Sudden Death

1

“This reminds me of a cartoon."

“What?”

“I said, this reminds me of. . " The band ceased playing, making shouting almost unnecessary. “. . a cartoon.”

“Which cartoon would that be?” Father Robert Koesler leaned toward his friend and onetime classmate, Father Patrick McNiff.

“I can’t remember where I saw it,” said McNiff. “It was years ago. But it showed a couple of women sitting in the very top row of a stadium. Down on the floor of the stadium were a bunch of dots that represented football players. And one woman was saying to the other, ‘Their shoulders are really falsies.’”

Koesler grinned. He and McNiff were part of a sellout crowd watching a football game between the Pontiac Cougars and the Chicago Towers in Pontiac’s Metropolitan Stadium, sometimes called PonMet, more frequently the Silverdome. By those attempting to enter or exit the parking lot, it was frequently called names never found in a family newspaper.

In any case, it was billed as the World’s Largest Domed Stadium. Koesler and McNiff were seated in the next to the last row on the upper level.

“Couldn’t you get anything higher than this?” McNiff's sarcasm was evident.

“Pat, what you don’t understand is that these are among the best seats in the house.”

McNiff snorted.

“No, really,” Koesler insisted. “Wait till play starts again. From this vantage, you can see the pass patterns and the defensive alignments. It’s like watching all the Xs and Os on a coach’s blackboard, only they’re alive. It’s really an exciting place to watch a game from.”

“You’re telling me that we’ve got the ‘overall picture’?” The PA was blaring; McNiff was forced to raise his voice. “Is that in any way like the ‘overall picture’ of the Archdiocese of Detroit that Cardinal Boyle keeps telling us he is the sole possessor of?”

“A kissing cousin. Good grief, that PA is deafening! It’s a wonder the players can hear themselves think!"

Hank Hunsinger, the Cougars’ tight end, stood toweling the back of his neck during the commercial timeout. He could hear clearly the taunts, threats, and imprecations being directed at him by several of Chicago’s defensive team. Through some acoustic anomaly, the public-address system did not affect the noise level at the playing surface nearly as much as did the racket made by the crowd as the teams approached the scrimmage line and throughout each play.

The Towers’ defensive team roundly hated Hank (“the Hun”) Hunsinger. In that, they were joined by every other defensive team in the league. In one of the most violent games ever devised by civilized mankind, Hunsinger was notorious for his dirty play. If there was an unfair advantage to be taken, he took it. Always. If there was an opportunity to hurt an opponent, he hurt him. He was notorious in the league as a cheap-shot artist.

Hunsinger didn’t care. He had not entered a popularity contest. Getting his job done, by whatever means, was his aim.

That he did get his job done was duly noted by his teammates. The Cougars, even if they did not much favor his methods, respected his skill and experience.

Again, Hunsinger did not care.

The referee blew his whistle and pumped his right arm, signaling the thirty-second period during which the offensive team must begin play.

The team’s center stationed himself some ten yards behind the line of scrimmage, raised his arm, and cried, “Huddah!” Which was as close as he would come to “Huddle.”

The players formed an uneven oval, with the team’s center as its focal point. The last to enter the oval, and the only one lowering himself to one knee, was the quarterback. Bobby Cobb was black. Notable only because, although blacks outnumber whites on most pro football teams, it is rare for one to be quarterback.

As he knelt within the oval, Cobb was singing softly, “We shall overcome.” Such was his style.

In addition to being an extremely violent game, professional football had become one of the most stressful of competitions. Split-second decisions were now the order of the day. Decisions whose outcome would involve, eventually, millions of dollars-in advertising revenue, gate receipts, concession income, television revenue, bets, and, finally, the value of the franchise.

Of all the decisions made on the playing field, none was of greater significance than the quarterback’s. Bobby Cobb’s reaction to all of this was a studied nonchalance. He was good at what he did. He knew it. He intended that his attitude of relaxed confidence be contagious. Usually it was.

“ ‘. . Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome someday.’ Well, gentlemen, let’s eat ’em up. Or, as the experts in the booth like to say, We’re going to continue to establish our running game.” His tone became businesslike. “Blue! Right! Thirty-six! Let’s see some daylight! On two! Break!”

With a communal clap of hands, the team ambled deliberately to its offensive position. The play called for the fullback to run through a hole cleared by the right tackle and the tight end, who, on this play, would align himself as the final lineman on the right side.

As Hunsinger lowered himself to a three-point stance, he gave neither thought nor care to anyone’s assignment but his. He was to block the strong-side linebacker. Then, as the running back passed that spot, Hunsinger was to proceed downfield to take out the strong safety. For the moment, his attention was riveted on the linebacker, his first target.

The crowd noise swelled. The spectators in the coliseum were eager to see the gladiators do battle. Bobby Cobb would shout the play again-or change it-first calling to the right, then to the left, to make sure all heard it correctly.

“Set! Two-thirty-six! Two-thirty-six!

“Hut! Hut!”

The ball was snapped. Plastic shoulder guards popped; players grunted, yelled, and cursed; padded arms were flung out as weapons; huge bodies launched into each other. One side would win this isolated moment of combat, the other would not; that’s the way it always went. For even if there was no advance, that was a victory for the defensive team.

It was a rookie-type blunder. Hunsinger knew it the instant he made contact. He had charged off the line of scrimmage and cut sharply to his right, eyes fixed on the numerals on the linebacker’s jersey. The initial contact was solid. For good measure, Hunsinger thrust his helmet at the linebacker’s chin. Butting an opponent was legal but extremely dangerous. The possible injury to his opponent did not trouble Hunsinger.

But a split second after contact, he realized his feet were not properly placed. They were too close together to provide a solid base. Simultaneously, the linebacker, sensing Hunsinger’s mistake, stepped aside and, grasping the Hun’s jersey, threw him to the turf like an oversize ragdoll.

Having disposed of the blocker, the linebacker tackled the ball carrier.

A one-yard gain. Second down, nine to go. No one in the stands doubted whose blunder it was.

In the TV booth, the announcer was informing those at home with the aid of instant replay that “old number 89 really blew that one. And cost his team some valuable yardage.”

“Nice block, Hun,” the linebacker gloated over his shoulder. “Best goddam shot I’ve ever seen you throw."

Hunsinger picked himself off the Astroturf, one part of him registering the boos that were cascading upon him from the fans, and returned to where the center’s “Huddah!” again summoned. In the huddle, the fullback, who, unprotected, had been hit hard, glanced balefully at Hunsinger, who continued to stare at the ground. Inwardly, the Hun was seething.

Cobb slid into the huddle on one knee. He had received the next play from the coach through a substitute. “Gentlemen, neither I nor the bench is satisfied that we are establishing our running game. So we’ll try again. Slot! Right! Forty-six! Think you can take the ’backer this time, Hun?” Rhetorical sarcasm. “On three! Break!”

Hunsinger assumed the three-point stance, his mind once again centered on the strong-side linebacker, the same player who had just humiliated him. It would be different this time: His opponent would pay for his small victory.

But first, Hunsinger had to be certain that there would be no unexpected defensive formation that would force Cobb to call an audible-changing the play at the line of scrimmage.

“Set!” Cobb shouted to the right. “Three-forty-six!”

It was the agreed snap count. The play would be the one called in the huddle. Now that bastard would pay.

Hunsinger was not sure in just what manner payment would be exacted. He would rely on his vast experience in foul tactics to improvise something appropriate.

“Three-forty-six!” Cobb shouted to the left. “Hut! Hut! Hut!”

The ball was slammed into Cobb’s hands. He pivoted and pitched it out to his halfback. Twenty-two very large men again moved from a tableau into violent action, one team endeavoring to tackle the ball carrier, the other trying to block that effort and advance the carrier. In the end, that was what this game was all about, blocking and tackling.

Again, Hunsinger sprang from his stationary position and headed for the strong-side linebacker, not head-on this time, but slightly to one side. As he had hoped, the linebacker attempted to “swim” by the block. Swinging his right arm in a wide, over-the-head arc, he tried to brush past Hunsinger, pushing the tight end’s right shoulder back, much as a swimmer cuts through the water.

Perfect. Hunsinger had maneuvered himself and his opponent so that no game official would have an unobstructed view of his actions.

The linebacker’s upraised right arm left his entire right side exposed and unprotected. Even with all the padding players wear, ordinarily there is no protection for the chest area.

Hunsinger planted his right foot and drove his fist into the linebacker’s upper diaphragm. The punch didn’t travel far. It didn’t need to. Indeed, it could not have, else the officials likely would have spotted the foul. But Hunsinger was a powerful man; as his punch buried itself in the linebacker, the Hun thought he felt the man’s rib snap. He clearly heard the sharp expulsion of air as the linebacker collapsed and rolled over in agony.

Whistles sounded. The play was over.

Hunsinger looked around. There was a pileup some fifteen yards upfield. The play had worked. He checked for penalty markers. Apparently no foul had been detected. The field markers were being moved upfield. The men carrying the sticks wouldn’t be moving them if the head linesman hadn’t beckoned them. And he wouldn’t have signaled them if there’d been a foul called.

Perfect. Hunsinger moved to join his teammates.

By now players, coaches, and fans were aware that only twenty-one players were up and about. The injured linebacker had curled into a fetal position. Several teammates hurried to his side, peered at him, but didn’t touch him. The trainer and an assistant ran across the field. They managed to move him onto his back. He could be seen now by the fans and TV viewers only from the waist down. He was not moving his legs to and fro in pain. He was not moving at all.

The fans were hushed. Many relished the violence of this game, but most shrank from the sight of serious injury.

Even the TV commentators had missed Hunsinger’s blow. Nor had any isolated camera recorded the action. The TV people spent this official timeout running and rerunning the play as it was recorded on instant replay. Each time the halfback carrying the ball passed the point of the collision in question, one of them would call out excitedly, “There. . there, see? You can see the linebacker go down, but the camera got there too late to catch the block that flattened him.” Then the film would be played backward and the linebacker would miraculously rise from the turf.

No one on either team had seen what happened. The Cougars simply assumed that it had been one of those unfortunate accidents that happen when two strong people run into each other. Not that some of Hunsinger’s teammates did not harbor some suspicions, given his well-deserved reputation.

The Chicago team, on the other hand, took it for granted that there had been a deliberate foul. Most of the Towers loudly cursed Hunsinger.

Few fans could hear the curses. By now, the linebacker had been taken from the field on a stretcher, to the fans’ sympathetic and commendatory cheers. And the band was blasting over the superloud public-address system.

For his part, Hunsinger noticed that one of his shoelaces was twisted. He bent down to straighten it. He was oblivious to the threats and curses being hurled at him from across the scrimmage line.

“Hun, you bastard, you’re gonna pay for that!” The Towers’ middle linebacker was a formidable specimen.

Hunsinger did not hear him. Nor did he notice that several of the linebacker’s teammates were physically restraining him from instant delivery on that threat.

The referee’s whistle sounded. The Cougars had thirty seconds in which to get a play under way.

“Huddah!”

Bobby Cobb slid into the huddle. “It seems that everyone is convinced that our ground game is at least good enough so’s we can risk a pass. Red! Left! Seventy-three! Hun, give me a sharp post pattern. On three! Break!”

Hunsinger lined up on the left side of the five interior linemen. The plan was for him to delay a few moments at the scrimmage line, blocking as Cobb retreated to set up for the pass. Then, after the two wide receivers, X and Z, had begun their patterns, designed to clear the middle zone, the tight end, Y, would cut sharply across the middle into the clear.

“Set! Three-seventy-three! Three-seventy-three! Hut! Hut! Hut!”

Hunsinger retreated the prescribed couple of yards, both legs pumping to give him balance as he helped his neighbor, the left tackle, block. Suddenly, he slid off the block and charged several yards upfield. Then, he broke sharply and diagonally across the center.

Cobb, under considerable pressure from charging Chicago linemen, at the last possible second caught sight of Hunsinger’s maneuver and fired the ball at a spot where he hoped Hunsinger would be in another second. Cobb was then slammed to the turf by one of the Towers who finally broke through the block.

Under his breath, Hunsinger cursed. The ball would be high and away from him. Instinctively, he tried for it. A pass receiver was paid for catching the ball, not for missing it, and certainly not for refusing to try. Hunsinger liked being paid. A lot.

He leaped as far and as high as he could. He was able just to tip the tightly spiraled pass and somehow bring it under control with the fingers of his left hand. Quickly, he gathered the ball into both hands, and tucked it tightly to his chest.

He knew there was no way he could land on his feet. Nor was he surprised when he was bent like a bow by a brutal tackle from the rear. He was, though, surprised and not a little shocked to suffer sharp, repeated blows to the small of his back after landing on the turf.

“You goddamn Hun!” The Towers’ middle linebacker repeated the imprecation over and over as he made a punching bag of Hunsinger.

Whistles came from every corner of the field. Yellow penalty flags fluttered to earth. The deafening cheers that had greeted Hunsinger’s remarkable reception were transformed into choruses of boos directed at the Chicago player.

Officials pulled the linebacker away. The referee escorted him to the sidelines, where his coach was informed of his official ejection from the game.

With assistance from the trainer and a couple of teammates, Hunsinger slowly got to his feet. As he was assisted from the field, the volume of cheers exceeded that which had greeted his catch.

“Look at that! Did you see that? That bastard oughta be thrown out of football. The commissioner is going to hear from me tomorrow!” Jay Galloway, the Cougars’ owner, was furious.

He was in the owner’s box, his face almost pressed against the pane of the permanently sealed window that gave a panoramic view of the stadium. In the booth with him were his wife, Marjorie; the team’s general manager, Dave Whitman; his wife, Kate; and several of Michigan’s movers and shakers.

A subtle smile played at Marjorie Galloway’s lips. The smile had been there from the moment of Hunsinger’s injury. She hid it by cupping a hand over her mouth, as if in horror or concern.

“Somebody do that to a dog anywhere in town and the cops’d have the guy in jail before he knew what hit him. That’s a million-dollar property that bastard was pounding on!” Galloway lit another Camel. His previous cigarette was only half smoked. He noticed it when he placed the newly lit cigarette in the ashtray. He snuffed the smaller butt.

