Post Jaguars assessment

                I enjoy meeting up with Lloyd when he's in a good mood. A nice 48-9 win will do wonders for his mood, even if it was against a team you expect to get beaten 48-9.

            I ran into Lloyd at Jake's, where he was nursing a bourbon, smoking a Gurkha, and watching whatever NFL game was on, Ravens-Broncos, probably. He might have been secretly watching the Bundesliga soccer game on the other telly, but I wasn't going to out him.

            "So, Lloyd, old buddy, you seem to be in a much better mood than last Sunday," I said as I hoisted myself onto the stool, next to him. "You don't have the laptop out, or anything."

            "No need for it, my good man," he said, quite cheerfully, "No need. I watched the game and saw good things, for the most part, there are some things that still need work, but for the most part, the boys looked pretty good."

                                          I caught the bartenders eye, she came over and I ordered a Four Roses, neat. The bartender had an impressive chest-piece tattoo. It depicted a sailing ship, dismasted and floundering, as kraken's tentacles entwined the ship, fore, aft and amidships. The tentacles led the eye downward until they disappeared beneath the surface of her shirt. I asked her once, after I had my social filter degraded by a few too many bourbons, at just how many fathoms the kraken lived. She just smiled, stepped back and lifted the hem of her shirt to expose her belly. I could see where the tentacles continued upward, pairs of tentacles looped left and right toward her back.  The pair threatening the ship, continued down past the waistband of her jeans.

            I raised my glass and tipped my hat to her. Some dedication to the art went into that piece.

            I turned back to Lloyd, "So what pleased you the most?" I asked.

            "The ground game," he said, immediately. "Newby had 198 yards and two touchdowns. It seemed like he was picking up ten yards every time he touched the ball. He wears number 34, just like Walter Payton, he's no Walter Payton, but I'm going to refer to him as 'Sweet-n-lo' during the games. Maybe it will catch on."

            

                             Sweet-n-lo in action

            "So the o-line must have been pretty good, too," I said.

            "They did well, but the South Alabama d-line was just terrible. As they wore down in the second half, they could barely get out of their stances, never mind generate any push to put pressure on Tommy."

            "Tommy did look pretty sharp, he looked like he made good decisions."

            "Tommy went 21 of 30, for 270 yards, two touchdowns and no picks, a very solid day for Tommy. We only had one turnover, and that was Fife, the backup, throwing a bad one, when the outcome had been decided."

            "Any love for the receivers of special teams?" I asked.

            "Lane Hovey stepped it up with 5 catches. Alonzo Moore is showing that he can be a speed threat. I see a bright future for Stanley Morgan. When DeMornay gets healed up, this receiving corps will be scary good."

            "How's your Drew Brown Bang-your-head-against-the-wall-meter?"

            "He hit both of his attempts, one was a shorty, the other one was pretty decent, so the meter is at 8, not 11, like last week."

            I sipped my bourbon as I processed the information. The offense had done well, but against a defense that wasn't particularly good. They still did what they were supposed to. "Let's talk about the defense," I said.

            Lloyd kind of tilted his head, side-to-side, in an odd sort of weighing the ideas in his head motion. "The front seven were pretty impressive. the D-line got push all night, and stuffed the ground game, South Alabama is a team that wants to run the ball and the Blackshirts shut them down."

            "Tell me about that Rose-Ivey kid, he was all over the place."

            "That was his first action in two years," Lloyd said, matter-of-factly. "He was hurt last year, and was one of the five suspended last week, imagine how much better the run defense would have been against BYU if he had been out there." Lloyd waved away the invisible 'coulda-woulds-shouldas' that started to pester him.

            "What about the back end?", I asked somewhat delicately.

            Lloyd took a deep breath. "The safeties seem to be fine, Nate Gerry especially. The corners are weak points. I have a feeling that there is going to be a shake up on the left side. Daniel Davie had a rough night. He got burned repeatedly, and even when he was getting burned, he could have been flagged for defensive holding. South Alabama's quarterback, Clements, made some nice passes, but Davie was never even in position to contest them, let alone stop them."

            "So, overall, good game?" I asked.

            "Good enough," Lloyd said. "Nebraska did what it was supposed to, and in a week where Auburn got scared, Missouri got pushed, and Arkansas got beat by 'lesser opponents', I'll take it. It was no McNeese State, anyway."

            "One more thing," I said. "I noticed you're drinking the hard stuff, today, instead of liquid hops and barley, and that cigar is a little above your usual price point. What gives?"

            Lloyd smiled. "I won 100 bucks on the game. Nebraska covered the spread so I was good to go."

            "Who did you bet with?"

            "Remember that old bookie, from back in the day, Cowboy Steve? He put me in touch with a young up-and-comer. I almost feel bad about taking his money."

            I opened my mouth to explain to Lloyd how that all works. He's a tech guru and number geek like you wouldn't believe, but I should probably intervene before he starts to parlay. It could wait. Let him enjoy it for today.

            I went back to the office. I opened the desk bottle and just kind of slipped away. It had been a long, tiring week and before I knew it, I fell asleep in the chair.

            I dreamed of a ship of the line, battered by a hurricane, dismasted, adrift, as the tentacles came out of the depths and started dragging her down to dark unfathomable depths.

