Cobb’s future employer. And he had already received the full commentary.
As he crossed the room, women, oblivious of their escorts, rubbed seductively against Cobb. He raised his eyes to heaven. So many women in the world and so little time. But he needed neither the complication nor any trouble with any of their companions. Like as not, some hotshot with too many drinks under his belt would seize the occasion to prove he could take the great athlete. And there he would stand with no pads, unprotected against some drunk who had nothing to lose but his teeth. With his luck, Cobb figured the best that might happen would be that he’d break a hand and be out for the rest of the season. So he graciously apologized to each woman who airily threw herself at him.
At long last, Cobb reached the man who had called to him. “Hey, Bobby, I thought you needed some action.” It was the Cougars’ center, an amiable gentleman built like the proverbial brick house. Mercifully, he had reinserted the bridgework he went without during games.
“This where it’s at, Spud?”
“Shit, yeah, Bobby.” The behemoth grinned. “It’s about time, don’tcha think? I got this little fox for me and I got this one for you.”
Cobb inspected the foxes. Spud held one under his arm. Her feet were not touching the floor. Cobb thought Spud neither knew nor cared about that fact. The other young woman Spud held around the neck. He thrust her toward Cobb. Both women had fixed smiles as if they had been cast from plaster of Paris.
“Not tonight, Spud. Have you seen Niall?”
“The little guy? Yeah; he’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms. But I don’t think he’s asleep yet.” Spud roared at his venture into humor. He then scrutinized both women, the one in his hand and the one under his wing. Deciding to take them both, he moved them off toward the rear of the mansion.
Cobb hurried up the stairs, nodding at and brushing by those he encountered on the staircase. He tried two rooms before he found Murray in the third.
The young Irishman was seated on the side of a bed, which was covered with a red satin quilt. Stretched out on the quilt was a young woman in a white slip.
Actually, Murray was more slumped than seated. He seemed transfixed by several lines of white powder spread out on a piece of wax paper on the nightstand. He looked up momentarily when Cobb entered. “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here now?”
As Cobb approached, the girl moved apprehensively to the far side of the bed. Murray’s concentration returned to the neatly arranged powder.
Cobb quickly and expertly appraised the woman. Neither a con artist nor a whore. One more groupie wanting to know firsthand, as it were, if all those muscles were genuine. This one obviously was abashed at Cobb’s expression.
“Has he had any yet?” Cobb nodded toward the powder.
The woman shook her head. She did not blink. Nor did she remove her gaze from Cobb’s face.
“Hey, Niall, babe, what’s happenin’?”
“Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here?”
“Had a little bit to drink, have you, babe?” Cobb could smell the sweet odor of bourbon.
“Some.”
Cobb shoved lightly; Murray fell back on the bed. “The trouble with you Irish is your image. You’re supposed to be great drinkers, but you can’t hold your liquor.” Cobb slid Murray’s loosened tie up to his neck, closing his shirt at the collar.
“The trouble with you coloureds,” Murray’s speech was slurred, “is your image. You’re supposed to be sex maniacs. And you are as well.”
Cobb pulled Murray to his feet and got him into his jacket. “You don’t want to get that white stuff up your nose, Mick. With or without booze. With booze, it could kill you. Any which way, it’s gonna scramble your head. Next thing you know you won’t be able to find the goalpost and you’ll be kickin’ my balls instead of Wilson’s. Then you and me, but most importantly me, will be the laughingstock of this city. And I don’t intend for that to happen. I intend to own this city for starters.”
It was obvious that Murray was understanding none of this. Cobb was handling him as if he were a ragdoll.
“Who got you started on coke, anyway?”
“Huh?”
“I said, who got you started on coke?”
“Oh, the Hun.”
“It figures.”
“Huh?”
“That bastard! He’s got a knack of corrupting everything he touches. He’d pull the rug out from under me if he got the chance. Only he ain’t gonna get it.”
Cobb supported Murray and began walking with him. Actually, Cobb virtually carried the Irishman. They would leave the mansion as close as buddies ever get, eliciting from other guests hopeful observations on racial harmony. Cobb would deliver Murray, untouched by alien hand, to the forgiving arms of his wife.
“Hun a bas’ard,” Murray slurred as he was inserted into Cobb’s car.
“That’s right, little Mick. You just learned a lesson that could save your life. But it won’t do much for the bastard.”
Everywhere he looked, there was Hank Hunsinger. That was because his three walls were mirrored, top to bottom. The fourth wall was a picture window.
He removed his jacket, wincing as he did so. He was growingly aware of this afternoon’s slings, arrows, and pummeling fists. Football commentators are fond of stating that when receivers leave the ground to catch a pass, they are “vulnerable.” And when they’re tackled midair, they “pay the price.” Unless the commentators have undergone the experience firsthand, they would have no notion of just how high that price is.
Hunsinger entered the large walk-in closet. Neatly displayed was an extensive wardrobe of expensive jackets, coats, and foul-weather gear. He arranged his jacket on the appropriate hanger in the section reserved for green and green coordinates. A place for everything and everything in its place. He made certain the jacket he had just hung and the ones on either side of it were hanging free of each other so that no wrinkles would be inflicted.
He crossed the living room to the kitchen. Both rooms were outstandingly large. But then his entire apartment was several times more spacious than the average apartment. He had money and, being of sound mind, had decided to spend it.
He opened the liquor cabinet. Everything. Well, perhaps not everything. The best of everything. He selected a Scotch and poured it generously over several ice cubes.
He returned to the living room and stood by the window, swirling the Scotch gently
The Detroit River, vital artery of the Great Lakes. And Belle Isle, jewel-caressed on either of its shores by the river that separated Canada from the United States. Hunsinger never tired of the sight. Few did.
He sipped the Scotch. Cold to the taste, it spread warmth through his body. His memory broke free and returned to the antithesis of all this-his youth.
Growing up in Detroit’s southwest side. Poor. Although he hadn’t known they were poor. They always had food. Not top grade, but enough.
He remembered 1954. He had been just seven years old when his father died. From then on, it was just Hank and his mother. She had gotten a job as housekeeper in the extensive convent that housed the nuns who taught at Holy Redeemer parochial school. Tagging around after his mother, he had become somewhat of a pet to the childless nuns-which largely accounted for the sufficiency of average food at his disposal. The nuns could not afford top-grade food, but with what they had, they pampered this growing boy.
Oddly, he had attended public, not parochial, school. His mother told the nuns this was in accord with the wishes of his late Protestant father. She then confessed her lie to the priest, but could not bring herself to tell the nuns the truth: that with the little they paid her, she could not afford even the modest tuition at Holy Redeemer. What did the nuns know about it, in any case? Shielded by their vows of poverty, the trifle they were paid went to their religious order, not to them individually.
All in all, it was a pleasant enough life. The first time Hunsinger realized they had been poor was when as a young man he saw pictures in the newspaper of poor homes, and recognized them as being identical to that of his
