Flawless Execution

Chapter One

It wasn’t such a good idea, jaywalking 59th Street. John Morris turned on his cane. Jesus! The cab driver who shouted it was not trying to convert him. A beer truck with one headlight ground past, its rearview mirror grazing the sleeve of his topcoat. Morris swung his left leg stiffly forward, poling himself into a gap in the 6:30 traffic, then sliding his thick bulk between an illegally parked Mercedes and a ripe Dempsey Dumpster, finally hoisting himself onto the blessed curb. The gathering night carried the damp edge of November. Below him, out of sight, was the East River. A red and glass sky tram rose on its track silently, effortlessly toward Roosevelt Island, with backlighted faces pressed to its windows as if they were being carried into space intact from the iron racket and dark hope of New York.

A drink. The city would be uninhabitable without its bartenders. Morris looked across 59th Street at the lighted window in his old, one-room apartment, quite odd for this commercial address. All the years he’d been on the sports beat for Associated Press, he’d kept at least a telephone there, sharing a private elevator with a designer of custom furniture who thought nothing of charging more for a desk the shape of wooden sculpture than Morris was paid in a year of motels and golf tournaments. The designer was a small man, a European, whose wife, a writer of art books, was even more famous than his furniture. They were both kind to Morris and charged him an absurdly low rent now that he was no longer with AP and almost never in the city. They still hit him up for World Series tickets when it was played in the East. It had been plenty damn long since it had been played in New York.

Morris watched a cab stop, and the door open. He knew the long, still-slim legs of the lady who was buying the drinks.

Excuse me, mister. Can you spare a dime?

How could a lady from Colorado look like she was born in New York? They would have to create a new fashion for long brown hair. There was already a tradition in the city for the legs, if you had ’em.

We’ll have to see my bookie. I may be busted.

Morris was too shy to hug her in the street.

Hold my purse. Just don’t drop it. You southern boys faint so easily.

He was too big in his topcoat for her to reach around even with both arms.

Morris held the purse as if it were an endangered butterfly. God, you smell wonderful.

Let’s hope it’s the Mercedes and not the Dempsey Dumpster. Do you know any bartenders? I have a friend who needs a drink. You look swell with that purse, Morris.

I missed you.

She took his arm with both hands. I’m glad. Then she nudged his cane with the two-hundred-dollar toe of her shoe. I ain’t responsible when I’m thirsty. She took her purse and socked him in the leg with it.

Our credit’s still good in Joe Bar. Providing Joe’s died and the owners have lost our tab. Morris checked his watch. We have about an hour of drinking time until the game starts. And I’ll need every drop of it.

That bad? She squeezed his arm again.

It could be worse. It could be that the God of the Old Testament will require us to hear George Hoagland on the air for the rest of time. For our sins, Sullivan. We’ll have to memorize Hoagland’s opinion of every obscene gesture in the National Football League since Halas and the Canton Bulldogs. Why did you get me into writing this story, Sullivan? Who cares why America loves to hate George Hoagland? Why did you have to go skiing with the editor of the Atlantic Monthly? Why couldn’t you have taken on a lover?

What are you gonna write, Morris? Something juicy? Something ghastly? Something that will put a new part in that hundred-dollar haircut our boy Hoagland wears?

Something boring. Hawthorne will be ashamed he was ever published in the Atlantic.

Just remember. Hoagland’s married to my buddy, Marie. She’ll read it with a microscope.

Thanks for reminding me. Listen. I need my hand around a glass. Morris guided her down the block to Joe Bar.

