A Little Yearning Ch. 10

The noise was like nothing Dwayne had ever heard before. The press of sound boiled up from the bleachers and seemed to echo off the washed out, milky vault of the night sky. There was a packed house in the small stadium of Gusher Community College and the crowd was at a frenzy. The defensive lineman hunkered down in front of him was saying something to him--he could see his lips moving--but Dwayne couldn't even hear him.

I just need to focus, he kept telling himself. Focus and you'll be fine.

When he was a boy, Dwayne's father used to keep a longhorn bull. It wasn't what you'd call a money-making proposition. Longhorns don't fatten up worth a damn, and the bull didn't earn in stud fees what it cost to keep him. His Daddy just liked the look of him. He never docked his horns. Dwayne was put in charge of looking after the animal, and he treated him with the respect he deserved. That bull was ornery as Hela monster, and quicker than a snake. He'd sooner hook you than look at you. Once one of Daddy's drinking buddies who'd been on the rodeo circuit let a few beers get the better of his judgment and jumped in the paddock with the bull, just to show how he could work him. Well, it took that clown about two seconds to realize he was in over his head and the bull gored him in the butt cheek as he was trying to scramble the hell out of there. Tossed him right over the rail fence like a big rag doll.

They rushed the old cowhand to the clinic, bleeding like a struck pig all over the bed of the pickup, and his Daddy was cursing out the bull, swearing he was going to put that animal down, but Dwayne could tell the old man was secretly sort of proud of that bull. He'd never had a name for him before. He wasn't the sort of man to go around naming farm animals, for chrissakes. But after that he took to calling him "Dilemma."

Now Dwayne was thinking about that bull, along with a lot of other bullshit that he really shouldn't have been thinking about now, when all he really needed to do was to focus on the game.

If there'd been a two minute warning in college ball, they were past it now, coming up on the last minute of play. His brain was skittering on ice it seemed, while everyone else was slogging through the water. "Y'all don't get many opportunities like this," the coach had told them at halftime. There were scouts from half a dozen big time colleges in the stands tonight. Trotting back onto the field, Chiclet had pulled him aside. She'd pointed them out, a tight little knot of men in sport coats with measured smiles.

"I put in a good word for you," she said. "They've got their eye on you, Dwayne. You can do this, honey. You can shine."

And she was right. He could do this. He'd played a good game so far, probably the best in his life. The teams were well matched. Early on, Tulsa had proved they could shut down Gusher's wide receivers so the coach had been depending more and more on his ground game. The Okie quarterback was throwing bombs, but the Wildcats had chalked up four interceptions already. They'd traded the lead back and forth all game, but now, late in the fourth quarter, Gusher was behind on points and short on time and those short snaps up the middle were all they had left. In the clutch, Dwayne was their go-to guy.

Dwayne wasn't in the habit of questioning his own impulses. But just this once he felt something akin to regret when he contemplated his deal with Lucky. Whatever had he been thinking? That fat roll of bills was just too good a feeling, bulging in his pocket like that. So now it came down to this. All he had to do was throw the game. And look like a champ while he was doing it.

It could have all worked out fine, he thought. Up until the day before, the bookies were giving Tulsa six points to win. And if fate had smiled on him, Dwayne could have shaved a couple points, made Lucky a very happy man, and still impressed the scouts by leading the Wildcats to a narrow victory. But then at the last minute Tulsa had lost one of their best receivers to the flu and the odds, coming down to kickoff, were even-steven.

The Tulsa lineman opposite him shouted something to him again. He would have ignored him--opposing linemen were always talking shit to you, trying to break your concentration--but something caught his attention subliminally. He glanced up at him.

"I said, you know Chiclet?" the guy repeated.

"Who the hell are you?" Dwayne asked.

"Old friend. I'm Joe."

Well, if he wanted to break Dwayne's concentration, he'd done it now. However, their conversation was interrupted by the snap and then Dwayne was twisting through the mad press of bodies, caroming off defensive linemen like a pinball.

He saw daylight, faked left and then broke down field. He could hear Joe pounding along close behind him. Ten yards down field, he spun around in a tight J turn, just like he'd been doing all night. Joe had been waiting for the move and he was right there, both feet planted, between Dwayne and the quarterback, unseen in his pocket behind the frantic pawing mass of linemen trying to break through to him.

