90 Church Page 26

  “Carl, I’ve got to beat them,” Robbie pleaded. “Everything is at stake. You don’t understand. I need your help. The future of this town depends upon winning the game.”

  Carl rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I heard that business about the bottling company looking the town over and everything. That’s really unfair hanging a business deal on a bunch of kids. Is the Half Moon open?”

  It was linguine and white clam sauce for Robbie, Carl and me, as agent Michael Giovanni polished the glasses behind the bar at the Half Moon. Carl was the head football coach at Lafayette High School, thirty miles south, and a part-time game warden. Green High was in line to be the state champion, with only one more team to beat, Saint Agnes, an orphanage. The Valkyrie was Edwina, their lesbian coach. The game was only three weeks away and had enormous significance. The two biggest companies in Green – a boat factory and a plastic-molding plant – were going under. However, a privately owned Coca-Cola bottling plant was planning to open up a new facility in Green, which would save the town. Its president had already met with the Green City Council and worked out a tax-free land deal. The president was also a fanatical football fan and expected Green to be the state champion. As if this wasn’t enough, two football scouts from Tulane and Auburn were coming to see Bobby Junior. Michael cleaned off our table before we had our tiramisu and coffee. Then Carl agreed to help us prepare the team.

  That night there was a knock on our door. Lucille let in a middle-aged woman who covered her eyes with her hands. It was Betty, Alice’s mother. I had seen her before, working in the yard. She was the type of person who looked like it would be easy to make her cry, like a frightened lost child. She looked to everyone for help at every smallest bump or turn in her life. Alice was the only thing that gave any purpose to her existence.

  This time it was serious. Alice had been injured and was in the hospital. Lucille and I put her in the car and we sped down the winding road to the county hospital. Robbie was there to greet us outside Alice’s hospital room. “She’s alive, but don’t go in there just yet,” he said to Betty, who was already shaking. “Your daughter was beaten and raped and somehow her face made contact with an electrical box in the maintenance facility behind the school. Both her upper and lower lip were damaged.”

  Covered with a sheet all the way to her neck, Alice’s blonde hair framed a macabre skeleton mask. The electricity had cauterized the wound so there were no bandages. A black-bluish line went from one corner of her mouth to the top of her nose and back down to the other side; the flesh was gone, exposing all of her upper and lower gums and teeth. Betty’s little nervous tics disappeared. Her whole personality evaporated, completely traumatized into a cold trance, waiting for somebody to tell her to wake up.

  The thirsty dog, Vinny, was in jail. The janitor saw him run from the maintenance shed, found Alice, and called Robbie. Alice was clutching a piece of cloth. It was the torn pocket from Vinny’s shirt.

  GAMEBALL

  Three weeks later, on a cool clear night, Green High met Saint Agnes in the biggest football game in the town’s history. I have seen a lot of grotesque things in my life, but nothing like seeing Alice lead the cheerleading squad. Completely oblivious to her horribly scarred face and exposed teeth, she backflipped, did her bumps and grinds, and cartwheeled across the field as the crowd cheered. Betty had never recovered from the hospital visit. She sat motionless, staring down at her feet, unable to look at her skeleton-faced daughter jumping up and down on the field.

  The whole town was on our side of the field. There were only about fifty people on the other side, supporting the orphanage. Ironically, our school colors were orange and black, while Saint Agnes’s color was green. We were ready for them. The bottling-company president was in the stands with his mousy wife and Lorenzo Bonnet. The two college football scouts were seated mid-field watching Bobby Junior. Robbie, Carl and I had worked with the team for the past three weeks. We were all pumped.

  On the other side of the field, Edwina the Valkyrie coach ran out first. She was over six feet tall, with short blonde hair and a muscular build. She carried a pole with a green flag on top and stood at attention in the middle of the field with the pole at her side like the front guard of a parade. She jerked the flagpole smartly across her chest. Her football team came running out in sync, forming a straight line facing us. There were only about fifteen of them, all sizes and shapes. There was even a girl. Their green uniforms were homemade with different-sized numbers. Robbie and I tried to figure out which one was Bumper, their quarterback. Carl had said that he was as good or better than Bobby Junior.

