For a while, it was like God Himself had perfectly planned out his life from the get-go. His real name was Rocky, his parents naming him that when his mother went into labor as they watched the movie Rocky in the summer of 1976. You gonna have a name like Rocky, you better be big and strong. You better be ready to rumble. Here he was, a pro football draft pick itching to get to camp. He and Lorraine—a knockout who could not only stop traffic but make it go backward—hooked up during his junior year. They fell for each other pretty hard. Life was good.
Until, well, it wasn’t.
Rocky was a great college player, but there is a big difference between Division IA and the pros. At the Rams rookie camp, they loved his hustle. They loved his work ethic. They loved the way he would sacrifice his body to make a play. But they didn’t love his speed—and in today’s game, what with the emphasis on passing and coverage, Rocky was simply not good enough. Or so they said. Rocky would not surrender. He started taking more steroids. He got bigger but still not big enough for the front line. He managed to hang around one season playing special teams for the Rams. The next year he was cut.
The dream wouldn’t die. Rocky wouldn’t let it. He pumped iron nonstop. He began ’roiding big time. He had always taken some kind of anabolic supplement. Every athlete does. But desperation had made him less cautious. He didn’t worry about cycling or overdoing it. He just wanted mass. His mood darkened from either the drugs or the disappointment—or more likely, the potent blend of the two.
To make ends meet, Rocky took up work with the Ultimate Fighting Federation. You may remember their octagon grudge matches. For a while, they were all the rage on pay-per-view—real, bloody, no-holds-barred brawls. Rocky was good at it. He was big and strong and a natural fighter. He had great endurance and knew how to wear down an opponent.
Eventually the violence in the ring got to be too much for people’s sensibilities. States began to outlaw ultimate fighting. Some of the guys started battling in Japan where it was still legal—Rocky guessed that they had different sensibilities over there—but he didn’t go. Rocky still believed that the NFL was within his grasp. He just had to work harder. Get a little bigger, a little stronger, a little faster.
Jack Lawson’s minivan pulled onto Route 17. Rocky’s instructions were clear. Follow Lawson. Write down where he went, who he talked to, every detail of his trip, but do not—repeat not—engage him. He was to observe. Nothing more.
Right, easy cash.
Two years ago, Rocky got into a bar fight. It was typical stuff. Some guy stared at Lorraine too long. Rocky had asked him what he was looking at, and the guy responded, “Not much.” You know the drill. Except Rocky was juiced up from the ’roids. He pulverized the guy—put him in traction—and got nailed on an assault beef. He spent three months in jail and was now on probation. That had been the final straw for Lorraine. She called him a loser and moved out.
So now he was trying to make it up to her.
Rocky had quit the junk. Dreams die hard, but he now realized that the NFL was not going to be. But Rocky had talents. He could be a good coach. He knew how to motivate. A friend of his had an in at his old alma mater, Westfield High. If Rocky could get his record cleared, he’d be made varsity defensive coordinator. Lorraine could get a job there as a guidance counselor. They’d be on their way.
They just needed a little set-up cash.
Rocky kept the Celica a decent distance back of the minivan. He was not too worried about being spotted. Jack Lawson was an amateur. He wouldn’t be looking for a tail. That was what his boss had told him.
Lawson crossed the New York border and took the thruway north. The time was ten P.M. Rocky wondered if he should call it in, but no, not yet. There was nothing here to report. The man was taking a ride. Rocky was following him. That was his job.
Rocky felt his calf start cramping. Man, he wished this piece of junk had more legroom.
Half an hour later Lawson pulled off by the Woodbury Commons, one of those massive outdoor malls where all the stores were purportedly “outlets” for their more expensive counterparts. The Commons was closed. The minivan pulled down a quiet stretch of road on the side. Rocky hung back. If he followed now, he’d be spotted for sure.
Rocky found a position on the right, shifted into park, turned off his headlights, and picked up his binoculars.
Jack Lawson stopped the minivan, and Rocky watched him step out. There was another car not too far away. Must be Lawson’s girlfriend. Strange place for a romantic rendezvous, but there you go. Jack looked both ways and then headed toward the wooded area. Damn. Rocky would have to follow on foot.
He put down the binoculars and slid out. He was still seventy, eighty yards away from Lawson. Rocky didn’t want to get any closer. He squatted down and peered through the binoculars again. Lawson stopped walking. He turned around and . . .
What’s this?
Rocky swung the binoculars to the right. A man was standing to Lawson’s left. Rocky took a closer look. The man wore fatigues. He was short and squat, built like a perfect square. Looked like he worked out, Rocky thought. The guy—he looked Chinese or something—stood perfectly still, stonelike.
At least for a few seconds.
Gently, almost like a lover’s touch, the Chinese guy reached up and put his hand on Lawson’s shoulder. For a fleeting moment Rocky thought that maybe he had stumbled across a gay tryst. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.
Jack Lawson dropped to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut.
Rocky stifled a gasp. The Chinese guy looked down at the crumpled form. He bent down and picked Lawson up by . . . hell, it looked like the neck. Like you’d pick up a puppy or something. By the scruff of his neck.
Oh damn, Rocky thought. I better call this in.
Without breaking a sweat, the Chinese guy started carrying Lawson toward his car. With one hand. Like the guy was a briefcase or something. Rocky reached for his cell phone.
Crap, he’d left it in the car.
Okay, think, Rocky. The car the Chinese guy was driving. It was a Honda Accord. New Jersey plates. Rocky tried to memorize the number. He watched while the Chinese guy opened the trunk. He dumped Lawson in as if he were a load of laundry.
Oh man, now what?
Rocky’s orders were firm. Do not engage. How many times had he heard that? Whatever you do, just observe. Do not engage.
He didn’t know what to do.
Should he just follow?
Uh-uh, no way. Jack Lawson was in the trunk. Look, Rocky did not know the man. He didn’t know why he was supposed to follow him. He’d figured that they’d been hired to follow Lawson for the usual reason—his wife suspected him of having an affair. That was one thing. Follow and prove infidelity. But this . . . ?