But this time it was just a feint. Dwayne turned full circle and now he was sprinting flat out down field for real, and Joe was a good six steps behind and fading. He could hear the frustrated cry behind him as he broke into open ground and the end zone was coming up fast. He knew the ball was already high in the air. He didn't turn to look for it. He would just lose it in the lights. But he could see it with perfect clarity in his mind's eye as it arced lazily down.

Just a yard short of the goal, he cut sharply to the left, the half turn allowing him to acquire sight of the ball just an instant before it landed. However, as he did so he found his vision almost blocked by the onrushing bulk of another lineman, heading at him with the speed of an express train. Behind him, Joe was angling in on him, his body canted forward like a runner breasting the finish line.

As if he was standing above himself, Dwayne saw it all as it happened. He saw himself going up to reach for the ball in an impossible one-handed catch, plucking it down from the sky as the two opposing linemen closed in on him simultaneously.

There was a crack as the three bodies intersected at the same instant, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd and then an abrupt silence descended over the stadium as five thousand people caught their breath.

Dwayne didn't feel the impact; even the sound of it seemed a distant echo. He was falling in slow motion, like an instant replay, and he had all the time in the world to remind himself, "Don't forget to drop the ball."

The last thing he remembered was wondering why the ground felt so soft--just like a feather bed--when he came down.

*

After the game, Chiclet was crossing the parking lot to her car, still dabbing at her caked mascara, when she looked up to find Lucky pacing along beside her. She glanced back--his stretch limo was following at a discrete distance behind them, the motor idling silently so just a faint crunch came from the gravel under its wheels.

"It goes well?" he asked. "How is he?" He was dressed in a pair of dark blue cowboy boots, tan slacks, a soft brown leather suit coat and a dark blue silk shirt. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair a carefully deconstructed blond nimbus framing his intent features. He had a red Wildcats baseball cap with the price tag still pasted under the brim perched on the back of his head.

She smiled involuntarily at the incongruity and then wiped at her cheeks roughly with her palm. "They're taking him to County General for an MRI. He's badly concussed. They think there might be neck trauma."

"Yes, that was a true smash he took," Lucky affirmed. "He must have been unconscious before he even hit the ground. Imagine my surprise when he held onto the ball. And fell into the end zone. And scored the winning goal. This was quite unforseen. In the event, it has caused me some embarrassment."

She stopped and turned to face him. "You're embarrassed!?" she asked incredulously, her voice rising ominously, the color returning to her cheeks.

Lucky shrugged. "An embarrassment of a financial nature. Dwayne and I had an arrangement."

"Yeah, I figured. Well, I'd say Dwayne more than earned his money and frankly, if you bet more than you should have, that was your risk to take."

Lucky shook his head ruefully. "It's not a question of what I bet. It's the bets I covered, and those I could not lay off in time. Even if Dwayne did return the money I paid him it would do little to remedy the situation."

"Serves you right as far as I'm concerned, mister."

Lucky fixed his warm brown eyes on her. "I understand you are upset, my dear. It was very rude and insensitive of me to think so much of myself at a time when you and Dwayne are in such distress." He touched her lightly on the arm where it was held rigidly at her side, her fist clenched. "I am truly sorry for all that has happened. Dwayne has been a good friend to me. If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask. I have already talked to the hospital and made arrangements for Dwayne to have a private room, and I am having a specialist flown down to look at him."

Chiclet immediately felt ashamed of her reaction. "Gosh, that's very kind of you. I don't really blame you for what happened. It was Ronny and Joe, those bastards. It's just. . ." She was crying again, the tears running freely down her cheeks, a line of mucous leaking from her nose. "He was so close you know. Those scouts were really impressed with him. They told me so. Now who knows what will happen?"

Lucky nodded. He handed her his starched handkerchief. "Yes, it was an amazing performance. And I am sure all will be well in the end. He is young and strong. He will heal. I am certain he has a bright future ahead of him." He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "You will see. It will all be well."

