Chapter 20
With one hand Jim drove aimlessly for a long while, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Then he remembered Jessup's advice. Jack Fisher was a guy to trust. Not quite realizing how he did it, he suddenly found himself knocking on Jack's door. The aghast reporter took one look at the youngster's bloody hand and rushed him around the corner to a neighborhood medico.
"Doctor," Jack inquired urgently, after sending Jim home in a cab. "I didn't want to ask you in front of the boy, but how serious is his injury? The boy's a football player, a passer. Will this injury have a permanent affect on his ability to throw a football?"
"Oh," replied the doctor knowingly. "Well, that kid won't throw a football for months. Those two thumb muscles, which are completely lacerated, will have to be stitched together. Sometimes the healing isn't as good as it should be, full movement may be affected.
"Then too, I suspect his radial nerve was also severed. This also affects such things as grip sensation. I don't know when he'll, have a good hand again. Maybe six months, maybe less, maybe more."
Jack pondered a moment. "Do you think there is a chance the hand may be permanently damaged-damaged to the extent he may never be able to handle a football again?"
"Definitely," said the doctor. "But don't get me wrong. My examination was not too thorough. And surgery may make the hand sound again. Modern medicine has accomplished some wondrous things, you know. However, it's safe to say his future is very much in doubt."
"That's all I wanted to know. Thank you, doctor."
Jack swiftly broke the story of the accident in his newspaper and awaited the inevitable results. It was a hell of a blow to the young football star, but it meant a new lease on life for Old Ron Jessup and Hank Collins-who would now have to be recalled to service by the Morgan-Henderson-Jackson junta. These events followed swiftly and dramatically in the new days before the championship game. In the meantime, the dream situation of the gamblers had arrived. The Pros were now a one-quarterback club.
The fact that the Los Angeles team was a one-quarterback team was, of course, quite a windfall for Mike and Big Joe Thompson. Their plan to ruin Jim O'Flanagan's hand had misfired badly. But the kid took care of that himself when he cut his throwing arm to ribbons on Arlene's shower door.
What anxious moments Mike and Big Joe put in before Jack Fisher broke the story in the newspaper were full of sound and fury and of many threats. The two goons were sent packing back to Reno where the syndicate had its own way of dealing with contract men who failed.
Arlene was roughed up by the enraged Mike who somehow blamed her for the bungled job.
And Big Joe Thompson was about to tie the sack on Mike when the good news broke. Quickly then, the conspirators closed ranks again, thanking their lucky stars, and set the machinery in motion for bribing Ron Jessup.
Even Arlene, after the roughing up Mike gave her, thought she might be back in the saddle again with Mike and Big Joe. She even looked forward to her out-of-this world sessions with Big Joe. If nothing else it was a new crinkle in her repertoire of sexy antics. She had not enjoyed the first session as a young girl dressed up, but the more she thought of it, the more she looked forward to a new sex session with the older man.
She had kept the clothes the hair dresser had given her and had even gone to Rita's shop in the Reno hotel to get some new clothes she thought would please the big boss. Rita was very helpful and seemed so anxious to please Arlene. In fact, Arlene suspected the older woman made a specialty of such deals with Big Joe.
The shop displayed the usual women's clothes, fashions, shoes, neckwear, jewelry and the like. But in a back room where Rita took Arlene to try on the new little girl clothes, Arlene saw what seemed like a hundred or more such clothes, shoes, sox, bathing suits, sun suits, robes, underwear and the like.
She could hardly believe her eyes and looked questioningly at the proprietor. Rita, a big raw-boned woman with short hair and a mannish figure, explained Big Joe was always bringing in someone new and he tried to have them wear different clothes when he could. If they did as he wished and played to his desires, they kept the clothing-and Arlene guessed most of the girls did.
She fingered some of the material as Rita looked on approvingly, and noted it was of the finest and the workmanship was good. Cost of the items altogether could run up into thousands of dollars. Quite an investment for one man's odd ideas on sex, Arlene thought.
"Would you like to try some of these clothes on?" Rita asked as she noted Arlene's full figure, long legs and pretty face. "You can alter them to fit where necessary, but we probably have just what you need anyway. Come on back, I'll help you."
