{"id":17805,"date":"2022-12-19T05:00:44","date_gmt":"2022-12-19T10:00:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/?p=17805"},"modified":"2022-12-19T13:24:45","modified_gmt":"2022-12-19T18:24:45","slug":"fourth-and-inches","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/fourth-and-inches\/","title":{"rendered":"Fourth and Inches"},"content":{"rendered":"

for John Vercher<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

He still woke up with blood in his mouth, the taste of the mouthguard, turf, the smell of someone\u2019s cleat or the stink of pads or a jockstrap, and the blood was real, him biting his cheeks and his lips like he\u2019d pitched a fit, snarling in his sleep. Still woke up as if he were under that pile of bodies, fourth and inches on that game-winning drive against Clemson or those two seasons he\u2019d played in Pittsburgh, helmets crunching, adrenaline and cortisone masking the pain.<\/p>\n

Those days before the concussion protocol, he\u2019d suffered twelve in as many months as a pro before they carted him off the field in Indianapolis with a shattered tibia. Tried to make it back, but they cut him in camp, so he\u2019d signed with the Eagles, which was how he ended up in Philly. But he didn\u2019t play there, either. Never made it off the practice squad.<\/p>\n

Couldn\u2019t say how many snaps he\u2019d taken as blood leaked into his brain, eating holes in his memory like a cartoon wedge of swiss cheese, so sometimes he wasn\u2019t sure who he was.<\/p>\n

Headaches.<\/p>\n

Blackouts.<\/p>\n

Blind rages.<\/p>\n

Yeah, sometimes he just flipped his shit\u2014saw red\u2014and it scared him, what he\u2019d seen himself do. But he knew before he opened his eyes this morning was different, like he\u2019d entered a whole new world of hurt.<\/p>\n

For one thing, there was a lot more blood. He touched his mouth and came away with a palmful of red. Wasn\u2019t missing any teeth. But he\u2019d bitten his tongue. Might\u2019ve gnawed a hole in his cheek, too.<\/p>\n

For another thing, he was in San Francisco.<\/p>\n

How did he know that?<\/p>\n

The light, for one. Nothing like the light in California, which he remembered from those games they\u2019d played against the Niners and Raiders. Even before the plane landed, you knew you were in Cali.<\/p>\n

Dude he worked for, Jimmy Gee, had sent him here. His line of employment, a guy didn\u2019t ask questions. The hell else was he supposed to do when he was six-seven, three twenty-five, and hadn\u2019t read a book since Clifford, the Big Red Dog?<\/p>\n

Not that he hadn\u2019t loved to read, even if he was a dumb white kid, a cracker from Florence, Alabama. But he\u2019d been taking it on the head since he was 12 and had no attention span for anything longer than the nutrition information on the back of his Weetabix box.<\/p>\n

A jet came in low over the building.<\/p>\n

What the\u2014?<\/p>\n

His head throbbed, tears in his eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cBlue Angels,\u201d a voice said.<\/p>\n

A female voice.<\/p>\n

Shit.<\/p>\n

Shit, shit, shit.<\/p>\n

A lighter struck, and he smelled the cigarette before he turned to find her in the chair across the room. Blond, and still beautiful with the scar on her left cheek, like a long time back, someone had cut her. And brother, she was looking at him like his day of holy reckoning had come.<\/p>\n

With a sickening crunch like the sound of bodies colliding after the snap, he became aware of a weight, something\u2014someone\u2014beside him on the mattress.<\/p>\n

Even if it wasn\u2019t for the hand-sized bruises around the guy\u2019s neck, he would\u2019ve known the dude next to him was dead. Guy looked like he\u2019d lost a fight with a Mack Truck. His face was purple as an armadillo\u2019s asshole.<\/p>\n

Big hands had left those bruises\u2014hands like mine.<\/p>\n

The dead guy wore dress blues.<\/p>\n

Another plane came in, rattling the windows, and he cowered.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Fleet Week,\u201d the girl said, which explained the flyovers: Navy boys showing off. He had a flash of that dead guy grabbing his shoulder in a bedroom doorway, saying take a hike, give us a minute here, buddy. Nothing more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Always, the doctors had asked his name, the year, and who was president. Howie. His ex-wife had called him that, so must be his name. That, or What\u2019s the matter with you? She\u2019d thrown in the towel his second year out of the pros, when the nightmares got bad, and the blackouts started. Not that he could blame her. Scared himself, too.<\/p>\n

\u201cDubya,\u201d Howie, on what you might\u2019ve called autopilot, tongue numb, mumbled. \u201cThoo-thoushandh-thoo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Not that he\u2019d voted for the guy. Or the other guy. Or that third guy. Not that he\u2019d voted, period.<\/p>\n

\u201cBravo.\u201d The girl blew smoke. Leaned closer. She looked furious, like she might\u2019ve stabbed her cigarette out in his eye, or she wanted to watch him squirm, like a lizard pinned to the dirt with a Buck knife. \u201cDo you remember who I am?\u201d<\/p>\n

