The SJ.Com 2006 Summer Novel

"His nuts are missing."

"What?"

"Somebody cut his balls off."

"No shit?" Willie was almost gleeful. Someone was walking around with rock-solid evidence, although it probably wasn't very solid by now. All he had to do was find the guy, put a bullet in his head, doctor the scene a little, and he could raid the cash box.

 

that last phone call had the effect of downing a double espresso at Starbucks . Evan was no longer sleepy. He now needed some fresh air and time to think. He decided to go for a walk. It would have been useless to try and sleep.

First Evan hit the park and did the loop. On his way to his hotel he found hiself not that far from the Train Whistle

Well he thought "One more grey goose might help him sleep."   Being a Monday night there was only one patron at the bar besides Nick and cocktail waitress - Varla.

Evan sat at the bar and ordered his grey goose on the rocks. After his second sip Nick came over holding an envelope. This was sitting by the cash register when I came in.
Nick dropped the  envelope on the bar and walked away.  "Evan Seville" was printed neatly on the the envelope-- obviously written by same writer who left the syringes in Evan's bag.

Evan opened the envelope and pulled out the note  " Syringe # 3 was used by Rock Blemens "

 

Evan stared at the note. He stared at to the point a cocktail waitress asked him if everything was OK. "Yeah, just me wife telling me that the radiator went out on the car today...800 bucks to fix it. Fucking mechanics," he quickly lied. "Gimme another Grey Goose."

The waitress started talking about the troubles her 96 Corsica was giving her, but Evan barely heard it. Rock Blemens just kept running through his mind. This had to be some kind of practical joke. Evan had been around enough locker rooms as a player and a writer not to be naive -- athletes do dumbass things and some of them involve syringes. He still didn't know what the syringes were used for -- could be anything from heroin to steroids to smuggling -- and why he had them. But if he was going to guess an athlete who was going to be using steroids, Rock Blemens was at the bottom of the list.

Evan had known Rock since his senior year at Michigan, when Evan was the All-American offensive guard and Rock was a 5-10 walk-on safety from a hick Indiana town. At first Rock was just another body -- some dreamer kid that had seen too many Michigan-Notre Dame games and thought he could play with the big boys. But Rock stood out from the crowd of nobodies right away. When Prince Murphy, the all-American wideout caught a slant pattern against the scout team on the third day of practice, everyone thought he was headed for paydirt. That was until Rock hit him with such violence that his helmet and shoes went flying in one direction while the rest of his body went in another direction. Legend had it that a chemistry professor in a nearby building heard the hit and thought a car had crashed outside his office. The entire practice fell silent until Murphy gingerly got up and glared at Rock and everyone else looked at Bo Schemblecher, fearing the worst. How would Bo react to some walk-on nearly killing his Heisman candidate? "GODDAMMIT, WHY IS THAT KID STILL ON THE SCOUT TEAM?," the crusty coach roared. "IF THAT KID IS GOING TO HIT LIKE THAT, I WANT HIM KILLING THAT FUCKER WOODY HAYES' BOYS!"

Rock was out of Schemblecher's dreams: he hit opposing ballplayers and the books with equal ferocity. Unlike most football players, he wasn't called Rock because he was dumb -- he got the nickname because he would watch Rocky incessantly. Rock had a 3.96 GPA in Economics and planned to go to law school someday. Evan drifted toward Rock because he was one of the few ballplayers he could have a real conversation with. They talked about politics or current events or business  -- anything but football, booze and women (the favored topics for most of the Wolverines). Rock was so paranoid about what he put in his body that he wouldn't eat the chicken dishes at the Olive Garden because they cooked it in wine. One day, Evan caught Rock doing extra workouts and asked why: Rock had succumbed and eaten a Snickers between classes and felt the need to work it off right away.

Rock's obsessiveness paid off: he had just finished a freakishly long NFL career at free-safety. Even though he hadn't decleated a wideout in years and would lose a footrace to most third-graders, his smarts extended his career by 10 years. Teams always found a place for a free-safety who knew what the QB was thinking and could get there in time to break off the pass. Evan had kept in sporadic touch with Rock -- whenever Rock's team came to town, the two would have dinner. They exchanged the odd e-mail and Rock even passed him along a tip or two...Mitch broke a few stories about coaches getting fired with Rock's help. Even though Rock had been retired for less than five years, he was already the Redskins' defensive coordinator and the Redskins had the best defense in the league last year, losing in the NFC title game. Teams contacted Rock in droves after he retired -- he was destined to be an incredible coach and rumor had it he turned down the Lions head coaching job in the off-season. With his pedigree, he could afford to picky -- he was the hottest coaching candidate in the NFL. The idea that Rock even touched a syringe seemed laughable. Something wasn't adding up.