  The Saint Agnes team stood in a line at midfield, extending their hands. Then our boys took the field, and the audience jumped up and screamed. We let the orphan kids stand there with their hands out, looking silly. When Edwina realized we were not shaking hands she flipped her hand pole and the team returned to the sidelines. Saint Agnes kicked off first. They didn’t even bother to chase the ball as their girl kicker sent it through the goalpost and into the end zone. On the first play Bobby Junior burned them for ten yards with a short pass. Saint Agnes’s scrawny little players could not move our offensive line. We were bigger and stronger. The mismatch was obvious. Robbie began sending in his best plays and we marched down the field, passing and throwing until we were at the ten-yard line. Robbie and I cheered but Carl said nothing. I looked across at Edwina, who was flanked by two girls, each of them scribbling frantically on clipboards. We stalled on the ten-yard line and settled for a field goal.

  We kicked off and they downed it at the twenty-yard line, then Bumper came out. He was just average-sized, with big feet and big hands. First we shut down his running plays and then on third down Bumper managed a short pass for ten yards. Saint Agnes never huddled, instead they looked over to Edwina, who would wave the pole flag in different directions to signal in plays. In the next series of downs we saw how accurate Bumper really was, but his passes would bounce off the chest of his receivers, who spread their hands out, afraid of our tacklers. Their series stalled and we got the ball back. Bobby Junior marched the team down the field with pass after pass. Five minutes before halftime Bobby Junior had completed sixteen passes out of sixteen throws. Bumper was three out of twenty-one throws. The Valkyrie continued to wave her flag even though everyone could see it was going to be a blowout. At halftime the score was thirty-one to zero.

  The whole town was happy, except Carl, who had been continually arguing with Robbie. Finally Carl said, “Robbie, you’ve lost the game already. Can’t you see what she’s doing?” We ignored him. Everyone could see that we were going to win big.

  I looked across the field at Edwina, still flanked by her two little secretaries scribbling on their clipboards; she was smiling.

  When the halftime buzzer sounded, both teams trotted off to their side and the whole stadium stood and cheered. I looked across the field at the small group of Saint Agnes fans bravely waving their little green flags, and suddenly all my hope for success and happiness for the town of Green popped like a cheap carnival balloon. Sitting next to one of the nuns was Agent Dwight Paris, wearing a green shirt and waving a pompom. He saw me and put his arm around the nun. I had serious doubts that his sports-betting operation had brought him all the way to Green versus Saint Agnes. Michael’s dark, evil conspiracy was going to hatch soon.

  We kicked off the second half and a little kid caught the ball as we charged down the field to crush him. They formed a flying wedge to protect him; but instead of trying to run he pitched the ball backwards to Bumper. As we began to break through to get Bumper, he leaped in the air and threw it back all the way across the field to a lone receiver, who gathered it in and sprinted eighty yards for a touchdown.

  Carl looked at Robbie with a told-you-so look. The first half had been a set-up. Edwina had her two assistants record every one of our plays and knew our weaknesses and strengths. Now she was ready to play football. Now she was going to turn Bumper loose. There was no longer a li
ttle green flag on the end of the flagpole. It had been replaced by another flag, one with our school colors, orange and black.

  As before, the girl kicked the ball out of the end zone so we started on our twenty-yard line. Their defense no longer challenged our players man-to-man, but instead shifted quickly to a group and stormed through all together at a single point. We were gang-tackled every time we had the ball. Edwina knew every play we called. The size of our players no longer mattered. Bobby Junior went down for a twelve-yard loss on the first play. Two downs later we punted, giving Saint Agnes back the ball on their own five-yard line.

  This time Bumper came out wearing a silver helmet and the offensive line had their hands taped in a fist so they could not be penalized for holding. There was no running game, only passes. Edwina knew that her little players were no match for our crushing line and strong tackles. Her receivers caught the ball and fell immediately to the ground, rather than risk being hurt. With short dart passes, Bumper moved his team down the field, constantly watching his coach wave and jerk her flagpole, signaling in plays and weak spots in our formation. They scored with a series of short-yardage plays.

