard to get the job done. Max's "job" was the workout he was assigned each day before he could leave the complex. He and the rest of the players were paid four hundred dollars a week to complete all their workouts, but any incomplete day resulted in a loss of pay for. The entire week. Max wouldn't have missed a workout regardless of the money, but he knew it was a necessary incentive for many of his teammates.

  In some ways, Max felt superior to his teammates. Not because he was a better player, because in fact, he was far from being the most talented, but because he knew he worked harder than the rest. Even with the drug, and Max felt sure he knew just who was using it and when they had injected it, Max out worked them all. If he himself wasn't on Thyall, there were some who could have surpassed him. But since he too was using it, no one could come close to his enthusiasm for training in the weight room. Not that there weren't some big lineman who couldn't lift more than he--there were a few--but certainly no one was as intense or improved as much.

  Max smiled to himself at the thought of his superiority as he sat on the stool in front of his locker, rocking back and forth with an ever- increasing intensity. The drug was setting in hard. It was like a surge of low-volt electricity, like the kind from a cow fence, only slower and not painful. It wasn't a good feeling, though, it was uncomfortable and made him feel tight and angry, as if his clothes were too small and his skin itchy. But it also made him feel powerful and strong. He could feel it: It was time. Now he would go into the weight room and do the weights hard. He would make his workout and then some, pumping out every repetition of every exercise with an ireful purpose.

  Since he'd started using the drug, the effects and the improvements were obvious. His biceps were beginning to bulge, and stretch marks were sprouting from his armpits up toward his expanding shoulders and pectorals. He was rapidly gaining strength as well as body weight. But there were admittedly some adverse effects of the drug. The veins in his legs and arms were protruding, his testicles were shrinking, acne had burst out on his upper back, and his hair was thinning on the back of his scalp. But those were small annoyances next to the gains he was making.

  "Ahhgh!" Max growled to himself and drew up from his seat, kicking it with a loud crash into the back of his locker. He relished the day when he would do this before he took the field. He would be a killer. The Thyall put him in a good football mood. It made him angry and aggressive, and he knew that he would attack an opponent on the gridiron as if it were a blood battle.

  Two of Max's smaller teammates, wide receivers named Spencer Clayton and Tim Tyrone, not strength players, were at the end of the locker room joking quietly between themselves. Max roughly pushed his way between the two of them.

  "Pencil necks," he said, shoving open the door and disappearing down the hall that led to the clanging weights.

  "Motherfucker," Clayton said when Max was out of earshot.

  "Chill, man," said Tyrone, "the dude on that shit."

  "That crackhead don't need no shit," Clayton replied. "He mean enough as is."

  "You won't be bitchin' when that dude start killin' motherfuckers this fall an' gettin' the ball back so you can shake it in the end zone. You be on that Thyall yourself then," Tyrone said.

  Clayton snorted, "You been smokin some shit to talk stupid like that. That shit for those dumb-ass animal motherfuckers. I don't need no shit, man. In case you ain't noticed, I'm smooth as silk on that field, I don't need to be nasty, just smooth and sweet. No good gonna come from that shit, man, no good."

  "Chill, dude," said Tyr
one. "We'll talk, not here, though. I don't need no walkin' papers."

  On his way to the weight room, Max passed Gavin Collins. "Coach" was all Max said, with the nod of his head.

  Collins saw the maniacal grin on Max Dresden's face, and noticed a vein protruding from his sweaty forehead. He shook his head. The damn guy looked like he was on something.

  "Probably is," Collins reminded himself, "and it's probably not too much coffee."

  He went into the locker room to take a piss. He spat in the urinal in disgust, thinking of the drug that he knew most of his players were now using. White was a sick bastard, but what could he do? Certainly of all the coaches he was the least able to do anything about it. He was lucky to be here, and the best thing he could do would be to not make problems. It wasn't often a black man was able to break into this buddy- buddy system of coaching, so if he ever wanted to be a head coach, he'd have to just get along for a few years until he'd built a reputation.