And oh, great balls of shit, he did.<\/p>\n

On the phone back in Philly, Jimmy had called it \u201cbabysitting\u201d: hang out with his daughter and look hard, keep the flies away. Jimmy was famously protective, and talk around town was he\u2019d cut her himself, to discourage guys who didn\u2019t see her inner beauty or psycho shit like that.<\/p>\n

But when Howie showed up in San Fran kid had other plans, and she\u2019d dragged them to a place in North Beach, Columbus Caf\u00e9, where she\u2019d spent the night glued to a boyfriend, a Naval lieutenant, an arrogant prick who\u2019d followed them back to the hotel, wouldn\u2019t leave when Howie said go, and flicked Howie\u2019s ear while they were standing in that doorway, calling him a moron and a stooge.<\/p>\n

And yeah, sure enough, knew without looking that was the dead dude, and now it was probably the guy\u2019s douchebag buddies doing flyovers, too.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad,\u201d she said, \u201cwill believe anything I tell him.\u201d<\/p>\n

About what? What happened? Howie wanted to ask but couldn\u2019t, not with his broken tongue. Her word against his. And he didn\u2019t even have a story. Maybe the guy had gotten fresh with her. And then what, Howie had tried to protect her?<\/p>\n

Her name was Lindsey. She was 22, a senior at Temple, visiting the Bay for interviews at Berkeley and Stanford. A smart kid, Jimmy had said, pride in the guy\u2019s voice. But like anybody else, didn\u2019t she have her secrets?<\/p>\n

\u201cHe kissed me goodnight.\u201d Lindsey was crying. \u201cAnd you went mental, you fucking meathead. You went apeshit, and you killed him.\u201d<\/p>\n

And she didn\u2019t have to say\u2014Howie knew\u2014that she hadn\u2019t called the cops because if she did, her dad would\u2019ve found out about the boyfriend.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That Clemson game had come down to Coach\u2019s decision to go for it on fourth and inches. A field goal would\u2019ve evened it up, but Coach didn\u2019t want the tie. Down three with twenty seconds to play, a shot at the national championship on the line, Coach wanted the win, and if Howie and the rest of the O-line thought they had nothing left, they\u2019d had to find the will to go one more play, pushing until they had less than nothing. Sometimes a guy had to leave it all on the field.<\/p>\n

Even odds said Jimmy would have Howie whacked. Not the first time he\u2019d flipped, probably wouldn\u2019t be the last. He was a screwup, a loose cannon. And Jimmy, well, Jimmy had cut his own daughter.<\/p>\n

But maybe Jimmy hadn\u2019t known about the boyfriend. And after all, Howie had been defending the kid\u2019s honor. Not that he cared who she hooked up with, or whether she\u2019d lied to her dad about why she\u2019d come here. He\u2019d been doing his job.<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me your phone.\u201d He couldn\u2019t find his.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d She made a face.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour phone.\u201d He snapped his fingers. \u201cGive it here.\u201d<\/p>\n

He scrolled through her contacts, found Dad. Dialed.<\/p>\n

Feeling the pins in that busted leg, he rolled off the mattress like getting up from under a pile of bodies. Trying to psyche himself up for one more play, one last drive. All of it\u2014the whole shebang\u2014on the line.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t tell my dad I have a boyfriend.\u201d She wiped her nose. \u201cPlease. He\u2019ll kill me.\u201d<\/p>\n

In a Temple sweatshirt and flannel pajamas, she looked like she belonged in a dorm, cramming for finals, not trying to get rid of a body at a murder scene. He was 28, not that much older than she was, so maybe in another life she might\u2019ve been into him, Howie dating the boss\u2019s daughter.<\/p>\n

As if.<\/p>\n

Not that he was interested in her, not like that. This wasn\u2019t about him wanting to boink the kid.<\/p>\n

The girl was pointing to her face, that ugly, red welt down her cheek.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe cut me the day I got my first period,\u201d she said, whispering it, \u201cso what do you think he\u2019s going to do if he finds out about this?\u201d<\/p>\n

And Howie knew the answer to that question, sure, not that he believed Jimmy would kill her. Maybe he\u2019d ground her, confine her to that house in Chestnut Hill, take away her allowance, fine, tough titty. But he wasn\u2019t going to top his own kid.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s up, Pumpkin?\u201d When Jimmy\u2019s voice came on the line, the guy\u2019s tone made Howie\u2019s skin crawl, and it took him a second to figure it out, but he was calling on the girl\u2019s phone, so with the caller ID, Jimmy thought it was his daughter. And yeah, it was hopeless, no chance the guy was going to take Howie\u2019s side, not even if he ratted her out, snitching on her about the boyfriend. \u201cHello?\u201d the guy said, voice sounding like he was about to hit a boil. \u201cSweetie, you know your father doesn\u2019t like it when you keep him waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n

And yeah, there was one way out of this, even if Howie didn\u2019t want to see it. And he could see in her face that she saw it, too. The one chance he had.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what happened, he would say. The guy followed us back to the room. He must\u2019ve been psycho. I choked him out, but by then it was too late, and he\u2019d killed her.<\/p>\n