  We got the ball back and went three downs and out. The mood of our fans changed. Our grotesque, skeleton-faced cheerleader jumped in the air and did sexual hip grinds to lift everyone’s spirits. At the twenty-yard line Bumper finally called a running play. As he handed it off, the kid ran five yards and made a lateral pass back. Bumper snagged it with one hand and zipped it thirty yards to a lone receiver – who did not fall down but sprinted to the end zone.

  Even when we got the ball back, we could only run it for a few yards. Saint Agnes knew every play that we called and controlled the game. By the end of the third quarter the referees started to make bad calls to help us out. Saint Agnes was called for holding; even though their players had their hands taped closed. Then they were called for off-sides when they were clearly not. Then they lost yardage because of an illegal formation when only Bumper was in the backfield. Despite all of this, nothing could stop Bumper. He picked apart our defense. His receivers, who had refused to catch the ball in the first half, now never dropped a single pass. By the fourth quarter the score was twenty-seven to thirty-one. Everyone was scared. Something had to be done. Robbie called for a time-out and pulled his biggest defensive players into a huddle. Lucille, Bobby Junior and I were there too. “Listen,” Robbie told them, “Bumper’s got to be stopped on the next play. He’s got to get hurt. Do you understand me? Do it. Don’t worry about the penalties, we’ve got to win.” Lucille and I stood silent.

  On the next play Bumper took the snap five yards back and caught it with one hand. He wound up like a baseball pitcher and threw it twenty yards to a waiting receiver. The play was over. He was looking at Edwina when three of our players hit him in the back, knocking him down. By the time the referees pulled them off Bumper had a mangled hand and blood dripping from his mouth. Edwina rushed out on the field, scooped him up and carried him back to the sidelines. She cried as she pulled him to her breast. The referees charged us with a fifteen-yard penalty for unnecessary roughness and gave Saint Agnes an injury time-out. The first-aid people gathered around Bumper as he lay on the ground. Edwina stood up, wiped her tears and glared at us across the field. Then she did something I shall never forget; she lined her orphan players up in a line then slapped the first kid, almost knocking him down. He regained his balance and slapped the kid next to him, who then in turn hit the next kid, on down the line; even the girl kicker got it.

  Now, Saint Agnes was ready to play football. The team wearing the color of the name of our town rushed out onto the field like a pack of wild dogs. Some didn’t even bother to bring their helmets. When they got to the scrimmage line they looked over to Edwina for instructions. Her teary eyes burned red with anger. She took her flagpole and snapped it over her knee like twig. All hell was going to break loose. Saint Agnes no longer cared about winning, they wanted to hit, bite or scratch everyone for the rest of the game. There was no more scoring, only chaos until there were only two minutes left to play. The score was still twenty-seven to thirty-one. All we had to do to win was to hold them off. Bobby Junior drove the ball down the field to the ten-yard line. One more play and it would all be over. Robbie called for a time-out. Lucille, Robbie and I huddled with Bobby Junior.

  Bobby Junior was shaking and kept looking across the field at Bumper still getting first aid. Lucille hugged him. “I’m proud of you. You have to pull this off.” He just stared at her without saying a word.

  Coach Robbie touched his shoulder. “Just hold onto the ball, unless you see a good opening, we can wrap it up without another score. Take the downs. No chances. Do you understand?”

  Bobby Junior looked at his mother and then again across the field at Bumper. He grabbed his helmet and trotted back out to join his team. It was first down with only ten yards to go. The snap was perfect, Saint Agnes screamed and clawed but our line held. Two receivers were wide open in the end zone, then suddenly from the far side a single Saint Agnes player got through. It was the girl kicker. Bobby Junior could have swatted her off like a fly, but instead he held out the ball to her. She stopped in front of him, ripped off her helmet, took the ball and ran eighty yards.

