Chapter 5
"That's right, Randy," Frenchy says.
"Got the pictures if you need `em."
"Beautiful closeup of the buzzer he pushed goin' in, him and her leaving the place together."
"And we checked that name and address, just to be sure."
"She is definitely the lady who cleans his apartment."
"Works for the cleaning service, she does."
"And she's cleaning his pipes for 'im, eh?"
"Sure looks like it, Randy."
"He stayed all night and then drove 'er right to his apartment."
"Seen entering at, lemme see... here it is, ten ayem."
"Hour later, she comes out by herself and goes to another place. Spends two hours there, where she can be seen through the window running the vacuum, after which she breaks for lunch and then goes on to another place.
"Your reg'lar cleaning type person, no question."
"And the looks?"
"Big an' built."
"Funny, y'know? Never had Brad figured for the type."
"I always thought he'd go in for models or starlets, something like that."
"Change of pace, Frenchy," Buck observes. "That and nothing more."
"You sure about that?"
"No. You just keep watching."
"Him? Her? Both?"
"Leave it in your hands. Just don't miss anything."
And the line goes dead.
Randy looks at the dead phone, surprised.
He isn't used to having people hang up on him.
Still, Frenchy probably meant nothing by it, just getting on with business.
Best scout in the league, Frenchy, football and baseball.
So he knows the ins and outs of domestic espionage.
He knows who to use and for what, when it is a matter of surveillance.
And if there is something involving his star quarterback, then it most certainly is that, as far as Buck is concerned.
He is not having this guy get fucked up over a broad.
He has stopped such nonsense before and he can and will again.
He knows what the fans want and what they don't.
If she was some kind of model or celebrity, the public would understand.
She isn't.
And the tabloids will have a field day with this.
Of course, the women will find it romantic.
But it isn't the women who buy the tickets or who sit home or at the club, guzzling beer and watching the tube.
The white fan will wonder about Brad's rejection of his sister, the black one will resent Brad's takings away something that he might otherwise have as shot at, never mind that Brad doesn't know the one's sister and the other has never even met this Helen.
No, if this is serious, then it's trouble, no question.
It is an element in the equation which doesn't belong there.
Buck doesn't want it and will not tolerate it. It will hurt the team and the team's image.
But now, he shrugs.
Perhaps it's merely a passing fancy, something he did once and will not repeat.
That's it, a fling for both of them.
For Helen, a fantasy to be enjoyed and reality then quickly resumed.
For Brad, a novel experience to be savored and added to his memories.
Oobladee, ooblada, life goes on, as the Beatles used to sing.
And Buck sincerely hopes, for Brad's sake, that that is all that's involved here.
Because, if not, well, Buck tells himself, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Push comes to shove, he'll move this Fisher right along, to the point that, by the time next season actually begins, he'll know pretty well what's what and what he has to put up with from Brad.
For one thing, Brad lied to him about the weekend.
Well, not lied, maybe,, but was certainly less than candid, not at all open with him.
And Buck resents this.
He has done everything in his power to see to it that they are one big happy family, the key players and himself.
He has backed Brad in every dispute with Anderson, the coach.
True, it was to his advantage to do so, but nonetheless, he did not have to be so adamant, so absolute in his support.
And all that he asks in return is what? Communication.
Again and again, he has said this, to Brad, to others.
Without communication there can be no under- standing.
And perhaps, in this case, that is exactly the point.
Which is that Brad doesn't want him to understand, to be privy to his innermost thoughts-what ever they are-concerning his latest boff.
And Buck doesn't want to hear that crap about being entitled to a private life, not from Brad, not from anybody who works for him.
Because what is there, what can there be in their lives that is so deep, so dark a secret that Buck can't; know about it?
And if there are such things, such secrets, then Buck doesn't want those who possess them on the team.
It's just that simple, dammit!
You live in a goldfish bowl, where Buck is concemed, or you go live somewhere else.
And Buck knits his brows, frowning at the thought of the tabloid headlines if something comes out of this.
The possibilities boggle the mind.