Dave Whitman noticed the double-cigarette incident. From long association with Galloway, Whitman recognized the signs. Ordinarily a decent fellow, Galloway could and frequently did present a Mr. Hyde side when it came to his team.

A big part of the problem was that Galloway’s team was also his bread and butter. Unlike owners of other pro football franchises, Galloway was not enormously wealthy from independent enterprises. Every nickel he paid in rentals, advertising, salaries came out of his pocket. That alone made him one of the testiest owners with whom to do business.

It had been a near miracle that he’d been able to secure this franchise. He had put together a consortium of wealthy local merchants and businessmen, convincing them that they would find both himself and the franchise profitable investments. Both of which had proved true. Then, one by one, he had bought them out until now he was sole owner.

But the crown rested uneasily on his head. Now there was no one to fall back upon. From time to time, frankly, it frightened him. But he held on to his expensive trinket. Among the goals Galloway set for himself, his ultimate goal was to be Somebody. The Cougars were his vehicle toward that goal.

Basically, Galloway was an insecure man. And insecure people can be trouble.

It was typical of him to think of one of his players as a property. To Galloway, the players, trainers, and coaches represented investments and expenditures. And Hunsinger was one of his most expensive investments. Hunsinger’s salary was second only to Bobby Cobb’s.

It was not all that common that a tight end be paid so much. But Hank Hunsinger was as vicious at the bargaining table as he was at virtually everything else in his life. He had come to the Cougars from the University of Michigan, where he had been Big Man on Campus, accumulated an abundance of press clippings, made a national name for himself, and become extremely popular locally; hordes of Michigan fans showed up at the Silverdome just to catch the Hun’s act.

However, instead of being on the field performing for the customers, he was now on the bench and injured. And no one knew just how injured he was.

Jay Galloway trained his binoculars on the activity surrounding Hunsinger on the sidelines. As he pressed the glasses to his face with his left hand, his right hand was shaking so badly that cigarette ashes fell to the floor.

Dave Whitman noted the trembling right hand and shook his head. Impossible, Whitman decided, for the man to slow down enough to smell the flowers.

“Hurt?” Jack Brown, the Cougars trainer, pressed a few likely spots on Hunsinger’s back where fresh discoloration promised more hematomas. Not all that many bruise-free areas remained on the Hun’s body.

Hunsinger winced. “Congratulations, Brownie; you found ’em. Now go play with your tape and leave me the hell alone!"

Brown knew well that he was not alone as a target of Hunsinger’s verbal abuse. Undaunted, the trainer raised Hunsinger’s jersey and sprayed ethyl chloride lightly over the newly injured areas.

He should have expected it, but the freezing mist against his back startled Hunsinger. “Goddamn it all to hell, Brownie, I told you to leave me the hell alone!"

Brown shrugged and sat down next to Hunsinger. Acrimonious as he was, Hunsinger had been injured. And it was the trainer’s responsibility, short of involving the team doctor, to make a judgment on whether the player could return to the game or whether he was done for the day. He would watch Hunsinger closely for any sign of further distress.

Meanwhile, on the field, the Cougars were not faring well.

Cobb’s pass to Hunsinger had advanced the ball to the Towers’ 35-yard line. But the next two running plays had netted only a yard. At third down with a long nine yards to go, it was an obvious passing situation. If that failed, it was field-goal time.

Niall Murray, the soccer-style kicker imported from Ireland, sat down on the other side of Hunsinger. Murray, like many of the rookies and younger players, looked up to Hunsinger as the old pro who had paid his dues and had amassed experience in this game.

“Well, then, man. .” Since the Hun continued watching the action on the field, Murray found himself talking to Hunsinger’s profile. “It looks as if they’ll be callin’ on me soon, don’t you t’ink?”

Hunsinger, without turning his head, nodded.

“I’ve been tryin’ to figure it, Hun. Near as I can tell, the way it lines up right now, I’ll be goin’ to be kickin’ from about the 42-yard line. “ He paused to see if there was any objection to his calculus thus far, “That means a field goal of over fifty yards.”

Hunsinger nodded again.

“Well, then, that’s stretchin’ my limits a bit, don’t ya know.” He paused again. “Hun, I’m a bit nervous about that." He paused once more. “Hun, d’ya have any words for me at all?” As some indication of the straits in which he found himself, Murray extended a hand before Hunsinger. The hand trembled slightly.

Hunsinger took note of the tremor. “Think,” he prescribed, "of something tranquil. A rural scene in Ireland.”

Murray’s brow furrowed. He returned in memory to cherished vistas in counties Sligo, Mayo, Galway. Searching for something tranquil, he could think of nothing to surpass a waterfall he had once spent several hours contemplating. That would be Slaughan Glen in County Tyrone. In the North.

The very thought of the North and its troubles was disquieting.

“Hun, it’s not workin’.”

Hunsinger kept his eyes on the field of play. Clearly, this was an annoyance. “Try thinking of how relaxed you are just before going to sleep.”

That would not work; Murray knew before trying. From childhood on, he’d always had trouble falling asleep. If he now dwelt on this painful process, he knew he would become even more unsettled.

“No, Hun. That’ll not do it at all."

“Okay,” Hunsinger would turn to the ultimate weapon. “Think about the best lay you ever had."

First, Murray had to translate. He knew English well enough, of course. After all, hadn’t it been said for centuries that the best English in the world was spoken in Dublin? But sometimes he had problems with American colloquialisms. Now he had to ponder the sexual connotation of the verb to lay.

Well, now, this would not be difficult; he’d never had intercourse with anyone but his wife. But which of their many couplings had been best?

Certainly not their wedding night. That had been a disaster. But shortly thereafter, they’d got the hang of it. And it just kept getting better as time passed. So, it was reasonable to consider the most recent bit of lovemaking just the other night.

Murray became almost lost in the most pleasant memory. As his mind became more and more absorbed in the lingering, unhurried love play leading to simultaneous fulfillment, a warm serenity glowed in his loins and suffused his entire body, indeed his entire personality.

Trainer Jack Brown, who had taken a more than casual interest in this process, noticed the tremor leave Murray’s hands, and noted the bemused smile on his face, indicating the kicker was physically many miles removed from the game.

Damn! thought Brown, if that isn’t about the best demonstration of Transcendental Meditation I’ve seen.

“Incomplete pass,” the play-by-play man shouted needlessly into his microphone. His viewers had seen for themselves. “Eddie, the Cougars needed that one. That brings up fourth and long. Now we’ll have to see what Coach Bradford will do. Will he punt and try for the corner? Or will he try for a field goal? The next few seconds will tell.”

“That’s right, Lou.” The color man watching his monitor began analyzing the previous play, being shown to the TV audience in all the glory of instant replay and stop-action. “That was a simple ‘flag’ pattern with a three-step fake inside. See, now we’re isolating on Kit Hoffer, the tight end who replaced the injured Hunsinger.

“See, he leaves the scrimmage line-and right there he gets bumped by the linebacker. That’s okay; that’s within the first five yards. Now he’s heading downfield. See, now the strong safety picks up the coverage. Now watch Hoffer plant that right foot and break to his left. The safety buys the fake and heads inside. One, two, three steps. Then Hoffer cuts toward the flag. And see, the pass is thrown behind him.

“Lou, I think it’s just that Cobb hasn’t had enough work with Hoffer. Bobby knows Hunsinger’s every move, when he’s likely to cut, and most important, how fast he can run. It’s tough on Hoffer having to play behind an old pro like the Hun, who’s out there on almost every offensive play. But this young man has got the goods. On that last play, he just outran the ball. Cobb didn’t allow for Hoffer’s speed. For a big guy, he sure can move. But you just wait. Once the Hun hangs ’em up for good, this young Kit Hoffer is going to be one of the great ones. He’s got all the tools and he comes to play.”

“Okay, Eddie. Now back to the live action. Coach Bradford has decided to go for a field goal. But I don’t know: That’s gotta be a try of about fifty-two yards. Cobb is kneeling just at the 42-yard line. The Towers are jumping around, trying to distract Niall Murray, the Sligo Sidewinder. But Murray looks pretty cool and collected. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kicker look that calm. He’s just standing perfectly still, not flexing his arms or anything.

“There’s the snap! Murray moves into the ball. It’s up. It looks true. Has it got the distance? Yes! Yes, it’s just over the crossbar. It’s good! A 52-yarder! How about that!”

“That’s right, Lou. A 52-yarder. Not a record, but certainly something to write home about. You can see in this isolated replay. The kicker is waiting for the snap of the ball. That’s not a still picture, folks; it’s just as Lou described: Murray standing just like a statue. There, now: Cobb places the ball; Murray moves into it. Cobb and Murray are following the flight of the ball. Now they know it’s good. See Cobb. He’s jumping up and down. But look at Murray. He’s just standing there with a smile on his face. Very strange.”

“Right, Eddie. Strange. Maybe that’s the way they do things in Ireland.

“Well, that makes the score Cougars 34, Towers 32. The Cougars went from a one-point deficit to a two-point advantage. But you can see why Coach Bradford would have preferred a touchdown. Now the Cougars can be beaten by a Chicago field goal. So, that’s it: 34–32, Cougars up with 3:28 to go in the game. And we’ll be right back after these commercial messages.”

On the floor of the Silverdome, Niall Murray was teeing up for a kickoff, after the TV and radio commercials, of course. He had come out of his quasi-trancelike state and began to realize what he had accomplished. Wasn’t that fine, then: a 52-yard field goal! He’d have to explain the significance of that to his wife, Moira, tonight. From time to time, she would say, “What you do is fine and all. . but just what is it exactly that you do then?”

Moira was a fine lass, but she had an amazingly difficult time comprehending some of the basics of football.

Now that Moira had come to mind, it was only natural that Murray should return to the pleasurable recollections that had so relaxed him before the field goal.

He was startled, then, by the referee’s whistle. It took him an extra moment to remember that he was expected to do something. Kick the ball.

With a pleasant smile playing about his lips, Murray kicked off. The ball soared high and deep to the other end of the field.

Ordinarily, play immediately after a kickoff actively involves twenty-one of the twenty-two players on the field. Usually, the kicker is exempt from any further contact. And mercifully so; most modern kickers are veterans of the game of soccer, not football. Generally, they are much smaller than the standard-size football player. And more fragile. They are expected to pursue and attempt to tackle a ball carrier only under conditions that would anticipate suicide.

It was odd, then, that Niall Murray, still wearing a silly grin, continued down the field after having kicked off. He wandered into the path of a burly lineman, who, having nothing better to do, flattened him.

Murray was the recipient of a swinging elbow that caught him across his face mask. He went down like a felled tree. The back of his helmet bounced once off the hard artificial turf before coming to rest. Then, the entire body of Niall Murray came to rest.

The Cougars’ trainer and his assistant rushed to the side of the fallen warrior.

Murray appeared to be unconscious. Still the smile remained.

Before calling for the gurney, Brown tried smelling salts. Murray moved his head, at first tentatively. He opened his eyes. The smile disappeared.

“What’s your name?” Brown asked.

“Uh. . Murray. . Niall Murray.”

“What should happen in Ireland?”

“The Brits should get out.”

“He’s okay. Let’s see if we can get him on his feet. It’s a lucky thing he was wearing that cage or his face really would look like the map of Ireland.” Brown assisted Murray to his feet.

The crowd applauded appropriately. Obviously, they appreciated anyone’s unexpected recovery.

“Shit! Look at that! There goes my kicker!” Jay Galloway had just resumed his seat for the kickoff. Now he was back on his feet. “Maybe they ought to outlaw the whole goddamned Chicago team."

“That’s the bad news, Jay,” said Dave Whitman. “The good news just came up from the bench: Hunsinger seems to be okay now."

But Galloway was inconsolable. “What happens if we need another field goal? There isn’t another player outside of the Mick who’s that accurate.”

“There’s another bit of good news, Jay: They just announced today’s attendance-80,902, SRO.”

In spite of himself, a smile appeared briefly. “Yeah, but where they gonna be next week if we can’t field our best men?”

Whitman eased back onto his upholstered stool and sipped his Scotch-and-soda. It had crossed his mind many times that joining Jay Galloway in this enterprise might not have been an entirely smart idea. But it had become a venture to which he had grown increasingly more committed.

Galloway and Whitman had grown up together in Minneapolis, attended the same public schools, primary and secondary, followed by the University of Minnesota. But when they began their business careers, their paths diverged. Galloway tried various entrepreneurial roles with varying degrees of moderate success. Whitman started with International Multifoods and attained a responsible position in public relations before Galloway had lured him away.

Galloway had a burning ambition to be Somebody. Whitman was very much more the hard-headed businessman. Secretly, he planned to take over ownership of the Cougars some day and make the team into the franchise he knew it could be.

On the field, the Towers had used up little more than a minute’s playing time in moving the ball from their 25-yard line to their 42, where their drive, stalled. They were forced to punt to the Cougars, whose punt-return specialist caught the ball at his 10-yard line and advanced it to his 35. At that point, two minutes remained in the game. The automatic timeout was called as the two-minute notice was given to both teams.

The Cougars’ offensive team began to gather on the field. Kit Hoffer, on the assumption that Hunsinger was still disabled, trotted onto the field, pulling on his headgear.

Near the Cougars’ bench, Hunsinger approached Coach Bradford. “I can play,” Hunsinger informed him.

Bradford wordlessly looked over his shoulder at the trainer. Brown, who had expected the query, nodded. Bradford looked back at Hunsinger and nodded.

Hunsinger trotted out to where his teammates had loosely gathered. The crowd, noting his reentry to the game, cheered loudly.

“Get outta here, kid,” Hunsinger said to Hoffer, “the Man’s arrived.”

Disappointed at not being allowed to continue, and angry at the cavalier manner in which he’d been dismissed, Hoffer left the field red-faced.

Orders from the Cougars’ coaching staff to Bobby Cobb were to play conservatively, chancing as little as possible. If the Cougars could grind out a couple of first downs, using up the remaining two minutes, they would be two-point victors.