  Something crunched under his foot on his way to the sink. He looked down and saw a used syringe sticking out of a wad of toilet paper. "Jesus Christ," he said to himself, "I'm glad I'm not mixed up in this shit."

  Vance White finally noticed the flashing lights that spun in the darkness behind him. "Shit," he said, "fuckin' cops."

  White got out of the car and weaved a little. The officer approached him cautiously, talking into his radio.

  "Look," White said drunkenly, "I'm the head coach of the Ruffians, so this ain't gonna work."

  The Birmingham police took pride in making no exceptions when it came to DWIs, and the more White talked, the worse the situation got. When he started to bully the cop, reinforcements arrived. White ended up in cuffs, but not before he had broken one officer's nose and cracked another's ribs.

  Now, as he stared drunkenly out of his cell, he wondered who he could call. Drunk as he was, he knew that if something wasn't done, his coaching career was over. No NFL team could afford to have the kind of publicity that ensued from such an incident. If he lost his opportunity at Birmingham, no other team would have him. Going back to college ball was out of the question. The only person he could even hope to help him was Humphry Lyles.

  White shook the cell door and shouted, "I want my phone call!"

  Another drunk who was slumped near White's feet yelled, "Quiet!" in a slurred outburst. White gave him a boot in the stomach, and the bum moaned and rolled over.

  Even through his drunken stupor, White could see the respect in the eyes of the cops when Lyles appeared to bail him out. The small, pudgy owner swaggered into the jail with a pompous air that befitted a monarch. They obviously knew him. Equally apparent was that he had some enigmatic authority over them.

  The police speedily processed White's release.

  "Make sure you misplace those arrest records," Lyles said to the desk sergeant.

  "Mr. Lyles," said the sergeant, "this guy can't drive himself. Would you like me to have someone take him home?"

  "No, I'll do that," said Lyles.

  Inside his comfortable Mercedes sedan, he chuckled and said, "I guess they got more than they bargained for with you, Vance, huh? Did you really bust one of 'em's nose? Was there really six of them?"

  White answered these questions with silence.

  "I've always hated the cops," Lyles said, ignoring the silence. "That's something I wish I'd done myself, punch one of those smart-mouthed bastards."

  "Maybe so," White replied, "but I won't wish it when I go before the judge."

  Humphry smiled and glanced at White as he pulled his Mercedes onto the interstate. "Vance, there isn't going to be any judge, or any newspapers for that matter. This little incident never happened."

  White simply stared at Lyles, waiting for an explanation. But Humphry only smiled. He wasn't saying anything until he was asked. White finally did ask.

  "Those men need to put food on the table, don't they?" said . Humphry.

  White, still drunk, nodded.

  "Well, they can't do it without a job, especially a nice city job with a nice pension when they retire. You see, I put the mayor in office ... and the police chief... and enough of the district court judges so that those men don't want to displease me. I'm not about to let something like this take away my head coach. But I am glad you called me right away. The one thing I don't own are the newspapers, and if those maggots had gotten a hold of this thing, it could have gotten out of hand."

  At first White was angry. He felt as though Lyles was listing off his cast of puppets, and meaning to include him in the group. "You don't own me, Mr. Lyles," White snarled. "I can hunt to put food on my table."

  "Vance, you're drunk. This is no quid pro quo. What I did, I did for a friend."

  White nodded and thought to himself that being Humphry Lyles's friend wasn't such a bad thing.

  At the same time they were driving up the interstate, Max Dresden was pulling into a Waffle House. He looked at his watch and yawned. It was unusual for him to be without a girl this late on a Thursday night. But he'd seen nothing that really impressed him, so he'd just sat at the bar all night drinking. Now, though, he was wishing he'd taken the bartender home. She wasn't pretty, but she wasn't ugly either. Maybe she was a little heavy, but she did have big tits. Max should have grabbed her. She hadn't hidden the fact that she wanted to get fucked.

  Max ordered a cheese egg special and a sausage sandwich. The food was greasy, but putting something in his stomach tonight would help to lessen his hangover in the morning. There was no other place open this late, so grease it was. While he ate, he watched a bum at the counter drinking coffee and talking to himself. Max got a kick out of the way the waitress, who was a hag herself, avoided the guy like a leper. Max imagined the bum doing something outrageous, like pulling out a knife. He imagined himself pummeling the bum and being kind of a hero.