"Can you believe that? 700 bucks for a new fuel pump?" Evan was jolted back as the waitress finished her diatribe about her worthless car. "Man, the mechanics will get you every time," Evan replied, shaking his head. Evan had seen enough for today...between the wife playing hide the bratwurst with the cook and the syringes and Rock, he just needed some time to think. He laid a 20 on the bar, said thanks and went back to his hotel room. Evan didn't quite know what to do next, but figured a trip to D.C. was in the works.

 

Evan was about to nod off when he was startled awake by the terse tone of Nick- "last call buddy"

Feeling like he needed sleep more than he needed another drink he dropped a twenty on the bar and headed to the Weston.

It was a two elevator bank at the Weston. The glass enclosed kind that you could see in as they went up and down. One of the cars was out of service and the other was in use. In fact it appeared to be stopped at his floor- the 21st.

Seemed like it took forever but the doors finally opened. Evan had not expected anyone to be in the elevator at 1:30am and as he got on he bumped into a women hurrying to get off.  She was dressed in a sweat suite and had a pink Yankee baseball cap pulled low on her head. Seems like a strange time of night to go for a run Evan thought as the doors closed.

Evan got to his room - 2170 and searched his pockets for his card. He found it and opened the door to his room. As he walked in he found an envelope on the floor with his name - the same hand waiting as the one at the bar.

He quickly tore it open and pulled out the sheet of paper. Their were 2 names

"syringe # 2 was used by Clem Rogers "

"syringe # 4 was used by Lou Picca"

Clem Rogers was the 43 year old pitcher for the Nationals out of retirement for the 3rd time and still the ace of the staff.  Most thought he was done at 35 when he went 4 and 16 but out of nowhere he seemed to find the fountain of youth and went on to win 3 more Cy Youngs.

Lou Pica was the annoying little columnist for Evan's rival paper-  The National.  He was not very welled liked by his colleagues or his subjects but he stilled seemed to be able to get a story or two.  He also liked to brag about his pitching exploits as a Sunday beer league pitcher in a local over 40 hardball league.

 

Nick Trainer hated washing glasses more than anything else in this world, an irony not lost on the man who ran The Train Stop, a popular watering hole in the area. He hated the lipstick stains the overmade 40-year-old women left, he hated the spit residue left by that one asshole who was always hacking up a week's worth of cigarette smoke from his lungs, and he hated the greasy fingerprints left by the slimy fuckers who were always arguing with the smoker and always flirting with the older women.

He finished one glass, set it aside and picked up another. Only two more trays of the damn things to do, he sighed, then gave serious thought to taking a broomstick to all glasses, and eating the cost of buying more, just to get out of washing them.

Then Nick heard a sound that he'd almost grown accustomed to in his neck of the woods. One sharp bark of gunfire, followed a moment later by two more. It came from the window near the front of the building, less than 15 feet from where he stood behind the bar, and he could make out the sound of a heavy thud. Splashing sounds, fading away in the distance, told him that someone was having a very bad night.

Nick pondered the situation and wondered if he could pretend he hadn't heard anything, he might avoid having a very bad night as well. Maybe. Just maybe.

 

Did I cut in front of the doc? Sorry if I did.

 

As Nick took a long look into the glass laying in front of him on the chipped mahogany bar, he weighed his options. He could stand there and continue his menial task, all the while sipping at his own drink and praying the alcohol would wash away the sounds of gunfire from his mind. Or he could go outside and make what might become the biggest mistake of a life filled with them.

Fuck it, he thought with a shrug, it ain't my problem. Nick thought the hollow footsteps he heard moments before were the sounds of a fleeing gunman. He'd soon find out he was wrong.

Nick picked up the glass of Chivas and ice and swirled it around, listening to the whooshing sound of the ice, and a peace fell over him. He brought the glass of golden liquid to his lips and took a sip. A half-dozen drinks into what figured to be a long night, the Chivas no longer burned as it once had. Instead, it went down smooth and further dulled his senses. But not too much to fail to notice the loud crack as the door to The Train Stop was kicked in.

"Freeze, motherfuckers," boomed throughout the dingy bar. And as Nick whirled around he knew it was going to be a bad night.

"Put yo' fuckin' hands up, and give me all your money!"

As the masked man walked toward the bar, he cocked his sawed-off pump shotgun and leveled a shell into the chamber. It was a sound of pure terror. Nick was now at the mercy of a man with a loaded gun.

Nick just stood there, frozen, seemingly oblivious to the gunman's demands.

The robber leveled the gun at the bartender and yelled, "Last chance, goddammit! Give me the money now."

Having a loaded shotgun pointed at his head was all the motivation Nick needed. He turned toward the cash register and emptied it into one of the nearby brown paper bags he used to wrap the cheap bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 and Thunderbird Wine the winos of the neighborhood favored.