"I must look a mess," she apologized, daubing at her eyes and then blowing her nose. Awkwardly, she proffered the balled-up hanky.

"You keep it. I have others," he grinned.

"I'm sorry I was sharp with you. I misjudged you."

"It is a stressful situation. None of us are at our best," he shrugged. "I was going to go to the hospital now. Perhaps I will see you there?"

"O.K. then." They had come to her car. Impulsively, she turned and gave him a hug. "Thank you, Lucky." She opened her purse to find her keys.

"You will be O.K?"

She nodded. "I feel better now."

He turned back to his limo but before he had taken more than a few steps she cried, "Wait up! Look at this!" She stamped her foot in frustration, then kicked the quarter panel of the car. "Those damned Okies let the air out of my tires. Goddamn it to hell!" She looked ready to cry again.

"Shall we call a mechanic?" he suggested, coming over to her.

She shook her head. "That would take forever, this time of night. Look, you said you're going over there. Could you. . .?"

"Of course I would be delighted to give you a ride to the hospital," he smiled brightly. " I have to make a quick stop at my hotel, but it will only take a moment. Come along, then." He opened the door to the limo and cupped her elbow to help her up the step.

"You're a good friend, Lucky."

"Not at all," he said, self-deprecatingly.

*

The ride to Lucky's hotel didn't take more than ten minutes. The Cow Palace was a fixture in Old Town. It was a four-story, sprawling, ramshackle old structure, known familiarly as the Cowpie, which harkened back to a simpler day. There were newer hotels out on the edge of town adjacent to the interstate that did a brisker business at a better price, however the old hotel made up in charm what it lacked in amenities. It had ceiling fans, not AC; metal, not card keys; dial phones and a leather-bound guest register. Its old bar with the embossed tin panels and battered mahogany fixtures, complete with bullet holes, was a popular watering hole for the business community, and the so-called Presidential Suite upstairs (said to have hosted Calvin Coolidge on one occasion) was home to a game of high-stakes poker that drew a select handful of local luminaries.

"You can wait in the car if you'd like," Lucky said. "My driver will wait here with you. I just have to change. I won't be long."

Chiclet felt a little uneasy at being left alone with the hulking driver in the dimly-lit parking lot. "I have to use the restroom, if that's O.K."

"Of course. Come along then."

Lucky slid the partition back and leaned forward to murmur to the driver, then led her into the hotel.

There was still a fair smattering of people in the lobby and milling at the entrance to the adjacent taproom and restaurant, and Chiclet, still in her cheerleader's garb, drew some admiring stares as they crossed the worn burgundy carpet. They took the elevator up to the third floor, then transferred to another which took them to the top floor. "Just a moment," Lucky said as they walked down the hall toward his room. "I have to say hello to these people." He knocked at a door.

After a moment, it was throw open by an older man in faded jeans, a western shirt with the tails hanging out and an immaculate cowboy hat. Lucky leaned forward and whispered to him softly. Chicklet couldn't hear what he was saying. She looked curiously over his shoulder. In the center of the room under a wobbly ceiling fan, there was a round green baize card table. The five other men there were all looking toward them, squinting in the smoky air. Lucky waved to them. "Gents."

"O.K. then," Lucky said, turning away and taking her arm. "Those are just some friends of mine. I will see them later," he explained as he continued down the hall. His room was at the end. He showed her to the restroom and then went to the closet and pulled out some fresh clothes which he laid out on the king-sized bed.

Chiclet locked the door and used the toilet. She splashed some cold water on her face and blotted it dry before freshening up her make-up. She felt much better when she came out some minutes later.

"That's better," Lucky remarked, "You haven't forgotten how to smile." He finished buttoning up his shirt. "Would you like a small glass of wine perhaps? I have a bottle from my own estate."

She shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't feel like drinking. I'll take a soda from the mini bar, though, if that's all right."

"But of course. Allow me." Lucky took out a bottle of wine and a can of diet Coke. He poured himself some wine, threw some ice cubes into another wine glass and poured her a soda.

"Your health," he said, handing her the glass and then clinking it with his own. The crystal chimed melodiously in the quiet room.

He sipped at his wine. She downed hers and then stifled a burp. " I was really parched."