The sign spelled itself as bold as the name on a bad check. Inside, the joint hadn’t changed. Joe had his back turned behind the big L-shaped bar, clattering together a martini. There were high stools at the ancient wooden bar and two levels of tables. Half the scarred, round tables were empty. There were two open seats at the bar directly under the television, which was tuned to NBS with the sound off. Nobody with his feet under a table was wearing a tie. Two men at the bar still had on their Sanitation Department jumpsuits. The cab outside, illegally parked, had to belong to the short, fat, time-ruined man in the Dodgers cap rocking a Budweiser in his two hands and looking over his shoulder to check the cab with every sip. Next to him was an imitation Mafioso with dark eyes and a gold chain around a neck already gone soft. The only girl in the bar sat beside him with short hair and wide shoulders and a fur collar a little too fancy for 6:45 P.M. and East 59th Street, but with truly beautiful gray eyes that ignored the imitation Mafioso to watch them come in the door.

Morris knew the real shoot-’em-up guys didn’t hang out in Joe Bar, because a cop could always get a free belt in here and frequently did. In fact, a thin, emaciated man with worn shoes and a permanent slump, wearing the only suit in the bar, was a detective from homicide. Morris had known him from the time someone had killed the reigning Junior Welterweight Champion of the World. Killed him in his shower with a screwdriver on the third floor of the building right now over their heads.

It was always a comfort to drink in a low-crime zone.

The detective’s name was Walter Hatfield, and now Morris knew who was waiting on the martini. Joe set it on the bar, gently, as if it were the last of a species. A great white cat asleep at the end of the bar stretched its front legs in some delicious dream without opening its eyes.

I want two of what the cat’s drinking, said Morris.

John Morris. Joe dried his plump hands on his apron. His smile was all perfect teeth, none of which he had ever grown. You can have the drinks on the house, but the cat goes with ’em. Christ. Julia Sullivan. Can’t you find a real man in Colorado? Walter, arrest this old-timer . . . give the lady a break?

Hatfield turned slowly on his stool as if his thin frame were tacking in the warm air from the heat pump. Hadn’t lost any fighters since you left town. He had been a cop too long to stand, but he held out his frail hand to Morris.

The white cat looked up to see Sullivan lean over the bar to hug Joe.

Gonna spill this martini . . . you’ll get too wet to drink. I’ll be losing money. Joe didn’t know where to put his fat hands, being hugged by a lady.

Go it, Joe, shouted one of the sanitation workers.

A dame and a cold cup of coffee would kill him, said his buddy with one hand over his considerable gut.

Watch your mouth. Joe wasn’t kidding.

The two workers laughed but looked to see if the detective would turn their way.

The imitation Mafioso did not speak. His girlfriend smiled warmly at Julia.

We better try the martini, said Morris. If this joint’s good enough for New York’s finest the booze ought not to hurt two legitimate sinners.

What brings ya to the city? Joe mixed the martinis with all seriousness. His hair was still thick, but entirely gray. Morris could remember when it was coal black, and Joe had his own bad teeth.

George Hoagland. The NBS mouthpiece for NFL Football. Morris pointed to the faces speaking silent words on the muted television screen.

You mean you can’t get him in Colorado? I’m moving there. I don’t know what I can’t stand the most— that Hoagland’s face or his fuckin’ voice.

You got it, said Morris. I’m hiring you to write the story.

It ain’t legal to print what I’d write. Joe slapped the wet rag in the sink.

You mind turning the TV up when the game comes on?

I got to. My game-time trade’s cut in half already. Everybody’s got his ass glued to his living room to see how much he owes his bookie. I don’t show the game, I’m drinking by myself. Besides, I got the Jets and fuckin’ six. Dallas is finished. This kid ain’t no Staubach. He’d put it up for grabs if he got hit by a grasshopper. Even the grass don’t grow in Shea Stadium. It’s ashamed of the horseshit team.

But you’re taking the six, said Morris.

Dallas hadn’t got it. That quarterback can’t pee without somebody holding it.

Goodness, said Sullivan. He’s the one with the blue eyes. She loved to hear Joe abuse the language.

Don’t listen to Joe. The Jets’ quarterback has brown eyes. And he’s blind in both of ’em, said the detective.