He watches her clean the apartment.
She said nothing all the way back here, and neither did he.
And he cannot believe himself.
He feels the stirring, ever familiar, ever novel, at the base of his cock.
This, after fucking practically all night.
A marathon fuckathon, and the sight of her still makes him horny!
Surely, this has never happened to him before. He would remember, if it had.
But he will not touch her again, not now, not here.
Because there has been lots and lots of sex, but nothing that could faintly pass for affection between them.
Theirs is a relationship.
Surely, it has that status now, in his mind, in hers. But it is strictly a physical thing, body to body.
Almost as though their minds were detached, as if the two of them were standing there, outside themselves, looking on, evaluating and finding their interaction to be truly impressive, but only as sheer physical phenomenon.
What staying power he has with her!
What brief periods of refraction!
It is as though the very air around them becomes charged with sexual electricity, whenever he is near her!
Or, he asks himself, is it to soon to make such a generality?
Best if he could work his way through her.
So that he could look back and smile at the pleasant memory, at this amazing series of events, in which he indulged himself in what, in retrospect, was an aberration, but one of exquisite and extensive pleasure.
In short, it would be best to "get over" her.
Yes, that would be best.
But not yet, not just yet.
Because she is complete, delicious, unique.
He will have her again.
He must and he will.
But not here and now.
Because that would show her more than he intends.
As a part of him resists that bondage, that captivity which is obsession.
So he goes on about his business, sitting there in the living room, a pad of blank newsprint paper in his lap, making circles and X's with a marking pen, as Helen cleans the apartment.
The play he promised Randy, he reminds himself. He looks at it and shrugs.
Original but not very impressive.
Specifically designed to gain a first down rather than a touchdown.
Anderson will absolutely hate it.
It will work well enough, considering the talent Brad knows they have to throw into the line.
It is, in fact, an incredible waste of resources, of potential.
If it works, short yardage; if it fails, disaster. And no possiblity of its suddenly, thrillingly evolving into something other, something greater than itself.
Because the whole idea is that of total commitment to short yardage, a thing not unheard of when near the goal line, needing only that extra yard to go over, but never, never seen as Brad wants to employ it.
But it has a lot going for it.
The element of surprise, the ongoing incredulity of the defense, even after they've seen it.
Brad looks at it, grins, and flips to a clean sheet. And begins to draw the next element in the strategy.
Hammer the defense two, perhaps even three times in a row with that, but then, lining up the same way, hand-do not throw, but hand-the ball to an end, have him actually scale the embattled line, and take off.
That oughtta drive `em crazy! he thinks.
And goes to call Helen over.
Not that she will know what she's looking at, but he has to tell somebody about this, because it is simply too clever to keep to himself.
And he discovers that she is gone.
Hey, why not, right?
She has a job to do, a schedule to keep. Logical, reasonable-and depressing.
And Brad cannot say why he should feel as he does.
And the thought, the image of himself, alone in bed tonight, after what he did last night and, for that matter, well into this morning, disturbs him still further.
So he comes to a decision.
That's it, he says to himself, because it makes no sense for either of them, the way things are now.
She can damn well sleep with him, every night, until they decide where this thing is going, where it is taking him.
What possible good does it do her to take the train home every night, only to come back here every morning again, when she can have free room and board right here in the city?
And certainly he will take advantage of the situation sexually; they both will.
Why not?
After last night, they are far from strangers. More accurately, their bodies are far from strangers.
And basically, what more does there have to be to it than this, what they have, what they do?
Will knowing where she was born or what her favorite color is or if she graduated from high school, will any of this statistical garbage change anything, for better or for worse, in their situation?
And what does she have to know about Brad, other than what appears on the sports pages and, in season, on the TV?
So that their completeness with regard to each other requires nothing further by way of information.
It is all attitude.
And Brad is not as in control as he would like.
But the only solution to that is to work through this, this... thing with Helen.
And what better way to do that than to have her in bed every night, to face her across the breakfast table every morning?