Nebraska 38, Northwestern 17

     From the files of Lloyd.
     18 Oct., 2014
     Chicago, IL
     The Kirkwood Bar.
     There is a really cool bar, in North Chicago. They proudly display their Husker pride with flags, drink specials, and lots of fans. If you're in the area, stay in Chicago to watch the game. Evanston is a nice, quaint little town, grafted onto the north end of a major metropolis like an experiment gone awry. Snooty, smarty pants, rich kids go to Northwestern, surrounded by a town that that prides itself on its blue collar history and attitude. Chicagoans feel that Northwestern doesn't quite fit in, doesn't quite make the cut. Northwestern has soft hands from counting money all its life.
     Except when it comes to football. NU is way better than Illinois. Northern Illinois has had some recent success, but the bandwagoners are far too obvious. So, for a few months each year, Chicago puts aside its issues with the smart kids, the tax-free status of lakefront property, and enjoys some decent football.
     Northwestern looks at Chicago like the dude trying desperately to fit in. He's trying, but a clip-on tie and short-sleeved button-down shirt does not belie sophistication and urbanity.
     1800
     The game is about to start. It has been a long day of waiting. I got to the bar when it opened in order to get a good seat. I've been pacing myself and I have a deal with Jenny, the waitress, that she will stand guard over my table when I have to go pee. She indulges me. The extra dollar I give her whenever she brings my drink is a small inducement, but inducement, nonetheless.
     1835
     Kickoff, finally. Ryan field is about half-red. The other half is purple, so it looks like some old ladies' book club gathering, but not as loud.
     Huskers get the ball first. Northwestern loads the box to stop Ameer, just like MSU. Tommy connects with Kenny a couple of times. Drive sputters, a couple of drops kills it. Foltz puts the punt inside the 20. Lets see what the defense can do.
     I'm starting to think we need to make a deal with opposing teams. We spot you seven points and in return we get the ball twice and run 3:00 off the clock. Had them on their initial third down. Missed a tackle, leaky yards. Northwestern has a freshman, Justin Jackson, that will be awesome in a couple of years. He's good, now, but bulk him up a little bit and get him some experience and he will be a threat. The Wildcats go 89 yards in 15 plays, converting twice on 3rd down.
     Huskers get the ball back. Ameer is still struggling to get going. Wet grass, that may have been left to get a bit longer seems to be bothering Nebraska more than Northwestern. Decent drive, 8 plays, 47 yards, but Kenny whiffed on a third down pass. Field goal has the distance but is wide. Still 7-0 and game is beginning to feel like MSU part deux.
     After an exchange of 3 & Outs, Northwestern almost seized control of the game. Husker pressure forced Siemien out of the pocket, he tried to slide under Zaire. Zaire lowered his head. No flag. Next play, make-up call. Nathan Gerry gets flag for a ticky-tack unnecessary roughness call.  It wouldn't have drawn a flag if Northwestern had man-sized receivers. Northwestern goes for the kill. Deep throw into triple coverage, Gerry comes up with the pick in the end zone. Crisis averted. The offense needs to find a spark.
     Local boy, Jordan Westerkamp, sparks the drive, 23 yard reception. Ameer gets going. A penalty helps, Tommy takes it down to the one. Ameer surges in. After the kick. New game, please.
     The punters duel for the next four possessions. Huskers keep getting the ball in good field position, but cant do anything. Wildcats get the ball in bad field position and ipso-ipso.
     Justin Jackson goes off. Wildcats do everything right. Jackson has runs of 11, 11, 12 and 5 yards. The 5-yarder goes into the endzone with a spin move that MItchell is still trying to figure out. NU up 14-7. Just over two minutes left in the half.
     De'Mornay Pierson-El goes to Texas. Tommy throws to P-El for 46 yards. Then Tommy throws to Ameer for 11. On first down, Tommy gets the 'Texas' call. Tommy hands to Newby, who sweeps left while P-El, reverses right. Newby pitches to P-El. P-El lofts a floater to a wide open Tommy, who catches it, and dances into the end zone. 14-up. New game, again.
     Northwestern isn't quite finished, yet. Passes and penalties bring the Cats inside the 20. The defense makes a stand, forces a field goal. Wildcats up 17-14 as capering Pat Fitzgerald cheerleads his team into the locker room.
     The murmuring. The hushed tones. Funerary atmosphere. 'We've always been a second half team'. 'I hope the coaches can adjust'. 'After a bye week. Really?' 'Didn't we used to blow teams like this out?'
     Patience, Huskerfan, patience. Old Man Lloyd, here has seen a lot of Husker ball games. He can cite numerous examples of a first half not quite living to expectations. Halftime is when the coaches do adjust and have done so. The other team adjusts, too, though. A team 'like this'. What does that even mean? If we're talking Northwestern circa 1983, when the students had a cheer that went, 'that's all right, that's ok, you will work for us one day,' every time the opposition scored, then yes. This Northwestern isn't that Northwestern, and hasn't been for about 20 years. The Northwestern coach, Pat Fitzgerald, played in a Rose Bowl, while at Northwestern. We're 2-1 against them since joining the B1G. All three of those games coming down to the last minute. They're a good opponent, don't kid yourself.
     18 Oct. 2014
     2045
     The second half gets going.
     The defense finds its groove. More pressure. Better pursuit. Justin Jackson not finding as much room. Wildcats go 3 & Out. Nebraska moves. Tommy throws a near pick that the DB drops. Instead Huskers get to punt. Cats still lead 17-14. Time is slipping away.
     Another 3 & Out for the D. Tommy gets it going. 55 yard drive on eleven plays. Three third down conversions, all with Tommy in the mix. Two passes on third and long and a run to pick up the first down when no-one was open. Ameer punches it in from the one. Huskers lead for the first time 21-17. Ryan field gets a bit quieter. History has shown that it is far from over. We should have a wild finish.
     The Wildcats try to respond. They get a first down and get to midfield before the door gets slammed, again. Another punt, the third of the quarter, sets up the final act.
     Moral crusher. Back breaker. Life stealer. 77 yards in seven plays will do that. The big one has Ameer breaking free for a 50-yard run. He punches it in on the next play. The Wildcat defense has been unhinged, worn down, eroded. it is now 28-17, in the fourth. Northwestern must respond or it is over.
     They don't. Another 3 & Out and The Huskers get the ball back before the Wildcat defense has a chance to catch it's breath. It shows. Nebraska goes old school. Nine plays, 55 yards. All on the ground. Tommy leaping from the five and getting the ball across the plane. The refs disagree. They want to see Ameer score his fourth TD, instead. 35-17. It is done, but time remains.
     Another 3 & O for the Cats. A punt and P-El returns it to the 19. A less than stellar drive results in a field goal. Huskers up 38-17.
   The clock winds down in garbage time. Nebraska gets backups in. Pat Fitzgerald looks sad. Ryan field is half empty. The half full crowd is chanting 'Go Big Red' over and over. A tough win and a good win for Nebraska. The bad taste of the MSU loss kind of wiped away. 6-1, now.
     Looking ahead, Nebraska has to play Rutgers, Purdue, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa. None of them a particularly scary. None are exactly pushovers, either. All are winnable. Wisconsin has the best threat in Melvin Gordon, but Northwestern held them to 14 points. Minnesota is on a roll, but they have to come to Lincoln and won a squeaker with Purdue. The stage is set for a re-match with MSU, so I have to go for Sparta to win out, too.
     Time to melt into the night before things start to freeze.

