house a month before we graduated.'
'Now I remember.'
'He lived in Rake's basement for a few weeks,then joined the Army.'
'What's he doing now?'
'Well, let's say he's in the midst of a very colorful career. He left the Army with a dishonorable discharge, bounced around for a few years offshore on the rigs, got tired of honest work, and came back to Messina where he peddled drugs until he got shot at.'
'I assume the bullet missed.'
'By an inch, and Silo tried to go straight. I loaned him five thousand dollars to buy the old Franklin's Shoe Store and he set himself up as an entrepreneur. He cut the prices of his shoes while at the same time doubling hisemployees wages, and went broke within a year. He sold cemetery lots, then used cars, then mobile homes. I lost track of him for a while. One day he walked into the bank and paid back everything he owed, in cash, said he'd finally struck gold.'
'In Messina?'
'Yep.Somehow he swindled old man Joslin out of his junkyard, east of town. He fixed up a warehouse, and in the front half he runs a legitimate body shop.A cash cow. In the back half he runs a chop shop, specializing in stolen pickups.A real cash cow.'
'He didn't tell you this.'
'No, he didn't mention the chop shop. But I do his banking, and secrets are hard to keep around here. He's got some deal with a gang of thieves in the Carolinas whereby they ship him stolen trucks. He breaks them down and moves the parts. It's all cash, and evidently there's plenty of it.'
'The cops?'
'Not yet, but everybody who deals with him is very careful. I expect the FBI to walk in any day with a subpoena, so I'm ready.'
'Sounds just like Silo,' Neely said.
'He's a mess.Drinks heavily, lots of women, throws cash around everywhere.Looks ten years older.'
'Why am I not surprised? Does he still fight?'
'All the time.Be careful what you say about Rake. Nobody loves him like Silo. He'll come after you.'
'Don't worry.'
As the center on offense and the noseguard on defense, Silo Mooney owned the middle of every field he played on. He was just under six feet tall with a physique that resembled, well, a silo: everything was thick—chest, waist, legs,arms . WithNeely and Paul, he started for three years. Unlike the other two, Silo averaged three personal fouls in every game. Once he had four, one in each quarter. Twice he got ejected for kicking opposing linemen in the crotch. He lived for the sight of blood on the poor boy lined up against him. 'Got that sumbitch bleedin' now,' he would growl in the huddle, usually late in the first half. 'He won't finish the game.'
'Go ahead and kill him,' Neely would say, egging on a mad dog. One less defensive lineman madeNeely's job much easier.
No Messina player had ever been cursed by Coach Rake with as much frequency and enthusiasm as Silo Mooney. No one had deserved it as much. No one craved the verbal abuse as much as Silo.
At the north end of the bleachers, down where the rowdies from the county once raised so much hell, an older man moved quietly up to the top row and sat down. He was too far away to be recognized, and he certainly wanted to be alone. He gazed at the field, and was soon lost in his own memories.
The first jogger appeared and began plodding counterclockwise around the track. It was the time of day when the runners and walkers drifted to the field for a few laps. Rake had never allowed such nonsense, but after he was sacked a movement arose to open the track to the people who'd paid for it. A maintenance man was usually loitering somewhere nearby, watching to make sure no one dared step on the grass of Rake Field. There was no chance of that.
'Where's Floyd?'Neely asked.
'Still in Nashville picking his guitar and writing bad music.Chasing the dream.'