Somebody don’t arrest the detective’s bookie, he’s gonna lose his pension, bettin’ Dallas. Joe opened his store-bought smile.

He’s right. America’s team, my thirty-eight, said Hatfield. Last week, I’m holdin’ Dallas and givin’ three. We got a field goal and the ball on the goddamn ten-yard line and Landry’s gotta show his ass with a reverse. Big deal. Blue Eyes drops the handoff and Minnesota goes ninety yards. You think Landry gives a damn? He’s got three hundred years on his contract. At least he has to do ’em in fuckin’ Dallas. Been there twice. That town ain’t nothin’ but flat hot with expressways can’t nobody get off of an’ a airport can’t nobody get out of. America’s dog team, if you ask me.

I’d like to bulldog one of them Cowgirls, said the fat sanitation worker.

I ain’t telling you again to watch your mouth, said Joe. You met this Hoagland? he said to Morris. When he opens that mouth it must be big enough for him to step in it.

Morris laughed, tapping the table with the handle of his cane. George. Old George. I remember the first time I ever saw him. He was trying to get into radio. Lugging this giant battery tape recorder. He was standing outside Ebbets Field. He’d lost his press pass or didn’t have one. It was a couple of years before the Dodgers left for L.A. Me and George agree on one thing. They should have given California Staten Island to take O’Malley and kept the team here.

Morris put down his glass. Hoagland started out an accountant. Doing income tax returns at ten dollars a head, if you can believe that. I was a kid with AP. They sent me out to Ebbets Field because all the writers were in Augusta for the Masters. Hell, they left the week before the tournament, and all of ’em together couldn’t get a six-word quote out of Ben Hogan. They holed up in the old Bon Aire Hotel. Now there was a place. You could send out for anything, including your own slot machine. You see that golf course once, you could paint it in your head the rest of your life. No wonder they left me, a kid, to go to Ebbets Field. The cockroaches were bigger than typewriters. Do you suppose any town will ever love a team that much again?

The word love made everybody at the bar nervous. Even Sullivan. Morris drank on his martini. He was talking too much. The talk sounded okay in Joe Bar after a couple of shooters. But he doubted it would go down if you read it cold sober in the Atlantic Monthly.

Did Hoagland finally get in? At Ebbets Field? Sullivan stroked the white cat, named Doc, who had trapped her flag of a tail with her tongue. She jumped straight into Sullivan’s lap and began to purr.

Yeah. I got him in. He never forgave me for it. He got a helluva interview, too. I heard it on the NBS Radio Network. Hoagland was talking with the catcher, Rube Walker. Played all those years behind Campanella. Some good stuff you couldn’t believe was on the radio in the fifties. Rube was telling how the baseball writer for the News was handing out cigars. And all the players were lighting up in the clubhouse, saying, ‘Jesus. Not another kid.’ Blowing free smoke, like they had won the pennant, which they went on and did. The writer said, no, he’d been married for nine years and his wife had just had her first period. That kind of stuff. We sure weren’t writing it on the AP wire.

Morris said, I’ve followed the man for a month. I’ve tried to be objective. I can’t stand the sonofabitch, to tell the truth—George Hoagland. Not even how much he remembers about the past helps. I don’t know why. The past in sports always seemed to me like the best we could ever hope for. You name the players, George remembers them. But he confuses sitting in the press box, watching some kid quarterback get his feet knocked over his helmet with his own opinion of what happened to the kid’s confidence.. You don’t have to play the game to see who won. George is right about that. But knowing what it takes to play—that’s something else. You have to shut up and see it and understand it. They don’t teach it in journalism. And they damn sure don’t teach it in Accounting 101. My God, give me another drink, Joe, so I’ll hush.

Joe refilled his glass and Sullivan’s, too, while the cat purred as if the next round was on her.

Okay for Doc to have a pretzel?

Yeah. One, said Joe. The vet says she needs to ease up on the salt.

How the hell can you name a female cat ‘Doc’? said the detective.