Arlene hesitated for there was something about the way Rita looked at her full body that made her blush. Arlene was no novice to the love between women but she didn't particularly enjoy it, taking part usually only when the price was right.
Rita looked her over thoroughly, seeming to measure with her eyes the sizes Arlene might need in a dress, panties, bra, stockings, or sox, shoes and even a small ribboned hat that Rita thought would make this pretty sexy girl even cuter for Big Joe.
Arlene had gone to Reno after the incident with the two goons to visit this store and to clear up a few personal problems. She was going to return by plane that night to Los Angeles.
"All right," she said as she followed Rita to the rear of the store where more little girl's of precedent for point control, perhaps some of it honest, perhaps some of it dishonest. He didn't know. But then, if he went along who would ever know? Who could ever know?
"What," said Ron, "if you gave me the money and things don't turn out right?"
"Please, Ron, please don't lets talk about unpleasant things. We've spoken together man-to-man and on a very friendly basis. Let's keep it friendly. If you say you'll deliver, that's good enough for us. We know you. We have confidence in your word."
But Ron was persistent for still deep in his mind there was a big moral question, not to mention the hunch if things didn't go as they should the "we" Mike had mentioned would be rough on him, with perhaps a big roughing up such as Jim received. Or worse.
Ron was no fool. He knew how the gambling trade treated people who welched on them, or didn't do as they were told, after agreeing to follow orders. Whether by accident or on purpose, it made no difference to the gambling mob.
Still, Ron reasoned, it was a gamble for him too. Whether the score was as the gamblers wished or if he followed his conscience and upped the score a point or two, if he could.
Taking another tack in his efforts to decide Ron asked: "What if I take the money and report this to the FBI?" non-committedly. Mike had gotten over the first part without much trouble. Ron was going to listen anyhow. Maybe the veteran quarterback would back down or say "no" at the beginning, but at least he was interested enough to listen. Mike figured Ron was a man who would finish what he started, so if he agreed there would be no backing down.
"With that money you can get a lot of pretty things. Football has been good to you, Ron, but it's a pretty cold world without a Pros' football uniform on your back and a stack of daily press clippings to keep you big around town. Know what I mean?"
"I've given it some thought," said Ron.
"Now, that was an awful thing to happen to young Jim O'Flanagan. Tough." Mike said, shaking his head with phony grief, "But not tough enough for everyone-not tough for you, for instance." He paused, licking his lips nervously before continuing.
"As I said, if anything I say here offends you, just get right out and leave. It'll be strictly between you and me. That'll be the end of it."
Mike took a deep breath, glanced at Ron a moment without speaking and then launched into his and Big Joe's ideas on handling the coming championship game.
"Here's the way we have it sized up," he said. "The Pros are three point favorites over the Cleveland Lakers. That's the way the line opened up, and that's the way it's staying. I might add, that's a pretty big tribute to you. Even after the kid clobbers his hand, the points don't take a dive."
Ron nodded but made no comment. He continued to look at Mike with surprise and a little indignation, although he tried not to show it. He thought there was no harm in hearing Mike's proposition. Whether he agreed to the idea or not might depend on what it was. Ron was no kid just out of college; he had been knocked around through years of high school, college and pro football. He had the future to think of and his mind was still wound around the idea of helping Jack Fisher buy a newspaper. Twenty-five thousand could sure help in that.
"The odds makers believe in you, Ron," Mike continued. "So do we. That twenty-five thousand in fives, tens and twenties in good U.S. currency, unmarked, is yours for just a little cooperation. Don't talk-I know what you're thinking." Ron hadn't opened his mouth, but Mike feared he would protest and perhaps even strike him for even suggesting such a thing.
"You think we want you to blow the game. Ron, we know you too well for anything like that. We're not asking that. As a Pros fan, I wouldn't do anything like that. But what we are asking is pretty difficult. It could only be done by someone like you-a great quarterback who will run the team through four quarters, a great athlete who can use two tools to tailor the job.