The strategy reflected neither Cobb’s style nor his liking. He had experienced too many stupid mistakes happening with this type of thinking. The Towers would guess that the Cougars would be playing close-to-the-vest football. So they would bunch up, “dogging” and shooting the gap, trying to stop the run, and trying to strip the ball from the carrier. But orders were orders.

Two consecutive running plays gained four yards. It was third down and six yards to go for a first down-the classic third and long.

A guard brought the next play in.

Cobb slid into the huddle. “Okay, gentlemen, we’d better make this one work or we may be in a lot of trouble. I-formation! Left! Twenty-five! On two! Break!”

The play called for the halfback to run off left tackle. Hunsinger was to block the linebacker.

They settled at the line of scrimmage. Cobb crouched low, hands tucked under the center’s crotch. He viewed the defensive formation and decided this play had two chances to work: very little and none.

“Three!”

It was a different snap count than he’d given in the huddle. He was changing the play. This would be an audible. He had each teammate’s undivided attention. In a split second, a number would give each of them an entirely different task to perform and in yet another split second they would have to adjust to this new play.

“Ninety-two!”

It had changed from a running play to a play-action pass. The offensive linemen would appear to be blocking for a running play by pulling, and giving the appearance of leading a sweep around end. Cobb would fake a handoff to the fullback, who would continue, emptyhanded, through the line. If the linebackers bought it, they would be pulled into the line of scrimmage, thus opening up some of the short zones.

“Three! Ninety-two! Hut! Hut!”

The ball was centered; everyone was galvanized.

In the “pit,” bodies crashed in a heated push-pull contest. The fake sweep began to the left. As Cobb retreated, he pretended to tuck the ball into the fullback’s gut. The linebackers fell for it and crashed into the line. Hunsinger found the vacated zone.

Cobb retreated only four steps, then quickly released the ball. It was a perfect pass. Hunsinger gathered it in and broke straight for the goal line. However, before he could get completely clear, the fleet free safety nailed him with a desperation shoestring tackle.

And then the fun began.

“Boy!” exclaimed the TV play-by-play man, “that just goes to show you what experience will do for you, Eddie. Hunsinger gathered that pass in and immediately headed upfield. Like a horse heading for the stable, he knew where that first-down yardage was, and went for it.”

“He certainly did, Lou. We’ll see it on the instant replay-wait a minute. Something’s happening on the field. Hunsinger did something after the whistle blew. I think he kicked the defensive player who tackled him. Now, a big lineman from Chicago-I can’t get his number yet-but that Chicago lineman jumped on Hunsinger and began punching him. Now they’re rolling around on the turf- they’re really laying into each other.”

“They sure are, Eddie. The officials are trying to separate them and, at the same time, keep the other players out of this scrap. You hate to see a game end like this. .”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Grace Hunsinger shook her head as she peered at her large-screen color console. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Now, that’s the second bit of trouble Henry’s been involved in this afternoon. I don’t know what gets into that boy.”

“What’s that?” Mary Frances Quinn, Mrs. Hunsinger’s companion, woke with a start from her nap.

“It’s Henry again, Mary Frances.”

“What’s he done?”

“Gotten into another fight.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Quinn sighed. “Well, I suppose boys will be boys.”

“You know, Mary Frances, I used to worry a lot about Henry when he was growing up. He had a habit of going about with undesirable companions. God knows, my dear husband-God rest him-was not wealthy, though he left us as well as he could.”

“I know.”

“And we tried to send Henry to good schools. I just don’t know what gets into that young man."

“Now, Grace. .” Mrs. Quinn adjusted her recliner chair into the upright position. “You’re just not feeling well this afternoon. You know Henry is a good boy. He’s certainly been good to you. And he’s in an honest profession. At least there’s nothing criminal about it. And all of the papers say that he’s one of the best players in the league. He’s earning all that money, and he will surely be able to secure a good position for himself after his playing days are over. . what with the name he’s made for himself.

“Come on, now. All will be well. We know that everything is in the hands of God. And that God is good.”

Mrs. Hunsinger looked at her companion sharply. “Yes. I suppose that’s true. Oh, but look.” She gestured at the TV screen. “What’s going on now?”

“Why, it looks like that man with the striped shirt is escorting Henry over to-what do you call it? — the sidelines. You don’t suppose Henry is hurt, do you?”

Mrs. Hunsinger leaned forward and stared intently at the screen.

“He’s outta there! Done for the day!” the referee declared to Coach Bradford.

“Now, wait a minute, Red. My boy could have been provoked, you know.”

The referee couldn’t suppress a grin. “Coach, believe me, the Hun started it. And the other guy finished it. They’re both out of the game. That’s it; they’re outta there." The referee trotted back to the field of play.

“Brilliant, Hun.” Bradford looked disgustedly at his player. “A fine lot of good you’re doing the team on the bench."

“Screw the team!”

Blood gorged Bradford’s face and neck, “I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning.” He had never been closer to striking one of his players.

“Well, Eddie, with the Hun out of the game and the two unnecessary-roughness penalties offsetting each other, the ball remains on Chicago’s 49-yard line, where it will be a first down for the Cougars. And there’s just a minute, twenty-five seconds to go.”

“That’s right, Lou. Coach Bradford has established his pattern now in these closing seconds. He’ll keep it on the ground, hoping to grind out the yards, maintain possession of the ball, and hang on to win this one.”

“Right you are, Eddie. Now, back to live action. The Cougars break their huddle and come out in an I-formation. The Towers have a five-man defensive line with everybody bunched up close. Boy, a pass just now would sure surprise them! But, it’s not. Cobb takes the ball and hands off to his fullback, who goes over right tackle and- hold it: There’s a fumble, there’s a fumble! The Towers are claiming they’ve recovered it. And the referee agrees with them. The Towers have the ball on their own 46-yard line!”

“Well, this is just the break they’ve been looking for, Lou. Remember, all they need is a field goal to win."

“That’s right, Eddie. And Chicago quickly breaks out of their huddle. They line up in a spread formation. The Cougars have added a fifth defensive back, so they are in the nickel defense with three men rushing. Morand takes the ball and fades to pass. He sets up in the pocket. Now he moves up. He spots his wide receiver, Finnegan, in right flat. Finnegan’s got it and he steps out of bounds, killing the clock. The head linesman places the ball at the Cougar 47. A pickup of eight yards. It’ll be a second and two for a first down and just fifty-five seconds in the game.

“Now Chicago breaks from its huddle again and lines up in the shotgun formation, with Finnegan split to the right, Thomas to the left. The ball is centered back to Morand, who scans the field as the pass patterns begin to develop. Robinson, the big tight end, is wide open over the middle. Morand sees him and hits him. Robinson avoids one, two, tacklers and wisely steps out of bounds, again killing the clock.”

“The Towers are playing heads-up ball. They’ve got a first down now at the Cougars 30, with just forty seconds to go. They’re already within Tom McAnoy’s field-goal range, but they’d like to get a bit closer. They’ve got time for two, maybe three more plays, and that’ll be it. My guess is that they’ll keep it in the air. Though they could run it with all of their timeouts left. Now, back to Lou and the next play."

“Right you are, Eddie. Okay. Chicago comes out of the huddle. They’re in a spread formation again. They might just try one in the end zone. There’s the snap. Morand fades back and-oh! — it’s a draw to the fullback, Markham. The Cougars are really caught looking. Markham gets by the line of scrimmage and stiffarms a linebacker. Now the cornerback and strong safety have him hemmed in. Markham reverses his field and picks up a couple of blockers on the way. Now he breaks downfield again. Two good blocks and he’s got only one man to beat. He’s at the 25, the 20-and Conor Bannan, the free safety, nails him with a sure, solid tackle at the knees. Markham immediately signals for a timeout, with just three seconds left and the ball at the Cougar 17. Wow, what a run!”

“What a run, indeed, Lou. While Markham almost ran the Towers right out of time, he accomplished what he set out to do. He’s got the ball in easy field-goal range. Of course, it’s a bit much to say that any field goal is easy when the outcome of the game depends on it. And now we are down to the last play of the game. Talk about your cliffhanger, this is it. And here comes Tom McAnoy trotting onto the field. Lou, in his long career, this guy has put many a foot into many a football.”

“That’s certainly right, Eddie. But none of them-not all his field goals or extra points-was ever more vital than the one coming up. The game hinges on his next kick, and even with all his experience, he must be feeling the pressure.

“Well, here it comes. The two teams line up. The Cougars’ defensive backs are charging around, jumping up and down, trying to distract the kicker. The fans are screaming their heads off. It’s bedlam. I don’t know if the players on the field will be able to hear the signals. But, okay, here we go. Morand is kneeling on the 24. McAnoy is standing perfectly still, his arm swinging gently back and forth, establishing his rhythm. Hold on, this is it! There’s the snap! Morand spots the ball. McAnoy moves into it. It’s up-and right through the middle of the uprights! The back judge and the field judge have their arms raised. It’s good. No flags are down. And time has run out. . time has run out for the Cougars this day."

“Lou, the Towers are delirious over their 35–34 victory. But the Cougars are a discouraged bunch of athletes. Both teams are headed down the tunnel to their respective locker rooms. And the fans-I think the fans are in a state of shock. A moment or two ago they were raucous and confident, but now they can’t believe their eyes. I wouldn’t say you could hear a pin drop in this gigantic stadium, but they’re sure a lot quieter than they were."

“Right, Eddie. And we’ll be back to wrap things up right after these commercial messages."

The door to the Cougars’ locker room was closed to everyone save players, coaches, trainers, administrative staff, and, of course, the owner.

In the breezy tunnel separating the home and visiting teams’ locker rooms, and leading into the stadium in one direction and out to the parking lot in the other, stood the ladies and gentlemen of the media.

The members of the Chicago-based media, along with some wire-service personnel and a few Detroit newspaper people, were in the Towers’ locker room. Chicago had no reason to embargo the media. The Towers were winners, at least on this Sunday afternoon, and they were in an ebullient and communicative mood.

The Detroit television people were clustered outside the Cougars’ door. They were becoming more restive by the moment. Along with film clips of the game, which would be easy enough to come by, the TV reporters were expected to bring in hard-hitting, insightful, exclusive, controversial, and perhaps damning interviews. But between the reporters and those interviews was a locked door.

“What do you suppose is going on in there?” asked one TV cameraman of another.

“Whatever it is, if we put it on the eleven o’clock news, we’ll have to precede it with one of those warnings, ‘Parental discretion advised.’”

“Yeah, ‘Parental discretion advised’-but not expected.”

“Let’s just say that in this case, the boys were not in a jocular mood in the locker room after the game.”

The two chuckled quietly. Cameramen could be jovial and laid-back. They were not the ones who, at approximately eleven-fifteen tonight on all three network-affiliated stations, would be seen, on tape, asking questions of tired, angry, and very large athletes.

At long last, the door was opened and, like the Israelites spilling through the dry bed of the parted waters of the Red Sea, the reporters entered the Cougars’ dressing room.

Having been ejected from the game, Hank Hunsinger was a trifle ahead of his colleagues in the transformation to civilian life. He had showered and, now clad only in boxer shorts, was seated before his locker. He was a man of compulsive ritual. Many a reporter had become nearly mesmerized during an interview with the Hun, simply from watching his meticulous, unchanging rituals-clothes or uniform always donned in the same order, pads in a preordained sequence, each shoelace lying flat against the shoe, tape removed in exactly the same way, always.

Most of the initial attention was focused on Hunsinger, the only Cougar ejected from a game so far this season. Reporters crowded around his open wire locker and the stool on which he sat. The TV sungun cast its unreal illumination in the area; questions came seemingly from everywhere.

Hunsinger-like those of his fellow players experienced in being interviewed-was cautious in his statements. Television, with its relentless closeups, could reveal not only answers and comments, but also the interviewee’s attitudes, whether he was serious about a statement, or lying. The print media had three options: They could quote correctly, and in context. Or they could misquote. Or they could quote correctly, but out of context.

It was akin to Woody Hayes’ opinion of the possibilities of the forward pass: It could be either complete, incomplete, or intercepted. In both the interview situation and the forward pass, two of the three outcomes were bad. But there were times when there seemed no alternative to talking.

“How about it, Hun, did you get hurt out there today?”

“Football’s a rough game.” Hunsinger mopped a perspiring brow.

“Come on, Hun, you were mixed up in two fights this afternoon. That’s extracurricular rough. You hurt?”

“You wanna see the bruises?”

“It wouldn’t help; I couldn’t tell the new ones from the old ones."

“What we wanna know, Hun,” interjected another reporter, “is, are you gonna be ready for next week’s game?”

“Of course. You know what they say: You can’t make the club from the tub.”

“You took a real beating out there today, Hun. Make you think about hangin’ ‘em up? Think this might be your last season?”

“Nah.” Hunsinger very carefully adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “I’ll know when the end’s in sight. I got some good years left. Besides, the club is depending on me."

Several reporters choked back guffaws. It was common knowledge that Hunsinger, probably more than any other player in the league, ranked the welfare of his team rather low on his list of priorities, a list that had himself at the pinnacle.

In another part of the room.

“Was that the longest field goal you ever kicked, Niall?”

“It was.” Arra, he thought, they could’ve looked it up.

“And your biggest thrill?”

“Well, now, I don’t know about that. I suppose it would be pretty close.” Murray paused in toweling off his back. “Actually, there was that time I scored the winning goal, as well."

“Winning goal?”

“Winning goal in a match with Cork a few years back."

“Cork? You talkin’ about soccer?”

“Indeed.”

“No, football. Your biggest thrill in football?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. By far.”

“Niall, you seemed especially calm out there today. How’d you manage to stay so calm?”

Murray’s blush almost seeped into his neck and shoulders. “Ah, now, that would be my utile secret. We’ve all got to have some secrets, don’tcha know.”

And in another part of the room.

“You don’t have many closed-door meetings, Coach. What did you tell the guys after the game?”

“Well, we pointed out a few of the mistakes we made today.” Bradford had closed the emotional door to his anger when he had ordered the opening of the locker-room door. Now he was putting on his drawling good-ol’-boy Texas charm. “Don’t want the boys to ferget. Strike while the iron’s hot, and all that.”

“Was there any one play or player that turned the game around, Coach?” The obvious target of the question was the fullback and his fumble that had given Chicago the ball for its final, victorious drive.

