Segal, Jerry Page 6

  The March night I speak of was the occasion of the district championship game. Henry’s team had won, 94 to 49, and he had exhibited the most dazzling display of virtuosity I have ever viewed on a basketball court.

  I left before the game ended. Drake drove me one block away to Steele’s home where we parked and waited for the boy to come. I had no intention of waiting in “line at the gym with my eager rivals, just one more face to be lost in the confusion. It was a risk, I admit, but I was prepared to lose him rather than queue up with the others. My image, you know.

  At last Steele and another lad came walking toward us through the brisk spring night. Steele’s posture, his unique, slouching athlete’s walk was unmistakable, even from a block away. And his body language told me that he was down, unhappy perhaps; obviously, he hadn’t accepted any offers at the gym that would make him run home, elated, to tell his parents. I got out of the car, instructing Drake to stay behind the driver’s wheel. On the corner, under the streetlight in front of Steele’s house, I waited.

  Steele reached me and stopped. He said to his friend, “Night, Chris.” Chris gave Steele a warm pop on the shoulder and went off.

  “Hello, Henry,” I said.

  He smiled a respectful, civil smile.

  “Do you know who I am, son?”

  “Yes, sir.” He said it as if he knew everything.

  “Then you know, of course, why I’m here.”

  Silence. His silence said he knew why I was there.

  “I trust that you resisted the blandishments my brethren undoubtedly proffered tonight at the gym.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You played a fine game tonight, Henry. I watched most of it.”

  “Yes, sir. I saw you.”

  Beautiful. Beautiful, Miss Rudolph. He not only scored over forty points, had more than two dozen assists and choreographed the entire contest, but this very cool young man had also counted the house. Suddenly I realized that Master Steele had executed a disproportionate number of his heroics immediately in front of where I sat. At that moment I knew I had him. I moved in, I attacked.

  “Have you considered playing for me, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve thought about it.”

  He had thought about it. A fine little horsetrader. He did not imply what he thought about it.

  An irritating thought jangled up from my subconscious. Looking into mat boy’s eyes, I saw my own eyes and realized—this country boy is actually patronizing me!

  Very well. If he wanted to play on a national championship team, he knew how and where to find me.

  “Well then, Steele, it has been good, indeed, talking to you. I happened to be in this area on other business and wanted to see, as long as I was here, if you were what they say you are.”

  He knew I was lying. He knew I knew he knew I was lying. He did not blink. Nor did I. We stared at each other. No other boy I have ever approached played mental defense like this lad.

  “I really appreciate it, sir,” he said and offered his hand.

  I shook it and said, “Do you think it would be worth my while to pursue this matter further?”

  “Yes, sir.” Releasing my hand, he backed politely away a step. He was actually dismissing me.

  “Mr. Drake will be in touch with you, son,” I said.

  As I got back into the car, Steele said, “Yes, sir.”

  That was three months ago. Tonight we had our second meeting in the restaurant.

  An orchestra played sedate background music, but I could see the songs were not to Steele’s taste. As the boy put away his Chateaubriand bearnaise, he almost winced at the sentimental foolishness. Nevertheless, it was apparent that Steele was at ease in the expensive restaurant. His poise was commendable. The crystal chandeliers, the well-dressed clientele, the elegance of the place did not cow Master Henry Steele of Elroy, Texas. He has eaten many steaks in places such as this, I remember thinking at the time, and in company such as ours.

  Phillips sat on one side of Henry, Drake on the other. I faced the boy across the table. Two empty seats awaited Joey Wilson and our nymphet. Steele had glanced at the empty seats, but evinced no further interest. We offered no explanations.

  “How’s the meat, Henry?” Phillips asked.

  He spoke with food in his mouth. The man tends toward boorishness, Miss Rudolph, but that very quality makes him an admirable assistant coach. And though his obeisance to me is cloying at times, on the whole I find his servility an admirable trait, since his only function is to carry out my orders unquestioningly. I find it useful to have an acolyte like Phillips with me when I travel. He speaks to room clerks, taxi drivers and high-school coaches on my behalf. At receptions, he announces me to strangers. He disciplines athletes I deem in need of it. He does his job well.