"Ron, you aren't called the 'arm and the toe' for nothing. That's why we came to you, we know you can do the job. All we are asking for is a good, sharp, honest point control. We want the Pros to win, but we don't want them to win by more than two points."
Ron heaved a sigh of relief. About all he thought of when Mike first started talking was that Mike wanted the Pros to lose. And Ron would never be a party to that. Mike noted Ron's reaction and smiled to himself, thinking he had it wrapped up.
"Look, Ron," Mike said, "please believe me. I don't like this any more than you do. But there may be a couple of million bucks involved. I'm asking you to put yourself in my place. I got to ask you. And what's so damned dishonest about it? What the hell do you think this game is all about, anyway? The improvement of character?"
He gazed at Ron steadily, trying to penetrate the quarterback's thinking and hoping he would see it Mike's way. He felt sure with all the money involved Ron would go for it, even if reluctantly at first.
Ron kept silent while Mike talked but his eyes flashed angrily when the proposition was made. To think this cheapskate would cheat and would want Ron to cheat. Oh, the money was fine and the twenty-five thousand bucks Mike proposed would certainly help. But Ron had never cheated in his life.
"What's so damned dishonest about it," Mike protested. Doesn't your coach do that sometimes, when he's ahead? You've been around. You know that dollars make pro football, not sentiment. What the hell do you think Morgan cares about you personally?"
"You got to throw that big pass, win that key game-then the turnstiles click. It's money, money, that's what Morgan and his crowd want. The money clinking down on the counter. To them it is not a sport but a way to make money. That's all, and you know it, Ron. So do I. So what's the harm in what I'm asking?" He was like an impassioned lawyer delivering a trial summation.
"We're not asking you to throw the game. We're just asking for point control. I don't think there's anything very dishonest in that. Hell, the public would never know the difference. You'd be a hero, more than ever because of the close win. Twenty-five thousand bucks, Ron. Yours for the asking.
"That's a lot of dough," he said, adding, "and remember, it's tax free, too!"
"What," asked Ron, "happens if the Pros lose? I mean this 'we' you talk about. Do they still make their couple million?"
Mike laughed self-consciously. "For them," he said, "it's just as good. But for us, Ron, you and me, we don't want that to happen, do we? Ron, I'll be out there at the game leading the cheers for the Pros. I'd die if we don't win it. You know me better than to think I'd want the Pros to lose."
"In other words, this is it. The money is mine if the Pros win by a margin no more than two points, or if they lose outright, is that right?" Mike nodded.
"It's all yours, Ron boy, if you go along with us. And remember, it's not really a fix. It's not even actually dishonest."
"And another thing, Ron," Mike continued. "Just so you won't get Boy Scout ideas about this proposition. Do you know who bets on the games? Your boss, Morgan gets big chunks down, never against the Pros, understand. But he's never lost yet on the point spreads.
"I mean, that if the Pros are favored to win by 10 points, boy then they win by ten. How does he do it? You ought to know. Morgan gets his message across to the coach. Maybe that's another reason why he wanted Jess in there instead of Collins.
"Jess Henderson will play the team to beat the points you know, keep going for a bigger score even when the game's in the bag. What the hell do you call that? Isn't that as dishonest as what we're asking you to do?"
The two men were rather cramped in the car's front seat. They shifted about to gain a more comfortable position. No one had driven by them nor was there any other sign of life nearby. The darkness seemed to hem them in and make their talk seem even more private than it was. Ron was glad they had not been interrupted. He understood even more now why Mike had picked out this spot.
Mike shifted his gaze to the outside for a moment as he paused momentarily to catch his breath. He couldn't figure out why Ron was so silent and acting so quietly if he resented this proposition. It gave Mike added assurance that the big lunkhead would agree.
"Morgan isn't any dummy," Mike went on. "He gets down when he likes the points. Of course he never places the bets himself. But we know who his agents are. It's pretty funny. There's no nobility in this game, Ron. It's all for money, all the way down the line. You know it. I know it. So why kid ourselves?"
Ron didn't answer Mike at once.
Twenty-five grand would be money for Jack's newspaper, their newspaper, he thought. No one had ever approached him on a deal just like this in his ten years of pro football. Oh, he had been offered larger sums for throwing a game, but not shaving points, as Mike had called it. And there was a difference.
