We got back on the regular street and I took the 170 Freeway back south to the Magnolia exit, then drove down side streets until we were in North Hollywood.
"Wake him up," I told Danny.
"Why?" Anything to argue with me.
" 'Cause I can't remember the street the clinic is on. And before you ask, it's a place entertainers and sports stars like your brother go when they need to, you know, recharge." I didn't say anything about how I'd been there more than once, but had always been on my back in a controlled substance haze.
"Come on," I said with frost in my voice.
He glared at me in the rear view mirror, but without his gun, he knew that if he tried to bitch-slap me, Nap's brother or not, I'd knock his lightweight self out. "Nap," he shook his brother's shoulder gently. "Nap," he shook him again.
A couple of middle-aged Valley chicks with butts tight from working out on treadmills strolled by on the sidewalk. One of them had a hairy rat dog on a leash. He looked happy.
"Yeah," the big man mumbled.
"What's the name of the street Burroughs' Seven Souls Clinic is on?"
"Banyon. There's a Shell station at the corner of that and Riverside."
"Right." I got us there in five minutes, and we helped Nap inside. The ol' cut-up Burroughs was creeping around. He was a tall reed of a white man who always walked with a stoop. Burroughs had a hook nose, and what was left of his hair was greased on one side of his large head. He had a voice that never changed expression, and the whites of his eyes were always red like he'd just finished smoking a blunt. Which was often true.
"Ah, Mr. Raines and Mr. Graham." He touched Nap's bruises. "Another encounter with the Mistress Dandelion?"
"Yeah, doc, things got a little out of hand and we figured it best to get him over to see you." Me and Danny got Nap into a wheelchair. I went over close to Burroughs. He smelled like toothpaste. "There's a little problem in the end zone, if you catch my meaning," I whispered.
The old degenerate smiled with teeth belonging to a young girl. "Oh yes, I know the kind of care brother Graham requires. I'll see to it. Sign him in, will you?"
I started to walk off to the front desk when he called to me. "How's your recovery coming, Mr. Raines?"
"Clean and sober." I'm sure it gave him a chuckle to know I was lying. I got Nap settled in, and me and Danny headed back over the hill to L.A. His mind was on his brother. Mine should have been on my tryout the next week. Instead it was on what them two had been unloading in that hidden-away building. That's how I should have left it, just me knowing I'd seen where Stadanko brought his dough before he parceled it out for laundering. Yeah, I should have kept it to myself forever.
Chapter 6
Tommy Earl blew off Ward Pruitt and one-handed the ball thrown by "Hack" Hassendorn. He skated past the goal line, the ball tucked under his arm like a stuffed goose. Even I had to admit he looked good. We'd been given the Barons' uniforms to do our scrimmage in that morning. They were dark blue and teal green, Davida had called the color. The practice field in El Segundo had been some kind of missile and plane place back in the day of us sweatin' about the Russians. For the first time in a long while I couldn't get to sleep the night before, I was so worked.
Around 4 in the morning I was desperate to bring my anxiety down and was about to have a little crank I had left from my date with Wilma, but for once I practiced self-control. I did some cals and went jogging before the sun was up. I felt good by the time I rolled up to the field, even though there'd been another message from Davida's mother telling me when the funeral was. Why did she have to mess with the focus I was trying to bring on? Can't people think of more than just themselves?
I got past Jon Grainger, my hands up for the ball. We'd been trading off on offense and defense since early afternoon. The ball stung as I started to bring it down and turn my head towards the goal line. Then the hip decided to act up and I dropped the ball, overcompensating from the sudden pain jabbing at my fibula.
Don Cannon, the head coach, leaned over to say something to Nolan Blake, the offensive coach. Blake shook his head like a doctor about to give you the bad news. I walked with my hands on my hips like I was getting wind, but I was really trying to massage the upper thigh.
"Nice try," Tommy Earl said as I walked past him. He didn't try to keep the arrogant look off his face.
We ran more one-on-ones, then scrimmaged from the 'I' formation. I went out, cut across two defenders' zone, and Hassendorn planted that pill just right. I stepped and came up on the side of my right foot, the hip responding like it should, my legs pumping. Antoine Palupo, the 310-pound, 6'5", mobile-as-hell linebacker they'd drafted from Penn State filled the slot I was trying to make it through. I went over on my side, holding onto that ball like it was my first paycheck.
"Not bad, old man." He pushed himself off me, giving me a hand up.
Cannon blew his whistle. "How's the hip, Zelmont?" Him and Blake came onto the field.
"Ain't nothing." I tossed the ball to Palupo.
"You seemed to be favoring it this afternoon." Cannon stood close to me. He was a robust dude with heavy arms that swung back and forth while he walked. He had black glasses, flat feet, and a brown-gray beard he was forever scratching at.
I told you, it feels fine." I lied.
"Yeah?" He did that thing he does, looking at me over the top of his glasses, which he pushed down from his nose.
"Everything's cool, baby"
He looked at Blake, who was looking at me. "You been going to support groups or something like that?" Blake worked something around inside his mouth.
"You want me to pee in a bottle after practice?"
"What if I said yes?" Blake was gonna be on my jock.
"Show me the way." I hoped the big vein in my neck wasn't pulsing.
"Get ready to run the R-9 play I went over with you." Blake walked over to talk with Earl.
"I guess I don't need to tell you those days of chasing pussy and partying till all hours are supposed to remain ancient history, Zelmont." Cannon was making notes on his clipboard as he spoke, and didn't look up.
"I'm cleaner than a skeeter's peter, coach."
"Get ready to run the play." He still hadn't looked up.
They put Earl at safety and me at tailback. I came up, then shot through the gap Gilman and Travers opened. I made the block for Earl and he got seven yards. The next down we reversed the positions and I veered right off Earl's block but didn't get two steps when cornerman Langdon slowed me up, then Malcolm Washington got me around the waist and took me down. I landed right on the hip. But I couldn't show it, I just couldn't show the pain, goddammit.
I jumped up, playing the hit off. I trotted over to the sideline. Grainger was redoing the tape around his calf.
"You don't look like you lost too much, Zelmont." He finished wrapping the tape, checking out his work.
"You got something in front of you, youngster." I lifted my helmet up and chugged down some Gatorade. "I got to be on it 'cause I ain't got nothin' but the past creepin' up."
He picked up his helmet, holding it gladiator style against his leg and wrist. "This ain't nothing but a game, Zelmont."
I drank some more Gatorade. He put on his helmet and went in to run his series. I didn't want to face it, but he looked all right. Grainger didn't have what you call steady speed, but he made up for it in his ability to drive on tacklers like Barry Sanders used to do.
Cannon signaled me to get ready. I snapped my helmet back into place, snuggling the mouth guard between my teeth. I chewed on the plastic, the old feelings swooping over me. In the stands I pretended there were thousands who'd skipped mowing the lawn or doing the wash, fixing that fence for Aunt Sarah, or changing the oil in the station wagon. It was live time, and I couldn't let the fans down.