And maybe Jimmy would go for that.<\/p>\n

Yeah, maybe he would.<\/p>\n

Had to be a ghost of a chance.<\/p>\n

Better yet, Howie could ice the kid, take everything she had, fly to Mexico, and he\u2019d be out of it before Jimmy knew what happened. The hell did Howie have to go home to, anyway, another shift working the door at Jimmy\u2019s place, Sanctuary Gentleman\u2019s Club, across the Ben Franklin in Gloucester City, New Jersey, with its dressing rooms that smelled of meth smoke and ass? Yeah, even if he made it out of this situation, in a couple days he\u2019d be back in Philly, cranking the hog, watching Insomniac with Dave Attell on Comedy Central, and scarfing down takeout from Raj\u2019s Indian, which his whole life since his ex-wife had bailed.<\/p>\n

So, no, nothing was waiting for him back there.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell my dad that you two kidnapped me,\u201d she said, still whispering, pointing at the dead guy on the bed. \u201cAnd you killed him in a fit of jealous rage.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jimmy still barking in his ear, Howie closed the phone.<\/p>\n

And she opened her mouth, but he wasn\u2019t going to give her time to scream.<\/p>\n

But could he do this?<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you kill me,\u201d she said, baring her teeth, picking up her handbag from the floor and holding it on her lap, \u201cmy father will do the same to you. As much of an idiot as you are, you must know that.\u201d<\/p>\n

And yeah, he did know that.<\/p>\n

But even if it would\u2019ve been a way out of this, he couldn\u2019t kill the kid. Lucky for him, cracking heads was a skillset that had transferred from his previous line of work, and he\u2019d busted an arm or a leg on Jimmy\u2019s orders, sure\u2014he\u2019d dangled a guy out a third story window, snapped a few fingers, though mostly, he\u2019d stood around looking tough, letting his size do the work\u2014but icing an innocent kid, well, it was a step too far, even for a degenerate piece of shit and a career loser like one-time All-American Howie Hood.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease?\u201d she said, and it came out like a question.<\/p>\n

That was when he looked at the guy\u2019s face, and he saw what he\u2019d been missing, namely, the hole in the guy\u2019s cheek, under his right eye, which had been turned away from Howie on the bed. Looked like it had come from a small caliber pistol, a 22. And yeah, probably that was the same one she\u2019d taken out of the bag, the same gun that was now in her hand, pointing at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cSon of a bitch has been telling me for two and a half years he was going to leave his wife and kids,\u201d she said. \u201cWe had tickets to Acapulco, and we were supposed to fly out this morning, but when push came to shove, last night he said he wasn\u2019t going to leave with me, so what was I supposed to do? If he\u2019s such a family man, if he loves that bitch he married and those brats so much, why does he keep coming back for another piece of this pussy, again and again?\u201d<\/p>\n

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Jesus. Like father, like daughter. Howie\u2019s tongue was still too swollen, and he was too shocked to do or say anything except grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed in the suite Jimmy had sprung for at the Sir Francis Drake, with the traffic sounds from Powell and the cable car clanging past below the window, with the crowds on Union Square down the street and another plane approaching in the distance.<\/p>\n

Shit. Great flaming mounds of it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou choked him.\u201d She was crying, the light coming in the windows behind her and shining on her cheeks, the curtains blowing on the breeze. \u201cYou beat him up because he wouldn\u2019t leave the room and because of some stupid guy shit, like you were practically comparing the size of your dicks all night, so you started this. It\u2019s not my fault. I just saw a chance, and I finished it.\u201d<\/p>\n

From down the hall came Howie\u2019s familiar ringtone, Eminem\u2019s \u201cWhite America,\u201d and sure enough, Howie\u2019s Nokia was busted on the floor, so it must\u2019ve gotten smashed last night when they were brawling, and now it was probably Jimmy calling, the guy in a tizzy since Howie had hung up on him on the kid\u2019s phone.<\/p>\n

Yeah, it was just like that goal line stand. Sometimes a guy had to lay everything on the line. And if it wasn\u2019t true before, now it was true: only one way out of this.<\/p>\n

Howie heard the first shot, but he was off the bed and halfway across the room with his hands reaching for her neck before he felt the impact, like he was busting off the line after hearing the snap count.<\/p>\n

Yeah, this time there were going to be two bodies laid out on the gridiron, and if he was lucky, someone would be there to put him back together when it was all over. But either way, he was going to be long gone before they had to figure how to get rid of the corpses.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He still woke up with blood in his mouth, the taste of the mouthguard, turf, the smell of someone\u2019s cleat or the stink of pads or a jockstrap, and the blood was real. Still woke up as if he were under that pile of bodies, fourth and inches on that game-winning drive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18054,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17805","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-tom-andes"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17805","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17805"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17805\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18055,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17805\/revisions\/18055"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18054"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17805"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17805"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17805"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}