This is a tough cat. She don’t take nothin’ off nobody and no rat. We got rats like automobiles. The only lap in New York that cat’ll sit in is this one from Colorado. You’re ruinin’ her image breakin’ up that pretzel. That cat eats ten-penny nails. Morris, I keep looking for that hillbilly tackle Hanks to stick a microphone down Hoagland’s throat. Every time Hoagland cuts him off to say who he ate breakfast with. Fucker must get up at three A.M. and eat six breakfasts. Bet he’s got paralysis of the hand. Hasn’t picked up a check since he got laid, musta been six hundred years ago.

You talkin’ to me about my mouth? said the fat sanitation worker.

Yeah. And you better watch it, said Joe. Up until you buy this joint.

J.D. may do it, said Morris. But I doubt he’ll use a microphone. He’ll probably rip Hoagland’s tongue out with his little finger and take it home to his dog. He keeps a mean chow dog out there in Fort Worth, Texas.

Morris, that’s awful. You can’t feed just anything to a dog. Even a chow. Sullivan palmed the last flake of pretzel, letting Doc lick her fingers.

No, said Morris. J.D. Hanks will sit right there and split his suit and be as corny as he can in his two Super Bowl rings. He really wants to be down on the field, forearming somebody up under the eyes. That booth is as close as he can get now. He’ll suffer anything to stay there. Even snotty remarks from George. He’s not bad, J.D. He’s hilarious when he doesn’t mean to be. Last week he was telling about a rookie from Kansas State who made the Green Bay team because he used to get nervous and throw up on the guy opposite him. ‘Lombardi loved him,’ said J.D. ‘Kept a pail of cold water on the practice field. He’d dump it hisself on whoever the rookie threw up on. Always started the rookie at guard against Dallas. Made Bob Lilly scream. Vomit drippin’ down his shirt. Lombardi loved it.’ J.D. says Lombardi was a little bit mad. But he won’t say it on the air. George keeps trying to get him to say it.

If we can’t go to London for my birthday. Remember, you promised me Tommy Powell, said Sullivan. Certain the pretzel was gone, Doc jumped out of her lap and went instantly to sleep, all four paws stretched out over the edge of the bar.

Oh, no, said Morris. Just because he’s built like a Greek truck. Just because he’s prettier than Margaux Hemingway. Just because he’s a damn good play-byplay announcer. Just because he was a truly great player who never mentions it. Just because he’s a nice guy. Don’t get the idea he’s special, Sullivan. You’d be disappointed. Maybe we can get away to Chattanooga for your birthday.

Joe, I’ll have another drink and a companion. Sullivan looked at her watch and caught the credits rolling on the television. NBS SPORTS DIRECTOR GARLAND O’BARR filled half the screen.

Now there is an Irishman who spins half the world and won’t sleep until he turns it all. At least he’ll buy you a drink and admit it, said Morris.

Joe refilled Sullivan’s glass. And Morris’s, too. He popped beers for the two sanitation workers. He nailed a martini in the detective’s glass. And poured bourbons for the imitation Mafioso and his girl in the fur collar, neither of whom had spoken. On the house, said Joe. He ran himself a short draft. Here’s to the fuckin’ National Football League. May the Cowboys shit in their boots.

Not too late to give the points, said the detective, his smile as thin as his face.

Joe turned up the sound on the television. It was an old set and the colors ran mostly to red. Even the white numbers on the green Jet jerseys had a red haze, as if they were bleeding through the tight cloth. The way the pennants blew on their poles, Shea Stadium seemed to be under sail. Already winter was in the air. The kid quarterback for the Jets was blowing on his hands between practice snaps from center.

Tommy Powell was smooth and believable, too. Shea Stadium. Winds swirling. Winter in the air. Dallas trying for its nineteenth straight spot in the playoffs. The Jets longing again for the Super Bowl so many years since Namath. A capacity crowd. "And