MIchigan State, part 1 (of 2?)

From the Files of Lloyd.
4 Oct. 2014
     Hyped for this one. This is the biggest game of the year. Win this one, and Nebraska can stake a claim for the top 10. Win this one, and maybe some of those voices about 'mediocrity' and 'lack talent' and 'average' shut the hell up.
     The weather is not conducive. It is raining with a howling wind. Cross-fire hurricane. Cold, but not too cold, just cold enough to be another distraction for a team trying to find itself. One team knows what it is. There are cool trophies that there are color pictures of. OK, that's not fair. One team has pictures of trophies that they didn't have to send off to the Foto-Hut to develop.
     I'm sitting in a 'Blues' bar in East Lansing. I have no idea why they call themselves a blues bar. There aren't even pictures on the wall of any of the biggies. No Muddy, no Lightning, no Blind Lemon, no Mr. Wolf. The game is on, but on a screen mounted above the bar. I'm trying to watch but some shit-ass cover band called Avon Bomb is on stage, torturing animals. Not accurate. Torturing the fools who came in here expecting a good live act.
     Two guys and two girls who just refuse to give up that dream of pop stardom. You just keep reaching, kids. Kids? All four are pushing 40 and denial in a death grip around the throat. Keep playing. Keep singing. Maybe an A&R man will just happen to be in Lansing on a bet or a dare. Yes, the Love Shack is where it's at. Do what you did to 'Shook Me All Night Long' to 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' you'll have a gas-gas-gas all over your ass-ass-ass.
     Anyway, the sound track enhances my overall disposition toward barely controlled homicidal rage. Brilliant start to the game. RG4 snags a tipped ball for an INT. Then bupkus. The wind howling into Drews face is enough to make Bo think twice. Punt instead of FG attempt. Um, ok. Gain what, 15 yards of field position with the wind at their backs. OK. That's why your pulling down the 7-figures. Next possession. Defense holds, forces a punt. Very well. What the Fuck call of the night #1. Pierson-El is back to receive the punt. It's coming in hot, P-El is calling off the dogs. Peterpeterpeter, waving his arms in front of him. The ball bounces, seeks love and affection from P-El, nestles into his arms like a forever home. P-El starts to run, he has a lane, if he lights the jets, he will run so fast into the wind, he will achieve lift.
     Whistle whistle whistle. Ref: We thought he was calling for a fair catch. Really? Then where's the flag. It is a penalty to signal a fair catch and then run with it. Quite unsportsman-like. Don't worry MSU, the offense has your back. We'll only move the ball a little bit, and then commit a stupid penalty. We're young. We're raw, this is only our 50th game since middle school.
     Spartans treating Ameer like Xerxes.
     Then the little niggly-ass nit-noy little things that decide games kicks in. Starting corner, Daniel Davie, gets hurt. These things happen. Sparty has a smart coaching staff. Sparty smells blood. Sparty calls a 'go' route right at the newbie who is in for his first play. He has probably heard the coaches tell him, 'they will test you' and 'be ready'. He probably heard them, he probably even listened and comprehended the sage advice of his leaders. It didn't help. Cook throws one of his satellite-guided small-diameter bombs over the top and it's big play city. 7-0 Sparta.
    