“No. Now I know whatcher drivin’ at. But we’re a team. We’re a family. We win together. And we lost together. No one player’s more responsible than anyone else for either outcome.”

The reporters all knew that there was one glaring exception to the coach’s claim of togetherness philosophy.

“Coach, if you had it to do over, would you play that last series as conservatively as you did?”

“Fellas, if I ’llowed myself to second-guess myself, I’da strung myself up by the neck until dead long ago.

“No, that was the way to play it. Put the ball up and you’re just beggin’ for an intercept. You keep it on the ground. You don’t look for the fumble. I reckon we’ll be doin’ some work on ball-handlin’ this week.”

And in still another part of the room.

“What’s this loss do to the Cougars’ season, Mr. Galloway?”

“It’s not the end of the line. Don’t bury us too soon, fellas.”

The owner prized all media coverage. But he had a special place in his heart for television. Not all that many people read newspapers, and radio had a comparatively small sports audience. But everybody watched television. Every time he was on, friends went out of their way to mention they had caught him on the tube. It was an important way of his becoming Somebody.

“But it evens your season at five and five-and now Chicago is one up on you.”

“Let’s just not call the season over when we’ve got eight big games to go. And one more with Chicago. I’m confident at this point that we’ll make the playoffs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Galloway.” The TV lights were extinguished; the crew headed in another direction to interview someone else.

Galloway felt an impulse to call them back. They hadn’t talked to him nearly long enough. He had lots more to say. He would wait right where he was in hopes another crew would set up here and ask him some questions-interesting ones for a change.

And in another part of the room.

“How did you feel in that last series, Bobby, keeping the ball on the ground? That’s not the Bobby Cobb style.”

“Look, they pay me pretty good to toss the ball around. For the same amount of money, I’d be glad to throw in a little thinking. But, as it stands, all they want is a strong right arm and a loud voice. You guys want to talk strategy, go see the coaches.”

“You missed on that big third-down pass to Hoffer, Bobby. What went wrong?”

“Just a matter of timing.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, my man. He’s a rookie, and he’s faster than the average tight end. We haven’t had a chance to work much together yet. But give us a chance. He’s got all the tools. He could be our next pheenom.”

“Playing behind Hunsinger?”

“The Hun can’t play forever.”

“The Hun’s got a no-cut contract."

“Not with Father Time he doesn’t.”

“Seriously, Bobby; how’s Hoffer going to break into the lineup and get regular work, let alone a starting position, as long as the Hun is around?”

“You know, it’s like that old song: Old tight ends never die; they just fade away.”

“That’s soldiers.”

“Whatever.”

“Now, you know that Hunsinger is, in a manner of speaking, the franchise, Bobby. As long as he’s on the team, Coach Bradford’s got to play him. I mean, everybody knows the coach is under orders from Galloway to play the Hun. If the Hun doesn’t play, the Silverdome isn’t filled. And that hits Galloway in his most sensitive area, the wallet.”

“Now you’re talkin’ about the Man and the Man. And both of ’em are right in this room right now. I suggest you gentlemen go right over and ask them your questions.”

Most of the reporters did just that, leaving Cobb to peel off a perspiration-soaked jersey. Generally, he was among the last to leave the locker room.

Elsewhere in the room.

Kit Hoffer sat alone.

His locker was only one removed from Hank Hunsinger’s. It might as well have been a mile. No sungun had illuminated Hoffer’s space. No strobe lights had flashed to blind him briefly. No reporters had asked him a single question. No coaches had said anything to him. He sometimes thought Jay Galloway knew him only because his paycheck helped to drain the owner’s finite resources.

Hoffer’s uniform, clean and dry aside from some nervous perspiration, hung from its hook. He shrugged out of his athletic supporter. It fell to his ankles. He removed his left foot and, in a well-practiced move, propelled the strap into his locker. Naked, he stepped into the shower area.

There was little banter from the players already in various stages of showering. Even if some, like Hoffer, had been only brief participants in the game and felt like engaging in some horseplay, they would display only somberness. The coaches, especially Bradford, would appreciate the funereal atmosphere a loss should engender.

Hoffer stepped into the steamy, powerful stream of water. It pounded through his hair and into his face, and flowed down his body. It felt good, as hot showers do, but there was nothing special about it. From the days when he was a little kid playing football in the Catholic Youth Organization, through high school and college, he’d taken his lumps in games. And always in the shower he had assessed the damage the foregoing game had caused. Athletes generally experience an automatic sort of self-hypnosis during competition-unless the injury is very serious. Then, of course, they know immediately they’re in trouble. But the usual bruises and nicks would present themselves to be recognized only as the soothing hot water found them.

It had been a very long time since Hoffer had gone through such an accounting. Too long. He had not been noteworthily hurt since training camp. Which spoke volumes about his playing time during the succeeding games.

As far as his pro career was concerned, if Hoffer had not had bad luck he would not have had any luck at all. Twice he had been cut from teams before the season began. That both cuts had occurred in the final days of training camp was little consolation. But the Turk had visited him twice. And both times he was cut not because he was less talented than his competition for the position. No, the first time, his mother’s death had cost him a week of training-camp time. This, coupled with the fact that his competition had no-cut contracts and the head coach had no alternative but to retain the players whose contracts bound them to the team. The second time it was because he had been injured.

This year had been different only to the extent that while Hunsinger had the precious no-cut contract, no other lineman had one. So Coach Bradford, knowing the Hun was nearing the end of his career, and aware of Hoffer’s great natural talent, had kept him on the team.

But Hoffer, though technically still a rookie, had already lost two years in a profession that was notoriously brief. And he was rapidly losing a third year. Nothing stood between him and fame-and with it, big money-but Hunsinger.

Hoffer stepped out of the shower’s steady stream. He felt physically fine-unfortunately. Well, he asked himself, how many bruises do you expect to pick up running just a couple of plays and carrying a record of no passes caught?

But he had plans. It would be different. And soon.

“Do you know how many nudes there are in here?”

Father Koesler smiled. He and Father McNiff had just been seated in the lounge area of the Machus Sly Fox, not far from the Silverdome. Koesler would have preferred the main restaurant area. But he knew they were lucky to be seated anywhere. The restaurant was packed, mostly with fans fresh from the game.

Of course Koesler had noticed the large painting of a voluptuous nude hanging in the lounge. It dominated the room. Being oblivious to the painting would require an ability to overlook the Grand Canyon.

But he had to smile at his friend, Pat McNiff, a typical Irish-American priest obsessed with all the evils that could be laid at the door of sex-read Women. As long as Koesler had known McNiff-and that had been forty-two of their fifty-five years of life-Pat had always been at least slightly more conservative than any of their confreres. McNiff usually caught up with the rest of the world, eventually; but he always arrived late, kicking and screaming.

“I give up.” Koesler had not tried counting. “How many nudes are there in this room?”

“Twenty!”

“Twenty?”

“Twenty!”

Until now, Koesler had been unaware of the exact nature of any of the other paintings hanging in the lounge. Alerted by McNiff s curiosity, Koesler began gazing more intently at the other paintings.

“Don’t look,” McNiff cautioned in a stage whisper. “People will notice you’re looking at naked women.” He always pronounced it “nekkid.”

“What do you mean, don’t look? You looked.”

“That’s different. I counted. You’re looking. There’s a difference.”

A waitress came to take their drink orders. She smiled at Koesler. She had seen him looking at the paintings. Koesler blushed.

McNiff ordered a martini; Koesler a bourbon manhattan. Neither priest smoked. Koesler had quit several years before. McNiff had surrendered the habit more recently, in deference to triple-bypass heart surgery.

“Don’t you recall the sage advice of our old speech professor. Father Sklarski?” Koesler reminded. “‘Look, but don’t touch.’”

“Sure. I just prefer the advice of our old rector, Henry Donnelly, ‘The look is father to the touch.’”

“You would.” Koesler began studying the menu. McNiff did the same.

“God, what a game!” McNiff commented from behind his menu.

“Huh? Oh, yeah … a real barnburner.”

They returned to their menus for several minutes until, simultaneously, they decided what they would order.

“If only the Cougars could have held onto the ball,” McNiff said, shaking his head. “We had that game in the bag.”

“It happens. Frankly, I thought we were playing too conservatively.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, what did you want them to do-pass?”

“Even though I know in advance that you are not going to like this very much. .yes.”

McNiff flung his napkin the short distance from the table to his lap. “Isn’t that just like you! Taking chances, not going with the percentages.”

“Sometimes the dramatic pays off. Don’t you remember how bunched up the Chicago team was the last time we had the ball, everybody crowding around the scrimmage line? They not only wanted to hit the ball carrier, they were up there to strip the ball away.”

“We’re pros. We’re paid to hold onto the ball.”

“But,” Koesler continued, “just think what might have happened if Cobb had faked a running play, then dropped back and passed.”

“It probably would have been intercepted.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It could have been a touchdown. Then the game would have been iced.”

“Or it would have been intercepted,” McNiff repeated.

“We lost the ball anyway.”

“That’s hindsight.”

“The Monday morning quarterback is always right.”

The waitress brought their drinks and took their dinner orders. Koesler ordered ground round, medium. The Machus Sly Fox would join the considerable list of restaurants about whose hamburgers Koesler could testify. McNiff would have scrod. Having so said, he glanced at Koesler. Silently, they shared the old joke that scrod was the pluperfect of screw. One of the consequences of their long and close friendship was the ability to communicate wordlessly.

Koesler cupped his manhattan in both hands, trying to help the ice melt. With his index finger, McNiff began stirring the ice in his martini. Just as he always did. Just as he always had, beginning with his very first taste of hard liquor. That epic event had taken place in Koesler’s suite at Sacred Heart. At the time, each had been a priest for ten years. And thereby hung the tale.

When Koesler and McNiff were ordained as priests, they and their entire class had taken-been forced to take-a pledge that for a period of ten years each would drink no alcoholic beverage more powerful than beer or wine. Such a pledge had been required of everyone ordained by Cardinal Edward Mooney.

Long before the ten years had passed, most of their classmates had rationalized their way around that pledge.

After eight years as a priest, Koesler had been appointed editor-in-chief of the archdiocesan newspaper, the Detroit Catholic. In his new role, Koesler found it necessary-or thought he did-to join his new colleagues in newsgathering, reporting, commenting, and drinking. If that was the bad news, the good news was that Koesler soon learned, through the school of honest mistakes, the necessity for moderation.

In any case, after the allotted ten-year period, McNiff presented himself to Koesler for his baptism in hard liquor. As was the case in all McNiff s more important endeavors, he imbued the occasion of his first serious drink with a melodramatic ambiance. One could, in one’s imagination, hear the roll of kettledrums.

McNiff, solemnly announcing that he was placing his immediate alcoholic future in Koesler’s trusted hands, warned, “You ain’t gonna play fool-around with me!”

Koesler assured him that no horseplay would mar this sacred moment. He repaired to his inner sanctum, where he prepared McNiff’s first drink. He dropped several ice cubes in the glass, poured in a few drops of Scotch, and filled the considerable remaining space with water. Technically, it was an alcoholic drink-the lightest McNiff would ever taste.

The presentation was suitably solemn. McNiff sat pondering his initiation into the realm of serious drinkers. He once again extracted Koesler’s assurance that there had been no hanky-panky in the drink’s preparation.

McNiff stirred the ice with his index finger; for years, he’d been watching confirmed drinkers do that. Finally, he took a sip, rolled it around his palate, swallowed it, looked up brightly, and commented, “That wasn’t so bad.”

Now, as Koesler watched McNiff stir his martini, a drink considerably stronger than his first, the long-ago scene flooded his memory.

“Besides,” McNiff picked up the thread of their conversation, “any offensive chance we had in that game was shot when Hunsinger got thrown out.”

“Oh, c’mon, Pat; the Cougars’ entire offense isn’t tied up in one player.”

McNiff nodded gravely. “Who does Bobby Cobb go to when we need the big play? Nine out of ten times,” he answered his own question, “it’s the Hun. If he’d been in the game at the end, I’d almost go along with your crazy pass play.”

Koesler smiled. “For you, that’s a real act of faith.”

“The Hun can get the job done. He’s been doing it for years. I don’t know what we’re going to do when the Hun hangs it up, as, inevitably, he must.”

“There’ll be someone else, Pat. There always is.”

“Who’s the Hun’s backup now?”

“Hoffer. Kit Hoffer.”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. What’d he do today? One incompleted pass!”

“The ball was thrown behind him! Good grief, what do you expect!”

“The Hun would have caught it.”

“Oh, sure, and then made it disappear.”

“You mark my words, Bobby: Kit Hoffer is never going to fill the Hun’s shoes. And remember, you heard it here.”

“Please, Pat,” Koesler said lightheartedly, “don’t be so hard on Hoffer. He’s one of my parishioners.”

There was that moment of genuine surprise that, from long association, Koesler recognized.

“I didn’t know that.”

“He moved in earlier this year, when he won a spot on the team.”

“No kidding! You got a pro football player in your parish!” McNiff s childlike awe was manifest.

“Not only is he a parishioner; he got me involved in a Bible discussion group.”

“A Bible discussion group! What happened? Did you find a spare moment that wasn’t filled in with meetings, Masses, or paperwork?”

The waitress brought their salad. Koesler noticed for the first time her clinging black dress with its fetching decolletage.

He ordered a bottle of Blue Nun. He had never taken enough interest in wines to become an oenologist. Someone had once mentioned that Blue Nun could accompany meat, fish-anything. Since he was having meat and McNiff fish, he quickly decided on the easiest solution. Besides, for two men in clerical suit and roman collar, Blue Nun had a nice ring.

He could not help reflecting on McNiff’ s questions. Koesler had always considered the priesthood a hard-working, busy profession. But how priestly occupation, as well as the world, had changed since they had been ordained in the mid-fifties! Then, Catholicism had found itself in the middle of a rhythm-only baby boom, campaigns against steady dating and a nefarious new publication called Playboy; the beginning of what might become either the newest or the ultimate technological explosion; and the last throes of a climate in which “Father” knew best.

How things had changed in thirty years!

