Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [126]
“I take it Oscar will be there.”
“Hell, yeah. Playing against us, of course.”
“Devin?”
“Amronklin?” Broussard said. “He’s their coach. Please, Patrick. You don’t help me out, we’re screwed.”
I looked back at the living room. Bubba and Angie were staring at me with perplexed faces.
“Where?”
“Harvard Stadium. Three o’clock.”
I didn’t say anything for a bit.
“Look, man, if this helps, I play fullback. I’ll be punching your holes for you, making sure you don’t get a scratch.”
“Three o’clock,” I said.
“Harvard Stadium. See you there.”
He hung up.
I immediately dialed Oscar’s number.
It was a full minute before he stopped laughing. “He bought it?” he sputtered eventually.
“Bought what?”
“All that shit I sold him about your speed.” More laughter, loud and followed by a few coughs.
“Why’s that so funny?”
“Whoo-ee,” Oscar said. “Whoo-ee! He’s got you playing running back?”
“That seems to be the plan.”
Oscar laughed some more.
“What’s the punch line?” I said.
“The punch line,” Oscar said, “is you better stay away from the left side.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m starting at left tackle.”
I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the fridge. Of all the appliances in the kitchen, the fridge was the most apt to touch my flesh to in the current situation. It was roughly the size, shape, and weight of Oscar.
“See you on the field.” Oscar hooted loudly several times and hung up.
I walked back through the living room on my way toward the bedroom.
“Where you going?” Angie said.
“To bed.”
“Why?”
“Got a big game this afternoon.”
“What sort of game?” Bubba said.
“Football.”
“What?” Angie said loudly.
“You heard me right,” I said. I went into the bedroom, closed the door behind me.
They were still laughing when I fell asleep.
29
It seemed like every other guy on the Narcotics, Vice, and Crimes Against Children squads was named John. There was John Ives, John Vreeman, and John Pasquale. The quarterback was John Lawn and one of the wide receivers was John Coltraine, but everyone called him The Jazz. A tall, thin, baby-faced narcotics cop named Johnny Davis played tight end on offense and free safety on D. John Corkery, night watch commander at the 16th precinct and the only guy with the team besides me who wasn’t attached to Narco, Vice, or CAC, was the coach. A third of the Johns had brothers in the same squad, so John Pasquale played tight end and his brother Vic was a wide receiver. John Vreeman set up at left guard while his brother Mel crouched at right. John Lawn was supposedly a pretty good quarterback but took a lot of razzing for favoring passes to his brother Mike.
All in all, I gave up trying to put names to faces after ten minutes and decided to call everyone John until I was corrected.
The rest of the players on the DoRights, as they called themselves, had other names, but they all shared a similar look, no matter what their size or color. It was the cop look, the way they had of carrying themselves that was loose and wary at the same time, the hard caution in their eyes even when they were laughing, the sense you got from all of them that you could go from being their friend to their enemy in a split second. It didn’t matter which way to them, it was your choice, but once the decision was made they would act accordingly and immediately.
I’ve known a lot of cops, hung out with them, drank with them, considered a few to be my friends. But even when one was your friend, it was a different kind of friendship than you had with civilians. I never felt completely at ease with a cop, completely sure I knew what one was thinking. Cops always hold something back, except occasionally, I assume, around other cops.
Broussard clapped his hand on my shoulder and introduced me around to the team. I got several handshakes, some smiles and curt nods, one “Nice fucking job on Corwin Earle, Mr. Kenzie,” and then we all huddled around