     The Huskers get the ball back. Ameer still being treated like Xerxes. Huskers attack the perimeter. Husker move well. Good drive going. Hey, lets use play-action to keep Sparty honest. Good idea. Let's have Tommy throw a deep sideline pattern into the wind. Are we sure about this? What could go wrong? Tommy throws a pick. Not so terribly surprised.
     Connor Cook, the Sparty QB, needs to pretend that every down is third down. Most of the night, he looks terrible, but on 3rd down, he channels Joe Montana. He's probably got better arm strength than Montana. Time and again he hits tough passes on third down. The defense is there, but Cook keeps hitting.
     Big plays are the difference. Sparty gets a 30-yrd touchdown run. The only decent run of the night. Ameer is stymied. A cool pass to Ameer out of the diamond formation nets 12 yards. Only time we see the diamond all night. Tommy is harassed by the Sparty D, every time he drops back, the Sparty D-ends are on him. One kid, appropriately named Rush beats both Sterrup and Lewis like cheap, garage sale drums. The wind is nullifying his passing game. Then when it cant seem to get any worse, the center, the coach's nephew, decides that his climb from the depths of walk-on drudgery to starting center, must not have any more rungs on the ladder. He's missing line-calls, he's snapping before Tommy is ready, he's falling victim to alleged shenanigans of Sparty clapping to induce movement before the snap. On a night where the entire o-line looked like death on a hot day, Marky-P stood out. Not in a good way.
     At the half, Sparta leads 17-0. Opportunities squandered, Ameer checked, Tommy looking wild-eyed, Kenny on the sideline after crushing his nuts. Second half should be better, right? Right?
     
     Defense plays ok, then gives up a big play. The big one in the third is a touchdown on a double reverse that is executed perfectly by Sparta. Textbook. Almost military drill precision.
     Weird play #2 happens in the third. Tommy drops back, Tommy gets hit while throwing. Ball hits the ground, Smart Spartan scoops it and starts to run. Whistle whistle whistle. Play is dead. Incomplete. Let's review, shall, we, lads. Conference. Upon further review, our bad, actually a fumble, MSU ball. What fresh hell is this? Defense stands, forces a field goal.
     Huskers get a field goal to preserve their dignity and hide their shame. 27-3 at the end of three. Stadium starts emptying out. There is hot food, burning booze and scorching women, elsewhere.
     Fourth quarter. Gut-check time. Tommy the gunslinger steps out. Tommy throws it all over. Life appears. Tommy gets it close. Ameer goes in for the score. Marky P screws up the snap on the 2-PAT. 27-9 less disgusting. Defense holds. P-El almost breaks one. Huskers drive. Tommy gets hurt. Ryker Fife, the walk-on from G.I. gets some time. He fires high, adrenaline. Gets close, again, Ameer, again. Failed 2-PAT, again. 27-15. Is there hope? Yes, there, is. Remaining crowd begins to murmur.
     Huskers kick. Sparty has about four minutes to kill. Huskers have three time outs. Sparty runs and Bo stops clock three times. Sparty has to punt. The punt to P-El. P-El makes a man miss. P-El finds a lane. P-El kicks in the afterburner, torches the punter. Kick the PAT. 27-22, time for the onside kick.
    Sparty covers the kick. Sparty tries to kill clock. On third down, Sparty runs out of bounds. Bad move. Field goal attempt wouldn't quite put the game out of reach, but would make it tougher. Field goal is up, field goal goes clang-clang-clang off the upright. Still 27-22 with enough time to complete the most epic comeback in Husker history. Tommy starts big. Hits Alonzo Moore down the sideline. Big gain. Huskerfan is up and psyched. Sparta is nervous. Oh, no, not again  nervous. Tommy throws a pass that should have been a pick, but somehow gets through to Westerkamp. Under a minute. Husker ball at the Sparty 36. Tommy drops back. Tommy heaves it. He's got a receiver in the end zone. Zo, again. Zo has it. Zo goes to the ground. Zo is sliding on his back. Zo must maintain control through the completion of the action. Don't we all? Zo can't. Ball pops out. So close, Zo.
     Still time. Get a little closer, spike it. Three beats to the end-zone bar and let fortune decide your fate. Tommy drops back. Receivers get tangled up on a crossing pattern. It's a timing play and the timing is off. Tommy throws one final pick.
     Sparta is relieved. They get to return with their shields. Huskers defeated, but not beaten. The thoughts of could-haves and should haves as numerous as the raindrops that keep coming down.
     Re-match in December, indoors, at a neutral site, bitches.