As he turned back around to hand over the bag of cash, he took notice of the man sitting at the end of the bar, who hadn't quite gotten the concept of Last Call for Alcohol. Something wasn't right. The man was staring straight ahead into space, a knowing look on his face. The man's left hand was favoring a bottle of Bud Light, but his right hand was nowhere to be seen.

Something definitely was amiss. But Nick wasn't quite sure what it was.

The man, a semi-regular who went by Rico, spoke a single word.

"Hey."

The gunman turned to face Rico, whose body became rigid when he looked into the masked man's eyes. Something just clicked in that man's mind, Nick thought while looking at Rico. It couldn't have been more clear if a light bulb suddenly appeared above his head.

Rico spoke again, softly, but his words were damning nonetheless.

"Lionel, what the fuck are you doing?"

The gunman's eyes went as wide as hen's eggs as Rico's words sunk in. Then they squinted in anticipation.

Nick recognized this look anywhere. It was pure rage and determination. He'd seen it before growing up on the streets of Chicago. And he knew what was about to happen.

No, please, he wanted to cry out. But the fear he was feeling had cut off his powers of speech. All he managed was a dull squeak as Rico's right hand flashed into sight, holding a pistol, ready to fire. But the man behind the mask pulled the trigger, and Rico's brains and most of his face were deposited on the beam behind him. In a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Nick watched Rico slump forward while the robber grabbed the blood-stained wino bag and fled from the bar.

Lionel, Nick thought to himself, trying to shake away the cobwebs caused by one-too-many sips of Scotch, Where have I heard that name before?

But before the answer came, the adrenaline took over, causing Nick to vomit up the Chivas and what was left of his lunch. I need a shower, he thought, hearing the far-off sirens in the distance.

 

Groove leaned against the fence at Shea Stadium. Nobody had noticed him on the No. 7 train; his ensemble was relatively tame for that crowd, especially on game day, when the Mets jerseys, t-shirts and fuzzy wigs dominated the landscape. He checked his case several times, and never saw any blood.
So here he was, about 20 feet from the gate to the players lot - that was as close as the guard would let him get, and he didn't want to draw any more attention than necessary - confident that as soon as one of Mendel's clients saw him, he'd have an audience.
Mendel had not imposed much in the way of rules. The only thing he couldn't do was show up at the good doctor's office. Groove wasn't familiar with the term 'plausible deniability'; they hadn't covered that in his nine years of school, and if they had, he wasn't paying attention anyway. If he had been, though, he'd have know that's exactly what the doctor wanted to achieve by keeping him away from the office.
He did know a great deal about the goings-on at Mendel's practice from talking to the clients. He'd used his athletic frame and cool demeanor to win their trust, and they'd sung like the patsy invariably found on any CSI episode.
He knew Mendel had fucked the physical therapist just once, and it was enough to rock her world. And he knew she had made the beast with two backs with Cole Slawicki. Groove sniffed at the thought. He viewed Slawicki as a little weasel. The pitcher was average sized - which made him smaller than Groove - and had an angular face that always made it seem as he was looking at you sideways. And that mass of snaky scars on his right shoulder was fucking spooky. Groove didn't know how anyone went about deciding to do that to their body, but he suspected that for the money these dudes were making, they'd do just about anything.
The autograph seekers were starting to congregate - first pitch was 7:05, and it was now about 3 - so Groove dug in his pocket and found the only piece of paper he could find, a receipt from a convenience store from the day before. He'd stopped to get a quart of Schlitz Malt Liquor - Look out for the Bull! - to steel his nerves before offing Mendel. He always kept a pen handy, and pulled one out in a half-assed effort at blending in.
He figured Slawicki would be the first there. He knew the weasel wasn't pitching tonight, which meant he'd be itching to take batting practice. Pitchers and their hitting.
True to form, Slawicki pulled up in his Escalade, “SLWDWG” plates from his home state of Wyoming keying everybody to who was inside. Groove, with his superior height, was able to catch the pitcher's attention, and before Slawicki drove through the gate, Groove snuck around to the passenger side and quickly jumped in.
This drew a quizzical look from the security guard, but it was New York. He was an off-duty cop, and he'd seen just about everything, so when Slawicki looked unalarmed, he let it pass.
They pulled into a parking space - Slawicki was a 10-year major-league veteran, so he got a second-row space behind the GM and managers row - and the pitcher killed the engine.
It had been about three weeks since Groove had visited Slawicki in his Midhampton beachfront home. Slawicki was one dose from completing what Groove heard him call his “regiment” and was sweating it, but the delivery was right on time. Groove had heard from more than one client that he was real dependable for a kid from the streets, and it became a source of pride for him.
Now, though, he was early, and both men knew it.
“Whatcha got?” Slawicki asked, breaking the silence.
“News,” Groove said, and he paused to let it sink in.
Slawicki drummed his thumbs on the Escalade's wheel, ignoring the shrieking autograph requests of the fans outside the fence. He wondered if he was going to have to pull Groove's teeth to get him to speak, and just before he decided that might be required, the large black man did.
“Mendel's dead.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
Groove opened his briefcase, a movement that for Slawicki progressed in slow motion. In that moment he imagined the courier reaching into that case for - what? A weapon? Cash? Syringes?
“Look, I don't think …” And then he saw the contents of the case. There were indeed syringes there, but what immediately drew his attention was the bloody, hairless ball of flesh, with bulges on either side, and a tattoo saying “rockdoc” running vertically down the middle. Slawicki had examined his own privates enough to recognize where these had come from.
“I guess you could say I have Mendel by the balls,” Groove said, then he cracked up laughing, a booming, 7-up man laugh that echoed inside the Escalade.
“And I guess you could say you need another supplier.”
Slawicki went slack-jawed. Groove waited a minute to enjoy the incredulity, then pulled the syringes out and dropped them on the seat as he got out.
He closed the case, then walked past the off-duty cop with a nod.