Besides, Mike was not entirely inaccurate in claiming some coaches manipulated points. They play certain men and at certain times, usually to hold down a score. He himself had sat on the bench while some inept rookie took over after the Pros had run up a commanding lead. Maybe this mysterious "we" group Mike mentioned so guardedly had gotten to some coaches in the past.
Ron admitted to himself there was plenty of precedent for point control, perhaps some of it honest, perhaps some of it dishonest. He didn't know. But then, if he went along who would ever know? Who could ever know?
"What," said Ron, "if you gave me the money and things don't turn out right?"
"Please, Ron, please don't lets talk about unpleasant things. We've spoken together man-to-man and on a very friendly basis. Let's keep it friendly. If you say you'll deliver, that's good enough for us. We know you. We have confidence in your word."
But Ron was persistent for still deep in his mind there was a big moral question, not to mention the hunch if things didn't go as they should the "we" Mike had mentioned would be rough on him, with perhaps a big roughing up such as Jim received. Or worse.
Ron was no fool. He knew how the gambling trade treated people who welched on them, or didn't do as they were told, after agreeing to follow orders. Whether by accident or on purpose, it made no difference to the gambling mob.
Still, Ron reasoned, it was a gamble for him too. Whether the score was as the gamblers wished or if he followed his conscience and upped the score a point or two, if he could.
Taking another tack in his efforts to decide Ron asked: "What if I take the money and report this to the FBI?"
Mike winced. "In the first place, Ron, you wouldn't do that. You are too smart. In the second place, we're covered, believe me. You'd come out second best. There's no proof anywhere. Let me tell you, Ron, we got every angle covered.
"We like you, Ron, and we wouldn't do anything to you. Just believe me, we're covered. You couldn't make anything stick in court and, Ron, you might never get to court. These people play for keeps-but they're honest, they're fair. You keep the bargain-you keep the money."
"What," said Ron, "if I try like hell and we win by more than two points?"
"None of our boys are going to believe that, Ron."
"So, if I take the money, I've got to deliver. No backing out?"
"No backing out," said Mike.
"How will I get the money?"
Mike reached over and placed his hand reassuringly on Ron's big shoulder, smiling indulgently, knowingly.
"You have the money already, Ron," he said. "I told you these people are thorough. They don't make mistakes. The money, in fives, tens and twenties, is in your apartment in your shirt drawer right now. Ifs in a brand new attache case."
"Planted while I'm sitting here with you?"
"That's right, Ron. And there's one more thing. These fellows know all about you, those support payments to your parents, and they know how much alimony you shell out, they know how much, or shall I say how little dough you have in the bank. In short, Ron, they know you can use the money."
"Pretty good scouting job on me," grunted Jessup. "Is it a deal then?"
"Well, let's put it this way, I'll try to bring the Pros in under the three-point wire."
"It's a deal then, Ron. Your word is good enough for me. We're going all out on this game because we believe in you."
"You guys are real gamblers," replied Ron. He got out of Mike's car and stood near the window for a few parting words.
"I won't be seeing you again-that is until after the game," Mike said cheerfully.
"Right," replied Ron as he walked away in a puzzled mood. He was amazed at how thorough the gamblers had been although he should have known from Mike's talk and actions-like driving out of town so far-that something was happening.
As he drove back toward town alone his thoughts turned to his former wife, wondering if she were still around Los Angeles. They had been married about six years when she suddenly decided she wanted a divorce, charging mental cruelty. Actually she resented his being away so much and leaving her alone, or so she said.
He suspected perhaps there was another man, but he couldn't prove it and didn't press the issue. He hadn't heard that she remarried so perhaps she had returned to her old job in the office. She had been a top-notch stenographer and should have had no trouble in locating a well-paying job. Perhaps after the game he would look her up.
The alimony he paid to her each month wasn't so much for him to put out and he didn't mind that even if she had a good job. He and she just never seemed to adjust to him being away so much. She did travel with him for a couple of seasons but it was expensive.
He would look her up the first thing next week.