  “Bloody enough for ya, Henry?” Phillips persisted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the wine. Try it. It’s excellent.”

  “Never mind the wine,” I said. “Bad for the wind. Tell me, Henry, have you ever been to what is colloquially referred to as The Big Apple?”

  “Sir?”

  “New York City.”

  “Oh. No, sir. But I’ve heard a whole lot about it.”

  “Well, son, if you play for me at Western, you’ll play at least once a year in the Garden.”

  “Chicago, too,” Phillips blurted. “Chicago, Illinois. And Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, too. We go all over.”

  I silenced Phillips with a look, and then Drake chimed in. “We’re on national television more than any team anywhere, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I felt it was time to drive for the basket, so to speak.

  “Henry Steele,” I said, “what can I do or say to induce you to play ball for me?”

  He put his fork down, and very deliberately dabbed his mouth with his napkin. The boy was a joy to watch. No blushing. No stammering. No clearing the throat, no squirming, no hemming and hawing. No bravado. This young man is, as they say, “together.”

  Fortunately for the likes of me, however, lads like Henry Steele have no chance from the outset. You see, I had what Steele wanted. What chance does a callow youth, selling nothing but his body, have against successful, experienced, sophisticated men whose profession is the bedazzlement and subjugation of adolescents? Men such as I have pandered to the woefully predictable appetites of thousands of eighteen-year-olds. Our techniques have been honed and refined into an art.

  Nevertheless, young Steele was a valiant battler, beautiful to behold.

  After a moment, he spoke. “You have a good biophysics department.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, we do,” I agreed. “Among the best in the world.” I laughed. “Biophysics, eh? My young president of our university will be delighted. Here we have that rare combination—an athlete and a scholar.”

  “I’m not a scholar, sir,” Steele said drily. “My buddy is. He’s a big brain. His name’s Christopher Blair.”

  I acted surprised in order to maintain my bargaining position with the lad, all the while recalling how many times in the past I had given two scholarships—the extra one usually being for a teammate, or a brother, or a girlfriend. What touched me in this case was that Henry’s motive seemed to be born of a sense of justice and merit, rather than friendship alone.

  “You’re asking for an athletic scholarship for yourself and an academic scholarship for your friend?”

  “Yes, sir.” He leaned forward and said, “Each scholarship is for four years. No-cut. With everything. Books. Tuition. You know what I mean, sir. Everything.”

  Drake said, “Henry, I don’t think you realize—”

  “Yes, he does.” I couldn’t help chuckling before I repeated, “He does.”

  Henry sat back, and our eyes met and locked. I smiled first, smug in the knowledge that as soon as Henry thought he had won, I had won. He smiled back at me.

  I could not resist saying, “A philosopher named Santayana once wrote,
‘What sometimes looks like American greediness is merely love of achievement.’ ”

  He digested my words, then said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Henry—” I began.

  A stir in the restaurant heralded the arrival of my un-needed reinforcements. Joey Wilson and Terri Dymand swept through the dining room. Heads turned as other diners recognized the two beautiful, Stardust-spreading, larger-than-life people. We all stood to greet the newcomers.

  “Joey, my lad,” I said. “Henry Steele, meet Joey Wilson, the actor.”

  Before Henry could answer, Joey put an arm around his shoulder and said, “Hello, everybody. Good to meet you, Henry.”

  “Wow!” Henry seemed suddenly quite young. Wide-eyed. It is, as I said, Miss Rudolph, an uneven war. “I’ve seen all your movies,” Henry stammered.

  Joey grinned. “Meet Terri Dymand. Terri, say hello to Henry Steele.”

