The Jook

Chapter 2

Davida was bent over the chair in the living room, her purple skirt hiked up over her tight brown butt. She had on a pair of those black thong panties the President likes, and I was yanking on them as I jugged her coochie from behind. The muscles in her buffed arms stood out all sculpted-like as she braced against the top of the chair.

"I missed you, Zelmont," she gushed.

I slapped her ass and she moaned. I slapped it harder several times, making it blush. She moaned some more as I did her from behind. That's my girl. Damn. I felt like a million bucks. "I'm about ready to bust, baby."

She grabbed my johnson and eased me out of her. She turned around and dropped to her knees, taking me in her mouth. Damn. I got all lightheaded as I shot my load while she worked her lips all over my rod.

"Damn, girl. You been watchin' those Penthouse videos or something." I just stood there gasping, my pants down around my ankles. She laughed and sashayed over to the coffee table. I watched her as she bent down and straightened her muscled body up, taking a drink of juice. She made a big thing of running her tongue over her lips, knowing it was driving me wild.

"Now I come over here to say hi, and you go and ravage me." She smiled, moving back toward me. "You know I have an appointment with a producer over at Polygram at 10." She started to play with my balls.

I slipped a hand under her skirt, putting my finger between her wet legs. "You show him what you got there, Davida, and he won't know how fat to write your check." We kissed as we stood there, feeling each other up.

She took my hand and sucked on my finger. "There's a party for the NFL owners over at Napoleon's new club on Thursday. Want to come?"

"Stadanko gonna be there?" I was getting hard again. Maybe the hip wasn't the best, but I could still make it rain when it counted.

Davida walked backwards, holding my member. She unzipped her skirt and took it off carefully so it wouldn't get wrinkled, then folded it and placed it on the coffee table.

I pulled off her panties and bit on them between my teeth. She laid on the couch and I got on top of her. "Him and his self-actualization wife." She nibbled on my ear. "Plus some city council people and the Coliseum commissioners."

"Cool," I grunted between thrusts. "I'll be on the down low, smile and laugh at his weak-ass jokes."

"Get on his good side," she whispered in my ear.

I sat back and put the panties around the back of her neck. I tugged on them, rocking her head as we banged. Slowly, I crossed the panties across her throat. Her eyes got wide as she held onto my rib cage. I pulled tighter.

"Faster," she hollered.

I pulled the panties even tighter, her breath gurgling out from her throat. I got scared and excited and let up. She hit my arm with her fist her signal for me to continue. I pulled tighter again and her dark eyes got so round they all but swallowed me up. She pulled me close, driving her tongue into my mouth. I still had hold of the panties, my arms pinned against her. Davida could barely breathe, but she grabbed my forearms as I tried to right myself.

She dug her nails into my butt and I bucked like a mule in a stall, letting go of the panties. She held onto me and we crashed onto the floor. We finished there, scooting around in heat.

''Shit,'' she said, rubbing her butt as she got up. She looked over her shoulder, turning her leg to try and get a look at the red mark on her butt. "You big ol' panther." She gently pushed the point of her shoe underneath my balls.

I laid on the floor, looking up at her and laughing. "Hey, is Weems gonna be there?"

She gave me a funny look as she marched off to the bathroom. "You must have taken too hard a hit in Germany, baby. What the hell would that Christian creep be doin' in a den of sin like Napoleon's club?"

"He's the football commissioner." I got up, disoriented. Rough sex did it to me every time. "His holiness might be there to keep everybody in line." Where the hell did my Jockeys go? A quick pain went through my leg, and my knee went out from under me for a second. I sank down, leveraging myself against the coffee table.

"What you doin' in there, boy?" Davida called from the bathroom.

"Nothin'," I said, "just lookin' for my underwear." I massaged my upper thigh.

"Make some coffee, will you, baby?" She got the shower going.

"Okay." I tried to keep the strain out of my voice. I got up and made my way to the kitchen, hoping to work the kink loose in my hip. The socket was grinding and I took a punch at the cupboard, frustrated.

"You ain't going nuts out there without me, are you, Zelmont?"

"Yeah, that's it, Davida." I leaned my butt against the drain, working my leg up and down until the hip joint moved back into place.