He waved her to one of the arm chairs. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear, while I finish up. I won't be long." He went into the bathroom. She heard the water running, and then the whine of the hair dryer. She laid her head back on chair. It had been such a long day and now it was starting to catch up with her. She found herself starting to nod off and jerked awake. She went to get up but her feet were far away and it just didn't seem worth the bother.

"I'll just take a five minute nap," she said to herself as she watched the ceiling recede.

Lucky came out of the bathroom and finished dressing. He went over to the mini-bar and emptied the glasses and then rinsed and dried them. When he was done, he came over to look down on her, asleep in the chair. He reached down and shook her gently by the shoulder. When this didn't rouse her, he pinched her hard on the upper arm. She gave a snort but settled immediately back into a heavy sleep. Lucky picked her up and laid her down on the bed. Slipping off her shoes and socks, he placed them neatly beside the end table. He brushed the hair gently back out of her face and stood there admiring her for a minute. Then he lifted her skirt and took off her panties. He drew the blanket up over her and dimmed the lights in the room, then, whistling softly to himself, went down the hall.

*

It was shortly after midnight. The poker game had been underway for a while and the participants were well lubricated by the time Lucky finally arrived. "There he is!" Frank Harris, who owned a local car dealership, waved him to an empty seat. He tilted back his two thousand dollar silver-belly Stetson Diamante and said, "We were beginning to wonder if you'd skipped town on us, Sonny."

"But Frank, I would not for to miss this game," Lucky assured him. He had changed into pressed Levis and a tan shooting jacket with leather patches on the shoulders. He had a string tie with a silver-mounted turquoise and a splash of pink cloth at the pocket of the jacket. If you're going to play poker in Texas, Lucky believed, half the fun was dressing for the occasion. Unbuttoning his coat, he slid into a seat, nodding familiarly to the other players. He was acquainted with them all and he'd seen them at the football game earlier that night. Now he owed them money for they were, to a man, boosters of the local Wildcats. He would be expected to settle up at the end of the night. In addition to Harris, there were five others: Jim and Arty Mitchell, local bankers with extensive real estate holdings; Momo Casanova, boss of the local service workers union with side interests in vending machines; Spence Ashbee, an personal injury attorney and city councilman and Henry Miller, the local Justice of the Peace.

Jim riffled the cards. "The game is seven card hold-em. Table stakes. Buy-in is five grand. Small blind antes a hundred. Arty there is handling the bank."

Lucky pushed a large roll of bills across the table.

While Arty was counting the money, Lucky reached in his breast pocket and pulled out the pink fold of cloth tucked in there. He held it up to his nose and sniffed delicately, then placed it on the table. He had their attention.

Henry cleared his throat. "That looks to me like a pair of women's panties you have there, son," he ventured after a moment's silence that fell upon the table.

Lucky nodded. "Belonging to the lovely young lady you saw me with a moment ago."

"The cheerleader?" Frank asked, goggle-eyed and few beers to windward of the others.

"That's right." Lucky paused. "It is a sad story, I am telling you. The poor girl was well fatigued. Since she has broken up with her boyfriend, I understand she has been having sex with several others of the football team. Her parents have disgraced her out of the house, and she has no place to rest. She had much to drink and she was begging to me. . ." He bit his lip. "I must be giving her a sedative to calm her. A strong sedative. She is in a sleep very deep. When she awakes I doubt that she will have little remembering of what happened to her. She is in my room, down the hall."

Lucky gathered in his chips and stacked them neatly. He folded the pink panties next to the chips and put his room key on top of them. "If one of you gentlemen felt the need of some relaxation later in the evening--just to lie down for a short while, that is to say--my room is very convenient. To make the evening more interesting, perhaps you would consider accepting this as a wager for, let us say, another five grand?"

There was a prolonged silence as the other men at the table chewed over the proposition.

"I don't know," Jim pursed his lips, nodding his head slowly up and down.

"Too steep for my blood," his brother Artie protested.

"Why, hell, the best chippies in Tulsa don't go for more'n two large the night," Momo blustered.

Lucky allowed himself a smile. Tacitly, they had moved on past accepting the proposition to negotiating a price.