Yes, this is something he wants to do, the way he wants to handle the situation. He will wait until her next cleaning day here and then broach the subject to her. He could call her tonight, of course, but he doesn't want to appear too eager.
He doesn't want to wait, really; he actually is eager, his eagerness bordering on anxiety. But even with her, he has an image to maintain.
And now, Brad looks at the plays he has drawn, rehearsing the strategy which accompanies them in his mind.
He reaches for the phone.
"Cranston, this is Brad. Is he in the office this morning?... Good. I'll be right over with that play I promised him."
Buck shakes his head, smiling faintly.
And looks up from the drawings to Brad.
"Anderson is gonna shit a brick," he says.
And Brad just sits there, looking at him across the vast expanse of desk.
Why is he saying this? Brad wonders. Since when does he give a damn about what Anderson thinks, when it comes to Brad's additions or revisions to the playbook?
"The line is going to catch hell on this one."
How true. Both lines-ours and theirs-are.
"It's gonna call for split-second timing on the part of the quarterback on the pay-off down."
Of course it is! Which is why they have him as quarterback. This is not something which can be of general application, which just anyone can make happen.
What the hell is-aha!
"Why don't you say what's really bothering you, dandy?"
Buck chuckles, sitting back in his huge,padded swivel chair, gazing out the window at the skyline of the city.
Then, he turns back to face Brad, chin resting on the fingertips of hands pressed together, as though in prayer.
"Tell me about the spade chick," Brad.
His voice is very quiet, his smile gone, his gaze steady in Brad's eyes.
Brad remains calm, shrugging, returning his look. "Name's Helen. She cleans my apartment. She cleans apartments and offices for a living, working for a cleaning contractor."
"I know."
And silence reigns, as they look at each other. Obviously, Buck is waiting for more. "We've-been intimate. We've-I've-slept over."
"I know."
And Brad surprises himself with his own lack of resentment.
Randy Buck knows, and he has a right to know And he has a right to employ those means necessary that he can know.
He has a team, Brad is the key to that team, he as a right to protect his interests.
Brad knows this, is what Brad knows.
Why.
This last a monosyllable from Buck.
Ah, there's the heart of the matter now, Randy, is it not?
"Not sure."
Buck sits back in his chair, beetle-browed, frowning.
Not the answer he wanted to hear.
He wanted a shrug, an "I felt like it", or the even more obvious "she's one helluva piece of ass" and there's an end to it.
"Not sure" means there is a complexity here, emotional complications.
"You uh... done with her?"
"Not yet."
"I thought not."
And Buck heaves his bulk out of his chair, standing at the window, looking out, down into the teeming street far below.
"Sexy woman, so I understand," Buck says, not looking back at Brad.
"Very."
"Sexy to look at, and probably what you see is what you get."
"Indeed."
"You uh, you man enough for her, Brad?"
"No complaints so far."
"No, I don't imagine there would be. Not yet, anyway. The first rush, the first enthusiasm."
"Tell me, Brad," Buck says, turning, facing him, leaning over the desk, supporting himself with both hands, "you gonna quit while you're ahead, leaving her with a shining memory, or are you gonna make an ass outta yourself and hang in there until the two of you can't stand each other while the tabloids go crazy with the two of you, from first romance to the palimony suit?"
"I thought, maybe, with her face and figure, I could use my show biz connections to, uh-do something with her and-"
"And then she'd be a celebrity, you'd be a celebrity, and there's nothing scandalous about that, and the two of you would live happily ever after, that it?"
"Something like that. Maybe. I don't know. We haven't gotten that far in our, in my thinking."
"You haven't gotten as far as the front door, Brad, yours or hers."
"So far, this thing with her is all in the closet."
"You figure to keep it that way?"
"I, uh-"
"If so, how does that jibe with your plans for her future?
"What does she do, Brad? Sing? Dance?
"Got rhythm, does she? Hell of a tap dancer and like that?"
"I really can't say."
"That's right Brad, you can't."
"Because what she does mostly is suck and fuck. "And whatever she does in show biz, as you put it, the message that she radiates is raw sex."