Later I left Davida's apartment in Lennox and went over to the NFL offices on Century Park East. I signed some papers for my pension. I had about fifty grand left in the bank after living expenses and fronting the high life in Spain. Fifty grand might be a lot to some, but I was used to a certain lifestyle, and that wasn't gonna get it.

Plus I knew I couldn't get out of sending at least ten or so to that ballbuster Terri in Savannah. It had been damn near a year since I'd last mailed her a wad of dough. And there was no way a judge, let alone her low-rent Johnnie Cochran of a father, would let me plead poverty. But the mortgage on the pad was kicking my tail, so the half-a-hundred wasn't gonna last long at the rate I was going.

I spent the next couple of days trying to chase down the other people who owed me money. Most of them were unfindable or just plain gone, no forwarding address. In a pool hall near Lynwood, I ran down Harper "Lemon" Woods, who owed me 20Gs.

"Eight in this pocket." He tapped the hole with his cue, glancing past me. Like I was some bitch he never intended to call again.

He stroked the white ball and it angled against the eight, sending the ball against the cushion. The black ball banked and sunk just where he'd predicted. The guy he was playing, an older gent in a brown leather jacket, handed over two Benjamins.

"You got nothin' to say, man?"

"What?" he barked. "I'm supposed to be lightin' up fire-crackers 'cause you strolled in?" He held the cue in both hands like he was gonna do a Jackie Chan on me.

"Where's the money you owe me?" People were watching. Brown jacket moved back. I moved in on Woods.

"You gettin' all in my business like I'm some mark."

"I want my money"

"Shit, Raines, everybody knows you ain't nothin' but yesterday's news." He looked around, grinning and seeing if he got a reaction from the others.

"The twenty grand that belongs to me is fresh in my mind." I didn't wait for a reply or for him to swing the cue. I straight hit him in the jaw, knocking him back against a table. I jumped forward, but Woods tripped me with the cue. Off balance, I fell against a stool, crashing to the floor.

"Who the fuck you think you is?" Woods screamed, pulling out a gun from underneath his loose-knit shirt. He had it pointed at my head, sideways like he probably saw gangsters do on TV shows.

There was no way I was gonna do the backdown in front of a crowd. "You better get that thing out of my face, fool." I got off the floor.

"The only thing I'm gonna do is bust some caps in your ego, you arrogant motherfuckah. Like I'm supposed to be all intimidated 'cause you think your reputation is gonna scare me." He shoved the Glock alongside my cheek. "Now what you better do, Zelmont, is walk the fuck out of here and see if you can make like Adam Sandler and be the waterboy for the Barons or some shit." That got a laugh from the dudes standing around the joint.

I held up my palms. "Okay, man. You the one with the gun. I guess that makes it your world."

Woods grinned and I knew he was caught up in feeling superior. I faked with my right, then grabbed his gun hand with my left. Doing what I knew he would, he tried to pull back, freeing his gat. I let his arm go in that direction, bringing my elbow up and into his nose in the same movement.

"Dammit," he hollered.

The whack made him loosen up and I snatched the gun away. I backhanded him with the business end of the thing. There was a line of red where the skin had broken open over his nose. There was respect in his eyes as he looked at me over the hand he held to his wound.

"Look, Zelmont."

"Shut the hell up." I was enjoying this. The tingling I got in my gut was like sex with Davida. "Don't say a goddamn thing unless it's how soon you gonna have my cash."

"What you better do," a voice croaked from behind me, "is take your niggerish behavior out of my establishment." The man with the frog voice was a round-bellied brother in suspenders and an athletic T-shirt. His ugly, greasy face had a Barons cap pulled over his activator-starved Jheri curl. There was a Mossberg pump laying on the counter with a choke on the end of the barrel. He stood behind it, a pudgy hand resting on that bad boy.

I didn't pull the piece," I said, eyeing Woods again.

"Say, man, I don't give a fuck who did what. Take your bullshit outside." The Mossberg was in his hands.

"Come on." I motioned to Woods with the pistol.

He tucked in his lips.

"Don't try to be slick. Do what I tell you."

We marched past the slit eyes of the owner and came out into the sunlight on Atlantic. Several of the dudes from inside also tagged along. I put the gun in my back pocket since it didn't seem too good an idea to broadcast the piece.

"Well, what about it, Harper?"

He looked from side to side as if an answer was floating around in his lopsided head. I know you heard about my mama."

