Tight End Page 8

  “Now comes the hard part,” he said, his voice becoming softer. “You have to make some phone calls.”

  “Oh, I do, do I? To whom?”

  “The suspects.”

  She frowned and pushed back her chair. “You mean Chick and Steve?”

  “Chick, Steve, and even Chuck,” said Jim. “Let’s go. Tell them you’re Ms. So-an’-so and want to know if they would like to subscribe to Stocks in Review magazine.”

  He picked up a short yellow pencil and a sheet of paper from the top of an index file, then he and Margo went outside. A phone booth was just past the exit door. He found the phone numbers of the Bensons, the Newtons, and the DeVals in the directory and wrote them down.

  Margo dialed the Benson number first. Her suddenly nervous-looking eyes told Jim that someone was answering her ring.

  “Hello? Mrs. Benson?” Margo said sweetly. “How do you do? I’m Ms. Bailey. Are you, or your husband, already subscribers to Stocks in Review magazine?”

  There was a moment of silence as Jim watched Margo listening to the reply.

  Then Margo, cracking a faint smile, said, “Thank you, Mrs. Benson. Have a nice day.”

  She hung up and stared at Jim. “Mr. Benson’s already a subscriber!”

  “Hey! Good!” Jim wrote yes after the Benson name. “Now try the Newtons.”

  She dialed again, got an answer, and apparently an abrupt reply, because she placed the receiver back on the cradle fast and looked at Jim with soft, hurt eyes. “Wow! Was she snippy!”

  “Subscriber or not?”

  “Not.”

  Jim wrote no after the Newton name. “DeVal next,” he said.

  Margo dialed the DeVals’ number and almost immediately started her spiel. When she hung up, Jim felt sure they had scored again.

  But Margo said, “Mr. DeVal gets the magazine now and then from a friend. She, Mrs. DeVal, is quite sure he wouldn’t care to subscribe to it.”

  “Can’t blame him,” said Jim. He sighed. “Well, one out of three.” He held up a finger. “We’ve got to get that August issue from the Bensons and see if page fifty-five and fifty-six is intact or ripped out.”

  “How do you expect to accomplish that?”

  He grinned mischievously, grabbed her small chin, and gently squeezed it. “You did so well telephoning, you should do well with that assignment, too, Detective Anderson.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” she said impishly.

  He took his wallet out of his pocket, counted the money in it, and put it back. “Just enough for a couple of root beer floats,” he said. “What do you say?”

  She grabbed his arm. “I say sure!” She beamed delightedly.

  With long, happy strides they walked out of the library into the lighted street.

  “Jim,” Margo said as they headed down the sidewalk toward the Burger Queen two blocks away, “if Chick’s the guilty party, what are you going to say to him?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jim. “But I’ll figure out something. When are you going to see Mrs. Benson about that August issue?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow night. I don’t know.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Jim.

  He felt cool, calm, and collected. They were making progress. It wouldn’t be much longer before they would know who had made those malicious phone calls, drawn the obscene picture, and mailed him the picture torn out of a Stocks in Review magazine.

  Football practice went on as usual on Thursday afternoon, except for one thing: Jim wasn’t able to function without thinking that Chick Benson might be the culprit who was trying to undermine his playing ability. Jim forgot defensive plays. Twice he blocked the wrong man. Once he grabbed a guy’s face guard. Another time he threw a block on a guard, then saw the ballcarrier sweep around him for a clean twenty-yard run before Chick and Pat Simmons nailed him.

  “Where have you got your head, Cort?” Pat snapped at him. “You haven’t done a thing right yet.”

  Jim said nothing. He had an excuse, but it wouldn’t be accepted. Not here. Not yet.

  “Jim!” a deep voice shouted from the sideline. “Come here!”

  Jim yanked off his helmet and trotted off the field. Coach Butler stood in front of the bench, players standing on both sides of him. Perched on top of the bench almost directly behind him was Jerry Watkins, his ever-present camera hung from a strap around his neck. Jim saw he had the camera focused on him.