  THE SHERIFF

  That night Green lost a hell of a lot more than just a football game. While everyone was watching Green High School lose the state title to Saint Agnes, someone broke into the police station and stole all of the evidence incriminating Vinny. They also stole Vinny. His cell door was wide open and his black Corvette was gone, but things were just getting started. The president of the bottling plant, who was such a football fan, told Lorenzo the game was a disgusting spectacle. Not only was the deal off, his company would not be coming to town, and he wouldn’t even fly over Green in his plane. Somewhere between the skeleton-face cheerleader doing bumps and grinds and the biting and scratching of the wild orphan dogs, and the great Bumper stomp, the president’s mousy wife had thrown up.

  * * *

  Betty slipped a suicide note under our front door. It said that Jesus loved her but wanted her to come home now. Robbie called later to report that they had found her body floating in the lake by the docks. No one could find Alice, but I did that night. Lucille was sleeping, but I lay awake thinking that the streets of Harlem and the killing fields of the Medalley mansion were more peaceful than Green, Louisiana. At about two a.m. I walked out on the balcony to watch the moon color the lake a bright silver. Betty’s house next door was dark, but I thought I could see something in the oak tree where I had first seen the beautiful wood nymph named Alice playing her silver flute. I put my pants and shoes on.

  As I approached the tree from the side, I looked up through the branches at the moonlit skeleton-face, teeth glowing in the soft shadows. Alice was standing on her branch, naked, just like she had done before. Her arms and legs and chest were covered with deep bleeding cuts where she had been scratching herself. Her arms were raised as her fingers danced up and down on an imaginary flute.

  “Alice, honey, let’s get you down.”

  She refused to hear me.

  * * *

  They brought the thirsty dog Vinny’s dead body back to town the next day. He had escaped in his black Corvette and crashed, killing himself, while speeding on Lorenzo Way.

  That night I sat in a lawn chair on Lucille’s balcony with a bottle of vodka and my little bag of coke. I had been undercover for more than two months and had accomplished absolutely nothing. I knew when I saw Michael cleaning off the tables at the Half Moon that the little town of Green was doomed. He was like Typhoid Mary: bad things happened when he was around. I woke up, still outside in the lawn chair, with a black crow pecking on my knee and the noon sun burning down on me.

  I turned to see Lucille standing over me. “Who would think,” she said, “that a college student could fuck a lonely middle-aged widow, wreck a whole town, and bring down a Mafia leader?”

  “
You give me a lot of credit,” I answered.

  “You deserve it. I know you won’t understand this, but you gave me strength. You restored my dignity, my self-confidence. You helped me face life so I wouldn’t end up like Betty.”

  “Lucille, I never gave you any advice. I was never any help and I never told you what to do.”

  She ran her hand gently down the side of my face, pushing back my long dirty hair. “Strength and judgment never come from the outside, they only comes from within. Sometimes it takes a young man loving an older woman for it to come out. You’re like a mirror. I can love you and see myself, and like a mirror I can make corrections, look better and do things, things I never thought I could do before. I had a long talk with my children last night. They love me, and we’re going to have a lot of fun for the rest of our lives. They are better than me, better than I ever was or will be.”

  I smiled and kissed her. She was already dressed or I would have dragged her into bed. She looked into my eyes. “I’m going to be gone for a while, why don’t you mow the yard?”

  “Where to?” I asked. “I think it’s really best to stay away from town for a while, don’t you think?”

  “No. Robbie and I are going to arrest Lorenzo the Mayor, Larry the mobster, Larry who broke his son out of jail last night and stole evidence. This whole town is afraid of him so it’s up to me. I have to do this. I have his grandchildren, I’m his only family, and only I can bring Lorenzo Bonnet down. He’s not going to get away with trying to protect Vinny. I just hope Robbie and that chicken-shit Deputy Ken will stand up … There’s still some coffee left.”

  Bobby Junior came out on the balcony and said to me, “You’ve got a phone call; it’s the coach.”

  I took the call. Chief Robbie was desperate. “I need you. Ken is scared to death. This whole town is. I’m going to arrest Lorenzo this afternoon with Lucille. I need another gun. Are you with me?”