I slapped him with the pistol again. "Your mama ain't the one that signed a loan agreement. She can't read no way." I returned the gun to my back pocket.

"You think I don't know you been ridin' all over town lookin' to collect your debts?" His voice went up higher with fear and anger. "But if I ain't got it, I ain't got it."

He was gonna step to me and see if I was ready to up the play I cracked him hard on the jaw with my fist. He went down on one knee, sobbing like the punk he was.

"Oh God," one of the men watching said.

"Now what you gotta say?" I kicked Woods in the face. He dropped over like a kid's doll on the pavement.

"Hey, you gonna kill him if you keep that up," somebody said.

I didn't care. Motherfuckah tried to bitch me up in public. You don't do that to Zelmont Raines. Unlike some wide receivers who were scared to take a hit, I didn't sweat that kind of action. You didn't get your name in the record books 'cause you couldn't perform. Art Monk, Warfield, them dudes didn't hear footsteps. They kept their minds on the ball, getting banged up time and time again as they caught the pass. No matter, they got up and went back to the job.

" 'I ain't got it' won't do, Harper." There was a new gash over his left eye and he had a hand over it as he looked up at me. Blood leaked out between his fingers. I decide who owes me and when they owe me. You get my fuckin' money together."

"Okay, Zelmont, okay."

"That's right, man. You better make it okay."

I walked away with all eyes on me. I felt good. I'd handled my business and I knew this was a sign things were bound to get better. I felt so good, I drove over to the Pico Union district near downtown and copped a dime bag of rock. I wasn't getting back into bad habits. The thing about being in rehab three times was I knew the signs, I knew when I was getting out of control. This little jolt was just to give me an edge to keep my senses sharp. After I smoked up at my crib I changed to my sweats. Then I jogged over to Runyon Canyon Park, not too far away.

I forgot there would be kids around, it being summer. Usually it was only on the weekend where you had to put up with the crumb snatchers and their yacking and goofing while their parents walked or ran with the family dog. But there weren't too many of them, plus I had my buzz on. Naturally there were the 40-something blonde types talking about the latest colonic or how they had to get the dishwasher fixed or some other ordinary bullshit.

There were a few hotties, models, and wannabe actresses trying to keep their shit tight. Out and about too were a few fags, cruising for a set of hairy, buffed legs to wrap around come nightfall. And, of course, a few Hollywood studs, execs of some sort getting their workout while trying to figure out how to screw the next shithead on the ladder.

I was going up the path that went around the big mountain. A young Latino in blue short shorts and a Yale logo sweat top, his black hair colored with streaks of bright red, was walking down with his cocker spaniel and gave me the once-over as I moved past.

"Excuse me, didn't we meet at one of Napoleon Graham's parties?" He had a long earring dangling from one ear. It was shaped like something that fell off a chandelier.

Great, now the bungholers were the only ones who recognized me. "Could be, man. I gotta hit it. Sorry," I mumbled, churning my knees hard. My hip socket began to ache as I rounded the bend. The grinding pain made me want to stop several times but I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat was making my lips salty, and every time my right leg came up it was like a jab with the point of a knife in my upper thigh.

Come on, Zelmont, it ain't nothing to do but to do it. I huffed, then grunted, clamped my teeth, and kept moving, eyes straight ahead.

I made the bend, where the path leveled off and you could see out onto the city in several directions. I stopped, bending over more from the pulsing in my hip than being out of breath. Straightening up, I wiped my face with my old Falcons top. Not far away to the left I could see my house tucked up on its hill. The thing looked solid and safe, like the day I first spotted it running this mountain. I was up for Rookie of the Year and knew I had to have a pad like that.

People assumed I did it to have the fly chicks and swinging parties. Have me a cool address and be able to look down on the city where I was raised. Well, I guess there was something to that. Hell, my mama never had nothing but the hot cramped apartment me and my two sisters were raised in growing up near the Coliseum.

We didn't skip no meals, but there wasn't too much extra either. I made do with out-of-fashion kicks when all my friends were getting the next new thing. When I made it to the pros, I set my sights on getting used to things I never had as a child. I should have been smarter at holding on to the money. I could have listened to people, including my mother. But there was always the next pass I was gonna catch, the next product I was gonna pimp.