Now, few could remember why steady dating had been a problem. Teenagers of the fifties had passed along that victory, as well as the triumph of their music, to their children. If steady dating was no longer a problem, undesired pregnancies, as well as abortions, the occasional consequences of steady dating, now were.

Catholics, by and large, had settled the issue of family planning to the satisfaction of their own “informed” consciences. Almost the only Catholics who still found a problem with most means of birth control were a few priests, many bishops, and, of course, the Pope. With almost all these gentlemen, the problem remained no more than theoretical.

Playboy, despite all Catholic efforts to have it removed from store shelves, was alive and well. The magazine had spawned so many imitators that had, in turn, so strained the limits of decency that the mother of them all was now quite bland by comparison.

Word processors were ubiquitous. Long ago, they had put the final nail into the coffin of that noble instrument, the Linotype machine. And now so many children had computers that these electronic wonders had replaced books, comic books, Big-Little Books, television, and, of course, outdoor exercise. The nuclear club had grown by the year. So much so that most first-world countries as well as some second-world countries had the capability to at least initiate the final holocaust. And in all this technological race there was no semblance of a contemplative balance. Reflecting on the present state of affairs, Koesler concluded that the seven last words of Western Civilization might well be, We Have the Technology to Do It.

Finally, as far as Koesler was concerned, the day of “Father”-in the sense of the good old parish priest-knowing best was irretrievably gone. There had been a time, spanning centuries, when the local priest had been the best-, sometimes the only, educated person in an area. The serfs worked while the monks studied. Ethnic immigrants to the USA clustered in their ghettos around their priests. Even in the 1950s, the parish priest had been the general practitioner who instructed, counseled, mediated, arbitrated, processed, and at times acted as an employment agent. Now, in this age of specialization, Catholics, like nearly everyone else, took their problems to specialists. The priest as amateur marriage counselor and seat-of-the-pants psychologist gave way to the professional.

Koesler stabbed a piece of lettuce and dabbed it in the house dressing. “As far as our time being overscheduled with meetings and Masses, I’ll give you that one. God knows, between parochial and diocesan meetings, there’s not an awful lot of time left over. And with the priest shortage, each of us has more Masses to say than ever before. We used to be able to at least take turns with all the weddings and funerals. Now, there’s hardly anyone around to take a turn.

“But the other thing you mentioned, Pat, the paperwork, the administration; I think we can get rid of a hell of a lot of that.”

Finished with his salad, McNiff cracked a bread stick. “Oh, you do, do you? Well, it’s not going to go away. So who’s going to do it? Who’s going to be around running the plant? Who’s on duty at the door? Who’s available in case of emergency? Who’s there when the parishioners need somebody?”

“The ultimate answer to most of those questions is, our business manager.”

“Business manager! You got a business manager? When did you get a business manager? Where did you get a business manager?”

“About, let’s see, maybe six months ago.” Koesler sensed McNiff s pique over not having been told. “It just never came up in any of our discussions.”

Koesler waited while this new information was assimilated. McNiff did not adjust easily to surprises. “It’s one of the men from the parish,” Koesler explained. “Ed Dorsey. I don’t think you’ve met him. A little while back, he retired from Ford. He was an executive there. It was his idea; he didn’t know what to do with all that time. He suggested he take over the office. So now, between him and our secretary, Mary O’Connor, the parish is doing better than ever. We give him a little stipend. It isn’t much. . but then, he doesn’t need much. We just wanted to show him our gratitude.”

McNiff was not at all sure he liked the idea. But then, he seldom liked any new idea at first blush. “But who takes care of the parishioners, their spiritual needs? Neither what’s-his-name-Mr. Dorsey-nor Mary can confer sacraments. Neither of them is trained to give spiritual advice.”

Koesler chuckled. “I didn’t abdicate, Pat; I just hired a business manager. I’m around much of the time, catching up on odds and ends, preparing homilies. . like that. And if I’m not at the rectory, I call in periodically to get any messages. And if someone wants to see me, he or she makes an appointment. Just as they do with their doctors, dentists, and lawyers.

“You ought to try it, Pat. In a parish like yours, you’ve got to have a number of retirees who could step in and help. They’d probably be grateful to be asked. It would free you up. All those Masses and meetings make demands on us that we can’t escape. But there’s no reason we have to add to the burnout the rest of the time.”

The waitress cleared away the salad dishes-my, that was a decolletage! — and served the pieces de resistance. McNiff was still digesting the business manager concept. “Okay, so the business manager relieves you from hours of answering phones, taking care of the books, managing the janitor, ordering supplies, making sure equipment is kept in good repair”-McNiff was unaware that he was enumerating tasks he would be relieved of if he had a business manager-“but what do you do with the time you’ve saved? What do you do, Father, all day … I mean, after you’ve said Mass?”

Koesler smiled. “There’s lots of things, Pat. I go back to the seminary, audit some classes. Bone up on some of the new theological trends. Spend a bit more time visiting ill parishioners. There’s a nursing home in our parish. I go there every once in a while. Those folks really need company. We’ve started a few prayer groups in the parish. And,” he paused and chuckled, “then there’s the Bible discussion group. . how’s the fish?”

In response, McNiff freed a segment of scrod, dabbed his fork in tartar sauce, speared the morsel, introduced it to his mouth, and chewed, a smile indicating approval. “How’s the hamburger?”

“Fine.”

“How does it stack up against the hamburger in every other eatery in town?”

Koesler grinned. Of course, being together as much as they were, McNiff would be well aware of Koesler’s penchant for ordering ground beef.

“I would say”-hamburger was one of the very few secular subjects about which Koesler felt qualified to expertly pontificate-“this is only slightly lower in quality than that of the London Chop House. And considerably lower in quantity than that of Carl’s Chop House, but then, Carl’s is especially appropriate just before or after famine.”

McNiff sipped his wine. “Nice.” He knew as little about wine as did Koesler. “So,” McNiff returned to the previous topic, “you joined a Bible discussion group. As the leader, I suppose.”

“Nope; just a member. Not even first among equals.”

“Not the leader! Then why in God’s green world would a priest join a Bible discussion group? The other members can’t all be priests!”

Koesler smiled as he swallowed a morsel of potato. “No, they are by no means priests. As a matter of fact, they all belong, in one way or another, to that team we saw get beat this afternoon. As for the reason I joined, it probably has a great deal to do with my inability to say no.

“All Cougars!” Three surprises in one mealtime were not good for McNiff s digestion. “Come on! Come on!” he gestured, fingers curling into his palm, “let it all out. You’ll feel better for it.”

Koesler touched a napkin to his lips. “As I said, my parishioner, Kit Hoffer, asked me to join this discussion group. I’m not sure why. But I’ve got a hunch he feels a little insecure in that group for one reason or another. So he wants his friendly parish priest along.”

“Well, one incredibility after another. Who’da thought that a pro football team would have a Bible group?”

“Not that surprising when you get into it. It’s kind of an offshoot of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. . you’ve heard of them?”

McNiff nodded.

“They sponsor prayer meetings, especially on the mornings of game days. It’s a very active, nondenominational organization. Actually, there are three discussion groups among the Cougar personnel. But ours-we call ourselves the God Squad-is the only one of the three that has allowed in an outsider.” He paused. “I guess that’s not so odd when you look at the disparity of our members.”

McNiff s expression invited amplification.

“There’s Kit-and me, of course-Jay Galloway, Dave Whitman, Jack Brown, Bobby Cobb, Niall Murray, and Hank Hunsinger.”

McNiff whistled softly. “What a conglomeration! The owner, the general manager, the trainer, a priest, and four players. How did-”

“I’m not sure. I think it was organized by Brown, the trainer. As for his motive, I can only guess at it. For one thing, I think he wanted to bring management and player personnel together. Management is certainly represented by Galloway and Whitman. But why he singled out the players he did is beyond me. Come to think of it, he may have invited other players to join. In any event, I assume he picked Cobb because he’s the hub of the team. And Hunsinger is the most notorious-or should I say he seems to be most in demand as far as publicity is concerned. Murray, as an immigrant and rookie, and Hoffer, as a rookie and backup to Hunsinger, would have to be about the least secure members of the team.” He stopped, then added, “I’m not claiming that these were Brownie’s reasons. But it’s the best scenario I can come up with.”

McNiff finished his entree and was sipping coffee while being very thoughtful. “The one who seems most to stick out like a sore thumb in that group is Hunsinger. If you can believe what you read in the papers, the guy’s an out-and-out hedonist. And, on top of it all, I think I read that he’s a Catholic!”

“Right on both counts. He is a Catholic, though certainly not a practicing one. He alone of the group always seems rather cynical. I’m only guessing, but I think the reason he’s in this bunch is that he wants as few things as possible going on behind his back. I think he knows he’s nearing the end of his career. So any meeting that Kit Hoffer attends, Hunsinger is probably sure to be found there.

“As for the rumors about his private life, I guess there must be some truth to them. Our meeting last Tuesday evening was at his apartment. Talk about a swinging bachelor’s pad! Until I saw the Hun’s place, I’d only read about things like that. Mirrors everywhere, especially in the bedroom-even a mirror on the ceiling above a bed that’s set up on a platform.”

“What for-the mirrors, I mean?”

“It enhances the sexual experience for some people. Or so I’ve been told.”

McNiff pondered that for a moment. “You met on Tuesday. Do you always meet on Tuesdays? Weekly? Monthly?”

“Weekly. And, yes, always on Tuesday evenings. Tuesday is sort of the football players’ day off. Next Tuesday we meet at Galloway’s home.”

“Any chance they would allow another member?” McNiff would be so proud to tell his parishioners that he was rubbing elbows with and dispensing theological opinions to real professional football players. “After all, if I get myself a business manager, I’ll have a little extra time on my hands.”

Inwardly, Koesler winced. He wished McNiff had not asked that favor. The group was already of a size where it was difficult for each one to fully express himself. And then, too, it was just not the sort of group wherein McNiff would be comfortable. With a lay bunch such as the God Squad, McNiff would inevitably attempt to enforce his interpretation of Scripture. Except that it wouldn’t work with these men.

“Tell you what, Pat. The first time there’s a chance to bring this up with the group, I’ll do it. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. I don’t get the impression they would let anybody else into the group. As it is, it’s a bit unwieldy. But I will give it a try.”

Koesler meant what he said. McNiff seemed satisfied with the promise.

Meal completed, they settled the bill, going Dutch.

McNiff had met Koesler in the restaurant parking lot before the game. Koesler had driven them to the stadium and back. They now parted, each taking his own car.

En route back to St. Anselm’s, Koesler thought about this odd Bible group. It certainly was composed of provocative but strikingly different personalities. He had gleaned a few new insights about the Bible from the group’s discussions. But, being a student of human behavior, he had learned a great deal more about the men who participated. Each was interesting in his own way. Especially interesting was their interrelationship.

It was Koesler’s understanding that Galloway and Whitman had grown up together in Minnesota. He would have expected theirs to be a more fraternal relationship. It didn’t appear to be. Neither seemed to hold the other in much respect.

Kit Hoffer was, of course, Koesler’s parishioner. But he was surprised at Hoffer’s attitude during the meetings. He seemed to resent Hunsinger, which, given Hoffer’s position on the bench behind the Hun, was natural enough. But Hoffer’s resentment appeared to spread to both Galloway and Whitman, as if it were their fault he spent so much time on the bench.

Niall Murray, fresh from Ireland, was obviously not entirely at ease in a strange land and in a mostly foreign game. Outside of kicking a ball, he knew little of the refinements of pro football. And he seemed somehow oddly dependent upon Hunsinger.

Just from his interpretations of Scripture, it was clear that Bobby Cobb needed to control any situation in which he found himself. A practical attitude for a quarterback. The fly in Cobb’s ointment was Hunsinger, who was not one to be heavily influenced, let alone controlled.

The trainer, Brownie, seemed the catalyst. Frequently, he bridged the gap between management and employees as well as between the players. This did not surprise Koesler, since it was Brownie who had initiated the group.

Finally, there was Hunsinger. One of the more interesting and flamboyant characters Koesler had ever met. It seemed likely that the Hun was doing his best to negate his Catholic upbringing. Koesler had known a few people like that, but none to compare with Hunsinger. He seemed the least likely of any of the members to be part of a Bible study group. Why had he accepted Brownie’s invitation to join?

As he had explained to McNiff, Koesler believed that the Hun realized he was nearing the end of his physical ability to compete and couldn’t afford to have anything going on behind his back. Especially anything that he might even remotely construe as potentially threatening to his position. Particularly with a group that included his employers, his quarterback, and his probable replacement. In this, the Hun resembled the slow-witted person whose eyes are in constant motion because he cannot afford to miss anything.

If there was a common denominator to this group, it was that the feelings of everyone, with perhaps the exception of Brownie, toward the Hun ranged from dislike to contempt. This negative atmosphere bothered Koesler greatly. He had the premonition that something evil would come of it.

The black Continental glided almost silently through the dark, narrow maze of streets. It was almost as if whoever had laid out the city of Grosse Pointe Farms had wanted to make it difficult for a stranger to find anything. Perhaps that had been the intent.

Bobby Cobb, however, knew where he was going. He’d been there many times. Usually, as was the case now, for a postgame party. It didn’t much matter whether the Cougars won or lost; there were postgame parties virtually all over the Detroit area. The prestige of these parties could be measured by the quantity and quality of real-life football players in attendance. Obviously, it was the fate of most parties, given the relative paucity of players, to remain plebeian.

The Continental began encountering a solid series of parked, mostly luxury cars. He was nearing his destination.

Several attendants blocked the semicircular driveway at the Lake Shore address. They were there to block entry to anyone but the arriving Cougars and to park their cars. Nonplayer guests might have to park quite a distance away. But the players had run as far as they would be required to for this day.

Cobb slid gracefully from his car, leaving the motor purring. A young attendant, newly hired for this job, held the door for him. Admiration was evident in the attendant’s eyes. Quickly, he studied Cobb as thoroughly as possible. It would be his responsibility to describe the famous quarterback to his fellow students at the University of Detroit Dental School tomorrow. They would want to know all about Cobb. And the attendant would tell them. About Cobb’s sharply chiseled features; his chocolate-colored face and hands; his closely cropped, kinky black hair with the trace of gray at the temples; the blue turtleneck, maroon blazer, and gray slacks, none of which could hide the rippling muscles beneath; and those huge hands, which, when wrapped around a football, made it appear to be no larger than a grapefruit.