  Waste an exposure, Jerry, Jim wanted to tell him. Waste a couple. What have you got? A scrapbook of failures, too?

  He came up alongside the coach.

  “Jim, I can’t believe you’re doing all those crazy things out there,” Coach Butler declared. “You’re playing like a kid just starting small-fry football.”

  Jim looked for a towel on the bench, saw one, picked it up and wiped his face.

  “I’m sorry, Coach. But I’ll get over it. I promise.”

  “I can’t depend on promises,” the coach retorted. He spat and yanked on his baseball cap. His other hand was deep inside the breast pocket of his blue nylon jacket. “Grabbing the face mask was just plain dumbness. But letting a flanker sweep by you and you don’t even know he’s going — for pete’s sake, man, that could mean seven points in a game. Know what I’m saying?

  “Have you forgotten the block and attack?” he went on. “Hit your guard, yes, but then rush on after that guy with the ball if he comes around your end. And what have you been doing on the second down and seven- or eight-to-go plays? Or on the third down and six-to-go plays? You’re rushing hard, but you’re not dropping back for the pass. You’re playing according to your own logic, Jim, not signal. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” he echoed, mockingly. “Don’t just say yes to say yes. Are you sure?”

  Jim nodded. “I’m sure.”

  The coach stared at him. Then his voice lowered. “Your Dad get a job yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He will. He’s a good guy. And he’s doing fine in that accounting course.”

  Jim stared at him. “How —”

  “One of our teachers is teaching it,” the coach cut in. “Okay. Get out there. And keep your mind on the game. All right?”

  Jim nodded. He put his helmet back on and ran out on the field, much faster than he had run off.

  The coach was a real man, he thought. Through and through he was fourteen carat.

  Jim tried to get himself together, and on signal he charged forward on the pass plays, then rushed back to cover his man in case he was the intended receiver. Once — and once was a lot right now — he pulled down an interception.

  “Nice going, Jim,” said Chick.

  A compliment from Chick? Jim was confused. Would a guy who wanted him off the team compliment him on a play? Did he do it to throw Jim off his track if he suspected that Jim was trying to find out who the culprit was?

  Jim had no way of knowing — yet.

  He grabbed two receptions after a run of some twenty yards, one of which he had to leap up for in front of Chick Benson. Chick went down and rolled over before coming back up on his feet, unhurt. That he felt disgusted with himself for failing to intercept the pass was clear on his face.

  Jim’s smile came and vanished as quickly. He’d save it for a later time.

  The tiger roll, then five laps around the field, completed the practice session. On their way to the school and the showers, Jim found himself walking beside Pat. He remained quiet, not caring to be intimidated by Pat, but it was Pat who broke the silence between them.

  “Hey, you find out who drew that picture?”

  Jim looked at him, surprised that he should mention it. “Not yet.”

  “You trying?”

  “Yup.”

  “No idea who did it?”

  “Not yet.” Jim frowned. “You wouldn’t have any suggestions, would you?”

  “Me? Heck, no.”

  Jim hesitated. “Would you tell me if you di
d?”

  Their eyes met. A faint smile came over Pat’s mouth. “Yes, I would. You know, I’ve been thinking. I carried a grudge against you, and your father, earlier. I couldn’t help it. But I heard what your father’s doing and I think it’s great. And I know you’re having it tough, with the team and all.”

  Jim smiled back. “Thanks, Pat. You’re okay.”

  “It’s very easy to be a jerk,” Pat said. “Guess that’s what I was.”

  They entered the locker room, stripped, and took their showers.

  13

  Jim was in his fathers den, typing up some of the play patterns the team would be using during tomorrow nights game against the Floralview Bucs. The door was open and he heard the front bell ring.

  He paused, wondering who it was. Then he heard the door close, and the muffled sound of footsteps on the rug. The footsteps seemed to be approaching the den.

  He looked toward the door and saw Peg. She had her hand raised, ready to knock on the door casing.

  “Hi, brother,” she said. “Someone to see you.”