  When he'd finished eating and paid the check, he thought once more of the bartender. "What the fuck," he said to himself as he climbed into his car.

  He drove back to the bar and went in. The lights were out except behind the bar, where some guy was washing glasses.

  "Is the girl who was bartending here?" Max asked.

  The man eyed him suspiciously, "You mean Shelly?"

  "Yeah," Max said, "Shelly."

  "Nope, she left about ten minutes ago. Want me to tell her you came by?"

  "Nah," said Max, and he turned and went out into the night.

  Chapter SEVEN

  CLAY HUNG UP THE PHONE and stared out the window at the cold, deep Adirondack lake which was still and peaceful at the base of the worn green mountains. He needed to relax. He was uptight about contract negotiations with the Ruffians. Clancy was insistent on holding out for more money, even though the team's offer was generous. Clancy also argued there was no rush to get him to Birmingham since he was already in great shape. Graduation had come and gone, and with it the last days of college life. Clay and Lever had rarely been sober from the time of the draft party until the day after graduation. With the celebration behind him Clay began a serious training routine. He even trained on the weekends, most of which he spent with Katie at her family's summer home. The two of them would leave Fridays as soon as Clay had finished his training. They would take the Thruway from Syracuse to Route 12 in Utica, head north, then take Route 28 inside the Adirondack Park to Raquette Lake. Once there, they'd park their car at the marina and boat across the lake to the house. All the homes on Katie's side of the lake were accessible only by boat. So when Clay did his running he had to cross the lake to get back to the road. Every Saturday and Sunday after lunch, he would do just that so he could run the lonely roads that weaved through the mountains.

  Katie's house was an old Adirondack camp originally built by early twentieth-century railroad magnate Pierpont Morgan. Morgan had the place built to serve as a retreat from his main Adirondack estate across the lake. He used it to get away from his estate when he needed a break from the twenties social swirl and the influx of New York
City society who graced the mountains during high season. When Katie's father bought it for just twenty thousand dollars in the early seventies, the house had no electricity and no phone line. The camp had been abandoned for years and was rundown, but the immense log structure was sound and dry. It had been built on a gently sloping hill that ran down to the lake. A big, wide porch wrapped around the front of the house, and sturdy Adirondack rockers that had survived for fifty years still sat there. Katie's father had electricity and a phone line brought in, and with steady work over the years, her family had revitalized the old place until it evinced its former glory.

  Clay had fallen in love with the mountains his first weekend there with Katie two summers ago. He loved the house too, and on the long drive home after his first visit he began to dream of having a place somewhere in the Adirondacks to call his own. With his sudden good fortune it was a dream that could become reality. He would easily be able to afford to buy his own place. He had never owned anything other than that old truck, and to have a house in the mountains that was his to go to whenever he wanted with whomever he wanted and do whatever he wanted . . . well, the thought gave him a chill. He would have a refrigerator just for beer, and a big porch overlooking the lake where he and his buddies would sit and drink and smoke cigars late into the night. He would buy a boat, big and fast, that would pull him out of the water on skis with no problem. But best of all, he would arrive on a weekend as a property owner, and pull up to a place that was his.

  Then, of course, he would buy a nice home somewhere in Birmingham. After that, maybe a beach house somewhere on a Caribbean island, like Hemingway. Then he'd have a place to go in the winter, a place to live during the fall for work, and a place to go in the summertime. Property. Clay loved the idea of it more than the thought of nice cars and nice clothes. Property was something he could depend on. He could go there to stay, and it was his forever. It never wore out. A house like Katie's was like family to the people who owned it. It was also the best place to put his money. It was safe. It almost always appreciated, especially if it was waterfront property. He made a mental note to call a real estate broker tomorrow. He could at least see what was available. He could fly to Birmingham tomorrow if he wanted and sign a deal for six million dollars. That was what was on the table. The money was in the bag now, and he might as well start enjoying it.