Robofootball: Doublespin

“Sit down Mr. Robinson,” Reynolds spoke with alligator eyes combined with the snarl of a junkyard Rottweiler as he barged into Mike Robinson’s home. The intimidation factor was high given that he had 2 body guards with him the size of offensive guards.

“Why, what, who are you?” Mike Robinson backed off toward the living room from the front door. He silently cursed himself for unlocking and opening the door without looking out first. People in Harrison usually didn’t have peep holes or much reason to be alarmed for that matter. Then again, if he had not opened the door, it may well have been broken down.

“Just sit,” Reynolds commanded and nodded to his 2 burly companions. They grabbed Mike who was thin as a rail, barely carrying 160 pounds on his 6’1” frame. Each of the guards had him outweighed by at least 100 pounds along with a few extra inches of height too. Either one could have snapped him like a moldy rotted twig. Reynolds sat down in a Lazy Boy chair that was well over 10 years of age with faded and stained upholstery. He lay a briefcase down along the side of the chair.

“Easy boys,” Reynolds added, “Let’s keep him in one piece for now.” The guards backed off, one to the front door, and one behind the sofa, but not before the one behind Mike patted him down loosely but thoroughly.

“He’s clean boss.”

“Good, let me introduce myself Mr. Robinson, is it okay if I call you Mike?”

“I guess,” Mike was shaking nervously but holding his bladder, barely.

“Good, most people just call me Reynolds, you know, like the foil wrap! Anyhow, you know Smithy quite well don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mike said. Smithy was his main bookie and card game arranger.

“Well Smithy works for me.” Reynolds let it sink in a moment.

“Oh,” it finally dawned on Mike, though he secretly knew that his number had come up, or worse, was being called in.

“I had a little background check done on you and I know things haven’t been easy. I am truly sorry about your wife and kid. That’s tough man.”

“Yeah,” Mike said crestfallen as he stared at his feet enclosed in dirty white socks, the kind he’d wear for a week or two before throwing them in the wash.

“But Mike, you probably know why I’m here.”

“I guess, I’ve been making payments to Smithy, I’m not that far behind, really, give me a little time. I can come up with the money, I swear….”

“Stop!” Reynolds held up a hand to halt the blabbering. “I’m not here to hurt you, well, if you cooperate. First, we’re going to take a few things, when you hit 6 figures in debt, it’s gotta hurt some.” Reynolds looked around the house at the sparse furnishings. An entertainment center still held an older plasma TV, but Reynolds estimated that it was only 40 or 42 inches or so, worth $100 used at best. There were shelves and cabinets that went with the entertainment center that probably once held CD’s and DVD’s, but they were empty now.

“Jack, take a look around,” Reynolds spoke above Mike’s head to the no-neck colossus standing behind him. “Tony, take Mike with you, see if he’s got a safe, lock box, checkbook, car title, and well, you know the drill.”

Tony shuffled over from the front door and the house rattled slightly as he walked with a firm step, the way a Tyrannosaurus Rex would disturb a puddle from a quarter mile away. “Come on let’s go.” Tony put a hand on Mike’s shoulder, the hand was so large that it covered the entire diameter of Mike’s thin bicep with room to spare.

With the boys occupied, Reynolds got up and strode into the kitchen. He opened cabinets and drawers, the refrigerator too. Pathetic he thought. The refrigerator had 3 cans of Bud Light in a plastic 6-pack ring. There was little more than a few bottles of old condiments and a margarine tub, nothing fresh, no meats, no vegetables. The cupboards weren’t much better. Reynolds felt half of a 1 pound bag of brown sugar that was hard as a rock. There was a half a gallon of cheap Popov Vodka that was maybe two-thirds full, but not much else.

Reynolds went down the hall into the bathroom and at least the usual stuff was there, some toilet paper, plastic disposable razors, a cheap can of Barbasol shaving cream, a stained toothbrush, a flattened tube of Colgate, some hand soap, a comb matted with hair, a single Right Guard deodorant stick, and a dirty towel that looked like it had been used for a month. Not much but it was about all a man needed unlike the bushel baskets that could be filled with a woman’s junk.

About 10 minutes later, they all congregated in the living room again. Tony set a lock box on the dusty coffee table that Mike had kindly opened. Reynolds leafed through it. Mike’s checkbook had $401.32, there was a green car title to what was becoming an old Malibu, some credit card statements with heavy balances, but Reynolds already knew that. There was also a whole life insurance policy on Mike, he had stopped paying on it, but the interest earned was still covering the premium. There was a 401k plan too, but the principle had been borrowed against. Reynolds knew that too in advance. There were some birth certificates, social security statements and cards, a marriage license, and a few odd receipts for big ticket items like wedding rings and what not. There was no longer a deed to some land that Mike once owned nor a title to an old 2001 Chevy Silverado, but Reynolds knew that as well. Mike’s wallet had a couple of $20 bills and a $5 bill along with various defunct cards and general crap.

“Is this it?” Reynolds asked.

Jack dropped a jewelry box on the table too, but there was little of value other than an engagement ring and a wedding ring. There was a little costume jewelry but anything else with gold or precious gems had long since been pawned by Mike.

“Even if we take it all Mike,” Reynolds went on, “You’re talking a few G’s only, maybe 5% of what you owe.”

“Whaddya want me to do?” Mike almost cried as he was nearly at the breaking point. At that moment, he missed Ginny, a lot. The rings were about all he had left aside from a few photos. He needed her and he would never have gotten where he was at now if she had been watching over him like she used to.

Reynolds had sat back down in the Lazy Boy and retrieved his briefcase from the side. He pulled it up on his lap, swirled the combination to the correct numbers, and flipped the releases with his thumbs, those same invaluable opposable digits that separated primates from the rest of the pack. He pulled out a small credit card machine, “I don’t think we’ll be needing that unless you’re interested in a couple of truckloads of olive oil?”

