'Nah,' Bobby said. 'If the play doesn't make sense, Stringer will just call his own or check off at the line of scrimmage. At most, they'll get a delay of game penalty.'
'Okay,' Murray said, stirring his rye whiskey with an index finger.
' Stupido!' fumed Jose Portilla, the chef, shaking his head. 'Really dumb, Murray.' Dressed in a white cook's smock stained with duck grease, he gobbled honeyed peanuts by the handful, unmindful that his bulging belly was hanging over the tabletop.
'All right, already,' Kravetz said. 'I'm just trying to help.
'Let him alone, Jose?' Bobby said. He was nursing a Samuel Adams beer and looking glum.
Bobby had brought his cronies into the plan. Figuring that none of them had done an honest day's work in years, he hoped they could come up with some scam that could tip the game toward Denver.
It was a desperate move, he knew, and already he was regretting the idea. For a bunch of losers, the guys were incredibly competitive.
'If you prayed to the warrior god Zarabanga, you would have a better chance of winning,' said Philippe Jean-Juste, looking up from a glass of Scotch on the rocks.
'Oh great,' Kravetz moaned, 'the ex-con witch doctor has an idea.'
'I never went to jail,' Jean-Juste said. 'The deity Olorun protected me.'
'Actually, it was Judge Irving Fishbein,' Bobby said. 'He bought my argument that the First Amendment allowed you to behead goats in Bayfront Park.'
They were all crammed into a red Naugahyde booth at The Fourth Estate, conjuring ingenious schemes to torpedo the Mustangs, and with each round of drinks, the plans became more fanciful and less likely. The only perfectly rational person there, Bobby thought, was his son. Scott was unusually quiet, occasionally swiping sips of his father's beer, but mainly focusing on his own burger and fries. Bobby sank further into depression as he listened to one bizarre plan after another.
Who are these guys?
Other than Goldy, a successful bookie who had never filed a tax return and kept his mattresses stuffed with cash instead of springs, they were born losers, the gang that couldn't bet straight. They would be considered half- wits, nitwits, or lunatics by nearly everyone else, he figured.
But they're my best friends. Jeez, maybe my only friends. So what does that make me?
'I could slip Ex-Lax into their food at the Fontainebleau,' de la Portilla offered. 'I know a sous chef who would let me in for a small bribe.'
' Oy vey,' Goldy said.
'You can't be serious,' Bobby said.
'I could make them crap their guts out the day of the game,' he added.
'Gross,' Scott said, chomping on a bacon cheeseburger with onions.
Chagrined, de la Portilla hunched over the table and dipped a tortilla chip into a bowl of salsa.
'You are all lost,' Philippe Jean-Juste said as he swirled his Scotch, the ice cubes clicking like dice at a craps table. He was a tall, slim black man with a shaved head and the sing-song accent of the islands. He wore an immaculately pressed white linen suit over a black silk shirt open at the collar. Around his neck was a beaded necklace studded with cowrie shells and pennies, the jewelry of a Santeria priest.
'I saw in the paper Stringer's leading a team prayer meeting tonight,' Kravetz said.
'He's a born-again hypocrite,' Bobby said.
'I will disarm his Eleda, his guardian spirit,' Jean-Juste said, squeezing his eyes closed, as if communicating with the gods. 'I will place a spell on him that will cross his eyes and strike him dumb.'
'Why not just make him color blind?' Bobby suggested. 'Maybe he'll throw to the guys in the blue jerseys.'
'The only curse I know is in Yiddish,' Goldy said. ' Zoll vaksen tsibiliss in zein pupik! Onions should grow in your navel.'
'If you make light of the gods, the orishas may use their black magic on you,' Jean-Juste said. 'I am offering my help. Do you want it or not?'
'Of course I want it,' Bobby replied.
'Good. Now, this Stringer. Is he a religious man?'
'Yeah, he worships himself,' Bobby said.
'The kicker Boom-Boom Guacavera is religious,' Scott said. 'He's into that voodoo, just like you, Mr. Jean- Juste. He nearly got thrown out of the Fontainebleau for sacrificing a rooster on his balcony.'
'It's not voodoo,' Jean-Juste said, offended. 'I practice Santeria and make offerings to Olorun and his orishas, his emissaries to mankind.'
'You leave cakes on the courthouse steps is what you do,' Kravetz said.
'The cake sweetens a judge's disposition when I am unfairly brought before the court.. A dead lizard with its mouth tied shut will silence an unfriendly witness. It is all quite logical when you think about it.'
'This is more complicated,' Bobby said. 'We need Boom Boom to miss his field goals.'
'I am also proficient in the witchcraft of Palo Myombe. So, if you want a magic spell, a nsarandas curse, just tell me.'
'Let's forget the curses,' Bobby said. 'I'll just take a good 20 knot crosswind when Boom Boom lines up to kick.'
'I could do that,' Jean-Juste said, but Bobby just waved for the check and got up to leave.
35
Jeez Dad, you can throw better than him,' Scott said, watching Mike Skarcynski bounce a pass to the tight end.
'Your Mom can throw better than that,' Bobby replied. 'Hey Murray, what gives?'
Murray Kravetz lowered his voice into an unintentional parody of a color announcer. 'Looks like pre-game jitters to me, Bobby.'
'That's so Captain Obvious,' Scott said.
'Plus he's gripping the ball too tight, hanging on too long,' Kravetz continued in his basso profundo tones. 'Aiming, instead of throwing.'
'Thank you, Brent Musberger,' Bobby said.
They were at Denver's' practice, courtesy of Murray Kravetz. Scott knelt on one knee and aimed his Nikon with the long lens at the quarterback. A photographer's press pass, procured of Murray, dangled from his neck. Bobby listened to the click-click-click as Scott snapped off several shots. On the field, two assistant coaches clapped their hands and blew whistles.
'Maybe we can analyze Skar's throwing motion and help the dude,' Scott offered.
Bobby wondered what else could go wrong. Denver's veteran quarterback looked like as skittish as one of Craig Stringer's spindly-legged foals. Even though it was a no-contact drill, Skarcynski had a case of the happy feet, stutter-stepping before releasing the ball, throwing off the wrong foot.
'His fundamentals are all out of whack,' Bobby said, dejectedly. 'His footwork is messed up, there's a hitch in his throwing motion, and his timing with his receivers is way off.'
'Just nerves,' Kravetz said, hopefully. 'He'll settle down.'
On the opposite sideline, Denver head coach Harry Crenshaw shook his head disgustedly while huddling with his offensive coordinator.
It was a glorious South Florida day with a soft breeze from the ocean, a deep azure sky with puffy white clouds casting shadows as they scudded across the field. The humidity had fallen, and the colors-the green grass, white yard lines, blue practice jerseys-were as clear as fresh-cut flowers. It was a day to luxuriate in the sheer act of being alive, of breathing in the sweet air…but Bobby was as melancholy as autumn waiting for the winter snow.