  Then he saw Margo.

  “Hi, Margo. Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peg smiled and left, and Margo entered the den. She had her hair tied in a ponytail, and her hands stuck inside the pockets of her maroon imitation-leather jacket.

  “Want to sit?” Jim invited.

  “Thanks.”

  She chose the black leather lounging chair his father had often used when he took his nap, the days when he had a steady job and came home hungry and bone tired. Since his release from prison, he hadn’t sat or slept on the chair more than half a dozen times.

  “I hope I’m not too late,” she said. She reached back and pulled her hair out from behind her jacket collar.

  Jim looked at the electric clock on top of his father’s desk. It was twenty after seven.

  “It’s early,” he said. “What do you think we do, go to bed with the chickens?”

  She laughed. “Hey, what a lovely room,” she exclaimed, looking at the wall plaques, the pictures of birds and animals, and the wood carvings of pelicans on a shelf. “Yours?”

  “My father’s. This is his room. Well, did you get the magazine from the Bensons?”

  She turned to him. “I had a girl friend get it for me,” she answered. “But it was all intact.”

  He frowned, disappointed.

  “I’m afraid we were barking up the wrong tree,” she said.

  “Rats!” Jim shook his head. “We’re back to square one!”

  “Jim, how about Barry?”

  He stared at her. “Barry Delaney? You crazy? He’s a good friend of mine. He wouldn’t do things like that.”

  “He’s not a regular player on the team,” she said. “And I’ve noticed the look on his face at times when he goes in to take your place, and at times when you go in to replace him. Going in, he looks proud as a peacock. Coming out, he looks sad and hurt. Mostly hurt.”

  “Margo! It’s not Barry! I know it isn’t!”

  She shrugged and threw out her hands. “Then you’re right. We’re back to square one. With a high fence all around it.”

  Barry? Jim shook his head. Barry was a softie, a pussycat. He wouldn’t — he couldn’t — do a dirty thing like making those phone calls.

  “What are you thinking?” Margo broke into his thoughts. “You’ve got your face screwed up like a dried-up prune.”

  “I’m thinking about Barry,” he said. “And what you said about how happy he looks when he plays, and how disgusted he looks when he doesn’t. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s jealous of me and is using my father’s release from prison to get at me.”

  “Is his father a stocks-and-bonds man?” Margo asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” He paused and indulged in more thinking. Suddenly his face lit up. “I know what. I’ll have my mother call his mother tomorrow while we’re in school, and ask her if Mr. Delaney subscribes to Stocks in Review. If he does, maybe she can borrow the August issue for me.”

  “I hate to say this, but it would be terrible if he’s the guy,” said Margo. “He’s your neighbor.”

  “Telling me? We’ve been friends ever since they moved next door.” Jim bit on his lower lip until it hurt. “Darn! I hate to think of him pulling those lousy things on me, Margo!”

  She shrugged and stood up.

  “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow,” she said.

  A few minutes later Jim stepped out of the room and called to his mother. “Mom! Can I see you a minute, please?”

  “All right!” came her reply from the living room.

  He stepped back into the room and waited for her. She soon came, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed her hands in front of her.

  “Hi, Mom.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

  “Just keep it simple,” she said.

  Calmly, he told her what he would like her to do. When he was finished, she looked at him thoughtfully. “You suspect Barry?”

  He shrugged. “At this point I don’t know whom to suspect anymore, Mom. But Margo and I think it’s possible that he’s the guy. Anyway, we’d like to check him out.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” his mother said. “But I’ll see what Frieda says.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  The next day during lunchtime Jim called his mother from a pay phone in the school cafeteria.

  “You may have hit the jackpot,” she told him.

  His heart jumped. “Mr. Delaney subscribes to the magazine?”

  “No. But he gets it from someone else.”

  “From whom?”

  “Mr. Watkins. Mr. G. T. Watkins.”

  G. T. Watkins? Jims hand tightened on the receiver. “Did you get the August issue, Mom?”

  “Yes. I have it right here in front of me.”