Stuck and Bring on the Illini

     I was beginning to get a little bit down on the prospects for the case. I could see why the initial investigation had gone exactly nowhere. I was leaning heavily toward the theory that Jamie had just pulled a runner. She was an adult. Maybe she had just gotten fed up with whatever it was that people get fed up with and decided to ditch it all.
     The husband and the boyfriend elements were plausible enough pressure points. Hubby was ignoring her, and maybe boyfriend was coming on too strong. Maybe he was pushing for more commitment to him. Maybe he was making the demand for her to get off the fence and go all in with him. That would mean breaking up the happy home and still having to chance running into ex-hubby all the time. There would also be the element of trading down. Would she be willing to trade down to junior level cop income, instead of rising star real estate rainmanker?
     That could make someone bolt.
     It seemed that Ricky-boy held out hope. He had never gotten the marriage annulled or filed for divorce in absentia. Maybe there was a reason for that. I had to make a mental note to dig deeper on that trench.
     The big, man, gorilla in the room was, of course, Detective Jim Tompkins. His role in this affair, ha, made it delicate work and tantalizing, as well. I was pretty sure he wasn't trying to find her just to re-kindle some puppy-love romance from back in the day. That would not sit well with Mrs. Jimbo, and would not look particularly good if he decided to make chief, someday. Average Joes and Janes tend to want their top cop to be a paragon of virtue. Ha, again.
     The fact that he dropped this in my lap, also meant that he really didn't know her whereabouts, and didn't make her disappear. He might have contributed to the getaway fund, knowingly or unknowingly, but I was betting heavily against his being an accomplice. His actions during the investigation negated that theory.
     What about the old mentor-detective? He was still alive. Maybe I could get something out of him. His name was in the files along with those of the three other girlfriends that still lived here. The leads were narrowing and I was getting ready to drop the whole thing back into Jimbo's lap. But the niggling nagging voices just wouldn't let it go. This one was too interesting, too many almost there elements that kept dodging away, like the images in dreams that slip out right after you wake up.
     Maybe I needed a falafel, or a taco.
     Maybe I needed to stop worrying so much about the why. Get down an examine just the what. People do weird shit all the time that they can't explain. Usually nothing this big. Usually it's why did I put my car keys in the fridge? Why did I leave the milk on the counter? Why did I decide, that one time, to give that complete stranger a lift?
     I hadn't completely ruled out the stranger danger theory, either. There was a possibility that she met up with a Bad Man, who took her and wouldn't let her go. There were biker gangs that had been known to snatch women and trade them like currency. I didn't have any real evidence to suggest that, it was just a possibility.
     I decided on falafel.
     I ducked into a place, downtown, that has been there, forever. Awesome food and pretty cheap, too. Lloyd was there, collating and analyzing. I sat down with him.
     "Is all this work, or hobby related?" I asked as I plopped my styrofoam plate onto the table.
     "A little from column A and a little from column B," he replied without looking up. "In the reports, did you see where Jamie's car was found?" he asked, mildly accusatory.
     "Yeah, it was right where her friends said they dropped her off at the end of the night."
     "Yes, but where, exactly, was that? Think now."
     I tried to recall the files. I remembered that it was outside, at a metered spot, which was free after 6 p.m. "The friends said that she parked there because she got lucky since it was only a block away from the bar they were going to start at."
     "Well done," Lloyd said,  glibly. "It was also right across the street from what prominent transportation node?"
      I pulled the map up in my head. There weren't any transportation nodes, in that part of town. Then it hit me. At the time of the disappearance, the bus station was right across the street. "The bus station. Damn it. Why didn't I think of that. It's where the Embassy Suites is, now, right?"
     Lloyd just nodded.
     "I could see that," I said. "Get in the car, start digging through the purse, wait for the girlfriends to skedaddle, pop the trunk, grab a bag and be on the next bus out of town. I think you're on to something."
     Another nod. "Not that you care, and not that it is all that important, but Nebraska is going to crush Illinois."
     Sudden change of subject. How very like Lloyd. "Why do you think it will be a crushing?" I asked, almost out of obligation.
     "Their run defense is awful and Nebraska's strength is the rushing attack. Not just better, but dominant. I'd be willing to wager that three Huskers will finish the day with 100+ yards rushing."
     "Okey, sounds good. What about this being a trap game? A big, emotional win over Miami. last week, and a HUGE game with Sparty, next week, and don't forget the near melt-down against McNeese State."
     Lloyd scoffed. "That's the kind of crap radio hosts come up with to keep people listening for a week. Let's make it all we're so weak, we are vulnerable, this bad thing might happen, blah blah blah."
     "So, you're not at all concerned?"
     "Not in the least. We still won't get much national credit, but the important thing will be that Nebraska will be 5-0 heading into East Lansing and what will be the biggest test, and biggest game of the year, to this point."
     "All right, then," I said. "What is your prediction for the final score?"
     "Nebraska 59, Illinois 17. Ameer runs for about 150, Tommy 125, Cross 110."
     I finished my falafel and decided to track down bus route records.