Them days ain't done yet, I promised myself. I took a deep breath and started a slow jog down the other side.

Thursday, me and Davida, in her used Mercedes Kompressor roadster, went over to the NFL owners' set at the Locker Room. Graham's place, on the corner of 11th Street and Georgia, was real classy. Across the way was the Staples Center with its glass and metal arena and music auditorium. The place was shaped like a giant 'Q' knocked on the side.

There had been a lot of rigmarole in getting the NFL owners to agree to bring a team back to town. They pretty much wanted the City of L.A. to kiss their collective butts and mortgage the public piggy bank to build a new stadium complex, like Cleveland and San Francisco had done. But the crew of local high rollers who'd put the deal together, along with city representatives, played it cool. They knew the NFL needed the number two media markettheir ad revenues had been down for several years. So they held out for a better deal, and got it. Ellison Stadanko, who'd made his money in solid waste retrieval, was a pal of one of the movers and shakers and got the inside track on being the main backer of the Barons. And the Coliseum, built for the Olympics in '32, fixed up for the traitorous Al Davis in the '80s, got a new life and a dome to go with it. The Sports Arena next door was hollowed out and turned into a food and bar court that led to a five-story parking structure.

Further north, alongside the Staples Center, was the Convention Center. Nobody was at any of those venues that night. And the fans who kept the machinery of pro sports going by buying the tickets and getting a snack at the Denny's or Wolfgang Puck Café alongside the complex weren't invited to the Locker Room. This set was reserved for players, coaches, agents, and others in the loop.

The outside of the club was done up in polished steel panels with rivets showing. The roof had goalposts on one end and a gigantic hoop on the other. There was a two-story-high TV monitor on one side of the building. An old Jim Brown flick, Three the Hard Way, was showing on the giant screen when we walked up from the parking lot.

People were backed up at the entrance. "Zelmont," I heard as a hand the size of the end of a shovel rose from the crowd chatting and standing around.

"Napoleon," I said, making my way over. We hugged. "This ain't making you hard, is it?" I only half-joked. His dreads were tied back, the last inch of each dyed bright blond. He was wearing blue-green mascara and his eyebrows were V'd up like Mr. Spock's. Other than that he looked normal in a black double-breasted suit with white pearl buttons, a white no-collar shirt, and a ruby stud at the neck.

"Nigger, please. I may be a switch hitter, but I got good taste.

"That's what I mean."

Nap pretended to ignore me and kissed Davida on the lips. "You lookin' good, girl."

"Always a pleasure when I'm in your company, Nap." She touched his buffed chest, scoping the scene.

Chicks in short, tight black skirts, and black and white striped halter tops passed out drinks on trays to the crowd.

"Sorry about Barcelona," Nap said.

"Hey, you know how it gets. But I'm on a program, getting stronger every day. I've got a couple of years left yet."

"Right on."

I wanted to get inside, get off the discussion about my hip. Nap was a nut for those goddamn "reaching-your-full-potential" courses. He even was a speaker at some of the conferences. I remember after he'd been busted with his boyfriend, this Hollywood director of big shoot-'em-ups. They had been tossing their salads at a resort in Palm Springs, and the tabloid fucks had been stalking him, trying to prove the rumors about my boy. But rather than hide and deny, Nap went on Montel preaching the virtues of bisexuality. Jesus.

You'd never think I'd be tight with a guy like him, but when the league came after me with both feet, only Nap had my back. I guess he felt bad for me since he knew what it was like to be hassled 'cause of who you were. We'd been roomies on the road, and you can't help but get to know a cat, talk to him about things that are on your mind now and then. I didn't go in for all his get-to-know-your-inner-self bullshit, but he'd shown me he could be counted on when it mattered. We'd been out of touch for a while before I went to Europe, but it felt like old times seeing him.

"I'll see you inside, Nap."

"All right. I want to talk to you about something later." Some dude in loafers and a Prada suit came up to Nap. He was talking in some foreign language on a cellular, and at the same time shaking the former All-Pro tackle's hand. Davida had already gone in, and I did the same.

"Mr. Raines, hope you enjoy your evening." The waitress' healthy chest strained the material of her top. I barely noticed the martinis on her tray.

