I had been lugging around the lap-top for a couple of weeks, now. It had become part of my daily equipment, and I felt like I couldn't let it out of my sight. It had it's own little, black, carrying bag, covered in enough velcro and zippers to make NASA happy and annoy me if I got within 10 feet of a sweater.
I had access to all the information. The client, Willy, had given me his password and let me bop through his system. Most of it was hum-drum, boring stuff. His gig dealt with some sensitive issues, but not exactly national security material. He is a public figure, and the case at hand dealt with embarrassment more than illegality. The big problem, for him, was the he had it on the wrong computer. If it had been on his personal property, no one would have known, or cared.
I didn't really care, either, but he was paying the bills, so I had to do what I could. It seems on one lonely night, out of town, he had gotten into a wee bit of chat with a woman. That chat evolved from the mundane to the flirty sort, then morphed into naughtiness. The kind of naughtiness a married cat, like Willy, probably shouldn't have pursued. Pursue it he did, and then the hunter became the hunted.
She pulled a bit of trickery out of the deck and played a black card, the blackmail card, to be exact. She threatened to be a tattle-tail, and expose what Willy had been doing with the wee Mr. Willy. The conversation was rife with double entendre to an eye-rolling degree. It was like every dirty joke a middle schooler would tell, but involving grown-ass adults, who should know better.
It was sad, really, but my job deals with a lot of sadness. Sadness as a result of chasing happiness of a sort. Sadness and secrets is my stock in trade.
I sighed and tried to get to the heart of leverage this chick had on Willy. I wasn't really sure what I was going to do about it, but I had a nagging, gut feeling that there was a deeper layer, a wider net that had yet to be uncovered.
I had a good cigar, a decent whisky glassed up and ready for action, and the FrankenAl for entertainment. Even if I didn't make any progress, the day wouldn't be a total wash. The FrankenAl were discussing the Stanley Kubrick film, 'Eyes Wide Shut', and how Kubrick knew he was dying, and slipped in Easter Eggs for his fans throughout the movie. There is the scene where Tom Cruise is offered the underage girl, by the Russian, shop owner, read, 'Lolita'. A scene where Cruise shows up at the party in 18th Century fancy dress, looking like Ryan O'Neill in 'Barry Lyndon'. They started to lose me when they mentioned Sydney Pollack playing with the balls on the pool table. He seemed to be displaying the eight ball, which was a character in 'Full Metal Jacket'. I was about to weigh in on the debate when Lloyd walked in, unusually amped up. I say unusually, because there were a couple of beads of sweat, on his face.
Lloyd rarely sweats.
I gestured for him to join me. He sat down on one of the big comfy chairs, leaning forward, excited but not distressed. "Lloyd, my good man, what has you in such a state?" I asked.
"I just passed by a bunch of Duck fans," he said. "They are all over, out there, wearing those ugly green and yellow shirts, and flashing their sign language 'vagina' hand signals all over the place."
I laughed a little, "It's not quite that. It's close, but no cigar, but the internet is a marvelous tool for letting jokes run wild."
Lloyd sighed, "I know, I know. It's just more fun to mess with them and make them all defensive," he said, letting a mischievous smile sneak across his face.
"You really don't like those guys, do you?" I asked.
"Nope. I am a Husker fan, but I got hooked on football when I was a kid in Washington. Oregon and Oregon State used to be the two games a year that the Huskies could mark off as wins, before the season even started. Then Phil Knight, and Michael Jordon turn Nike into the biggest shoe brand in the Universe. Phil Knight does the right thing, and donates tons of money to the program. It makes Oregon relevant, hell, it even helps them become good, the balance of power shifted." He shook his head, "Ducks should never beat Huskies."
"I've been trying to bring back an oldie, but a goodie," I said. "I want the fans, for just this week, to revive the old, 'Beat O-U', like we had when we had to battle Oklahoma, every year."
Lloyd nodded. "That would be cool. A win would be cool, too. This game has me a little nervous, though."
"It should," I said, taking a long draw from the cigar. "This is Reilly's first chance to take on Oregon on a level field. For years he was trying to race a tricked out Impala low-rider with a Honda Civic, held together with duct tape and bondo."
"What does he have, now?"
"Now he's got a Pontiac GTO, a 1970 with a 455 V-8. There are still some parts missing, and he'd really like to upgrade to a Corvette ZR-1, but that will take a couple more years. He's on his way, though."
"Analogies aside," Lloyd said, turning all serious, on me. "Can we beat the mother Duckers?"
"Their speed on offense, and their tempo is what scares teams. They line up and go, go, go, never giving the defense a chance to substitute packages and they get away with a lot of pre-snap movement that should draw flags, but doesn't. They sucker coaching staffs into playing their style, trying to match tempo and get into a track meet with them. It's pretty effective if an opponent loses discipline and panics."
"How do you counter that?"
"Control the ball," I said. "Pound their undersized d-line with the run game. Get on long, sustainable, frustrating drives. Pick up two or three first downs, every time. Pick your points at which to hit them with a big, play-action pass. Let your defense rest and stay fresh. Their front seven doesn't have the depth to have 300-pounders smacking them play after play after play."
"How do you stop that offense, though? They score 30+ points on everybody."
"It can be done. Michigan State, Washington and Utah all kept them from scoring 30. We beat Sparty, last year, and I know the transitive property doesn't apply, but I don't think this year's Oregon squad is as good as last year's and definitely not the team of two years ago that made Ohio State look like the Suckeyes."
"They've got an experienced quarterback, who knows the system."
"Dakota Prukop?" I scoffed. "Yes, he's a fifth-year graduate transfer; from Montana State. You know why he played at Montana State? He wasn't recruited by any of the big boys. He hasn't played in front of 93,000 people, and he has never faced a defense with the speed and athleticism of Nebraska. I'm not saying the Huskers are an Alabama defense, but they are a damn sight better than any FCS school or UC-Davis. Virginia wasn't much of a test, either, they lost to Richmond, the week before."
"So, the defense is soft, the quarterback is no Marcus Mariotta, but what about Royce Freeman?"
"He's legit," I said. "Early Heisman candidate, he's got some wheels and if he gets into the open, watch out. I stop him by crashing him on every zone-read play. Make Prukop beat you. Their o-line is inexperienced, so, some wrinkles that have been set aside until now, could cause problems. They will ride him as long as they can."
"So, final score prediction?" Lloyd asked.
I sat back, took a few puffs to get it nice and smokey. "It's close, the whole game. Neither team able to get a two possession advantage at any point. Nebraska scores in the fourth to make it a 38-35 game. Prukop throws a pick, deep in Nebraska territory, and the O-line paves the way for Ozigbo to run out the clock. Tommie takes a knee inside the Oregon five as time runs out, to drive in the final nail."
"I like it," said Lloyd. "I just wouldnt be surpised if it ended up as a triple overtime 63-59 shootout."
I sat there, silently. I watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling and wondered what the FrankenAl thought about the game. I didn't ask, though.
Husk-husk and on the QB
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