Chapter 11

Hank Collins had just discovered a sex scandal of major proportions in the course of his bed-checking and was ready to pounce on whoever was responsible. In this case he blamed it on Jess Henderson-and told him so emphatically after regaining his breath.

Ring leaders in the massive affair were a couple of burly Pros named Norm Taylor and Bronc Lipski. These two had smuggled Trudy, the hotel's red-haired nympho switchboard operator, into their room. Trudy had been a most cooperative fan.

When Norm and Bronc got her into the room they took several turns sampling her sexy favors which she had bestowed with impartiality to both. Then, sated themselves, they propositioned the girl for the rest of the squad.

"Trudy," Bronc said, "you like the team. Why don't you really do us some good-all of us, I mean. There are about thirty guys right in this hotel floor who love you. How's about it if I invite them in here one at a time and you can show how much you love them?"

Trudy giggled. "I'm not in a hurry to go home," she said. She was a petite type, about five feet tall, breasty, firm and shapely, although only about 20-years old. She had been married twice before, and both of her husbands had found her in bed with other men and after taking a few farewell socks at her, had disappeared without benefit of divorce. She loved big, muscular types. Every year that the Pros came to the hotel, she had herself a ball.

"Bring on the boys," Trudy said. "I'm just anxious to please. Keep the lights out. I don't want to know who they are. Of course, if they want to look at me, well I'll give them a peek."

"Don't you ever get sort of tired?" Bronc asked in amazement.

"Seems like the men always get tired first," Trudy said. "That's why I like them in big numbers," she explained.

She did a few bumps and grinds nude on the bed. "See what I mean, boys? I'm ready. I do love you Pros!"

Bronc and Norm had taken advantage of Jess Henderson's absence from the floor as the ambitious assistant coach plotted with the club owner to overthrow Collins. An even dozen of the Pros had made the sex pilgrimage to Trudy, who was still willing and ready when big Hank burst into the room. Fortunately for the players, it was between acts and Trudy was alone, nude on the bed. Hank hustled her out in a frenzy to Morgan's suite. Now he burst upon them, evidence in tow.

"Jess," roared Collins, "where the hell have you been? Look what I caught in Norm Taylor's and Bronc Lipski's room!" He reached back and dragged in a tiny, shivering, lace-nightie-clad redhead-the errant telephone operator at the Lake South Hotel whose appetite for the Pros led to her absence from the switchboard.

"What tha...." said Jess, blinking his eyes in controlled embarrassment, "what have we here?"

"It's a girl, and a damned horny one, too!" shouted Hank. "And if you'd have been at your station on the fourth floor these guys could never have sneaked her in. What the hell do you mean deserting your station when you're on watch? I don't give a damn if Mr. Morgan is here. I'm working for the good of the team, and he'll be the first to agree with me, isn't that right Mr. Morgan?"

"Now, wait a minute, Hank," Morgan began, about to lay down an oil slick.

"Wait a minute hell," shouted Hank, shaking his massive fist at Jess and then at all of them in the room. "I'm not out there seeing that this team doesn't screw away its chance for a world title while you guys sit around here and gossip-or whatever the hell it is you are doing!"

Hank's wrath spilled beyond the bounds of protocol-Morgan or no Morgan, he knew he was right. They were fiddling while Rome diddled. What's more, with Jackson and Thomas present he was sure the whole gathering was conspiratorial. He could not accuse them directly, but he could accuse Jess of dereliction of duty.

"Now just a minute," repeated Morgan more firmly. "I want you to know Hank, that whatever the fault is here, it belongs to me. I asked Jess to this little gathering. I would have asked you too, but I know you had a hard day and they told me you were sleeping. Now, I'm always glad to see my coach working for the good of the team. But, please, let's not accuse without knowing the facts. Jess didn't want to come here. In fact he urged quite the opposite. I thought the boys were all in bed. That's why Jess is here."

The shivering redhead began to cry.

"Please let me go," she pleaded to Hank, who all the while had kept her pinned with one huge hand around the back of her neck.

"What the hell is your name?" asked Hank brutally.

"You're hurting me," said the girl. "My name is Trudy-Trudy Harkins. Please let me go."

"Leave her be," said Morgan.

"Oh, thank you sir," whimpered Trudy. "I didn't want to come here tonight. But the boys told me it would be all right. I didn't do anything. I just like the boys and I want the Pros to win the championship," she sobbed.

"I know all about you," stormed Collins. "I had you kicked out of the place. They told me you wouldn't be back here until the club checked out. How the hell did you get back on the job?"

"The boys got me up the rear fire escape," cried Trudy, snuggling up to Morgan. She was, despite her tears and streaked makeup, not unattractive in her bare feet and filmy nightgown.

"Do you always go around in your nightgown?" said Collins as he settled down now in a chair and turned matters over to higher authority. Now, like a shaggy haired dog, Collins wanted a reward and a pat on the head from his owner. Collins was quite proud of his retrieval.

"Hank, I certainly must compliment you on your counter-espionage activities with this club," acknowledged Morgan, himself conscious of tragi-comical aspects of these events. Collins snorted.

"Somebody on this club has to," he shot back-a pointed reference to Jess. Morgan chose to overlook the crack. "Now then, Trudy," Morgan cooed to the cowed girl, "who lured you up the fire escape? Come now, don't be afraid to tell me. You won't be harmed!"

"Oh, but I couldn't tell on the boys. They didn't mean no harm. It's just that I like them all so much-and I do want the Pros to win. I've come to know them so well, you know. They're like a home team to me, even thought I do live in Chicago. Why they're like brothers to me, I wouldn't want any of them to get in dutch just because I paid them a visit tonight."