Nebraska 41, Miami 31

    From the files of Lloyd.
     Game four. Miami, (Fla.) (MiaF) at Nebraska (NE).
     20 Sep. 2014 0535
     Huskerfan is jacked. Jacked, man. The Hurricanes blew into town with all their brashness and bravado and bullshit. These cats are not the cats of yesteryear. It's not Michael Irvin and Warren Sapp and Vinny Testaverde. These are not the dudes you grew up hating because not only did they act like assholes on the field, they had the audacity to back their shit up with their play. No, these weren't the fearsome tigers of the 80s and 90s; these guys were more like bocats or lynx, still dangerous, but not nearly as much as their progenitors.
     I hate discussing games as duels between opposing players of the same position. It doesn't matter if Brad Kaaya will play Better than  Tommy Armstrong. It makes no difference if Duke Johnson outduels Ameer Abdullah (as if). The matchups are how Kaaya will handle the noise of the 91,000 people baying for his blood How will Ameer keep moving the chains against a fast, athletic defense?
Those are the kinds of things I seek answers to. Those are the things I hope to gain insight to.
     20 Sep. 2014 1347
     The crowd downtown is well on their way. The red beer (tomato juice and beer) is flowing in quantities that remind one of a slaughterhouse. Middle aged-moms and pops are tippling their wines. The young and single are tossing brewskies as they flirt and mingle. Hot girls in next to nothing are tossing back shots and petitioning the Lord with prayers of 'Ohmigaw'. Fierce, young laddies are in pursuit, posing and displaying, crushing defenseless aluminum into lifeless, drained recyclable slag. At this rate, the crowd will be at full roar. Maybe volume setting 9. Not 12. Never 12. Seattle is 12 and the old gal on 10th street never gets to Seattle level.
     20 Sep. 2014 1905
     The was a near riot at the Indian Center. 3,000 drunk kids squared of with some tour buses. Cops got called. City cops, County cops, Statie cops. Inter-agency differences set aside in order to present united front and ride to the rescue. Crowd got restless, crowd got stupid. Too much booze? Ya think? One cop caught a can off her noggin, sent to the Krankenhaus. There's one dude looking at serious offense, Felony Assault on an Officer. Probably best throw of his life. Now he wants it back. Yes, drunken bacchanal at the Indian Center. Irony lost only on those there.
     20 Sep. 2014 2014
     First half is done. The NE o-line seems to be grind-grind-grinding the MiaF front into a fine powder. Not done yet, but they will break by the third. Ameer to the left, Ameer to the right, Ameer right up the gut, between the tackles. MiaF has no answer. They hit him high, he spins away, the hit him low and he balances for extra yards as he falls. He's smiling. He's feeling it. Ameer is crushing it. It didn't start out so comfortable. MiaF went right down the field to open the scoring. Three straight first downs. Yet another game of the defense looking at each other with 'whatthefuck' faces on the opening drive, again. NE answered. Lightning strike to AfroThunder from 40 yards out. MiaF stopped on an INT. Despite that, Kaaya looks poised. Things got sloppy after that. Both sides traded punts, and Tommy pulled a Taylor and fumbled on the run. MiaF moves at will, goes up by a touchdown. Ameer responds. Touchdown back. Huskers forced a 3&O. More Ameer. Have to settle for a field goal. Since MiaF scored last, Huskers outgained Canes 129-(-1). 25 plays to 3. TOP 12:43-1:109.
    20 Sep. 2014 2238
     The second half  started where the first left off. More Ameer. The mere mention of Ameer has the MiaF d-line cringing. The NE o-line is looking magnificent, standing the tired 'Cane d-lineman up and driving them back. MiaF d-backs getting a workout making all the tackles. Long grinding drives traded. NE jumps out 24-14, about to put the dagger in, but Kaaya and company responds. Steals a march and is right back in it 24-21. Tommy and Ameer are driving back to push lead back out when Tommy throws a pick. Bad pick. Slap you in the helmet bad pick. Mighty Mouse saves the day. Crushes Hurricane hearts. Trevor Roach, filling in for scuffling Josh Banderas, forces the Duke to fumble. Josh Mitchell, all 5-9 and 175 pounds of him scoops and scores. Dagger in the heart.
  Canes not quite done, yet. They have to throw, now. Kaaya throws a pick to Nathan Gerry, good return, flags fly. Canes throwning down, scuffle edging on ruckus brewing. Bullshit call on Valentine for roughing the passer. More bullshit as unsportsmanlike penalties offset. Bo turns red. Bo yells. Bo points for emphasis. Bo gets nowhere. Field goal traded for a field goal. 34-24, at this point. Must hold until relieved. Kalu gets a pick. Miami starts shit. Brawling and jawing near the sideline, 'there there there, boys' turns into 'get the fuck back to the sidelines'. Miami imploding, Hurricane force winds only coming from their mouths. The team is a summer breeze. Ameer from 10 yards out Head on a stake. Mount that bitch on the wall.
    Game over. Late Miami score. Meaningless. Cosmetic. A slag in Maybelline is still a slag. MiaF is broken, defeated, but they won't shut up. Still talking trash. Husker doesn't know enough to point at the scoreboard and illuminate the Canes. Canes depart. Canes don't shake hands. Canes give crowd the finger. Crowd gives boos back. Crowd sings 'Na Na, hey hey, goodbye'. Crowd full of hatred. Crowd full of vindication. Huskerfan feels that this makes up for the failed two-point conversion when Reagan watched the Orange Bowl from 1600. It doesn't. It's just the next step to 4-0, which hasn't happened since 2011.
     20 Sep 2014 2159
     Streets are quieting. Bars are rocking. Lads and lasses calling plays, trying to score. Inside trap works well. Passing game needs work. Channel your inner Ameer, lads, and nothing can stop you.

