“Watch the ends,” Frankie O’Connor told everybody in the huddle. “They’ll be testing us outside real soon.”
Sure enough, on the very next play the Vikings halfback came around the left side. He got past Mikey, who was playing outside linebacker, but Rico and Floyd converged on him, catching him at the same time from opposite angles. The hits were clean and hard, but everybody in the vicinity heard a loud snap as the man went down.
“Oh shit, shit, shit,” the guy shrieked. “Get off! Get the fuck off!”
Both Rico and Floyd scrambled to get off, but it was too late. One of the bones in the man’s right leg had snapped just below the knee and was protruding from the skin. It hurt just to look at, and Johnny winced at the sight. Blood was everywhere, and the man lay on the field groaning. The referees stopped the game to call an ambulance.
Meanwhile, somebody brought the guy with the broken leg a beer and a cigarette, and as the wait extended from ten minutes to twenty, another beer and then another. Pretty soon the guy was sitting up talking to his buddies-despite the fact that one part of his leg was going one way and the other part the other way. The bone was still sticking out, but the blood had slowed to a trickle even though nobody had thought to apply a tourniquet.
When the ambulance pulled onto the field, everybody turned to look-except Johnny, whose eyes were riveted on the man with the broken leg. Johnny had seen him drop the cigarette and slump over.
Johnny ran to him. The man was not moving. “He’s unconscious!” Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. “Tell them to hurry up!”
The emergency guys tried to revive him on the field but couldn’t. They transferred him to a stretcher, put him in the ambulance, and drove off. Before the sound of the siren had faded and the lights were out of sight, the referee blew his whistle and yelled, “Play ball!”
Johnny was bewildered. Football was the last thing on his mind, but he did what everybody else did. He huddled up and got ready for the next play.
“Stay focused,” Frankie told them in the huddle. “They just lost their best guy.”
Even though they had lost their best guy, the Vikings didn’t give up. The game the Lexingtons absolutely needed to win ended in a tie.
They were standing on the sideline listening dejectedly to Joe Sheffield tell them they had “played a hell of a game” when a cop came up to the coach. There were three other cops on the far sideline talking to the Vikings players.
“Hey, Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” the cop asked, motioning Joe Sheffield to step to the side. Joe looked at him and then at his nameplate, Dan Gillette. Dan was very fat, his face was purple and bloated, and he was breathing heavily from his walk across the field.
“Sure,” Joe said, but he didn’t move away from the team. If something was going to be said, it was going to be said in front of his players
“A player on the other team-I don’t know his name-is dead,” Officer Gillette said casually, like the kid had merely left the field to get a hamburger. He pointed to the other sideline. “Some of his teammates say he died because two of your people hit him illegally.”
“Bullshit!” someone shouted angrily. Joe Sheffield stuck his hand up to quiet them.
“Whoever’s making that accusation is wrong, Officer. It was a clean hit.”
“Maybe so,” Gillette replied. “But I gotta take the two involved in for questioning.” He turned to the team. “Who were the two guys who tackled the dead kid?” If the incident hadn’t been so tragic, Dan Gillette’s attitude and choice of words would have been funny.
Nobody responded.
“I got no takers, huh?” Dan said, looking around at their faces. “Okay, we’ll play it a different way.” He turned toward the far sideline and whistled. Two Viking players came across the field.
“Can you guys pick those two tacklers out?” the fat cop asked when they arrived.
The taller, heavier one pointed right at Floyd. “That nigger back there is definitely one of them.”
“Watch your mouth,” Frankie O’Connor snapped at him. “That cop is gonna be gone in a minute and you’re gonna be dealing with me.” The Vikings player didn’t react to Frankie’s words, although he had to have heard them.
“You!” Gillette yelled, pointing at Floyd. “Come up here. What about the other one?” he said, turning back to the two Vikings as Floyd slowly made his way out of the pack.
They scanned the faces of the Lexingtons. One of them fixed right on Rico. Johnny saw it.
“It was me,” Johnny said, stepping in front of Rico before the Vikings player could say anything. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe deep down he knew things would go better if he, rather than Rico, went to the station with Floyd.
“No it wasn’t,” Rico said. “It was me.”
“No!” Johnny protested.
Rico grabbed Johnny by the shirt with both hands and pulled him close. “Listen,” he said. “Me and Floyd deal with cops all the time. We know how to get out of this. You-they’ll have you feeling so guilty about this guy dying, you’ll sign a full confession and still be apologizing as they cart you off to prison. Just shut up and let us handle this, okay?”
Rico didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked straight up to the cop.
“All right, let’s go down to the station,” Gillette said, motioning to Floyd and Rico. “You boys have some questions to answer.”
22
Charlene Pope-Charlie-had been a certified public accountant at the firm of Harrel and Jackson in New York City for twenty years. She was one of those strange people who truly found the tax code interesting. She loved her work, and she especially loved the firm she was with. All her significant relationships were at Harrel. She’d met her ex-husband there. When they divorced, there was no question that he would be the one who would have to go. Charlie would never leave the firm. She also met her best friend at Harrel-Pat Morgan.
Pat was ten years older than Charlie, but they had common interests. They liked concerts and sports, good books and men-not necessarily in that order. Pat was a runner, Charlie was a swimmer, and both of them were in great shape. Pat was the taller of the two, although Charlie was almost five-six. She had large green eyes that complemented her auburn hair and a smile so warm it could melt an iceberg.
They took long walks together accompanied by Charlie’s dog, Tinkerbell. Charlie was crushed when Pat moved to Florida but made frequent visits. As a senior member of the firm, she had plenty of vacation time stored up. And she loved Bass Creek.
“This place is like going back in time,” Charlie had exclaimed on her initiation morning at Jack and Pat’s special place on the river. “I feel like I’m part of it all-nature, I mean.” She caught the way Jack and Pat smiled at each other. “What? What did I say?”
“You said what we all say,” Pat told her. “That’s why it’s funny. Of course, if you didn’t say it, Jack and I would have to drop you as a friend.” Pat and Jack laughed, but they were half-serious.
Charlie felt like somebody had kicked her in the stomach the day she learned about Pat’s cancer. Denise Nichols, another friend of Pat’s and Charlie’s, worked in Human Resources at Pat’s old accounting firm, and Pat had called to check on her insurance coverage and to make sure the bills would be paid. Even though Pat had been working full-time as a teacher in Bass Creek, she was still considered a “substitute” because she had not received her certification from the state Department of Education. Consequently, she received no benefits from her teaching job.