Sixkill

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.

“Lemme hear,” I said.

He said something.

“By God, you’re right,” I said.

“What about that girl?” he said.

“Know anything?”

Z shrugged.

“I was in the living room,” he said. “Jumbo opens the bedroom door, tells me to call.”

“He have many guests like that in his room?”

“Every day,” Z said.

“Always girls?”

“Girls, boys,” Z said.

“Not choosy,” I said. “And great natural charm.”

“They wanna fuck a star,” Z said.

“Dawn like that?” I said.

“Ready to play any game Jumbo wanted.”

“He play games?” I said.

“Kinky stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Whadda you think?” Z said.

“I’d rather not think about it,” I said.

“He used to carry sex tools in a gym bag,” Z said.

“Was Dawn Lopata his standard MO?”

“Sure. Had them scheduled, like regular. Days ahead.”

“Any trouble before?” I said.

“Not much,” Z said. “Couple pregnancies. Paid them off.”

“And the boys?” I said.

“None of them get pregnant.”

“The press?”

“They write about him, his lawyers go after them hard, and they get sort of discouraged. But what does get printed is Jumbo pretending.”

“The public seems less willing to buy this kid’s death,” I said.

“Which means Jumbo is in trouble,” Z said. “You flounder, they let you drown.”

“So what is Jumbo Nelson really like?” I said.

Z shook his head.

“Sick,” Z said. “Mean.”

“I’da guessed that,” I said.

Some clouds had drifted in front of the sun, and a light rain began to fall as we walked back to my car. Harvard probably had a deal with nature to clean up after someone barfs.