Cobb was aware in general of what the attendant was thinking. It was not an uncommon reaction to his presence. In a few moments, the same sort of phenomenon would occur at the party inside this mansion.

Cobb understood the phenomenon. He not only understood it, he utilized it. As he did with almost everything else that suited his purpose.

Professional football players, particularly the stars, or, as they were more commonly called in the game, pheenoms, were celebrities. Their photos appeared in the newspapers. They were interviewed on television. Stories were written about them in magazines. Most important, on Sundays, occasionally on the other days of the week they performed.

Detractors tried to disparage their work by claiming they were paid extremely well simply to play a child’s game. Further, that their IQs qualified them for little more than children’s games.

There was no denying that some, the pheenoms, were paid exceedingly well. But their profession had developed into a science of precision and perfection, with physical and mental rigors that few with smug intellects could have met.

In any case, they were certified celebrities. Their fame was equaled by few aficionados of their sport. And those few fans who could match the players press clipping for press clipping nearly always lacked the players’ physical presence. The players, almost all of them, lived up to the description “bigger than life.”

All of this subliminal self-awareness accompanied Bobby Cobb as he entered the mansion.

“Hey! Hi, Bobby! What’s happenin’?”

Damn! He couldn’t see who had greeted him. He couldn’t see a thing. Long ago someone had decreed that to be intimate, luxurious and stylishly pretentious rooms had to be kept so dark that it required half an evening for one’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

“Yeah,” Cobb responded blindly, “how’s it goin’ with you?” He hoped there was no hand raised for a high five. If there was, he certainly could not make it out.

Cobb remained near the door, waiting for his vision to adjust, and noncommittally returning salutations to blurry figures, all of whom seemed friendly. Gradually, he was able to see sufficiently to chance leaving his island of security.

An arm fell heavily across his shoulders. Cobb tensed instinctively but briefly, then smiled. People shouldn’t do that to an athlete, especially during the playing season. If Cobb had been a lineman or a linebacker, the gentleman standing next to him might be flat on his back nursing some broken part of his body. All a matter of conditioned reflexes.

“Bobby, how’re you doing?”

“A little sore, sir. But I guess that’s to be expected.”

Cobb recognized the voice instantly. Senior partner in one of Detroit’s most outstanding law firms. And important to Bobby Cobb, who was only a few scholastic hours and a bar exam away from becoming a lawyer.

“Waiter,” the attorney beckoned, “get Mr. Cobb here a drink, will you? What’re you drinking, Bobby?”

“Dewars on the rocks.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Cobb.” The waiter hurried off.

“That last series of plays this afternoon, Bobby, that wasn’t like you, keepin’ the ball on the ground.” The lawyer, arm entwined in Cobb’s, tried to steer him off into a corner.

“I’m not the coach, sir.”

“So it wasn’t your idea.” The lawyer seemed gratified.

“No, sir.” Cobb tried to communicate the impression that he could take orders, which was the truth.

“What would you have done if you were the coach? What would you have done if the coach had given you your head?”

“Crossed them up. The Towers were bunched up tight. The last thing they were giving us was the run.”

“So?”

“We needed a play-action pass. Fake a run up the middle, flare out, and hit the S receiver along the sidelines. He could easily have gone all the way. Even if he hadn’t, the Towers would have been so deep in their own territory they could never have come back and scored.”

“You’d take a chance on an interception?”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t. Not as long as I was throwin’ the ball.”

The lawyer smiled again. Cobb had demonstrated that he was a take-charge guy with plenty of self-confidence. Just the kind of personality one might want in one’s law firm.

In Cobb’s plans for himself was a partnership in this prestigious law firm; building and enhancing his reputation. Then a jump to the political arena. Mayor of Detroit, if that were possible without a term on the city council. Then, bypassing Lansing, on to the House, and eventually the U.S. Senate.

It was all well within the realm of possibility. He had the talent. All that was needed was promotion. He needed every headline, every moment on camera that he could get.

His only competition for the limelight was that damned Hunsinger. The Hun with his strong local popularity. U of M to the Cougars. A playboy lifestyle that kept him in the forefront of everything from the sports pages to the nightly news to the gossip columns. Hunsinger could catch a football. Outside of that singular accomplishment, the Hun wasn’t worth a pile of crap.

The waiter slipped Cobb’s drink into his hand, measuring the enormousness of that hand against his own. All this was so that tomorrow he could describe to his friends, with a little embellishment, the legend of a quarterback’s mitt.

“You’re coming up for the bar pretty soon, aren’t you, Bobby?” The lawyer turned to face Cobb.

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, why don’t you come see me after the season? Just give my girl a ring. Maybe we can do business together. Would you like that?” He knew the question was rhetorical.

“Yes, sir, I would. Very much.”

“Hey, Bobby, c’mon over here!” One of the other Cougars was calling from across the room.

“Would you excuse me, sir?”

“Of course.” The lawyer patted Cobb’s arm and directed at him a benevolent paternal look that carried the unspoken bromide, Be good, but if you can’t be good, be careful. “Go on, now. Have a good time. God knows you paid your dues this afternoon.”

Cobb inched his way across the room. With the wall-to-wall crowd, each person was a new obstacle. Almost everyone wanted to talk to him. Several asked about the conservative play of that last series. Each time, he passed the question off with a brief, flip explanation. The only person in the room entitled to a detailed explanation was Cobb’s future employer. And he had already received the full commentary.

As he crossed the room, women, oblivious of their escorts, rubbed seductively against Cobb. He raised his eyes to heaven. So many women in the world and so little time. But he needed neither the complication nor any trouble with any of their companions. Like as not, some hotshot with too many drinks under his belt would seize the occasion to prove he could take the great athlete. And there he would stand with no pads, unprotected against some drunk who had nothing to lose but his teeth. With his luck, Cobb figured the best that might happen would be that he’d break a hand and be out for the rest of the season. So he graciously apologized to each woman who airily threw herself at him.

At long last, Cobb reached the man who had called to him. “Hey, Bobby, I thought you needed some action.” It was the Cougars’ center, an amiable gentleman built like the proverbial brick house. Mercifully, he had reinserted the bridgework he went without during games.

“This where it’s at, Spud?”

“Shit, yeah, Bobby.” The behemoth grinned. “It’s about time, don’tcha think? I got this little fox for me and I got this one for you.”

Cobb inspected the foxes. Spud held one under his arm. Her feet were not touching the floor. Cobb thought Spud neither knew nor cared about that fact. The other young woman Spud held around the neck. He thrust her toward Cobb. Both women had fixed smiles as if they had been cast from plaster of Paris.

“Not tonight, Spud. Have you seen Niall?”

“The little guy? Yeah; he’s upstairs in one of the bedrooms. But I don’t think he’s asleep yet.” Spud roared at his venture into humor. He then scrutinized both women, the one in his hand and the one under his wing. Deciding to take them both, he moved them off toward the rear of the mansion.

Cobb hurried up the stairs, nodding at and brushing by those he encountered on the staircase. He tried two rooms before he found Murray in the third.

The young Irishman was seated on the side of a bed, which was covered with a red satin quilt. Stretched out on the quilt was a young woman in a white slip.

Actually, Murray was more slumped than seated. He seemed transfixed by several lines of white powder spread out on a piece of wax paper on the nightstand. He looked up momentarily when Cobb entered. “Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here now?”

As Cobb approached, the girl moved apprehensively to the far side of the bed. Murray’s concentration returned to the neatly arranged powder.

Cobb quickly and expertly appraised the woman. Neither a con artist nor a whore. One more groupie wanting to know firsthand, as it were, if all those muscles were genuine. This one obviously was abashed at Cobb’s expression.

“Has he had any yet?” Cobb nodded toward the powder.

The woman shook her head. She did not blink. Nor did she remove her gaze from Cobb’s face.

“Hey, Niall, babe, what’s happenin’?”

“Hi, there, Bobby, then. What’re you doin’ here?”

“Had a little bit to drink, have you, babe?” Cobb could smell the sweet odor of bourbon.

“Some.”

Cobb shoved lightly; Murray fell back on the bed. “The trouble with you Irish is your image. You’re supposed to be great drinkers, but you can’t hold your liquor.” Cobb slid Murray’s loosened tie up to his neck, closing his shirt at the collar.

“The trouble with you coloureds,” Murray’s speech was slurred, “is your image. You’re supposed to be sex maniacs. And you are as well.”

Cobb pulled Murray to his feet and got him into his jacket. “You don’t want to get that white stuff up your nose, Mick. With or without booze. With booze, it could kill you. Any which way, it’s gonna scramble your head. Next thing you know you won’t be able to find the goalpost and you’ll be kickin’ my balls instead of Wilson’s. Then you and me, but most importantly me, will be the laughingstock of this city. And I don’t intend for that to happen. I intend to own this city for starters.”

It was obvious that Murray was understanding none of this. Cobb was handling him as if he were a ragdoll.

“Who got you started on coke, anyway?”

“Huh?”

“I said, who got you started on coke?”

“Oh, the Hun.”

“It figures.”

“Huh?”

“That bastard! He’s got a knack of corrupting everything he touches. He’d pull the rug out from under me if he got the chance. Only he ain’t gonna get it.”

Cobb supported Murray and began walking with him. Actually, Cobb virtually carried the Irishman. They would leave the mansion as close as buddies ever get, eliciting from other guests hopeful observations on racial harmony. Cobb would deliver Murray, untouched by alien hand, to the forgiving arms of his wife.

“Hun a bas’ard,” Murray slurred as he was inserted into Cobb’s car.

“That’s right, little Mick. You just learned a lesson that could save your life. But it won’t do much for the bastard.”

Everywhere he looked, there was Hank Hunsinger. That was because his three walls were mirrored, top to bottom. The fourth wall was a picture window.

He removed his jacket, wincing as he did so. He was growingly aware of this afternoon’s slings, arrows, and pummeling fists. Football commentators are fond of stating that when receivers leave the ground to catch a pass, they are “vulnerable.” And when they’re tackled midair, they “pay the price.” Unless the commentators have undergone the experience firsthand, they would have no notion of just how high that price is.

Hunsinger entered the large walk-in closet. Neatly displayed was an extensive wardrobe of expensive jackets, coats, and foul-weather gear. He arranged his jacket on the appropriate hanger in the section reserved for green and green coordinates. A place for everything and everything in its place. He made certain the jacket he had just hung and the ones on either side of it were hanging free of each other so that no wrinkles would be inflicted.

He crossed the living room to the kitchen. Both rooms were outstandingly large. But then his entire apartment was several times more spacious than the average apartment. He had money and, being of sound mind, had decided to spend it.

He opened the liquor cabinet. Everything. Well, perhaps not everything. The best of everything. He selected a Scotch and poured it generously over several ice cubes.

He returned to the living room and stood by the window, swirling the Scotch gently

The Detroit River, vital artery of the Great Lakes. And Belle Isle, jewel-caressed on either of its shores by the river that separated Canada from the United States. Hunsinger never tired of the sight. Few did.

He sipped the Scotch. Cold to the taste, it spread warmth through his body. His memory broke free and returned to the antithesis of all this-his youth.

Growing up in Detroit’s southwest side. Poor. Although he hadn’t known they were poor. They always had food. Not top grade, but enough.

He remembered 1954. He had been just seven years old when his father died. From then on, it was just Hank and his mother. She had gotten a job as housekeeper in the extensive convent that housed the nuns who taught at Holy Redeemer parochial school. Tagging around after his mother, he had become somewhat of a pet to the childless nuns-which largely accounted for the sufficiency of average food at his disposal. The nuns could not afford top-grade food, but with what they had, they pampered this growing boy.

Oddly, he had attended public, not parochial, school. His mother told the nuns this was in accord with the wishes of his late Protestant father. She then confessed her lie to the priest, but could not bring herself to tell the nuns the truth: that with the little they paid her, she could not afford even the modest tuition at Holy Redeemer. What did the nuns know about it, in any case? Shielded by their vows of poverty, the trifle they were paid went to their religious order, not to them individually.

All in all, it was a pleasant enough life. The first time Hunsinger realized they had been poor was when as a young man he saw pictures in the newspaper of poor homes, and recognized them as being identical to that of his old neighborhood. The houses of the poor were easily relatable to the home in which he’d grown up.

He had liked the nuns. Through and because of them, he had stayed at least nominally close to his Catholic faith. And his mother’s place of employment gave her the opportunity to become a fanatical Catholic, attending several daily Masses, novena devotions, taking communion daily, and going to confession weekly.

As for Hunsinger, outside of his close and uncluttered relationship with a lot of doting nuns, he became a creature of the streets. He grew quickly into a very big boy, and kept growing. His personal maxim-Do unto others, then split-was a drastic paraphrasing of the gospel admonition. He was conscious of that. Very early, long before it became a popular credo, he had become primarily, indeed exclusively, concerned about Number One.

He perceived early on that excellence in athletics could lead to a life in the fast lane not only for poor black kids, but for big white kids too. So he applied himself. He won all-state honors in basketball, baseball, and football at Western High. He was awarded a full scholarship at the University of Michigan. Drafted in the first round by the Cougars in 1969, this was his sixteenth season with the club. He was well past his playing prime. Each year it became increasingly tempting to hang ’em up. But each year the contracts got sweeter and more irresistible.

However, the end could not be far off. Another season or two at the most. Even now, he had lasted longer than any other tight end in the history of professional football. He survived now mostly through a host of illegal, dirty tactics that he had mastered over the years.

He was hated. He didn’t care. He would not now compete, nor had he ever competed, for Mr. Congeniality. Even members of his own organization hated him. Well, that was a concomitant when one was exclusively concerned with taking care of Number One. It didn’t matter. After all these years, he was quite good at taking care of himself and protecting his rear.

Thinking of the care and feeding of Number One, he glanced at his watch and returned with a start to the present. It was nearly time for Jan to get here. She was becoming an expert in the care of Hank Hunsinger. He must prepare himself for her arrival.