  “Good. See if page fifty-five is in it.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He waited a few seconds, his heart pumping faster than ever.

  In a moment her voice was back on the line. “Jim, the page is missing. It was torn out.”

  Jim could barely restrain himself. It was Barry!

  “Thanks, Mom!” he cried, thrilled that the mystery was solved. “I love you!”

  But suddenly a wave of regret drowned out his feeling of elation. In spite of his desperately wanting to know who was at the bottom of all this horrible business, he had hoped it wasn’t Barry. They had been friends so long; what kind of a relationship would they have from now on? The rat, Jim thought. The lousy rat!

  “Jim? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mom,” he said, his voice softer. “Thanks, again. See you later.”

  He hung up and turned to Margo. “She’s got the magazine with the page torn out of it,” he said gravely.

  “Hey! At last we’re cooking!” she exclaimed, then frowned. “What’s the matter? You’ve solved the case. Aren’t you happy it’s over?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out heavily. “Barry. I would never have believed it.”

  A bell rang. Their lunchtime was over.

  They went to their lockers and then to their respective classes. Jim, heading for Math 10, wished he had the nerve to skip it. Barry was in the class, too. Barry. Oh, man. We were good friends. At least, I thought we were. Can’t a guy trust his own friends anymore?

  He entered the room and saw Barry already in his seat.

  “Hi, Jim,” Barry greeted him.

  Jim ignored him. He felt cold, bitter all of a sudden.

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, man, what’s up? Aren’t you talking?”

  Jim looked around. Barry was standing beside him, gazing at him bewilderedly.

  “What?”

  Barry smiled, put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and shook him. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re in outer space!”

  Jim stared at him — stared deep into those mild, friendly eyes. Just as he though
t. Barry could not have done those terrible things. No guilty person could look into his eyes like that and say what Barry had said.

  That left only one other person.

  “I should have known,” Jim told himself silently. “Darn it all, I should have known.”

  There was good news when Jim got home that afternoon. The bright, happy glow on his fathers face was all he needed to know what had happened.

  “You got a job, Dad!”

  “Right!”

  “Where?”

  “At Casey’s Company.”

  “Great!”

  He didn’t tell his father, nor anyone else in the family, about his own quiet victory. He would wait till later, when he was sure the door was closed on it for good.

  The game with the Floralview Bucs got underway as scheduled that night. It was a hot, muggy evening — better weather for baseball than football.

  Jim, standing in front of the Rams’ bench, watched the two teams line up for the opening kick-off. He looked at the green-uniformed Bucs, whose front line looked to average three or four pounds heavier per man than the Rams’.

  Floralview had a 2-0 record. They had blasted the Riverside Bulldogs last week, 40–7, but had just managed to squeak past the Coral Town Indians the week before, 14–13. The sportswriter for the Port Lee Daily gave the Bucs a seven-point edge to win the game. The Nuggets’ sportswriter-photographer, Jerry Watkins, gave the Rams a six-point edge.

  The whistle blew. The Bucs kickoff man raised his hand. Then, on signal, the two lines sprang ahead. BOOM! Toe connected with ball, and like a shot the football left the tee and sailed end over end through the air deep into Rams territory.

  Tony Nichols, standing on his ten-yard line, caught the ball against his stomach, and rushed up to the twenty-two where he was smeared.

  “Well! He finally made it,” a strong voice said at his side.

  Jim looked at Coach Butler standing beside him. Then he saw that the coach wasn’t referring to Tony, but to someone who had just come into the football stadium, Jerry Watkins. The schools sportswriter-photographer, his camera paraphernalia hanging by a strap around his neck, was jogging in.

  Jim felt a chill ripple along his spine. He hadn’t minded it a bit when the coach had told him he was starting Barry at tight end. He had his mind full of a problem, and until he had the problem cleared away he knew he wasn’t worth his salt in the game. He had hoped it would have been taken care of by now, so he would have been able to start. But the source of his problem had just made his appearance.