they poured generous drinks.
That's where I found him, sitting at the huge mahogany bar, knocking back shooters.
My b oys think I'm an asshole,' Zack said without looking over. He had three full shot glasses lined up in front of him as I slid onto the next barstool. 'All they see are anger and divorce lawyers. They've tuned me out, turned on me.' He picked up a shot glass, studying the amber liquid, holding it so the light shone through. 'Zack Junior,' he finally said in some kind of sardonic toast to his oldest son then downed it.
'It's only twelve-thirty,' I lectured. 'We're on duty. This place is full of Glass House brass. You're makin' us look bad.' Hating the judgmental, kiss-ass words as they came out of me.
Zack didn't look over, but frowned.
'Okay,' I said. 'Look. . at least let's move to a corner booth.'
I grabbed the remaining two full shot glasses and moved toward an empty booth furthest away from the bar in the dark room.
Wheezing loudly, Zack followed and slid into the booth after me. His eyes were unfocused in sockets that were beginning to turn saffron yellow from this morning's broken nose. He looked old and used up. As soon as he was settled, he pulled one of the shot glasses toward him. He didn't drink, but instead, stuck a big, sausage-sized finger into it, then put the finger into his mouth, tasting the single malt scotch. For a moment I didn't think he would say anything, but then he leaned his head against the wooden back of the booth.
'Everybody's reading me wrong,' he sighed. 'Even you. I'm in a damn echo chamber. Whatever I say, it comes out sounding louder. People only hear what they already think. It's hard to get anybody to understand when nobody listens.'
I decided to stay quiet. I wasn't sure where he was headed.
'It's not enough that Fran and I are getting divorced, or that those pricks at the Galleria fired me and I can't afford her attorney or Zack Junior's college next fall. Now Fran says she wants to know my feelings about it. She says she's worried about me, but she won't take me back either. How do you explain your feelings when you don't have any? Mostly I'm just fucking tired. I think if I could just. .'
Then he stopped, and put the heel of his hand up to his forehead and rubbed so hard that when his big mitt came away, he left an angry red mark.
'Zack?' He wasn't looking at me. 'Zack,' I said again, louder, and watched as he turned his head and focused on me. 'Lemme help you, man.'
'How you gonna help me, Shane?' He stopped studying the shot glass, and downed it. 'Just don't throw me overboard. I need the job. . this case. We'll find some proof.'
'Not in here, buddy. The only proof in here is eighty proof.'
I watched him scowl.
'I've been where you are, Zack. I've been on the bottom, looking up. I know what it feels like to be out of options.'
He was suddenly furious, his face a tight mask of silent rage. I don't know what I said to piss him off, but this is the way he was now. Sudden heart-stopping anger that would appear out of nowhere, turning his eyes into deadly lasers. Maybe he had come to despise himself so much he couldn't take friendship or sympathy. I realized as I sat there and watched a vein in his forehead pulse, that he was much closer to the edge than I had imagined. Then he saw the blue binder on my lap.
'Whatta ya doin' with the murder book? It's supposed to be in my desk,' he snapped.
'You left it in the Xerox room.'
He sat, dumbfounded. His expression softened. 'Naw. Come on. .'
'They found it in there. Cal gave it to me half an hour ago.'
The anger left as quickly as it came, disappearing like smoke out a window. I wished I hadn't told him. 'How could I have left it in Xerox?' he said in wonder. 'Shit. Really?'
I didn't answer.
He leaned his head back against the wall. 'I am so fucked,' he said softly.
'Listen, Zack. It's okay. I squared it with Cal, but I'm taking over the book for a while. I'm taking it home to upgrade it, okay?'
He didn't respond.
'And something else, Zack. Cal thinks Tony is about to form a task force to keep the press off his back. I've been on two task forces and both times it was a disaster. The more blue they throw at a big case, the more selfish and political everybody gets. We need to put this down fast. I need your help, buddy. Will you straighten up and help me?'
'What you really want is to get me outta your way,' he said sadly. 'It's in your eyes. You wish you'd never partnered up with me again.'
'That's not true,' I lied. But it was so true it was laughable.
'Okay, I'm on the case,' he said. 'Finish this shot and I'm on the wagon.'
'Good. Now you're talkin'.'
'This new vic is crawling with clues,' he grumbled. 'The contact lens, the bullet, the eyelid tats. We'll have the unsub hooked and booked in no time. We gotta concentrate on this last kill. Forget the others. Solve this one and we solve them all.' Then he picked up the last shot glass and drained it.
The Trojan tradition is a lot more than a bunch of brass in the trophy case at Heritage Hall,' Pete Carroll said.
He was sitting in the living room; our cat Franco was at his feet, looking up, not wanting to miss a word. Alexa, Delfina, and I were sitting across from him on the sofa. Chooch was in the club chair leaning forward attentively.
'USC is going to expose you to one of the best academic educations you can get anywhere in the country. It's important to me and to our program to graduate our players. Sixty-one percent of our incoming freshman end up with degrees.'
Chapter 7
Pete Carroll was in his early fifties; youthful, with sandy blond-gray hair and a friendly, engaging smile. His nose had been broken and not set properly, which I thought added character to an already handsome face. The coach had been in our house for forty minutes and hadn't once talked about football or the two national championships he'd already won. Mostly, he was stressing teamwork and the academic and cultural advantages of the university.
Chooch was beginning to work his way up to a question, and finally asked, 'Would there be any chance for me to play as a freshman, Coach?'
'I wouldn't be here if you weren't an outstanding quarterback, Chooch. Lane Killen went to several of your games and says you have what it takes. I've seen your tapes and talked to your coach at Harvard Westlake. He tells me you're a team leader and an honors student. I like everything I'm hearing. But my job is about more than who gets on the field or just winning football games. What we're really about is building our young men.
'I play freshmen when they're the best at their position, both physically and emotionally. You won't have to stand in line to get playing time at USC, but I also don't make promises I can't keep.' Then he leaned back and smiled at Chooch. 'Strange as it seems, your character is more important to me than your time in the forty, because I know a man with good work ethics, a sense of team, and a big heart is going to go out and take care of business not only on the field, but in life. The most gifted athlete isn't always the best man for the job. Heart, teamwork, and integrity count. A lot of what we do at USC is work on building what's inside.'
This was my kind of coach. One of the other things I liked about Coach Carroll: he was talking to Chooch, not to Alexa or me. On visits from other coaches, Chooch was just furniture in the room, while the coach was selling the two of us on what their program would do.
'It's important to me that you get what you want if you become a Trojan, Chooch. But the way to get the things you want in life is to grow as an individual. Inner strength always creates opportunity.'
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was the third call I'd gotten since Coach Carroll arrived and I could see the