     The rain had been pelting down for some time. I was trying to ignore the yelling dude in the next booth, over. I couldn't tell what he was yelling about, he needed his volume controlled. I wanted to walk up to him, get in his face and whisper 'indoor voice', but decided he was doing a good enough job embarrassing himself in front of the young ladies trying oh so hard to look savvy and sophisticated. He didn't need my help.
     Side-bar. If you're trying to look sophisticated and grown-up, don't tuck a t-shirt into your skirt, girly.
     The traffic lights were glowing in little pools on the streets. Bikes in their racks were preparing to give their owners wet butt on the way home. Refuse from the streets washed into the storm drain while the human refuse hunched closer to their buildings, embracing cornerstones.
     A gust of wind rattled the window as Lloyd blew in.
     "Lloyd, my man," I called to him. "Come on over grab a seat and let me buy you something to warm your very core."
     He squished into the booth opposite me. Droplets of rain stowing away on his coat. "I'll take some Devil's Cut and a Coke to chase it," he said, a bit distractedly.
     "You've been processing, haven't you?" I asked. He had all the usual signs. Hands in his pockets, head slightly down, leaning forward, brow furrowed. He hadn't even wiped the rain from his glasses.
     "Yep," he answered, slightly defensively. "I have been looking at the data and a bit at the games and there is one thing that has me worried."
     "And that is....."
     "Speed, man, speed," he intoned. "I'm not talking about Bennies or Dexys, I'm talking about the raw ability of one player to go faster than another."
     "Did you see something you didn't like?"
     "AND THEN I WAS LIKE, 'DUDE' YOU ARE SO GOING TO PAY FOR THAT," from the next booth, Loud Guy was slapping the table for emphasis while blond wine drinking girl next to him looked nervous.
     Lloyd took a breath and carried on. "Their receiver, Phillip Dorsett has some wheels. He had over 200 yards in receptions last week."
     "But that was Arkansas State. I'm betting they don't have anyone on their track team that has that kind of speed. Plus, he's only 5-10, so Mitchell will be on a guy who doesn't have a huge height advantage, for once."
     Lloyd nodded, sipping his whiskey. It is interesting stuff, it is made from the alcohol extracted from the barrel. The alcohol that evaporated in the aging process is called the 'Angel's Share', the alcohol absorbed by the wood, the 'Devil's Cut'. "Duke Johnson is a good running back," he resumed. "He is slightly heavier than Ameer, same height, better take-off speed, but not as shifty, and I'm not sure he's as durable as Ameer. He can stretch a defense on eat-west runs and cut back."
     "I AM SOOOO FUCKING PSYCHED FOR THIS WEEKEND. THIS GAME IS HUUUUUUGE." The PBR in front of him sweated along with the rest of his booth denizens. It wasn't hot.
     Lloyd took a swig of the whiskey and a chased it with his Coke like RG4 on an outside blitz. "Their quarterback is the key to the game," he said, thoughtfully. "He is a drop-back passer, the kind that the Bo-fense usually does really well against. He won't hurt you with his legs, though, which is good. He's a Freshman and has never been in a setting with 91,000 fans baying for blood. I know history is irrelevant to the players, but the crowd will focus their hatred and resentment for all those Orange Bowl losses on the field. They remember the failed two-point conversion. They remember the beat-down in the Rose Bowl. They remember seeing the option get throttled by speed."
     "Hopefully they'll remember Cory Schlesinger and the trap dive," I retorted, just a little playfully. "And Warren Sapp kneeling on the sideline after getting punched in the balls--at least, that's his story."
      "Yep, he's a talented quarterback, but I'm betting there have been cover schemes and blitz packages that JP has been keeping under wraps, just for this game," Lloyd said, repeating his whiskey and Coke maneuver. "Randy will be his worst nightmare."
     "And Randy will elevate the play of the whole d-line against the fat, slow, Miami, o-line. They are not athletic," I contributed. I like adding my bit, every now and then. "What about the Miami defense?"
     "They are quick, too," Lloyd said. "I have a feeling Nebraska will have to wear them down. I have a feeling we wont see many 'explosive' plays. No 70-yard touchdown passes on a third-and-eight play. Tommy will have to be patient, and the running backs will have to attack in waves. Two and three and four yard drives by Ameer, Imani and Terrence in the first half, will be six and seven and eight yard gashes in the fourth quarter."
     "I LOVE BOOBIES," Loud Guy, yet again. "THEY ARE MY FAVORITE THING. NOT TOO BIG, NOT TOO SMALL. BOOBIES!"
     Three girls in the booth. Two flushed. I couldn't see the face of the third. For as loud as Loud Guy was, the girls were piercingly silent.
     Lloyd took a long draw of the whiskey. He didn't chase it down. I could see the glow set in.
     "Do you think special teams will be a big factor?" I asked.
      "I think De'Morney Pierson-El will have at least one big return," Lloyd replied. "It may not go all the way, but it will set up a short field in a key possession."
     "So, big picture," I said. What will the outcome be, after processing all your data?"
     "The latest line has Nebraska by 7.5," he said. "I think that is about right. It will be hard to make a decision on that point-five. I think it will be 24-17, or 28-21, something like that. It will tick me off if I take Miami, and Nebraska wins 28-20. Not really. The win will allow me to cheerfully watch the cash go away."
     "So, Huskers win?" I asked. "Just to be clear."
     "Yes. Final score, 24-17."
     "SHOW ME YOUR TITS. I LOVE YOUR TITS. TITS ARE AWESOME," Loud Guy, yet again.
     Lloyd had had enough. He got up, walked right over to loud guy, bent down and whispered right into his ear. No yelling. It didn't take that long, either. Loud Guy turned white. The blood drained from his face like an elevator with a cut cable. Lloyd pivoted and walked out the door, into the rain. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain bead up on his coat. Loud Guy unsteadily got to his feet, dropped a couple bills on the table, and headed for the other door. The one Lloyd was not standing by. He drifted off into the sopping night, nearly stumbled over one of the refugees and disappeared into the darkness.
     I have no idea what Lloyd said. I never ask. I can only handle my own monsters, I don't want to get a glimpse of his.

Bulldogs Bounced.

