Sergeant Lee Williams had his hands full keeping his son, Martin, from simply floating away. In spite of the weight of a Bobcats ball cap, a Bobcats pennant, and the football Bake Ramsey had given him, the thirteen-year-old's body kept threatening to leave the ground and not come back; he was that excited. "Are they gonna be good seats, Daddy?" he asked, for the fourth or fifth time.
"I expect so," Williams said again. "I don't think Bake Ramsey would give us bad seats, do you?"
"Just as long as they're between the forties, it's okay," Martin said. "Even between the thirties." He sighed. "Hell, if they're between the end zones it's all right with me."
"You watch your language, boy," his father said sternly. They followed the crowd along the stadium passage until they came to a sign pointing to their row number, then they began climbing. They emerged from the tunnel into brilliant sunshine, and the fifty-yard line was before them. "Hot damn!" the boy yelled. "Look at that! And we're right on the aisle!"
"Martin, I'm not going to tell you again about your language; you're getting a real problem about that, son. Now, if I hear one more blue word out of you, we're going home right that minute, you got me?"
"Yes, Daddy," the boy said sheepishly, as they sat down. The day could not have been more perfect, Williams thought. It was in the seventies, there was not a cloud in the sky, and the boy had every reason to be excited; they were, indeed, in the best seats in the stadium. Williams had not been entirely certain whether he liked Bake Ramsey, but at this moment, he could have kissed him. They were surrounded by well-dressed Atlantans in their autumn finery. As Williams watched the prosperous-looking crowd, all friends and relatives of the players, he reckoned, a very pretty girl moved past them and took the seat next to Martin. Williams was glad he had made the boy wear his good clothes. A band struck up somewhere, and a roar rose from the crowd as the Bobcats ran onto the field. "Look, Daddy, there he is-on the crutches, see!" Bake Ramsey swung onto the field behind the team, dwarfing the assistant coach who walked beside him. He was dressed like the coaches, in blue trousers and a white, short-sleeved team shirt.
Even from that distance, Williams could see the rippling muscles in his forearms. "That guy is really pumped up, ain't he, Dad?"
"Isn't he," Williams remonstrated. "Yes, he's got the muscles, all right. You ought to see him up close."
"You reckon I could meet him after the game?"
"Well, I don't know about that; we weren't invited. He was nice enough to give us these seats, so let's don't get pushy, okay?"
The girl next to Martin turned to him. "You're a Bake Ramsey fan, are you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Martin said, "I sure am." He held up his most prized possession. "He gave me this football. Really, he gave it to my dad, but it was for me. He autographed it for me, see right here?" He held up the pigskin for her to see. Williams was relieved that the boy was speaking politely.
The girl smiled and stuck out her hand. "I'm Mary Alice," she said. Martin shook her hand respectfully. "I'm Martin. This is my dad."
"Hi, I'm Lee," he said, offering his hand. She shook it and turned back to Martin. "You want to meet Bake after the game?"
"Oh, boy, I sure would like that, Mary Alice!"
"Well, he's a friend of mine;
I'll see what I can do." Martin turned back to his father. "Dad, can I? Is it okay?"
"Well, let's just see if it's convenient for Mary Alice after the game."
She winked at Martin. Williams looked at her closely.
High on her left cheek, nearly covered by makeup, was what seemed to be a large, ugly birthmark. He compared the cheek with the other one and made out the swelling. No, he concluded, it was not a birthmark; it was a bruise. After the game Williams and his son followed Mary Alice into the bowels of the stadium. They were stopped twice, but her name was on a list, and soon they entered a waiting room. In a further room, a press conference was being held by the coach and some of the players.
"Wait here, and I'll find him," Mary Alice said. She left them in the waiting room and edged her way around the press conference. Martin went and stood, goggle eyed, at the door, taking in the proceedings. Williams took a chair next to an office door, which was ajar, and a moment later he heard voices. "Now you listen to me, you little sonofabitch," a familiar voice said. "You jack up the price on me again, and I'll break your arms for you."
"Listen, Bake," another voice said, "it's what it cost me; I'm not making out on this. You don't want the stuff, say so, and we'll forget it." Williams turned to his right in time to see, through the open door, Bake Ramsey holding the shirtfront of a smaller man dressed as an assistant coach. Ramsey let go of the shirt and took a small package from the man. "All right, as long as you're not sticking it to me." He took a wad of money from a pocket and peeled off some bills. "I'll want the same next week."
"Okay, but don't give me a hard time if the price goes up. Williams got up and moved away from the door, toward the next room and the press conference. He knew a drug buy when he saw one, but he wasn't busting anybody today, especially Bake Ramsey, in the team's dressing rooms, with the press standing by and his son dying to meet the guy.
A moment later, he saw Ramsey ease himself into the press room on his crutches and start answering questions. When it was over, Mary Alice led him into the waiting room. "Bake, I want you to meet Martin," she said. "He's your biggest fan, I think." Ramsey's personality had undergone a major change. "Hi, Martin," he said, bathing the boy in a big smile. "Did you like the game today?"
"I'd have liked it better if you'd been playing, Bake," the boy replied.
Ramsey looked up and saw Williams. "Oh, hi, there. This is your boy, huh?"
"It sure is," Williams said, trying to smile.
"Well, Martin, you come on with me a minute," Ramsey said. He took the boy and left the room. Mary Alice turned to Williams, all smiles. "He just loves kids," she said. "I knew he'd want to meet Martin."
"I sure appreciate the thought," Williams replied.
"He'll remember this day forever."
He nodded. "You hurt your face?"
She became unsettled. "Oh, uh, yes, I had a fall. Stupid thing; fell over my own feet."
"Sure," Williams said. "I do it myself all the time."
Sure. Ramsey returned, leading Martin, who was clutching a Bobcats jersey to his breast, grinning madly.
"Well, Martin, if you and your dad will excuse us, Mary Alice and I have to be somewhere." He stuck out his hand, enveloping the boy's.
"Sure, sure, thanks, Bake, I really appreciate it."
Mary Alice gave them directions to the parking lot, and they left.
"Dad, look at this," Martin said, holding up the jersey.
"It's his own jersey, the one he was wearing when he got hurt playing against the Rams; see the grass stains?"
"That's really something, boy. You got lucky today, huh?"
All the way home, the boy jumped up and down on the car seat, hugging the jersey. Williams was thrilled with his son's joy over his day, but there was a sick feeling in his own belly.
The day had lent weight to at least some of Elizabeth Barwick's allegations: Bake Ramsey was probably violent with women, and he was very likely using drugs. If those things were possible, then what else might be? He was beginning to feel snookered, and he didn't like it.