 

By the time Bianca Macedonia was 14, she had been the daughter of three different fathers. First there was the guy who gave a splatter of sperm and a virus her mother still grumbled about, but no name. Then there was Yoni Macedonia, the first man who would marry her mother, who gave his name, as well as thirty grand in credit card debt and a parade of bad checks that rendered the family homeless, except for the 1976 Country Squire Station Wagon that served as a living room and bedroom for Bianca and her older brother Tony for three months. And finally, after the divorce, there was Yoni’s brother, Zimo Macedonia, who everyone actually liked until he announced one evening that as Bianca’s current father, it was his privilege and responsibility to deflower her at the age 14, and planned to do so during the next full moon. No one ever actually knew who was responsible for the 14 inch butcher knife deposited in his chest as he lay drunk in the bathtub that night, but Tony left home for a long time after that.

So Bianca had issues, she was aware of that.

For some reason, Clem Rogers reminded her of her brother Tony. Strong and proud, physically overpowering but with a soft heart. He loved to talk about his kids—five daughters, would have stopped at two but kept trying for the boy—and she knew he was probably a great dad. Sometimes, when she lay in his hotel bed, staring at the ceiling as he pumped endlessly, endlessly, hoping he could stay hard enough to cum, she wondered what it would have been like to have a bunch of sisters and a rich dad.

Clem was the fourth, no, the sixth player she slept with. Well, actually, he was the sixth baseball player, but the tenth overall, counting three football players, a tennis star, and the hockey idiot. She hadn’t tapped into the NBA yet, but those guys always seemed to get someone knocked up, so she was being careful.

Sometimes the guys were sweet and coy, teasing, flirting, drawing her in. Clem was direct: ‘I got a hard-on the size of that Goodear blimp, baby, and I know you got a place I can land it.’ Dumbest thing she’d ever heard, but what the hell. Any patient of Doctor Mitch was patient of hers….she knew the guys went back and told Mitch they were fucking her, if you could call it that. Let him explain THAT to his mother.

Funny thing was, Clem didn’t exactly have a blimp…it was more like a windsock on a calm day. She could barely stand to put her arms around him—his back felt like bubble wrap from the worst acne she had ever witnessed. And when he fucked, he had this weird habit of humming….she thought it was the Canadian anthem but she couldn’t be sure.

(more)

 

Usually, he’d  send her off to the bathroom first (‘y’all go pretty up in there’), and she’d disappear so he could have a frantic minute or two trying to yank himself a boner. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but she wasn’t a physical therapist for nothing…she knew the male body better than any man knew himself, and she could put a hurricane into that windsock if she had to. 

Last time, though, when he called her at 1 am asking her to come to his room, he was very serious, almost shy about what he wanted from her.  She was a little shocked, no one had asked her to do that before. But she agreed. First time for everything.

They lay naked in the bed, his back to her….she tried not to look at the revolting white pustules covering his skin.  She gently stroked his thigh, kissed the back of his neck.  Her warm hand slid up around his hip, and stopped on his muscular ass. She heard him sigh deeply and tremble a bit.

‘Right here?’ she whispered. ‘You want it here?’

‘God, yes,’ he gasped softly. ‘I trust you…you know what I want…right there.’

She caressed his ass slowly, her fingertips gently teasing the warm spot that made him groan again.

‘Baby, do it, I need it,’ he moaned to her.

Without a word, she reached to the nightstand, took the long syringe, and plunged its contents deep into Clem Rogers hard gluteus maximus, as he groaned again and came all over the bed.

 

Varla was in the bathroom when she heard the yelling. She peared out just as the gun went off. Her fuel pump problems seemed the least of her worries now.