"That sells."
"Not saying it doesn't. You'll get no argument from me on that score."
"My point is that, sooner or later, you're gonna hafta go public. That, or break it off."
"Those would seem to be the options," Brad concedes. "I feel that, in view of the impact a continuation of the situation is bound to have on team image, I have a right to know what's coming down the pike on this one.
"My gosh, Brad! A cleaning woman?"
"If she was white, would you still feel the same way?"
"Damn straight I would! Don't you lay that racist crap on me, Brad! I'd feel the same way, the tabloids'd feel the same way."
"The point is, we've got ourselves a role model here who thinks with his cock when he's off the field."
"Not to mention what these marathon fucking sessions of yours are going to do to your ability to perform on the field.
"Thank heavens we live in a free country, where a man can do as he pleases. You do whatever you .a want, Brad. But then, so will I. Understood?"
Brad understands only too well.
He understands that, if his affair with Helen gets out of hand, for which read goes public, he will no longer be the quarterback, since Buck can and will simply keep him under contract but take him out play.
True, he has the right to date anyone he chooses, but the accompanying notoriety will rapidly turn it into more than simple dating, it will be a situation in which he can't do the right thing.
If he drops her, then he exploited her.
If he keeps her, then it's an ongoing scandal of a jock with hot pants and every move they make outside closed doors will be covered in lurid detail.
So that Buck's best bet for damage control will be to de-activate Brad as a player.
Once he's a zero, who cares?
And, naturally, Buck will replace him with the likes of this Gary Fisher, college all-star and hotshot, as Brad himself once was.
"Good plays, Brad," Buck says, taking the edge off the tension between them, rolling up the sheets with the plays on them and handing them to Brad.
Telling him that he doesn't want to hear from him on anything else until he hears from him on the subject under discussion.
Because Brad is not fooling Randy Buck with his laconic replies.
Buck is too smart not to realize the intensity of Brad's feelings for Helen, even though they are strictly sexual.
Obviously, the bottom line is that Brad has never had it so good and so naturally wants to keep the party going, doing whatever it takes to make that happen.
Which, practically speaking, will indeed involve their "coming out of the closet" sooner or later.
"Brad," Buck says, seeing him to the door of his office, "I'd like to know your position on this matter as soon as possible."
"I have every confidence that you'll do the best thing for all concerned."
Brad says nothing as he leaves.
Buck goes back to his desk.
The phone rings. The private line.
"Yes?"
"Frenchy, Randy."
"Frenchy! Brad was just here. He knows that we know. I told him."
"Whatever. That's not why I'm calling."
"It's Fisher.
"You are not gonna believe this Randy, but the kid is playing touch football with some kids in his neighborhood back home, steps in a fucking gopher hole and sprains his ankle. "Our man out there just called me with the news."
"Made the local papers."
"Is it bad?"
"I've got 'im checkin' on it now."
"Just wanted to get back to you with the news right away, so's you wouldn't be makin' any final plans for Gary."
Meaning for Brad, and Buck knows this.
"Thanks, Frenchy. And you let me know soon as your man gets the straight poop."
"Will do, Randy. Tough break, huh?"
"Very."
And Buck hangs up the phone slowly, pensively. He buzzes for Cranston.
"Yes, Randy?"
"Cranston, get me Ace Johnson, Bubba Hawkins, and uh, who's that guy they room with? The fullback."
"Ben Franklin."
"Yeah," Buck chuckles, "How the hell could I forget a name like that?
"See if they're free for lunch tomorrow, will you "Right away, Randy."
There are times and then there are times, he says to himself, and one must remain flexible at all times.
Tough about that ankle of Gary Fisher's.
Changes nothing long range, of course.
A sprained ankle isn't the end of the world.
And if he's going to have one, this is certainly the best time for it.
Still, time to take out some insurance on Brad. Probably, he will do the right thing.
But the important thing is that he do it as soon is possible, before the relationship goes public.
And when this is over, he will have to pay closer attention to his star quarterback's love life.
For as long as it matters.