“Good one boss,” Tony laughed and jiggled a lot at the same time.

“Couldn’t get much if I tried,” Reynolds added. A credit card machine was a handy thing to have; hell, some cops carried them in certain states to get immediate ticket payoffs. He pulled out a sheaf stuffed with legal papers. “I have a way Mike of erasing all of your troubles with just a few strokes of the pen.”

“Whaddya want, my house? Car?”

“Neither is worth much at all, maybe 3 G’s on the car, but the house is mortgaged to the hilt and the market hasn’t really recovered that much. You probably owe about as much as its worth.”

“Whaddya want then?”

“Let’s talk about your boy.”

“Jess?”

“Unless you have any others. Sometimes you never know about that last girlfriend you dumped, right Tony?”

“Yeah sure boss, could be some little Antonio Juniors running around.”

“I doubt if they’d be little,” Reynolds laughed.

“Good one boss.”

“No,” said Mike, “He’s the only one.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“He’s in Ann Arbor.”

“Yeah, I know, but that didn’t answer my question.”

“Last month I guess.”

“7 weeks and 3 days,” Reynolds said menacingly with all hints of sympathy and laughter gone. “If it was my kid, it’s be every weekend if not every day.”

“You don’t understand,” Mike said weakly.

“You’ve been dealt a tough hand I know, but I’m here to take custody of the boy.”

“What?” Mike looked rather confused.

“Let’s just say I have an interest, that’s all you need to know.”

“You….want….Jess?”

“He’s in a coma, the longer it goes on, the less likely he is to wake up. The top docs say that even if he does wake up, he’ll be brain damaged.”

You….want to….experiment on him?” Mike said in horror as he pictured his son being harvested for organs like cherry picking.

What we want to do is none of your concern. You’re going to give me permission to pull the plug, end his life, and I’m going to take custody of the body. I have all the paperwork here. You sign it and your problems with me go away.”

“I don’t understand,” was all Mike could say as he was trying to work it out.

Reynolds had no intentions of ending Jess’s life, but he had paperwork made up for that purpose too. What he really wanted was custody or guardianship. If Mike thought that his son was dead, then there would be no further inquiry or investigation, not that Mike Robinson was in a position mentally or financially to undertake such an endeavor.

“Yes you do Mike, here’s a pen, I’ll tell you where to sign, date, and initial. Let’s see Jack, I’ll use you as a witness, I think your record is a little better than Tony’s.”

“Sure thing boss.”

In a daze, Mike just blindly did what he was told, signing his name a dozen times along with initials and dates. Reynolds signed right along with him. When they finished, Reynolds carefully arranged the papers in order, resheathed them, popped them back into his briefcase, snapped the latches shut, and spun the numbers with a flourish for good measure.

“When….when….will Jess be, uh, put down?” In a way, Mike was almost relieved. For his married life he had relied on Ginny to make all of the tough decisions, and what to do with Jess, the son he ignored since the death of his wife, was now being taken out of his hands. When the dust would settle, he’d be relieved on two accounts, his gambling debt and Jess.

“You just signed cremation papers, we’ll send you a death notice and one for the local papers,” Reynolds replied.

“Are we….., are we good then?” Mike asked shakily.

“Not quite, I want you to write two $200 checks, one to Antonio Vina and the other to Jack Delarrama. Someone has to pay for their time and inconvenience, that okay with you boys?” Reynolds looked up.

“Sure,” said Tony, can we split the $20’s too?”

“Of course, but leave him the $5 and the rest of his junk too.”

“Sure thing boss,” said Tony as he pulled the $20 bills out of Mike’s wallet and handed one to Jack.

Reynolds turned back to Mike who was nervously writing out checks, “A couple of things you had best remember Mike, do you hear me?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to keep this quiet. When you get my notice, you can tell your family, you know, your brother Larry, that Jess passed on and you had him cremated. That’s it, no service, nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Good, if I hear anything otherwise, the boys here are going to return with baseball bats and golf clubs if you know what I mean.”

“I like the sand wedge,” said Tony, “Gotta nice sharp angle on the end.”

“I’d take my Louisville Slugger over that any day,” said Jack thoughtfully.

“Enough boys,” said Reynolds, “Do you hear me Mike? Look at me.”

“Yeah.”

“Good, now one last thing. If you want to deal with Smithy, you’ll have to come up with a G or 2 to get back in, he’s not going to spot or float you ahead any more, got it?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, we’re done here, remember what I said Mike.”

“Okay.”

“Good, let’s go boys.”

Mike stared out the window as the big black Cadillac Escalade with darkly tinted windows backed out of his driveway. He kept staring for several minutes before locking the door and closing the curtains. He retrieved the bottle of Popov Vodka and took several long slugs before falling asleep or more accurately, semi-passing out on the couch.

Reynolds had considered killing Mike but that was always a drastic, last resort option. Mike Robinson was broke, couldn’t hire a lawyer if he wanted to, and on top of that, he was one of Smithy’s best customers. Another paycheck or two and Mike would be placing bets, 3 or 4 paychecks and he’d be back at the card table. Reynolds didn’t need any more press drawing attention to the Robinson family either. Better if Mike just kept on with his quiet miserable life; then again, if he didn’t, there was always the accidental drug overdose or self-inflicted gunshot wound. Mr. Verlucci kept a nice stock of illegal, stolen, or odd weaponry with serial numbers that were professionally ground off just for such occasions.

The Master said, “Do not be too ready to speak of it, lest the doing of it should prove to be beyond your powers.”

Confucius, The Analects, XIV, 21