"Why not?"
"Daddy's paying the bills and Daddy says to come home." He had no plans beyond the season, which might stretch into July. For some reason, he mentioned Canada, maybe to impress her. If he played there, the season would go into November. This did not make an impression. The waiter delivered heaping plates of pappardelle and rabbit, a rich meat sauce that looked and smelled divine. They talked about Italian food and wine, about Italians in general, about the places she had already visited and the ones on her wish list. They ate slowly, like everyone else at Paoli's, and when they finished with the cheese and port, it was after eleven. "I don't really want to go to a club," she admitted. "I'll be happy to show you a couple, but I'm not in the mood. We go out so often."
"What's on your mind?"
"Gelato." They walked across the Ponte Vecchio and found an ice cream shop that offered fifty flavors. Then he walked her to her apartment and kissed her good night.
Chapter 21
"It's five o'clock in the morning here," Rat began pleasantly. "Why the hell am I wide awake and calling you at five in the morning? Why? Answer me that, blockhead."
"Hello, Rat," Rick said as he visually choked Arnie for giving away his phone number.
"You're a moron, you know that. A first-class idiot, but then we knew that five years ago, didn't we? How are you, Ricky?"
"I'm fine, Rat, and you?"
"Super, off the charts, kicking ass already and the season hasn't started." Rat Mullins talked in a high pitch at full throttle and seldom waited for a response before he launched into his next verbal assault. Rick had to smile. He had not heard the voice in years, and it brought back fond memories of one of the few coaches who had believed in him. "We're gonna win, baby, we're gonna score fifty points a game, other team scores forty I don't care, because they'll never catch us. Told the boss yesterday that we need a new Scoreboard, old one can't count fast enough for me and my offense and my great quarterback, Blockhead Dockery. Are you there, boy?"
"I'm listening, Rat, as always."
"So here's the deal. The boss has already bought a round-trip ticket, first-class, you ass, didn't spring one for me, rode back in coach, leaving Rome in the morning at eight, nonstop to Toronto, then to Regina, first-class again, Air Canada, a great airline, by the way. We'll have a car at the airport when you touch down and tomorrow night we'll be having dinner and creating brand-new, never-before-heard-of pass routes."
"Not so fast, Rat."
"I know, I know. You can be very slow. How well I remember, but--"
"Look, Rat, I can't walk away from my team right now."
"Team? Did you say team? I've been reading about your team. The guy in Cleveland, what's his name, Cray, he's all over your ass. A thousand fans for a home game. What is it, touch football?"
"I signed a contract, Rat."
"And I got another one for you to sign. A much bigger one, with a real team in a real league with real stadiums that hold real fans. Television. Endorsements. Shoe contracts. Marching bands and cheerleaders."
"I'm happy here, Rat." There was a pause as Rat caught his breath. Rick could see him in the locker room, at halftime, pacing frantically and talking wildly as both hands thrashed the air, then a sudden stop for air as he sucked in mightily before launching into the next tirade. An octave lower and trying to sound wounded, he began, "Look, Ricky, don't do this to me. I'm sticking my neck out. After what happened in Cleveland, well--"
"Drop it, Rat."
"Okay, okay. Sorry. But will you just come see me? Come visit and let me talk to you face-to-face? Can't you do that for your old coach? No strings attached. The ticket's bought, no refund, please, Ricky." Rick closed his eyes, massaged his forehead, and reluctantly said, "Okay, Coach. Just a visit. No strings."
"You're not as dumb as I thought. I love you, Ricky. You won't be sorry."
"Who picked the airport at Rome?"
"You're in Italy, right?"
"Yes, but--"
"That's where Rome is, last I checked. Now find the damned airport and come see me."
He knocked back two quick Bloody Marys before takeoff and managed to sleep for most of the eight-hour flight to Toronto. Landing anywhere in North America made him anxious, regardless of how ridiculous such thoughts were. Killing time as he waited for the flight to Regina, he called Arnie and reported his whereabouts. Arnie was very proud. Rick e-mailed his mother, but did not say where he was. He e-mailed Livvy with a quick hello. He checked the Cleveland Post just to make sure Charley Cray had moved on to other targets. There was a note from Gabriella: "Rick, I am so sorry, but it would not be wise to see you. Please forgive me."
He stared at the floor and decided not to reply to it. He called Trey's cell, but there was no answer. His two years in Toronto had not been unpleasant. It seemed so long ago, and he seemed so much younger back then. Fresh from college with big dreams and a long career ahead of him, he thought he was invincible. He was a work in progress, a greenhorn with all the tools, he just needed a little polish here and there, and before long he would start in the NFL.
Rick wasn't sure if he still dreamed of playing in the big league. An announcement mentioned Regina. He walked to a mon itor and realized his flight had been delayed. He inquired at the gate and was told the delay was weather related. "It's snowing in Regina," the clerk said.
He found a coffee bar and ordered a diet soda. He checked out Regina and, yes, there was snow, and lots of it. "A rare Spring blizzard" was one description. Killing time, he browsed through the Regina daily, the Leader-Post. There was football news. Rat was making noise, hiring a defensive coordinator, evidently one with very little experience. He'd cut a tailback, leading to speculation that a running game would not be necessary. Season tickets sales had topped thirty-five thousand, a record. A columnist, the type who drags himself to the typewriter and manages to write six hundred words four times a week, for thirty years now, regardless of how absolutely dead the sports world happens to be in Saskatchewan or wherever, mailed in a gossipy potpourri of things "heard on the street." A hockey player had said no to surgery until the season was over. Another had separated from his wife, who had a suspicious broken nose. Last paragraph: Rat Mullins confirmed that the Roughriders were talking to Marcus Moon, a scrambling-style quarterback with a quick arm. Moon spent the past two seasons with the Packers and was "anxious to play every day." And Rat Mullins refused to confirm or deny that the team was talking to Rick Dockery, who "when last seen was throwing gorgeous interceptions for the Cleveland Browns." Rat was quoted as offering a gruff "No comment" to the Dockery rumor. Then, with a wink, the sportswriter passed along a little tidbit too rich to ignore. The use of parentheses gave him some distance from his own gossip:
(For more on Dockery go to [email protected].)
No comment? Rat is too afraid or too ashamed to comment? Rick asked this question out loud and got a stare or two. He slowly closed his laptop and went for a long hike through the concourse.
When he boarded an Air Canada commuter flight two hours later, he was headed not to Regina but to Cleveland. There he took a cab downtown. The Cleveland Post building was a bland modern structure on Slate Avenue. Oddly, it was four blocks north of the community of Parma. Rick paid the cabdriver and told him to wait around the corner, a block away. On the sidewalk he paused only for a second to absorb the fact that he was really once again in Cleveland, Ohio. He could have made peace with the city, but the city was determined to torment him. If there was any hesitation about doing what he was about to do, he did not remember it later. In the front lobby there was a bronze statue of some unrecognizable person with a pretentious quotation about truth and freedom. A guard station was just beyond it. All guests were required to sign in. Rick was wearing a Cleveland Indians baseball cap, purchased moments earlier at the airport for thirty-two dollars, and when the guard said, "Yes, sir," Rick was quick to respond, "Charley Cray."