The Eleventh Man - Ivan Doig [93]
"If you have to know, it's a screenplay."
"Is it." Danzer seemed to weigh that information. "As I suppose they used to ask of Shakespeare, what's it about?"
None of your goddamn business. Something contrary sparked in the back of Ben's mind, and he gambled it on out.
"Purcell. The twelfth man. Football as we knew it, Dancer, war by another means."
Danzer's expression slipped several degrees of control. Ben thought he saw bleak surprise in those flinty eyes, something buried threatening to come out.
"It's about an accident of nature, then," the chiseled voice quickly recovered, at least. "Two of them. That freak kid himself and what happened to him on the Hill. I'm surprised you can't find anything more worthy of your talent, Ben."
You think you're surprised. Purcell does the trick on Slick Nick: that's a surprise.
Sitting there gratified at discovering a way to get under Danzer's skin, Ben still was finding it murky territory to try to explore. True, in the famous '41 season Purcell became the most glorified scrub there ever was, but still a scrub; he made the team only posthumously. What was there about the raw kid from nowhere to upset, even now, the receiving end of that impervious passing combination, Stamper-to-Danzer? "Stomp and Dance, the touchdown prance." Ted Loudon always went nuts over that, he had plugged it into his column all season long. You had your share of fame, Danzer, did you want Purcell's leftovers too?
Something had colossal staying power from back then, but what? The time since had changed the mortal balance in too many ways that Ben had seen, but not in this case. The Dancer was still scoring plentifully in the game of life, the Twelfth Man was still dead. Whatever grasp the specter of Purcell had, let Danzer squirm under it, he decided.
"Don't judge my script too soon, Nick," Ben flicked the page resting in the typewriter. "Maybe it'll turn out to bring back valuable memories for you."
Danzer regarded him stonily for a moment, then in turn tapped the radio where the Brahms had been. "Do you know your trouble, Ben? You let your heart be moved too easily. Dex. Purcell. The list doesn't stop there, I'm sure. You're the type lame puppies and roundheeled women sniff out, would be my guess." That last was flicked lightly enough, but the lash was unmistakably there. "Whatever it is, you let it get to you too much."
"Is that what's wrong with me?" Ben acted surprised, although he had to work to hold it to that. The sonofabitch can't know about Cass, too. Can he? "And here I thought it was an old pain from football acting up."
Danzer smiled that sterile smile as he got up to leave. "Those last on and on, don't they. Good night, Ben."
"General quarters. All hands, man your battle stations."
He woke up fighting mad at Navy games in the middle of the night and trying simultaneously to put on a light and his clothes.
Country club Sunday sailing sonsofbitches. If that captain thinks he is going to give me something to write about besides Danzer's pork chops by pulling a drill, he has another think coming.
The squawk box in a corner of the ceiling still was blatting the alarm when the compartment door flung open and the medical officer hustled in. He made a face at the clutter on the operating table. "I need that cleared," he said matter-of-factly, and with the sweep of an arm began gathering Ben's belongings and dumping them under the bunk.
"Hey!" Half-dressed, Ben lumbered across the room and protectively scooped up his typewriter and its carrying case. "What's all the rush?"
"A submarine is trailing us," the medico recited as if it were common knowledge. "You need to put your gear on and get out on deck, fast."
Feeling like he was in a severely bad dream, Ben in haste donned the helmet