"There, there," he said, winking at the intrigued group of males who were a kind of jury. "Now, just tell us who they were and," he paused with a bid for appreciation from the gathering, "how many there were." The answer stunned them all.

"There was more than one?"

"If I tell you how many, do I have to tell you their names?"

Morgan glanced at Hank. He had thrust his head into his hands now and was staring at the floor in wild disbelief.

"Hell," he said, "what's the use of getting their names. It was the whole fucking team!" His profanity provoked a fresh fall of tears from the trembling redhead.

"Please sir," she sobbed, "don't let him swear at me."

"I wasn't swearing at you," protested Hank.

"Were there more than four or five?" asked Morgan, patting her on the top of her head and getting even more eyefuls of her partially clad treasures underneath the nightie.

"Tonight?"

"Well, let's limit it to tonight," said Morgan, resigned to a scandal which would probably encompass the entire Pros roster.

"Well, it was dark and the boys just came in and went out-when they were through, that is. They were all perfect gentlemen. I guess there must have been half a dozen or so when that man came down the hall. Then they all ran out on me and told me to hide under the covers. That's where he found me, under the covers. Honest, I didn't mean no harm."

Morgan looked around the room. "Gentlemen, you all know of course what scandal would occur if word of this leaked out. And you, Trudy," he said, his tone taking on a pontifical timber, "know what would happen to you if we timed you over to the police. Now you're a nice girl, basically at least, and we wouldn't want to do that to you."

"There are newspaper reporters in this room. If they wrote this story, what do you suppose would happen to organized professional football? What do you suppose would happen to some of these boys who have wives and children back in Los Angeles?" He paused for effect. Trudy's sobbing quickened.

"None of them told me they were married and had children, too," Trudy wailed, crushed by the unexpected moral consideration.

"Yes, Trudy, children! Now you wouldn't want to break up any homes, either, would you?" Trudy shook her red mop of hair violently. "Well, then, let's all of us forget it. Let's never say a word to anyone. If you promise that, I promise I won't turn you over to the police, okay?"

"On my honor, I won't," said Trudy. "You are sweet and kind and," she shot a reproachful glance at Hank, "a gentleman!"

"Now, Hank, don't you agree this little episode ought to remain a deep, dark secret among those of us present now? Of course you do. So, why don't you escort her back to Taylor and Lipski's room, let her get dressed and send her home in a cab?"

"Like hell I will," fumed Hank. "I found her. Let Jess get rid of her instead."

Jess led the chastened redhead out of the room. Morgan then confronted Hank.

"Now, Hank, obviously half a dozen guys slept with this little nympho tonight, and enjoyed her cunt. We got a game in three days. We got to find out who the men were-not to punish them, understand. That would leak out, make us all a laughing stock and create bad impressions back home. Then if we blew the game Sunday, they'd crucify us-and you, in particular. Say you couldn't keep any discipline and so on. Ask Jackson here. He'll tell you what kind of hell would break loose if he printed the story."

"Well, I'm asking him not to print it, as a personal favor to me. As a favor to the team. This story, and it's a hot one that any good newspaperman would like to break, has got to stay in this room. I daresay our title chances depend on keeping the whole thing under wraps. Now, Hank, if these newspapermen think enough of the team, and are loyal enough not to break the story, then the least they could do would be to forget the whole episode. No fines, no speeches, no nothing. Just pretend there was no redhead. Understand?"

"Jesus Christ!" exploded Collins. "I'm out doing my duty, keeping discipline, checking beds and what the hell do I get for it! I get told off. I get the feeling that I ought not to have discovered all this fucking around. What the hell am I? Coach of the Pros or headmaster in a whorehouse?"

Morgan had his opening. He knew he could count on Jackson's cooperation. He might even exploit the situation now to the extent of firing Hank-or at least prepare the way for it in the near future.

"That will be enough from you, Collins," he hissed at the big mentor. "I am the majority owner of the Pros. The majority owner hires and fires head coaches. As I see it, one of the qualifications of a head coach is to see the big picture. That means you have to be kind of flexible. To punish the guys who shacked with the little tramp is the little picture, see? The net effect of this will damage their morale. That would upset the whole club!"

"And that could mean defeat next Sunday. I have always had grave doubts about your total grasp of the situation. Now I am beginning to believe it." He stopped. It was a kind of classic make or break time.

"Mr. Morgan," began Hank formally, "you say you have the best interest of the Pros at heart. Swell. So do I. Now how do you think it would affect the team if you were to fire your head coach two games before the end of the season? And in the middle of a title drive? Would firing me right now be for the good of the team?" He stopped and with a sly smile, stared Morgan in the eyes.

Morgan, who had been pacing up and down, came to a halt.

"I'm not firing you now," he said coldly. "But you better win the championship."

"Is that a threat?"

"You can interpret it any way you wish," Morgan said.

Inwardly, Morgan was disappointed. Hank had wriggled off the hook and Morgan knew he was right, at least about staying on the job with the championship likely. Instead of blowing himself up and quitting, he had advanced an artful argument Morgan had considered him incapable of. Very well, he would pick Hank off later.

"Hank, there is no point in fussing any more about this. I want you to find out who those guys were who had the little trollop. Then I want you to get Doc Barnes to load each one of those who made any contact, with Penicillin. I don't want a rash of clap breaking out just before we take the field against Milwaukee. And that's to be it. No fines, no threats. Just do this job and do it quietly."

"How in hell can I find out who they were? There's Taylor and Lipski, for sure. But there must have been a lot more. Taylor and Lipski weren't in the room when I busted in. They won't tell on anyone else. Probably deny they did it themselves."

"In that case," said Morgan, "may I suggest you give every member of the club a shot. If you tell Taylor and Lipski that everyone will get the needle unless they tell, they'll speak up. Do you understand?"

Hank understood.