my friends. But even when one was your friend, it was a different kind of friendship than you had with civilians. I never felt completely at ease with a cop, completely sure I knew what one was thinking. Cops always hold something back, except occasionally, I assume, around other cops.
Broussard clapped his hand on my shoulder and introduced me around to the team. I got several handshakes, some smiles and curt nods, one "Nice fucking job on Corwin Earle, Mr. Kenzie," and then we all huddled around John Corkery as he gave us the game plan.
It wasn't much of a plan. Basically it had to do with what a pack of prima-donna pussies the guys in Homicide and Robbery were, and how we had to play this game for Poole, whose only chance to make it out of ICU alive, apparently, was if we stomped the shit out of the other team. Lose, and Poole's death would be on our conscience.
While Corkery talked, I looked across the field at the other team. Oscar caught my eye and waved happily, a shit-eating grin on his face the size of the Merrimack Valley. Devin saw me looking and smiled, too, nudged a rabid-looking monster with the scrunched features of a Pekinese, and pointed across the field at me. The monster nodded. The rest of the Homicide and Robbery guys didn't look quite as big as our team, but they looked smarter, and quick, and had a leanness to them that spoke more of gristle than delicacy.
"Hundred bucks to the first guy knocks one of them out of the game," Corkery said, and clapped his hands together. "Kill the motherfuckers."
That must have been it for the Rockne-like inspiration, because the team came off its haunches and banged fists and clapped hands.
"Where are the helmets?" I said to Broussard.
One of the Johns was passing as I said it, and he clapped Broussard's back and said, "Fucking guy's hilarious, Broussard. Where'd you find him?"
"No helmets," I said.
Broussard nodded. "It's a touch game," he said. "No hard contact."
"Uh-huh," I said. "Sure."
Homicide-Robbery, or the HurtYous as they called themselves, won the coin toss and elected to receive. Our kicker drove them back to their eleven, and as we lined up, Broussard pointed to a slim black guy on the HurtYous and said, "Jimmy Paxton. He's your guy. Stick to him like a tumor."
The HurtYous' center snapped the ball and the quarterback dropped back three steps, fired the ball over my head, and hit Jimmy Paxton on the twenty-five. I had no idea how Paxton got past me, never mind to the twenty-five, but I made an awkward lunge that tapped his ankles at the twenty-nine, and the teams moved upfield to the line of scrimmage.
"I said like a tumor," Broussard said. "Did you get that part?"
I looked across at him and saw a hard fury in his eyes. Then he smiled, and I realized how far he'd probably gotten on that smile his whole life. It was that good, that boyish and American and pure.
"I'll see if I can adjust," I said.
The HurtYous broke their huddle, and I saw Devin on the sideline exchange a nod with Jimmy Paxton.
"They're going to come right back at me again," I said to Broussard.
John Pasquale, the cornerback, said, "Might want to improve then, huh?"
The HurtYous snapped the ball and Jimmy Paxton streaked down the sideline and I streaked with him. His eyes flickered and he extended his back and said, "'Bye, white boy," and I went up with him, spun my body around and extended my right arm, whacked at the air, hit pigskin instead, and swatted the ball out of bounds.
Jimmy Paxton and I came down together in a heap, banged off the ground, and I knew it was the first of many impacts that would probably keep me in bed all through tomorrow.
I got up first and reached down for Paxton. "I thought you were going somewhere."
He smiled and took the hand. "Keep talking, white boy. You're getting winded already."
We walked back down the sidelines toward the line of scrimmage and I said, "Just so you don't have to keep calling me white boy, and I don't have to start calling you black boy, start a race riot at Harvard, I'm Patrick."
He slapped my hand. "Jimmy Paxton."
"Nice to meet you, Jimmy."
Devin ran the next play at me again, and once again I swatted the ball out of Jimmy Paxton's waiting hands.
"Fucking mean bunch you're with, Patrick," Jimmy Paxton