  Though Terri worked like Marilyn Monroe, the lad, to my surprise, seemed to regain his composure. His countenance hardened momentarily and then he smiled and returned Terri’s gaze in the manner of—excuse me, Miss Rudolph, but the appropriate word must be used—in the manner of an experienced cocksman evaluating his next piece. I sighed to myself. Too bad. I wanted Steele to be young in all ways. But I knew that Terri was no novelty to him; he had had many Terris.

  Joey said to Terri, “Do you feel like dancing?”

  “Yes, I do,” she breathed. Turning again to Henry, she pouted her lips into an open kiss. “Shall we?”

  “I don’t dance very well,” he said. He was looking not at Terri, but at me. There was business to be concluded.

  “I’ll teach you,” Terri exhaled.

  His eyes met mine. I almost laughed in his face despite the fact that I loved his stubbornness.

  I winked at him and spoke. “I don’t think there’s anything more to say, Henry. Your terms are acceptable.” I shook his hand. “I’m gratified you’ve chosen Western University, son. Welcome.”

  His eyes reflected every candle in the room. His smile was a delight. I like the boy, Miss Rudolph. One minute he’s like a cynical old emperor, the next minute he’s open, childlike.

  The last I saw of Henry and Terri, they were leaving the restaurant together about an hour ago. Right now, they’re probably in one of the rooms here in this hotel, Miss Rudolph, doing it for dear old Western.

  * * *

  VI

  A July morning, early, not much past seven. The sacks of cottonseed pellets, cattle feed that farmers and ranchers scatter over grazing land, had arrived the previous night and been shunted to the rail siding behind Chris’ father’s feed store. Shirtless, Chris walked into the freight car, hoisted a bag to his shoulder and carried it, slightly rubber-legged under the weight, across a wooden dock and into a storeroom, where he placed it gently atop a growing stack. He had been at it since dawn. Chris had always aided his pa whenever he could. Much of his studying had been done either behind the store counter or at the desk in the tiny office at the rear of the store.

  These days, however, Chris was using the labor as therapy to allay his anger and self-pity. Henry had said nothing to him about the “deal” with Moreland Smith. (A true conservative by nature, Henry had considered the possibility that the deal might fall through; he had decided to wait for confirmation of the agreement with Smith.) Meanwhile, Chris suffered. He had been accepted by the West Central Texas Industrial and Agricultural College of Rocky Arroyo, a town sixty miles from Elroy. The tuition at WCT I A was $127.50 a semester for state residents. Chris would live at home and commute daily in his mother’s ‘61 Valiant. He had quipped to Henry: “At the end of four years, I’ll probably be qualified to teach high-school chem in a place like Elroy.”

  Now, perspiration made Chris’ torso and face glisten. On his way back to the railroad car, he paused to survey his work. He had hardly made a dent in the load of feed—only the area near the door was cleared. He leaned against the door jamb to rest, toweling himself with his bandana.

  “You just get out of the shower, Chrissie?”

  He whirled. Henry lolled against the dock wall, smiling a peculiar smile.

  “How long you been there watchin‘ me, man?” Chris said.

  “Most folks take their showers at home, Chris. Didn’t you know that?”

  Chris laughed. “What are you doin‘ down here so early?”

  “I came over to ask you somethin‘. That letter of acceptance. From West Central Texas I A?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You got it here?”

  “Sure. It’s in my pa’s desk.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure. How come?”

  “I wanna compare it to a letter I just got.”

  “Oh. Sure. I’ll get it.”

  They went into the small office. Chris took the letter from a drawer in the ancient rolltop desk and handed it over.

  Henry read the letter, emitting occasional “ahs” and “urns.” His face was quite serious. When he had finished, he looked up at Chris and then deliberately ripped the letter into shreds.

  “Hey!” Chris squealed. “What the hell’s got into you?”

  “The letter is unsatisfactory.”

  “I know it! But it’s the best I got! Best I had.”

  Henry dropped the shreds into the wastepaper basket and smiled. “It ain’t the best you got.”

  With a huge grin, he produced another letter from his pocket and thrust it toward his befuddled friend. “This is better!”

  “What is it?”

  “Read. Read.”