"I will now that you've said hello." I took a glass and toasted her. There was a R &B band playing on a raised stage supported by clear cylinders off to one side. The backdrop was glowing footballs that swirled around and around in a black sky. A spread was laid out on several tables, with an ice sculpture of downtown L.A. surrounded by some huge shrimp as the centerpiece. Monitor banks on one wall of the place played NFL and NBA game films.

Mama said never turn down free food, so I headed for the grub.

"Yo, Zelmont, how'd it crack in England?"

"Spain, Danny, it's a whole other country." Danny Deuce, Nap's brother, was standing with a couple of his boys, chilling along one of the walls.

"Spain, Mexico, it ain't the real pros, is it?" he cackled. One of his homies put his hand in front of his mouth, giggling. The other dude was too busy zeroing in on the honeys.

"Catch you, man." I walked off, knowing he was watching me as I did.

I got some food and spotted Davida talking with a roly-poly short guy in a turtleneck and checkered sport coat. He was glancing everywhere but her direction. His face had that uncomfortable look I'd seen on owners' faces during contract negotiations. She circled around him, gesturing with her arms. I went back for more shrimp. I really like shrimp.

I reached across a cute Korean chick in a slit dress and bumped shoulders with somebody else grabbing for a prawn.

"Raines," Julian Weems said. His pinched looks were as sour as ever.

"Commissioner." I rubbed my tongue over a side tooth. "Surprised to see you here."

"What have you been doing these days?" He turned his head, concentrating on fetching his chow.

He knew I'd gone to play in Spainsonofabitch had to sign the league transfers. "Not much. But I've been working out, staying healthy"

"Oh, why?" Weems gave me his Moses-on-the-mountain glare behind those Ben Franklin glasses of his. He chewed on a piece of broccoli.

''I'm gonna get back into football.''

"Have you been offered an assistant coaching job?"

I should have pimp-slapped him. But it was his tune to call and I had to shuffle to it for now. "I aim to play for the Barons. I grew up here, this is where I went to the pros from Long Beach State, and this is where I'd like to finish out."

A fade-cut white boy in a three-piece pinstripe with planed-off shoulders slipped beside Weems. The guy walked like he'd just taken three Ex-Lax and was holding it back. He passed his blues over me, daring me to breathe. There was a small flaming cross tattooed on the left side of his cheek. His jaw muscle bunched and unbunched.

Weems gazed at this corn-fed husky like he was his favorite pet. "I didn't realize how droll your humor could be, Mr. Raines. You are a known child molester, sir. Our league is in the process of rebuilding its stature as America's sport after men like you worked overtime to tear it down. Dope parties, fornication, beer bashes on team flights, trashing hotel rooms, bar fights." He chomped on a shrimp. "Even if by some cruel test of the Lord you were healthy, and I read the account from Barcelona, do you think I'd allow you back in?"

I shoved a finger at him. "That girl in the wheelchair said she was nineteen. And if you recall, commissioner, I wasn't convicted of that statutory rape charge. Although I know you were prayin' real hard that I would be." I leaned into him, his dog flexing. "I'm gonna be a player again."

"Sure you will."

The two of them walked off.

Davida came up. "I can't believe this shit."

All I got was a couple of blow jobs for all the goddamn trouble that handicapped chick caused me. She was waiting in the cold drizzle outside my pad one night. Said she was left by her friends, that they'd been teasing her for having a crush on me. Damn, she initiated the sex. She'd wheeled over and grabbed my crotch while I was dialing her a cab. I lost my endorsement contracts with the auto parts chain and the CD-ROM wide receiver game. Plus I spent a fuckin' armored car full of money on lawyers keeping my black ass out of jail.

"Zelmont, are you listening to me?" Davida was digging her nails into my arm.

"Yes," I said, pulling back.

"What'd I say, then?" Her top lip curled over her capped teeth.

"You was going on about how that producer in the turtleneck over there was supposed to get your album together for the fall, put money into promotion and so forth. But now he's givin' you static that some of the cuts ain't slammin'." The ability to have my mind in two places at once came from years of hearing everything the QB was saying in the huddle and still making eye contact with a babe on the 30-yard line.

"You don't have to be so fuckin' smug."

"Sweetmeat," I said, "I'm in your corner, you know that." A long tall sally walked up behind Davida. She was fine as bone china.

Davida ran a hand through her black hair and shifted in her high heels. "You take me for a play thing, don't you?"

