Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

After the second game of his junior year, Harmon Stockard called Zebulon into the football office.

“What’s going on, Z?” he said.

“What?” Zebulon said.

“Coach Brock says you’re not in the weight room much anymore, and when you do show up, you dog it.”

“I work hard, Coach,” Zebulon said.

“They tell me you are ten pounds heavier than you were last spring.”

Zebulon shrugged.

“Against Oregon last week you carried twenty-eight times and gained forty yards. Against Michigan this week, you carried twenty-three times and gained fifty-one yards.”

Zebulon didn’t say anything.

“You used to explode into the line,” Stockard said. “You hit the hole so quick Turk had to hurry to get the handoff out there.”

Zebulon was silent.

“Now the hole closes before you get to it.”

“Maybe guys aren’t holding their blocks,” Zebulon said.

“Hell they aren’t,” Stockard said. “Turk’s turned and holding the ball and looking for you and here you come a step later. It’s all it takes. It’s the difference between everything and nothing.”

Zebulon looked at Stockard and looked away. He didn’t speak.

“You are throwing it away, kid,” Stockard said. “You were a first-round lock.”

Zebulon shrugged.

“I’m going to start Rollie next week,” Stockard said. “I’m gonna sit you until you’re ready to play.”

Zebulon nodded. They both sat for a moment. Then Stockard got up and came to stand in front of Zebulon.

“Goddamn it, Z, you’re special, you got a chance to be Riggins, Csonka, Jimmy Taylor.”

Zebulon didn’t know who those men were.

“Don’t let it go,” Stockard said. “Most people never get the chance. You got the chance. Don’t let it go.”

Zebulon shook his head as if there was something in his ear. He stood, and in standing, pushed Stockard a step back from him.

“Fuck this,” Zebulon said.

He walked out of the office. Stockard watched him go. Kid was the best he ever coached. Stockard wanted to save him but didn’t know how. He couldn’t let one of his players shove him, for crissake. Kid was always kind of sullen. No, that wasn’t fair. Kid was always very quiet. No excitement. He was so good. It came so easy. But he seemed to have no rah-rah. Play this game, you needed a little rah-rah. Rollie wasn’t as good as Z. No one was. But Rollie was good. And he was excited with it. And excited with the game. Maybe if it wasn’t so easy for Z. After the Arizona State game, Stockard took a deep breath and cut him.

It was kind of cold for a picnic, so Susan and I sat in the front seat of my car and ate submarine sandwiches and looked at the river from a parking lot near WBZ. That is to say, I ate my sandwich. Susan deconstructed hers and ate it like a composed salad from the wrapper in her lap.

“Did you arrange for Henry to be there?” Susan said. “Or was it serendipity?”

“Serendipity,” I said.

Susan plucked a small slice of pickle from the sandwich and ate it.

“Well, it was fortuitous,” she said when she had finished chewing. “Don’t you think?”

“Susan,” I said. “If you keep talking like you went to Harvard, I may be forced to withhold sex.”

“When’s the last time you did that?” Susan said.

“Well,” I said. “I haven’t ever had to actually withhold. The threat was always enough.”

“Besides,” Susan said. “I did go to Harvard.”

“Well, I suppose that gives you a mulligan,” I said.

Susan said, “Whew,” and carefully ate a tomato slice.

There were a lot of high clouds in the sky, and the river was gray in the raw spring light, and it moved past, without seeming to, at a pretty good clip. The college crews were out. But they seemed always to be out, except when the river was frozen. There were recreational rowers, too. I ate some of my sandwich. Susan took a bite off of the edge of a cold cut.

“How did he take it?” Susan said. “When Henry showed him up?”

“Z? Not bad. Like he took it when I beat him. He was startled and then puzzled, except with Henry he wasn’t drunk.”

“What time of day?” Susan said.

“Early afternoon,” I said.

“Many people are not drunk in the early afternoon,” Susan said.

“But some are,” I said. “And this particular early afternoon, he wasn’t.”

Susan nodded.

“And he gave you no excuses?”

“No. He’d been beaten, and he knew it.”

“He wants you still to train him?”

“He does,” I said.

“And you will,” Susan said.

“Yes. Try to get him in shape, too.”

“Has he told you anything new about that girl’s death?” Susan said.

“I haven’t asked,” I said.

“Why not?” Susan said.

I shrugged.

Susan looked at me while she nibbled another quarter-inch bite off the edge of the cold cut.

“Because you don’t want him to think you’re training him just to get information,” Susan said.

“That’s probably correct,” I said.

“Are you?” Susan said.

“Training him so he’ll tell me stuff?”

“Yes.”

“I’m training him for several reasons,” I said.

“Is information one of them?” Susan said.

“It is,” I said.

Susan smiled and patted my thigh.

“You wouldn’t be you if it weren’t,” she said.

“We wouldn’t want that,” I said.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Susan said. “But you also want to help him.”

“You think?” I said.

“Does anyone know you like I do?”

“I hope not,” I said.

“He wants to be a tough guy,” Susan said. “He’s come to the right place.”

“I can’t teach him how to be a tough guy,” I said. “I can teach him how to fight. But he’ll have to be tough on his own.”

“I know,” Susan said.

“You’re as tough as I am,” I said.

“I know that, too,” Susan said.

“But you wouldn’t win many fistfights,” I said.

“Depends who I was fighting,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said. “I guess it would.”

“And you would win a lot of fistfights,” she said.

“Depends who I was fighting,” I said.

Susan smiled and nibbled on a fragment of her sandwich. Mine had long ago disappeared. I was drinking coffee from a large paper cup.

“Winning fistfights means being good at fistfighting,” Susan said. “Being tough means looking straight at something ugly, and saying, ‘That’s ugly; I’ll have to find a way to deal with it.’ And doing so.”

“By that definition, most people in their lives have a chance to be tough,” I said.

“And aren’t,” Susan said.

“And we are,” I said.

“It’s sort of how we make our living,” Susan said. “Each in our own way.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘each in his own way’?” I said.

“Not when we’re talking about me,” Susan said.

“If you say so, Ms. Harvard Ph.D.,” I said.

Susan smiled again. I would be quite happy to sit around and watch her smile, for nearly ever.

“Couple of tough guys,” I said.

Susan’s smile widened.

“Are we a pair?” she said.

I went to the lobby of the Inn on the Wharf and sat down in a designer armchair, and waited. If I sat there long enough, someone from security would come over and ask me if I was a guest at the hotel. It took a bit more than an hour of sitting before a slightly stocky blonde woman in a dark blue pantsuit came over. She wore a small earpiece, like they do.