  Chris read. The missive was from the Registrar of Western University. It was addressed to Christopher Blair, care of Henry Steele.

  ==========

  Dear Mr. Blair,

  We are happy to inform you that after reviewing the excellent transcripts of your grades forwarded to this office from the Elroy, Texas, High School at the request of Dr. Moreland Smith of the Western University Department of Physical Education, you are hereby extended a four-year scholarship, renewable semi-annually on the basis of your academic standing at the end of each semester. Please advise this office promptly if…

  ==========

  Henry and Chris celebrated.

  The red 280Z sports car had arrived that morning at the Steele home. With it came an envelope bearing the return address of Mr. Armand Drake of Big Spring, Texas. The envelope, addressed to Jerome, contained a bill of sale for the car, a registration certificate, and an insurance policy. Now, as Henry guided the red car over dirt ranch roads in excess of sixty miles an hour, both boys were smashed on Lone Star Beer. They had killed two six-packs before Henry put his first fifty miles on the odometer.

  Like a vermilion rocket, the car left a billowing trail of umber dust that exploded from the back tires and hung in the hot West Texas air. The boys whooped, hollered, yelled. They laughed so hard they could not see. They sang. Chris played Beethoven on his harmonica. Once, when Henry crossed a low gulley at high speed, Chris almost swallowed the harmonica. The boys thought that very funny. Soon afterward, they both got out of the car and vomited. They thought that was very funny, too.

  They shot through herds of cattle, scattering terrified beasts in their dusty wake. As Henry took a curve near the blacktop on two wheels, he and Chris waved happily to a parked patrol car. The two deputy sheriffs in it chuckled. One of them said, “Sure hope he don’t blow a tube. Then we’ll have to ship him to Western University in a box.” They watched Henry speed out of sight at eighty miles an hour.

  At last, where a dirt road petered into empty desert, Henry parked the car near a butte that cast a bit of shade. Chris checked the area for rattlers, then sat down in the shade and opened another can of suds. Henry stood before him, raised his can of beer and proposed a toast. Henry had great difficulty standing; Chris had great difficulty focusing on his friend.

  “Lazies and genitalmuns,” Henry said. “This is the first time I broke trainin‘ since I was three days ol’!�
��

  “I’ll drink to tha‘,” Chris mumbled.

  They drank.

  “Hey, wait! I forgot!”

  “What’d you forget, Henry?”

  “I broke trainin‘ with Terri.”

  Chris, looking up at his friend, thought: He grins like a vampire when he’s drunk.

  Henry continued. “All night, one night. In a hotel. In Dallas, Tezus. Ohhhmmrnman, that Terri Dyman‘!”

  “ ‘Ray for Terri Dyman’!”

  “And I broke trainin‘ with ’nother girl in Miss’ippi.”

  “ ‘Ray for tha’ girl, too!”

  “And a girl in K’tucky. And Waco. And Tuscaloosa. And, uh, lotsa places.”

  “ ‘Ray for alia them!”

  “But—I never drank beer b’fore.” Drained, Henry plopped down on the shady ground.

  Suddenly, Chris began to sob. “Henry, Henry,” he wept, “I really thank you, Henry, for gettin‘ me a scholarship to West’n University.”

  “You’re welcome, Chris. Only, you don’t gotta cry. Okay?”

  “I really mean it! I couldn’t get a decent school! West’n‘s got a great biophysics department! Number one!”

  “An‘ a great basketball team, too. Also number one. But, hey, Chrissie, you don’t gotta cry.”

  “But I’m so happy! Man, Henry! Two full scholarships and a car!”

  Henry began to cry too.

  In a moment they ceased their weeping. Before them, despite its coat of West Texas dust, the red car gleamed in the relentless afternoon sun.

  “Henry, ain’t it ‘gainst the rules for a college to give a car?”

  Henry laughed. “Yeah.”

  “How’dtheydoit?”

  “Easy. The guy Drake, set it up so’s it looks like my Dad gave it to me. For a graduation present.”