"No more than you do me." She looked at me like she was trying to penetrate my mind. I kissed her, running a hand over her firm backside.

"Excuse me," said the good-looking sister. She'd been standing there listening to us and now had come around front towards the ice sculpture and shrimp. She wore a blue shimmering number with specks of dark orange spattered all over the material. The hem was a few tasteful inches above her knees. Her hair was frizzed out around a high-cheek-boned face, silver teardrop earrings hanging from her chocolate-colored ears.

"Mind if I get to the shrimp?"

"Knock yourself out," said Davida, pulling on my sleeve to let her pass.

I was careful to not take my eyes off Davida. "Did you see that big clown standing next to Weems?"

"Yeah, he's one of his Internal Truth Squad bruisers," she said. "Napoleon told me that Weems had recruited these guys from groups like the Promise Keepers about a month ago."

"To do what?" The woman in blue got her shrimp and walked across the dance floor to a table where Stadanko sat with some others.

"Keep things kosher," Davida answered. "Keep bad boys like you from messing up the program."

"Some kind of spies?"

"I guess," she said, irritated. "What am I going to do, Zelmont?"

"It's gonna work out, Davida. You got other contacts besides this dude, right?"

"Yeah, but Jansen can make things happen without a whole lot of bullshit." She began gesturing again. "The songs are almost mixed. This album can put me over. This is my career we're talking about, Zelmont. It's very important to me. I ain't going back to what I used to do, you understand."

I looked around, hoping to change the subject. This girl was wearing me out with her going on all the time about the work she was putting in to get her singing career started. Three years ago, she was the choreographer for the Laker Girls. And like them air-headed broads from Youngstown and wherever, she thought just because she could shake her tail feathers and had a halfway okay voice, she was going to be the next Paula Abdul.

"Zelmont," Nap yelled from a balcony with a gold rail. He signaled for me to join him.

"I'll be right back, baby Fact, I'll ask Nap if he's got some ideas for record people."

"Whatever," she said, throwing me a glare.

I copped another drink on the way up to the big fella. There was a white dude in a Zegna suit talking all excitedly to Nap. He stopped when he saw me. Then he walked away, smoking a thin cigar as he went past. "This set's live, home," I said to Nap, who leaned on the rail, swirling the ice in his drink.

"The honest always pay up." He straightened to his impressive full height and took a large swallow.

"Huh?"

Nap smiled and held the drink out. The waitress who'd talked to me when I'd come in was there in a flash. "Another, Nappy?" Her voice was like butter melting on a hot biscuit.

"Not now, thanks, Dora."

"Okay, Mr. Graham." She smiled real nice at him and threaded her way back into the pack.

"You gettin' that, Nap?"

He put his hands on his hips. "It's men this month."

"Wonderful." I sipped and watched the woman in the blue and orange speckled gown down below throwing her head back and laughing at something Stadanko said. Ysanya, Stadanko's missus, was rubbing one of the goddamn crystals on a cord around her neck, looking here and there like Timothy Leary's ghost was gonna show.

"Who's the hammer at Stadanko's table?" I asked.

"If you think she's gonna give you some trim, you might do better twirling your dick in a dyke bar."

"Huh?"

"That's Wilma Wells, lead attorney for the Barons. She's the one that put together the package the city and the team owners went for. She knows her stuff."

Smart women and me went together about as good as Clarence Thomas and Al Sharpton on a double date. Plus she must have been a couple of years older than me. "What it be then, brah?"

"You need work?"

"That obvious?"

"I been there, remember?"

I nodded and drank. A dark guy in a dark suit with black slicked-back hair eased behind Stadanko's old lady. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she put one of hers on his. Damn, Stadanko into some kinda threesome? Then I noticed the thing dangling from his ear. It was the gay boy I'd run into on the mountain who said he knew Nap.

"That a friend of yours?" I pointed my drink at the dude. He was bending low, whispering something to the space lady.

Nap rubbed a finger across his upper lip. "Pablo is a color consultant."

"What the fuck is that?"

"About 600 pretty little green ones a week from Ysanya."

Pablo was looking around and spotted my broad-shouldered buddy. The fidgety fellow blew Nap a kiss.

"How about you become the Locker Room's utility man?" Nap said, making a gesture like a duke or something to his boy down below. Pablo got all squirmy, and Ysanya's lids got real tight.

