'Right.' He grinned. Nice bridge work. Gray hair. Six feet. Dark blue fly-front coat. Thick steel-rimmed glasses. Real thick glass. Like he was a mad scientist or about to go blind. Maybe sixty years old.
I didn't invite him in at first.
'Who's our mutual friend?' I asked.
'Augie Ratner.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. Get out of my way, Matt.' He pushed his hand against my chest, blew a little cigar smoke in my face and I let him step past me into the apartment. 'I got a nice deal for you if you got any brains.'
I shut the door. He started walking back and forth across the room, puffing cigar smoke, jabbering. 'I think you're a smart boy, Matt. I like smart boys. I like boys who know what they're doing. We think you know what you're doing. We want to help you.'
'Cut the crap.'
He turned around. 'How'd you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?'
'Print it?'
He tapped cigar ash on my floor and sat down on the davenport. I leaned against the wall.
'Matt, you're going to the Superbowl. Tarkenton's definitely out.'
'How do you know?'
'Don't you worry about that. Just listen to what I got to tell you.'
'How do you know?'
'Ten to one, it's in this afternoon's paper.'
'Ten to one?' I said.
'Fifty to one.'
'What are you, a bookie?'
'No, but I got a lot of friends who know a lot of bookies.'
'Who are you talking for and what do you want?'
'Miami is a three-point favorite – now. When the news hits the streets, Miami will be a twelve-point favorite.'
'Lee's got a helluva strong arm.'
'And practically no playing time.'
'You want the odds controlled. Point shaving?'
'We don't want nobody throwing touchdowns that are going to bust the spread. There's gonna be millions riding.'
I felt lousy listening to him because I knew what he was getting at, and I was afraid I was going to go for it. I didn't want to, but I was afraid of myself, and the more I was afraid of myself, the more lousy I felt. I'd never wanted to lose a ballgame in my life. I hated losing. I hated any kind of losing. I couldn't stand to lose. It always made me feel lousy. No, I wasn't going to go for it. No way. I wanted to get in the ballgame, and if I got a chance to win it, hot damn, I'd win it.
'I know what you're thinking,' he said. 'You don't stand a chance to get in the game.'
'Get out,' I said. 'Beat it.'
I walked over to him. He stood up and held up one hand to protect his face, as if he thought I was going to hit him. The trouble was I was sore at myself, sore because I was tempted to listen to his offer. Hell, I wanted to hear his offer. Look at it coldly, Scallen, you haven't got any time left in the grass. You haven't got enough time to get a pension. You need three more years for your pension. You'll never play after this. Not with this knee. But you haven't got any nest egg. Twenty-five thousand!
'You'll probably get in the game,' he said.
'Bullshit. Are you going to shoot Lee?'
'That ain't the point. The point is Graff hurt his leg yesterday.'
'How do you know?'
'I got friends.'
'Miami can't lose.'
'That ain't it. They gotta win by twelve points. We don't want it messed up.'
'Eighteen points when the newspapers hear about Graff.'
'They aren't going to hear.. Graff'll suit up, but if anything happens to Lee, you'll be the back-up quarterback.'
'For Crissake!' I stared at him. 'Are you sure?'
'My friends aren't peanut vendors,' he said.
Twenty-five thousand dollars! All I had to do is make sure I keep that twelve-point spread if Lee gets hurt and I replace him. That wouldn't be hard. Just keep overthrowing a little, and it would be charged to nervousness, or throw an interception with time running out. Or let yourself get hit and fumble. That was the safest trick. But Jesus, I hated to lose. I hated the thought of losing. It always killed me to lose.
'What about Lee?' I asked.
'We got the odds figured on him.'
'Is he fixed?'
'No. We know what he can do.'
'Then what's worrying you?'
'We know what you can do. You could kill us.'
'How do I collect twenty-five big ones?'
'Fifteen right now.' He tapped his breast pocket. 'The other ten after the game.'
'What if I don't get in the game?'
'Keep five.'
'What if I don't return the other ten?'
He chuckled, tapped my chest with his forefinger. 'Your mother didn't raise any dumb kids, did she?'
God, I thought, fifteen grand. Five for just sitting on the bench. What were the odds of getting in the game? Who could tell? Lee had never been hurt. Five big ones for just sitting on the bench. Candy from a baby. Five biggies.
'What if some Viking back gets away for a touchdown? You know. A long break-away run?'
Schwartz guffawed.
'You got to be kidding. Since when did any Viking back ever do better than second down and eight? I just don't want you hitting any of those bombs you can throw.'
'All right,' I said. 'Ten down and fifteen after the game.'
He shook his head.
'You take fifteen now,' he said. 'You don't dare double-o anybody with fifteen big ones in your mitt.'
So he knew what I was thinking. If I had it my way, I'd only take the five and return it if – no, there was no returning anything, if you crossed up these guys. He must represent some very big bookies. Probably millions of bucks on the line. I didn't want to but I held out my hand. I didn't want to because I'd never played to lose. But what the hell was twenty years of football going to leave me? A busted knee and a fractured bankroll. The owners had the biggest racket franchise in the business. They jacked all the players around. Now it was my turn to make some money out of them. Sure, but I didn't really believe that, I mean, I really didn't feel like wanting to lose, not even for that kind of money. But it was time to be sensible. This wasn't high school or college. Hell, even they were big football business now. Get into the business now, the real business. Dough. I listened to Schwartz counting the dough. It was all in hundred-dollar bills. When I felt the money in my hand, I found myself thinking about Mary Cassidy.
Come on, you slob, I thought, no room for sentiment. Get the cash, baby. Get the cash. Get the cash. Get the cash.
The news about Tarkenton was all over the paper the next morning, but no mention of Graff's leg. He was the backup quarterback from the Viking taxi squad. Binks called me in for an interview with the press about my going up to the Vikings to back up Bob Lee and Graff.
'I'm really thrilled,' I told the reporters. 'It's a real big chance again.'
'Do you still drink?' one female reporter asked.