He set his glass, empty save for the remains of the ice cubes, on a nearby table. He had not been aware of having finished the Scotch. He noted that he was a bit lightheaded. It had been a long time since he had eaten. No matter; it might even add a dimension to the upcoming wrestling match with Jan. Booze had helped him in the past.

He turned on the television and, after making a few adjustments, slammed a cassette into the Betamax. It was a movie featuring two, then many more evidently consenting adults, engaged in explicit sexual activity. It had no redeeming social value whatever. The Hun had been delighted to discover that Jan seemed to find voyeurism stimulating. Hunsinger certainly did. He turned down the volume; they could provide their own moans and groans live.

He moved to the bedroom. Again mirrors-wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and ceiling as well. Lest there be some lingering doubt as to what was intended as the focal point of the room, the large circular bed was mounted on a platform.

Hunsinger removed his clothing, placing each item precisely in its appointed place, making certain that when trousers and shirt were hung, adjacent garments would not be wrinkled.

He stood naked in the center of his bedroom examining the multiple images of himself. The muscles were not as sharply defined as they once had been. But they were still evident. His six-foot-four, 232-pound body still resembled an ancient sculpture of an Olympian. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper brush cut. Almost no one wore his hair in a brush cut any longer. Hunsinger did it for the sole purpose of extending the image of a Hun that he carefully and profitably nurtured.

Life was good. And in a little while it would get better.

He removed his contact lenses and placed them in the Bausch amp; Lomb disinfecting unit, switching it on. He could still see, but fuzzily. A combination of nearsightedness and astigmatism blurred his vision.

He entered the bathroom. There were neither shower doors nor curtains. Not even a stall. The shower was an adjunct of the enormous sunken tub. He turned the powerful jet of water on and waited until it became very hot, then slipped into it. It beat against his head, back, trunk, buttocks and legs. He moved slowly back, forth and around in the spray. So much better than the shower at the stadium. There it was crowded, hurried, and invariably followed by further perspiration as one dressed while others were showering. The steam kept pouring into the locker room. Then there were those damn television lights that further heated the area.

This was nice. He could feel tight muscles loosen and relax under the relentless beat of the waterjet. He was in no hurry. Jan could join him in the shower when she arrived. It had been too long since they had started an evening by showering together.

He reached for the shampoo, second container from the left on the shelf beneath the shower head. He could not read the label, but it didn’t matter. It was the correct shape, and besides, he always kept the shampoo second from the left on the shelf.

He unscrewed the cap of the plastic bottle, poured a generous measure of shampoo into his left hand, and replaced the open bottle on the shelf-second from the left.

He let some of the shampoo flow from his left to his right hand, and then began to rub it vigorously into his hair and scalp. With his brush cut, he was able to get the liquid to his scalp quickly.

Something was wrong.

He pulled both hands from his head and pressed them tightly to his chest. There was a terrible constriction there. It felt as if someone had placed a steel band around him and was tightening it rapidly. A heart attack? The very thought induced a further sense of panic. He was alone. No one would come to his aid.

Suddenly, his entire body began to shudder. The shuddering intensified. He shook as if he were a ragdoll being battered about by a malevolent child.

He tried, but could not control the violent shuddering. It became a spasm. Now his body was completely out of control. His hands shot to his neck, which had stiffened so he could not draw a breath.

It was not so much that he fell as that he was thrown to the floor of the tub. His legs shot out stiffly, straight and rigid. He tried to breathe, but could not. He could feel his respiratory muscles tighten. His skin was turning from bluish to a purple discoloration.

Suddenly his body arched, then balanced on his head and heels. It stayed in that taut position for long seconds.

Then, as unexpectedly as it began, it ended. His body relaxed, and gave one more massive shudder. He was dead.

The shower played unimpeded against the far wall. It ran down and formed a small pool where the body of Hank Hunsinger partially blocked the drain.

Not much later Jan Taylor let herself into the apartment.

“Hun?”

No answer.

She noticed the television was on. She also noted the images on the screen. She shrugged. So it was going to be one of those nights. Plenty of kinky sex. She loathed it, but would never let on to Hunsinger. He might be an animal in bed, but he did keep her well.

She removed her coat and carefully hung it on the hook inside the closet door. The Hun had appointed that specific hook for her hanger and apprised her of the importance of always, without exception, using that hook for her coat. Left to her own devices, she would have thrown it over a chair.

She could hear the shower running. She toyed with the option of waiting till he finished before announcing her presence as if she had just entered. It would spare her the unnecessary repetition of getting wet again. She had showered before leaving her apartment. And it would save her the indignities of Hunsinger’s shower routines. A far greater consideration.

On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was waiting for her to join him. In which case, her absence would infuriate him. And the last thing she needed was a furious Hun.

She shrugged and entered the bedroom. The sound of the shower was much clearer now. The lack of any sound but that of the water beating against a wall seemed somehow ominous, although she did not focus on any specific reason for her apprehension.

While she removed her clothing, hanging each item on the designated hangers, she noticed the small red light indicating that his “cooker” was working and that his contact lenses were being cleaned. All the better to see you with, my dear.

Naked, she entered the bathroom. Although she had been girding herself for the worst, she certainly had no way of anticipating this.

She screamed. Over and over. Then she ran from the bathroom.

Lieutenant Ned Harris was in Hank Hunsinger’s bathroom. It was the scene of the crime and he was being careful not to miss a single detail. Very soon, investigative specialists would be swarming over the apartment, each performing his or her task. Before that happened, Harris had the rare opportunity to commune with the place where death had occurred, where, probably, murder had been committed. He would never again in this case have this perfect opportunity to be in this specific location where vital clues and silent testimony told no lies. As he studied the apartment, he allowed the everyday inanimate objects to talk to him wordlessly.

Harris was an inch and a half to two inches more than six feet tall. His build was slender but powerful. Aquiline features and a receding hairline set off his deep black skin. He had been a part of the homicide division for most of his professional career. He loved it.

His partner on this case, Sergeant Ray Ewing, was interviewing the witness, Jan Taylor, in the living room.

Ewing, at five-feet-eleven, with a stocky physique, somewhat resembled singer Steve Lawrence. He also had Lawrence’s pleasant voice and engaging smile.

Harris and Ewing had been the sole occupants of their squad’s office at police headquarters on that otherwise slow Sunday evening when they got the call from the uniformed officers who had responded to Jan Taylor’s 911 call.

“Would you mind going over that one more time, Miss Taylor?” Ewing continued to scribble notes on his pad. “Why would Mr. Hunsinger take another shower when he got back here after the game? He would have taken one before leaving the stadium, wouldn’t he?”

Jan dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. She was obviously distraught. Ewing chose to reserve judgment on the reason for her anxiety. It might have been the sudden loss of whatever Hunsinger had been to her. It might have been the shock at what she had found in the bathroom.

“He was never satisfied with the shower at the stadium.” This was her second time through the second-shower phenomenon. She wondered why she had been asked to repeat the explanation. “What with the heat in the locker room, the steam from the showers, and the lights from the TV cameras, he said he always felt as sweaty after that shower as he had before.”

“So?”

“So he always took another shower when he got home.”

Ewing noted the slight show of color in Jan’s face when she reached this part of her testimony the second time through. He surmised that the second shower probably was for her benefit. Taking stock of her, he did not blame Hunsinger.

“Always?”

“The Hun,” Jan replied, a touch caustically, “did everything he did always.”

“And what time was it when you entered the apartment?” The third time for this question.

“About six-thirty, or a quarter to seven.”

“And was that tape in the video cassette deck playing?” First time for this question.

“I. . I don’t recall.”

“It was playing when we entered the apartment. If it was on when you came, did you turn it on?”

“I. .I guess it must have been playing when I came in.”

You bet it was, Ewing thought. And that tells us much about the relationship between the two of you and why you’re going to be on the shy side of telling us much about it.

“Then you went into the bedroom. Why was that?”

“I heard the shower. I knew Hank couldn’t hear me with the water running and I wanted him to know I was here.”

“And then you said you noticed that Mr. Hunsinger’s disinfecting unit was operating. It was cleaning his contact lenses?”

“Yes. I just happened to glance over and saw the red light lit.”

“Anything significant in that?”

“Well, it told me he hadn’t been in the shower very long.”

“How’s that?”

“The unit turns itself off after about twenty minutes.”

“So he would have been in the shower something less than twenty minutes. Then he wouldn’t have begun his shower much before you got here.”

“That’s right, I guess.”

“Are you married, Ms. Taylor?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

She hesitated a split second. “No.”

“Ms. Taylor?” Lieutenant Harris had been standing in the doorway between the living room and bedroom for some time. Jan hadn’t noticed him. His words startled her.

“Yes?” She looked up at him.

“Could you tell us why there was a bottle of DMSO in Mr. Hunsinger’s bathroom?” Harris had heard enough to learn that Jan Taylor would have been in a position to know just about everything about Hunsinger.

“He kept some here and some at the stadium. It was for pain. Mostly in his shoulder. Sometimes his knees. He’s had a lot of operations. He never knew when the pain was going to flare up. I guess it’s supposed to be a controlled substance, but. .” Her voice trailed. She couldn’t understand why with a man dead the police were concerned about DMSO. Even though it was not approved for use as a painkiller, anyone could buy it as a solvent in any number of stores. It was like worrying about bank robbers being illegally parked.

“I’m not so concerned about its being a controlled substance as I am about why it would be on a shelf in the shower area with other toiletries. And why the DMSO container should be open as if it were being used during his shower.”

Jan appeared perplexed.

“If you’ll accompany me to the bathroom, I’ll show you. .” Harris stepped in the direction of the bathroom as if inviting her to follow him.

“Is. . is he. . uh … still there?”

“Outside of turning off the shower, nothing’s been touched, Ms. Taylor.”

“There must be some other way. . without having to see him again.” She thought for a moment. “Wait; that’s all wrong. Hun kept the DMSO in the medicine cabinet. It was never on the shower shelf. Where did you find it? Where was it on the shelf?”

Harris consulted his notes. “The second container from the left.”

She need only a moment to consider this. “Second from the left? That’s where he kept the shampoo.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Always?”

Ewing, smiling, broke into the conversation. “Apparently when Mr. Hunsinger did anything, he always did it the same way. A bit of a compulsive, I take it.”

Jan nodded.

Ewing sensed that Harris had no more questions for Jan. Nor had he. “I have your address and phone number, Ms. Taylor. We’ll undoubtedly have more questions as this investigation continues. So we’ll probably be in touch with you.”

“May I leave now?”

Ewing glanced at Harris before dismissing Jan Taylor.

“Come on,” Harris said, “I want you to see a few things.”

“She lied to me twice,” said Ewing as Harris led the way back to the bathroom.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She knew the skin flick was on when she came in, but wouldn’t admit it until I confronted her with it.”

“And?”

“Claimed she’s never been married.”

“What makes you think she has?”

“Ring indentation on her third finger, left hand.”

“Could have been an engagement ring.”

“Could have been-but I doubt it. Very heavy hunch.” Ewing smiled. “It may come in handy if I have to question her again. I can tell her, ‘You lied to me before; why should I believe you now?’”

“Detectives do not live on hunches alone.”

They entered the bathroom and crouched near the body.

“Can you figure the grin?” Ewing asked.

“No. It’s grotesque. His eyes are wide open, like he was terror-stricken. And then he has this fixed grin. It doesn’t fit together at all. And look here. .” Harris pointed to areas on Hunsinger’s nude body. “See here, on his hands? Looks like some kind of rash, doesn’t it? And up here, on his scalp. . and you can see it all over his head through that short brush cut: the same kind of rash. Whataya think?”

“I dunno. Suppose it could be contagious? Some kind of contagious disease?”

“I don’t know either. That’s why I called Doc Moellmann.”

“Willie Moellmann? On Sunday night? You got a death wish?”

“Willie knows that I don’t call him at home unless it’s serious. He’s on his way here.”

“You and I ought to team up more often. With my brains and your clout, no killer would be safe.”

Harris grinned and stood up. Ewing did the same.

“There’s the DMSO.” Ewing nodded at the uncapped second bottle from the left. “What the hell is it, anyway?”

“I’m not positive. I read something about it somewhere. It was supposed to have been a miracle drug of the 1960s. Supposed to alleviate almost any kind of pain, from arthritis to toothache. Somehow, it never got on the market.”

“Hmmm. Looks like Hunsinger was using it. It’s the only open container on the shelf. But why would he use DMSO in the shower?”

“Wait. .what did that woman say? The slot second from the left was for the shampoo. And he kept the DMSO in the medicine cabinet.”

They looked at each other and together headed for the medicine cabinet.

“Sure enough,” said Harris, “here’s the shampoo. If Hunsinger was as compulsive and meticulous as we’ve been given to believe, do you suppose somebody switched bottles?” He frowned in thought. “But. . if so, why?”

Ewing began to hum tunelessly as he made several quick trips between the shower area and the medicine cabinet, taking notes as he did so.

“Look at the two bottles, Ned: They’re identical in size and shape. Both tall, cylindrical containers. Both with ribbed caps. Both caps can be unscrewed or opened by their fliptops. Both bottles hold six fluid ounces. As far as size, shape, and heft go, they’re identical. But one has a boxed label stating clearly that it is DMSO, 99.9 percent pure dimethylsulfoxide. And the other one has a lion monogram and the trade name, Royal Copenhagen, on it.”

“Okay,” Harris reasoned, “we know that Hunsinger needed help with his eyes. His contacts are still out there in the cooker. Maybe his eyes were bad enough so he couldn’t read the labels.”

“Okay,” Ewing returned, “but look at the color, Ned. The DMSO container is white opaque. The shampoo bottle is translucent and you can see its pink color plainly through the bottle.”

Harris shrugged. “He had soap in his eyes?”

“A killer could count on that?”

The doorbell rang. It was the Wayne County medical examiner, Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann. Ewing ushered him into the bathroom. All three stood still and silent as Moellmann made a cursory preliminary study of the body.

“Remarkable specimen,” said Moellmann finally. “Who was he?”

“Hank Hunsinger,” Ewing said.

“Hmmm. Who?”

