'Well,' Pat said. 'You 're not taking care of the football no more.'
They were sitting in the red-leather front seat of Pat's silver Mercedes in a parking lot in Garden Grove.
Zebulon was silent.
'Looking back, I realize,' Pat said, 'that I'm at fault. I promised your grandfather I'd look after you, and . . . hell, I guess I trusted you too much.'
Zebulon shrugged.
'You stopped running your sprints. You stopped pumping your iron. You weren't focused on the game. Hell, Harmon says you forgot half the plays; it's the same offense you ran in last year.'
Zebulon nodded. Pat shook his head.
'Too much booze, too much dope, too many prom queens.'
'Just Lucy,' Zebulon said.
'Sure,' Pat said. 'Too much fucking.'
'Don't talk about Lucy,' Zebulon said.
'Right, sorry,' Pat said. 'Anyway, you're out of shape, you're off the team, and I am not paying your way anymore.'
'How do I pay tuition?' Zebulon said.
'Ain't that a good question,' Pat said. 'How you gonna eat, for crissake?'
'Need a job,' Zebulon said.
'You do, and because I feel guilty, like I let your grandfather down, I'm gonna give you one. I own a club in Hollywood. They can use a bouncer. Big, tough guy like you. Good-looking don't hurt with the ladies. Don't know what they're paying, but I'll see to it you get enough to keep you going.'
'How about the condo,' Zebulon said.
'Gonna sell it,' Pat said. 'I'll give you a month to find another place.'
'Where's the club?' Zebulon said.
'Sunset, west of Highland.'
'What time?'
'Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Wear black pants and a black T-shirt.'
Zebulon nodded.
'Okay,' he said.
19
HARVARD STADIUM LOOKED like a smaller version of the Roman Colosseum. Z and I were in the stadium, on the empty football field. We who are about to kick off salute you.
'How far can you sprint?' I said.
'I can run a ways,' Z said.
'How far can you do it full-out, like you were running the hundred.'
'We did forties when I was playing football.'
'Okay,' I said. 'We'll run some intervals. Sprint one hundred yards, walk two hundred. Sprint one hundred, walk two hundred. See how it works out.'
Z shrugged. We walked to the goal line.
I said, 'Go,' and we sprinted for the other end zone. At the fifty, Z began to flag. And I was waiting for him in the end zone when he came slowly across the goal line, breathing very hard.
'Now we walk back, and then walk back here, and then sprint another one hundred,' I said.
'Sure,' Z said.
We walked the two hundred at an easy pace. And sprinted one hundred. And walked two hundred. After the eighth sprint, Z threw up.
'Hey,' I said. 'You're in Harvard Stadium.'
Bent over with his hands braced on his thighs, he gasped, 'Outta shape.'
We sat in the empty stands for a bit while Z's health returned.
'I thought I was in shape,' Z said. 'I thought I could fight.'
'Confusing,' I said. 'You sure you're a Cree Indian?'
'What they told me,' Z said.
'Good,' I said. 'If you were Irish, Sixkill would be a really funny name.'
'Sounds better in Cree,' he said.
