I couldn't get any words out of my mouth.
Feeling bold, Weems stepped from around his protection. "You don't have a contract yet, you are here only at the pleasure of the owners."
"And you ain't one of them," was the only lame thing I could say.
"I'm the commissioner, Raines. And though I'm sure you never bothered to read what is the purview of my office, I can assure you I exercise a fair amount of leverage with the owners."
I wasn't sure, but it sounded like he had the goods on Stadanko and was flexing to prove it. "I haven't done anything, Weems."
"But you will. You will get in a fight at a rock concert, or have an assignation with a married woman, or hit a policeman as you did in Atlanta and Denver. You will do something to make a mockery of what we are attempting to do in this league, and I will not suffer it. I simply won't. You are gone."
A twitch jerked one side of his lip. Then he walked away, his dog pound trotting after him. Trace said, "You better find honest work, homeboy. The devil has betrayed you."
I got on the pay phone and screamed at my new agent Lowe. "Why didn't you know about this?" Players went past me into the parking lot. Cannon must have gone out another way. The coward wouldn't face me.
"Calm down, Zee. Don't you know I'll get on this like last week? They can't get away with this kind of shit. What's Stadanko's position?"
"Prone, his ass in the air and puckered up so he can get reamed easier by his lord and master King Julian." I slammed the mouthpiece against the wall, breaking it. I got my street shoes on and drove off in my football pants. I stopped at a liquor store near the airport on Century and marched inside. I got stared at but they took my money for the fifth of Cutty. I'd finished a good part of the bottle by the time I rolled home. Too bad Davida was dead, she could really ease my tension right now. Drunk and mad enough to kill, I broke the rest of the scotch against Candy's head. "Put that goddamn tongue back in your head," I told her. I stumbled inside and called Isabel at her work. She was a clothes buyer for Bloomingdale's or Macy's or whatever the hell it's called.
"Busy?"
"Workin'a couple of buyers. You sound down."
"Got fired."
Nothing for a bit. "Look, I have to close this deal, all right? How 'bout you come by tonight 'round 7?"
"Sure." I hung up and got my cognac out. I juiced up the stereo, a Paris CD jammin' on it as I sipped and plotted and sipped some more. I fell asleep and woke up a little after 5. If Lowe had called, I'd been lost in snooze land. I still had an edgy high on. I showered and had something to eat. By then I was in a half-sober way, together enough to manage the freeways at the end of rush hour to get into East Los and Isabel's pad.
I knocked and she answered the door.
"You look real professional," I said, noticing her business suit.
"You look wore out."
"I ain't that wore out."
She let me in and we made small talk about how messed up it was that Weems did what he did to me, how she had a lawyer I could talk to, and so forth. Pretty soon we let the feeling that had been building between us since the funeral take over and I had her dress up, pantyhose and panties down, and was waxing that ass doggie style on the couch.
"Zelmont," she said between sighs, her hands on the back of the sofa cushions. "You didn't kill my sister, did you?"
"Of course not." I kept on keeping on.
"Good," she said, "it wouldn't be right making love to you if you did."
"Oh yeah, that'd be sick."
Afterward, we sat slouched down on the couch, watching the 10 o'clock news, our legs over each other. She was in an old man's bathrobe and I was in my bikini drawers.
"What are you going to do?" We were watching this story about a kid who went into a burning apartment to save a three-legged cat belonging to this crippled seventy-year-old woman.
"I don't know," I said. I was scared of what was bubblin' inside my head. I didn't want to fix on it, but the idea wouldn't go away.
She snuggled her head on my chest. "I don't cook breakfast."
One of these days I was gonna catch me a domesticated chick who did. "Ain't no thang, Isabel. I didn't come here to get my eggs scrambled."
"You sure about that?" She started kissing me and we got busy again.
Later, in her bed, I woke up sometime in the early hours. I couldn't remember what I'd been dreaming, but it had given me the chills. One of the bedroom windows was open, the humid air of the night spilling into the room. I laid there, my hand on my chest, wondering how many beats my heart had missed.
Chapter 9
"Fuck." I slammed the phone down and kicked the coffee table, knocking some magazines onto the floor. Wouldn't you know the one I could make out the best was the cover I'd made of Sports Illustrated right after the Super Bowl. I picked up the magazine and tore it to pieces, cursing and wishing I could get my hands around Weems' chicken-bone neck.
Lowe had been on the phone telling me how hopeless it was. If Weems said I was out, I was out. He also told me if Stadanko had put up a stink, the situation might be different. Stadanko was fronting $370 million, and since I hadn't broken no league rules, Weems really didn't have a legal right to ban me if it got to court. But Stadanko didn't say shit.
"Goddamn," I got mad again, and looked for something to break. The phone rang again, and I was surprised it was still on the hook.
"Yeah." I was in a mood to tear whoever was on the other end a new one.
"I'm sorry."
It was Wilma. "You sittin' in the front office, why didn't you tell me?"
"Get real, Zelmont. I have my own office, and Stadanko doesn't need to tell me about something like this. His exposure is minimal, since, let's be honest, you don't have the money to fight him. And Cannon can be squeezed to say you were a medical risk. You're in a tough position."
"But you know the way I should turn." I guess I wanted her to make me do it. I guess I wanted her to have me lust after her and the promise of money. In the end, I knew I wanted to do it for myself. I wanted to get back at Stadanko, Chekka, and all of them. Then I'd figure out something special for Weems.
She didn't say anything, but I could almost feel her and smell her through the phone. Well?"
"You going to be home around 4?"
"I suppose." What the hell was I gonna do? I didn't feel like working out, it wouldn't burn off this hurt I had.
"Good." She hung up and I waited. I didn't drink, although I felt like it. Didn't take a toke of nothing either. Instead, I watched some shit on cable, infomercials and such. There was one about a device that let you count cards and coins, and with a simple attachment it became a fan. This English dude with a pink face was very excited about the silly-ass gadget, how wonderful a time saver it would be around the house.
I was imagining other uses of the coin counter when the doorbell rang. It was a motorcycle messenger Wilma had sent. He handed me an envelope and I didn't tip him. Man, I had to watch my ducats. Inside was a note written in Wilma's perfect schoolgirl handwriting. "The Encounter, 8:00, burn this," it said. I did, and got there when she told me to.
The restaurant was inside the building at the airport that looked like it belonged in The Jetsons. There were curves coming out of the round upstairs part, making it look like a concrete spider. I'd heard somewhere that a black architect had designed the place. Wonder what ma and pa flying in from Iowa might think about that if they knew.
"What the hell is this?" Danny Deuce had gotten used to his new style. He was dressed in a Calvin Klein blue serge number with a maroon shirt and a tie that looked like somebody spilled paint on it. You could tell he liked being the boss while his big brother laid low.
''Duck fajitas,'' Nap said. He'd cut off his dreads and looked like he'd lost some weight after his stay at Burroughs' little hideaway. His biceps were loose in the sleeves of his Prada sports coat. He scooped meat and onions and guacamole onto his plate. "It'll expand your palate."