"You wouldn't mean I got to be one of them bathroom towel-holdin' motherfuckahs in a bow tie, would you?"

"Negro," he whined.

"I ain't so hard up I want to be a greeter like how Joe Louis finished his days. Or how Tyson's gonna go out." A bad feeling exploded in my stomach even as I said the words. I hoped I wasn't predicting anything.

"No, I have something more, ah, appropriate for you, Zelmont."

I leaned my backside against the railing. "What in the hell are you talking about, Nap?"

His mouth closed as fast as he'd started to speak. I could sense the man coming up beside us.

"Good party, Napoleon," the dude with the accent and Zegna suit said. "You are making a good go of things. A good go." He squeezed one of Nap's broad shoulders like he was an old pal. "This another of your football friends?" He gleamed his teeth at me.

"Zelmont Raines, All-Pro and Super Bowl winner," Nap said. His body was rigid.

"Pleasure, Mr. Raines." The man lifted his eyebrows at Nap and trotted off after a redhead.

"Who's that?" I asked.

Nap was biting the inside of his lip. "Rudy Chekka, a biznesman as they say in his neck of the woods."

"So who is he?"

"That's Stadanko's cousin. Look, man, I'll call you tomorrow. We'll talk then." He clapped me on the arm and hauled his large self down the stairs.

What was up with that? I wondered. I put my empty glass on a table and started back down to the main floor too. Wouldn't you know it but Stadanko and that stacked Wilma Wells were at the foot of the stairs, talking.

"Mr. Stadanko." I stopped on the second step from the floor.

"What are you doing these days, Zelmont?" Stadanko was a bear-sized man. He was almost my height, with a wide middle and a flat face that wasn't improved much by his bushy mustache. Stadanko was wearing a gun-gray drape coat, black slacks, and some old school black and tan Nunn Bush shoes like my Uncle Nate used to have.

"Not through with playing some ball yet."

"I heard you fired your last agent."

"The Barons have a walk-on period in the next few weeks," I tossed out.

He grunted and looked at the Wells woman. "That's 'cause our counselor here, who's conscious about the team's public image, finagled that with the Coliseum Commission to get them to give us the new sky boxes. Encourage local talent and all that. Personally, I've never seen a good prospect come along that way."

He glanced hard at me. I knew he wasn't waiting for me to flinch.

"Anyway, I have to go schmooze our favorite politician," he said to Wells, his personality picking up when he talked to her. He waved to Councilman Waters and pretended like I wasn't there as he went off to do his thing. Stadanko put his arm around Waters, whose district included the Coliseum and who was head of the Coliseum Commission.

"Having a good time?" That was lame when I was in junior high. But them brainy chicks always threw me off. Never knew what to say, or how to say it.

"Business," she said softly. "I'd rather be home reading a book or listening to Etta James and sipping a glass of merlot."

Fuck. Last book I read was the thing that explained my NFL pension and benefits. "I know what you mean." I was dying. But she hadn't moved off.

"I saw an interview you did while you were on the Dragons for the British Channel 4."

"You doin' better than me," I said, impressed. "How'd you stumble on that?"

"Interesting people always interest me."

"Uh, thanks." Damn, Urkel was smoother.

The muscle boy who'd been shadowing Weems all of a sudden decided to make himself handy.

"This man crowding you, Ms. Wells?"

"You better get back to the kennel, fang."

He got in my face, huffing and puffing. "You are a nuisance." He put a hand on me and I slapped it away

"It's okay, Trace, Mr. Raines and I were simply conversing." She smiled at me.

"Yeah, you know what conversing means, don't you?" I said, taunting the chump. Let him go off. I'd wind up with a couple of million in my pocket from the league if he did.

The muscle beneath his flaming cross throbbed, and we did the stare down for a few seconds. "As you say, Ms. Wells." Fang stomped off.

I wish you luck with the Barons, Mr. Raines. You should know that Jon Grainger and Tommy Earl are also doing a walk-on for the wide receiver slots."

I appreciate the tip." I wanted to ask her why she was giving me the heads up, but nixed it.

I better work the crowd myself," she said.

"Hope we have a chance to converse again."

"Surely"

I watched those hips moving underneath the clingy dress and forgot all about my problems, at least for a few minutes.