“Hank (‘the Hun’) Hunsinger,” Ewing tried.

“Hmmm. I seem to have read the name somewhere. But where?”

“He was a professional football player,” Harris explained. “With the Cougars.”

“Ah, yes, of course. That would explain the mammoth size. And all those contusions. And all those scars. His surgeon would have been well advised to put zippers instead of stitches in his knees.” Moellmann looked about for some show of appreciation of his humor. Finding none, he squatted to study the corpse more closely.

While Harris filled Moellmann in on what the two officers had found, Ewing proceeded with his investigation of the premises.

“This is what concerns me,” said Harris, finally arriving at his reason for calling the medical examiner. “This rash here on his hands and here again on his scalp.”

Moellmann studied the rash. He did not touch it. “It is peculiar. And, you see, there are similar marks here on his neck and there on his chest.”

“Any ideas?”

“Ideas? Ideas! You mean guesses! Guesses, like Quincy makes on TV! No, no guesses! This is science, not television!”

A brief but spirited performance. Harris had been subjected to many similar ones by Moellmann. On reflection, Harris decided he should not have asked the question. He decided to stay on surer ground.

“How about the DMSO, Doc? Can you fill us in on that?”

Moellmann rose as did Harris.

“Ah, yes, DMSO,” said Moellmann, staring at the opened container on the shelf. “A most intriguing compound. It never got FDA approval, but that hasn’t stopped people from buying it. At one time it was thought to be the ultimate and harmless answer to pain. This much can be said of it: when applied to the skin, it penetrates the skin and immediately enters the bloodstream. Many have testified that upon application, it relieves their pain immediately.”

“Then why didn’t it get FDA approval?”

“Now, then, my memory grows a bit vague. I believe the problem lies in testing it. In any such test, there must be a control group.”

Harris immediately called to mind all those kids with the cavities because they were in the control group that wasn’t using the sponsor’s toothpaste.

“The control group,” Moellmann continued, “should receive some sort of placebo, some admittedly ineffective substitute for the substance being tested. Something like a sugar pill instead of aspirin. But they’ve never been able to come up with an appropriate placebo for use instead of DMSO, because the application of DMSO usually causes a reddened skin and a very bad breath. People in the control group would know they were not being given DMSO because no other substance causes both an inflammation of the skin and the strong breath.”

“Red skin?” Harris mused.

“Yes, red skin,” Moellmann repeated.

Harris and Moellmann as one looked down at the corpse. Their gaze was fixed on the rash on Hunsinger’s hands and scalp.

“I wonder. .” said Moellmann.

Ewing entered the bathroom, carrying a gallon plastic container. “Found it in the kitchen! Strychnine, if you can believe the label. But from what we’ve seen here, if I had a last dollar I wouldn’t bet it on the truth-in-packaging in this place.”

“Where would anyone get strychnine these days?” Harris asked. “It’s off the market, isn’t it?”

“I thought so,” Ewing agreed.

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Moellmann affirmed. “You can’t get it anywhere these days. Commercially, that is. Nixon signed an order taking it off the market back in 1973, I believe.”

“Well, either this is or it isn’t,” said Ewing, hefting the half-filled container. “But at least the label says it’s strychnine.”

“Intriguing,” Moellmann murmured.

“Doc,” said Harris, “there’s going to be more than the usual pressure to get this one locked up. . and soon. Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this area. This is going to be in the papers, prominently, and on all the newscasts, not just locally, but nationally.” Harris hated to get where he was going with this plea. He well knew how Moellmann resisted any pressure to expedite a case. But, in this instance, it needed saying. “So can you hurry this one along a bit?”

Moellmann gave no indication of having heard Harris’s plea. He kept looking from the rashes on Hunsinger’s corpse to the DMSO to the container Ewing was holding. “Intriguing,” he murmured. “A very simple plan. So simple one might even call it ingenious. That is, if it all works out.” Then, to the officers, “We’ll want to get at this first thing in the morning. Have it all shipped down as soon as the technicians finish.” He ambled distractedly toward the door, rubbing his hands together. “How clever,” he muttered. “What a clever plan. But how did he make it work?” He resembled a crossword addict confronted with the world’s toughest puzzle, to which he might hold the ultimate clue.

As Moellmann exited, the police technicians arrived. Harris and Ewing briefed them on the situation and the probable evidence that should be gathered. Shortly, officers were everywhere, taking pictures, dusting for fingerprints, packaging evidence-taking particular care with the twin containers of DMSO and shampoo-and interviewing neighbors of the Hunsinger apartment.

Ewing and Harris disengaged themselves from the hubbub.

“Whatever we got here?” Harris was gearing up for an up-to-the-moment summary.

“One dead football player,” Ewing responded. “A probable homicide by means as yet undetermined. If a homicide, then the perpetrator had to be in this apartment before Hunsinger arrived this evening, or while he was here.”

“That’s right. Hunsinger was alive this afternoon. Some eighty thousand people saw him at the Silverdome. And additional hundreds of thousands saw him on TV. He left the stadium, as far as we know, under his own power. He gets home-something, something, something-he steps into the shower, and bingo, he’s dead.”

“He gets home,” Ewing supplied, “he puts a skin-flick cassette on TV-something, something, something-he showers, he dies, his girlfriend arrives. What about her?”

“Too early to tell. Not likely she’d off him and then report it to the police. Though it’s happened.”

“We’ll have to find out where she’s been today.”

“It’d be good to know when’s the last time Hunsinger showered at home before tonight. If something in that shower killed him-something in the DMSO bottle maybe-and if Hunsinger is the creature of habit he seems to be, then whatever killed him was put in there sometime between his previous shower and the one tonight.”

“And”-Ewing glanced around the room, but he was so familiar with investigative routine he was not distracted-“if not the Taylor woman, someone else got in here and set it up.”

“There’s a security guard on duty downstairs. Let’s go down and check on just how secure this building is-oh, and let me do most of the talking.”

Ewing grinned. “What’s the matter? I get along pretty good with black people.”

Harris winked. “You do okay for a honky. But there was something familiar about that guy when we came in. I think I might know him from a previous bust.”

The two took the elevator down twenty-one floors to the lobby. In the foyer, they spotted the guard. Clearly he had been flustered, first by Harris and Ewing, then by the arrival of the investigating crew. He had phoned his supervisor, who was with him now.

Introductions were exchanged. The officers explained that they wanted to question the guard. The supervisor took over door duties while the three men moved to a nearby empty office.

“We want to know all about the security here, Mr. Malone,” Ewing began. “We know you only work here. It’s not your security system, so you can be very frank.”

“In fact, Mr. Malone,” Harris was gazing at the guard so intently that Malone was becoming visibly upset, “this is a homicide investigation, so it is not to be taken lightly. Answer carefully and be sure you tell the whole truth.”

“Homicide!” Malone licked his dry lips. “Mr. Hunsinger!” He knew which apartment they had come from. “Mr. Hunsinger dead? Oh, God almighty!”

“He’s dead, Mr. Malone. And we’ve got to know everything you know about him,” said Harris. “Start with when he got home after today’s game.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Harris’s tone suggested a short fuse that was burning.

“I don’t know. He’s a resident. He probably parked his car in the basement garage, then took the elevator from there directly up to his floor. He wouldn’t have passed through the lobby.”

“That’s all the security you got? People walk into the basement and go anywhere in the building they want?”

“Wait; it ain’t that bad. At least not now. It’s better than it was.”

“Why don’t you just tell us about the security system, Mr. Malone?” Ewing was more conciliatory.

“Sure.” It was comfortable in the apartment’s all-season climate control, but Malone had begun to perspire. “See, the way it used to be, we’d be in this cubicle, all glassed in, just next to the front door in the lobby. Visitors come, we’d let ’em in, check with whoever they come to see. If everything checked out, we’d let ’em take the elevator up.

“Wasn’t too good a system. For one thing, we never had no record of who the visitor was. Sometimes they’d slip by. You know, come in with a resident or something like that. Then, we was right up front, you know. If someone wanted to take out the guard, they could just do it. You know, Mr. Hunsinger ain’t the first one to get killed here. This can get to be a pretty lively place from time to time.”

Ewing nodded. He easily recalled that within the past year a couple had been victims of a drug-related homicide here. Neither he nor Harris had been in on that case. But he remembered how the investigating officers had complained of the odor. The couple had been dead four days before their bodies were discovered. The place could indeed be pretty lively, or, more properly, deadly.

“Not good. Not good.” Malone shook his head. “But just last Monday they installed a new system. See, Mr. Hunsinger could enter either in the basement-the garage-or through the lobby ’cause he got a key. But them who don’t have keys gotta come through the lobby. See, they can enter the lobby, but when they do, we got this camera that’s mounted on one wall and swings back and forth. Then, whoever’s on guard monitors the camera. We can see everybody who comes through the lobby.

“Then, ’cause the visitor don’t have a key, they gotta ring the bell. When we buzz ’em through, we already got a look at ’em. Then, when we let ’em in they gotta register in the guestbook. Then we still check with the resident before we let ’em go up. That is, unless the resident lets us know ahead of time that he’s expecting this particular person.” Malone seemed pleased with his performance. “See, it works pretty good now.”

After a moment’s silence, Harris said, “Yeah, we saw your system when we came in.” He turned to Ewing. “Think you could break it, Sergeant?”

Ewing smiled. “I’ll give it a crack.”

Harris and Malone joined the supervisor in the guard’s station, while Ewing went into the lobby. He knew what to do.

First, he stood outside, peering into the lobby. He watched the TV camera as it panned the lobby. Carefully, he timed its swing. Eight seconds from left to right; eight seconds, right to left.

Ewing timed his entry for the moment the camera’s focus left the front door. He flattened himself against the wall on which the camera was mounted. Stiffly, he walked the length of the wall to the inner door. At a short distance, he studied the lock. It appeared to be no different from other locks on doors that could be buzzed open.

Once more, he waited for the moment the camera’s focus moved away from the door. Quickly, he moved to the door, inserted the thin blade of his pocketknife, and lifted the lock from its catch. He entered, opening the door just enough to let himself in, then letting it close behind him. He crouched beneath the window of the guard’s station, moved beyond the station, stood erect, then nonchalantly strolled back to the room from within the inner lobby.

Both Malone and his supervisor stared at Ewing open-mouthed.

“How’d you do that?” asked the supervisor. “We didn’t see you once on the screen!”

“All I can tell you,” Ewing responded, “is that it wasn’t all that difficult. All you’d have to know is that the system was there and have a chance to study it for a while.

“Now, you said that the new system was installed last Monday. . that right, Mr. Malone?”

Both men nodded.

“And you also said that with the new system, visitors had to sign in. So anyone who visited with Mr. Hunsinger since, say, Tuesday of this past week would be aware of the system, would have had the opportunity to study it, at least briefly, and would also have signed in. Now, the question: Where is your log of the people who have signed in to visit any resident since last Monday?”

“Right here,” said Malone, turning the opened guestbook toward Ewing. “We got a brand new book when we started registering visitors. It’s hardly been used at all.”

Harris took the book eagerly and began to run his finger down the list of names looking for anyone visiting Hunsinger. He found what he was looking for recorded on Tuesday evening. He turned to Ewing. “Get a load of these names.” Harris pointed to a succession of seven signatures, all signed in as visitors of Hunsinger, then said to Malone, “Were you on duty Tuesday evening last?”

Malone nodded.

“Did you call Hunsinger and check on these people?”

“No, sir. Mr. Hunsinger left word that he expected them.”

Ewing read each name as he recorded them on his notepad. “Jack Brown, Dave Whitman, Bobby Cobb, Jay Galloway, Kit Hoffer, Niall Murray, and Father Robert Koesler.” Ewing, smiling, looked up at Harris. “Guess which one of the above doesn’t fit with the others?”

“You mean you know who all of them are?” asked Harris.

“With one exception, I think they’re all members of the Cougars organization.”

“Koesler.”

“That’s it.”

“How does he do it?” Harris shook his head. “There must be hundreds of priests in Detroit, but every other year or so, Koesler gets involved in a homicide investigation. You’ve worked with him before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t get the impression he was all that happy about being involved with a murder case.”

“Just lucky, eh?”

“I guess.”

Harris went back to sliding his finger down the pages, in search of more Hunsinger visitors. Coming to the end of the listed names, he looked at Malone with some irritation. “I thought you said all visitors were registered. What about Jan Taylor? We know she was here to visit Hunsinger today.”

“Oh, no; she don’t sign in.” Malone ran a finger between his starched white shirt and his neck. “She’s got a key.”

“A key!” What had begun as a rather narrow list of suspects was beginning to expand. “Okay, how many people have keys to Hunsinger’s apartment-which key, I assume, also works on the building entrances?”

“That’s right, sir. Just Miss Taylor and Mr. Hunsinger’s mother.”

Harris shrugged. “Okay,” he said to Ewing, “add mama to the list.”

“ Is nothing sacred?” Ewing grinned as he entered the name in his notepad.

“Okay, Malone,” Harris fixed the guard with an intense look, “let’s have the whole thing. We’ve got seven people who visited with Hunsinger last Tuesday. We have two people with keys. Anybody else have access to Hunsinger? Anybody at all?”

Malone hesitated.

“This is a homicide investigation, Malone. I don’t need to tell you what could happen if you don’t level with us.”

“Uh. . Mr. Hunsinger tips pretty good.”

“Not anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, there was one more key out. But that was a while ago. I don’t know if Mr. Hunsinger ever took it back or not.”

“Come on, come on.”

“Nobody needs to know that it was me who told you?”

“Nobody needs to know.”

“It was Mrs. Galloway.”

Ewing’s eyebrows lifted as he noted the final name.

Harris warned Malone and his supervisor emphatically about commenting on the case, especially to the news media, while the investigation continued. He left the two appropriately impressed.

Harris and Ewing returned to Hunsinger’s apartment to wrap things up.

“Ned,” said Ewing in the elevator, “did you really recognize Malone from a bust in the past?”

Harris chuckled. “Not really. But I find it helpful from time to time to psych myself up for an interrogation by pretending to know the guy and pretending that I hate him. Keeps him on his toes too. Didn’t you notice?”