He looked at Angie, jerked a thumb at me. “Didn’t he used to be smarter?”

She smiled. “Peaked in high school, I think.”

“Another thing,” Bubba said. “I never could figure why someone didn’t just kill me that night.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Everyone I talk to on Cheese’s crew swears up and down they had nothing to do with piping me. I believe ’em. I’m a scary guy. Sooner or later, someone would have coughed it up.”

“So the person who piped you…”

“Probably isn’t the type who kills on a regular basis.” He shrugged. “Just an opinion.”

The phone rang from the kitchen.

“Who the hell calls here at seven in the morning?” I said.

“No one familiar with our sleeping patterns,” Angie said.

I walked into the kitchen, picked up the phone.

“Hey, brother.” Broussard.

“Hey,” I said. “You know what time it is?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Look, I need a favor. Big one.”

“What is it?”

“One of my guys broke his arm chasing a perp last night and now we’re one short for the game.”

“The game?” I said.

“Football,” he said. “Robbery-Homicide versus Narcotics-Vice-CAC. I might be Motor Pool, but I’m still Narco-Vice-CAC when it comes to ball.”

“And this,” I said, “concerns me how?”

“I’m short a player.”

I laughed so loudly Bubba and Angie turned their heads in the living room, looked over their shoulders at me.

“That’s hilarious?” Broussard said.

“Remy,” I said, “I’m white and over thirty. I have permanent nerve damage to one hand, and I haven’t picked up a football since I was fifteen.”

“Oscar Lee told me you ran track in college, played baseball, too.”

“To pay my tuition,” I said. “I was second-string in both cases.” I shook my head and chuckled. “Find another guy. Sorry.”

“I don’t have time. Game’s at three. Come on, man. Please. I’m begging you. I need a guy can tuck a ball under his arm and run short yards, play a little defensive end. Don’t bullshit me. Oscar says you’re one of the fastest white guys he knows.”

“I take it Oscar will be there.”

“Hell, yeah. Playing against us, of course.”

“Devin?”

“Amronklin?” Broussard said. “He’s their coach. Please, Patrick. You don’t help me out, we’re screwed.”

I looked back at the living room. Bubba and Angie were staring at me with perplexed faces.

“Where?”

“Harvard Stadium. Three o’clock.”

I didn’t say anything for a bit.

“Look, man, if this helps, I play fullback. I’ll be punching your holes for you, making sure you don’t get a scratch.”

“Three o’clock,” I said.

“Harvard Stadium. See you there.”

He hung up.

I immediately dialed Oscar’s number.

It was a full minute before he stopped laughing. “He bought it?” he sputtered eventually.

“Bought what?”

“All that shit I sold him about your speed.” More laughter, loud and followed by a few coughs.

“Why’s that so funny?”

“Whoo-ee,” Oscar said. “Whoo-ee! He’s got you playing running back?”

“That seems to be the plan.”

Oscar laughed some more.

“What’s the punch line?” I said.

“The punch line,” Oscar said, “is you better stay away from the left side.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m starting at left tackle.”

I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the fridge. Of all the appliances in the kitchen, the fridge was the most apt to touch my flesh to in the current situation. It was roughly the size, shape, and weight of Oscar.

“See you on the field.” Oscar hooted loudly several times and hung up.

I walked back through the living room on my way toward the bedroom.

“Where you going?” Angie said.

“To bed.”

“Why?”

“Got a big game this afternoon.”

“What sort of game?” Bubba said.

“Football.”

“What?” Angie said loudly.

“You heard me right,” I said. I went into the bedroom, closed the door behind me.

They were still laughing when I fell asleep.

29

It seemed like every other guy on the Narcotics, Vice, and Crimes Against Children squads was named John. There was John Ives, John Vreeman, and John Pasquale. The quarterback was John Lawn and one of the wide receivers was John Coltraine, but everyone called him The Jazz. A tall, thin, baby-faced narcotics cop named Johnny Davis played tight end on offense and free safety on D. John Corkery, night watch commander at the 16th precinct and the only guy with the team besides me who wasn’t attached to Narco, Vice, or CAC, was the coach. A third of the Johns had brothers in the same squad, so John Pasquale played tight end and his brother Vic was a wide receiver. John Vreeman set up at left guard while his brother Mel crouched at right. John Lawn was supposedly a pretty good quarterback but took a lot of razzing for favoring passes to his brother Mike.

All in all, I gave up trying to put names to faces after ten minutes and decided to call everyone John until I was corrected.

The rest of the players on the DoRights, as they called themselves, had other names, but they all shared a similar look, no matter what their size or color. It was the cop look, the way they had of carrying themselves that was loose and wary at the same time, the hard caution in their eyes even when they were laughing, the sense you got from all of them that you could go from being their friend to their enemy in a split second. It didn’t matter which way to them, it was your choice, but once the decision was made they would act accordingly and immediately.

I’ve known a lot of cops, hung out with them, drank with them, considered a few to be my friends. But even when one was your friend, it was a different kind of friendship than you had with civilians. I never felt completely at ease with a cop, completely sure I knew what one was thinking. Cops always hold something back, except occasionally, I assume, around other cops.

Broussard clapped his hand on my shoulder and introduced me around to the team. I got several handshakes, some smiles and curt nods, one “Nice fucking job on Corwin Earle, Mr. Kenzie,” and then we all huddled around John Corkery as he gave us the game plan.

It wasn’t much of a plan. Basically it had to do with what a pack of prima-donna pussies the guys in Homicide and Robbery were, and how we had to play this game for Poole, whose only chance to make it out of ICU alive, apparently, was if we stomped the shit out of the other team. Lose, and Poole’s death would be on our conscience.

While Corkery talked, I looked across the field at the other team. Oscar caught my eye and waved happily, a shit-eating grin on his face the size of the Merrimack Valley. Devin saw me looking and smiled, too, nudged a rabid-looking monster with the scrunched features of a Pekinese, and pointed across the field at me. The monster nodded. The rest of the Homicide and Robbery guys didn’t look quite as big as our team, but they looked smarter, and quick, and had a leanness to them that spoke more of gristle than delicacy.

“Hundred bucks to the first guy knocks one of them out of the game,” Corkery said, and clapped his hands together. “Kill the motherfuckers.”

That must have been it for the Rockne-like inspiration, because the team came off its haunches and banged fists and clapped hands.

“Where are the helmets?” I said to Broussard.

One of the Johns was passing as I said it, and he clapped Broussard’s back and said, “Fucking guy’s hilarious, Broussard. Where’d you find him?”

“No helmets,” I said.

Broussard nodded. “It’s a touch game,” he said. “No hard contact.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sure.”

Homicide-Robbery, or the HurtYous as they called themselves, won the coin toss and elected to receive. Our kicker drove them back to their eleven, and as we lined up, Broussard pointed to a slim black guy on the HurtYous and said, “Jimmy Paxton. He’s your guy. Stick to him like a tumor.”