     There was a lot to mull over after the Stacy/Robin revelation. It was looking like our pal, Tompkins was holding out on us. The pieces did fit, to a good degree. If Jimbo had been banging the vic before she was a vic, or even was a vic, for that matter. It not only skewed our investigation, but might have skewed it back when the news was hot off the presses.
     By the time we were on the plane, quite a bit had happened. As the Boeing boing-ed into the early morning sky, a sort of elation took over. It was the feeling the dudes in 'Nam must have had when the Freedom Bird took off. Okey, that's not that fair, Vietnam is no Fresno.
     Lloyd was giddy. The game had gone so well, he was fidgeting. He was pretty much confined to his seat and was bopping like the kid who knows there is one more piece of birthday cake, but his mom has already said 'no' because kid's pupils are constricted and he says everyone around him looks like a cartoon character.
     "Do you think we should confront Jimmy-boy about dalliance with a disappearance?" I asked.
     Lloyd had powered up his tablet and was watching De'Morney Pierson-El highlights...again.
     Lloyd shook his head. "No way. He still wants to find the girl. His motives may not be as pure as he said, but he wants to find her."
     "It doesn't bother you that it seems like we were played to go on this case."
     "You were played. I'm just along for the ride. like usual. Does it matter to you how he got you in, as long as the check clears?"
     "It's not about the money," I said, giving Lloyd one of my dirtier looks. "If he held out on us--me, what are his motives? What is he hiding, besides what is now obvious?"
     "Dunno," Lloyd said, adjusting his seat so he could see his tablet, better. "Maybe that's why we don't confront him. Tell him this was a dead end. That we couldn't even find Stacy. Wasted trip. Big Zero. Dry Well. Tell him there are other leads we need to pursue."
     "That might work," I said, the synapses zip-zip-zipping along to what Lloyd was laying down. "He doesn't know what we know."
     "Right, you're getting it, now."
     We sat in silence for a little while. I was contemplating our next moves, and honestly had no idea what our play was going to be, other than running a misdirection on Tompkins. I closed the lid on that box in my noggin and decided that Lloyd could probably keep me entertained at least until the Rockies if I asked him about the game.
     "Happy with the game?" I asked Lloyd, who immediately brightened and sat up.
     "About as happy as could be expected. Overall, good game. Offense did pretty well, defense did a good job and special teams was amazing. Love this Pierson-El, kid. His 86-yard punt return for a touchdown  was longer than the entire return yardage for the team last season. I think he is a legit contender to be one of the greatest return men in Husker history."
     "I wasn't overly happy with the run game," I said. "Yeah, both Ameer and Imani had those big runs, but the production between the tackles wasn't consistent. Fresno was able to disrupt things with their run blitzes, and Ameer was limited to short runs, a lot."
       "That's the risk, playing a defensive scheme like that takes. You make it difficult to get a four or five yard run, but if a guy with Ameer's speed gets into the second level, he's gone."
     "How about the passing game?" I asked. "I thought Tommy did a good job, and distributed the ball pretty well."
     "Tommy was seeing the receivers pretty well. The long pass to Westerkamp was awesome. Great pre-snap read. It was good to see Kenny back out there. Also nice to see that the tight ends are getting into the mix. That will make the inside line-backers respect their presence, which will also help the running game. Moore and Allen need to shake off the rust, they are both getting open, just not coming up with catches."
     "Defense, now. Better than you expected?" I asked.
     "A little. That one, big, 66-yard run came late against the back-ups. The one guy who had an angle on him stumbled as he turned to pursue, so that didn't look good. I expected them to give up 17, and essentially, they did. The safety was just a weird play that I doubt if I ever see one like it again."
     "I know," I agreed. I was surprised when the official initially called it a touchback. I knew when they huddled up that the call was going to be a safety. I don't know what Josh was thinking," I said, shaking my head at the image of Banderas batting the ball into his own end zone. I have been watching football for a looooong time, and I have never seen a play quite like it.
          "How about Randy Gregory? He looked good when he had his legs under him."
     "Yes, he did. He wasn't in 'game' shape. He's in shape, but getting back into the kind of shape you need for game conditions is still a work in progress. Besides his play, his presence elevates the entire d-line. McDermott and Valentine, in particular, benefit from RG4 being a disruptive force, out there."
    "What's up with the linebackers?" I asked.
     "They are getting caught up in mis-matches. They are getting stuck covering receivers that are faster than them on the underneath routes. That and they are frozen by the zone-read action, they are still looking for the ball-carrier for too long after the d-linemen have absorbed the blockers. If it weren't for the big guys up front, doing a great job, the linebackers would be looking a lot worse."
     "Did the defensive backs play to your liking?"
     "Definitely. You don't see receivers running free on vertical routes. The one deep ball Fresno tried had two guys bracketing the intended receiver. The corners are doing well on the outside routes, and are getting better about recognizing and disrupting the bubble screen passes."
     I reclined my seat back, making sure the person behind me wasn't going to file a federal lawsuit or throw his vodka and Red Bull at me. I really didn't want to have an unscheduled stop in Denver. my skin crawled at the thought of it.
     I closed my eyes and tried to imagine keeping Tompkins at arms length while solving a case that might not be solvable. At the very least I had to decide if it needed to be solved.

     I got back to the office and signed for the boxes of evidence. Two boxes. Not much when you think about it. Two boxes that was all that was left of a person's life. I lifted off the lid of the first box and eighteen year old dust wafted into my office where it sought out places to alight that had been cleaned only slightly more recently.
     I decided that I wanted to get to know as much about Jamie as I could. It seemed like it would be a good idea to try to get inside the head of the one who went 'poof' and was gone, rather than chase competing theories as to who wanted to make her go 'poof'. The cops always looked at everything as if it were a crime, which is good, it's their job. Sometimes they run into something that is not a crime and they end up driving themselves up a wall trying to figure out a motive. Motive is incidental and only really necessary to help juries and TV audiences understand.
     I found the file I was looking for and eased back into my chair. I put my feet on the desk and had the desk bottle cocked and loaded. No reason to unload a few rounds, yet, but the day was young.
     Jamie Brewer, at the time of her disappearance was a twenty-five year old,  working in the Human Resources department at a place called Lincoln L-ectronics. She was working on an MBA from the U., and she had started making her way up the ladder, pretty well. They had listed her income, and after adjusting it for 1997 dollars, it seemed like she was doing pretty well. Not enough to turn heads, but enough to make people go, 'hmm, nice gig'.
     I pulled the canvass photo. Big smile; bright, blue eyes; hair that was a bit long and a bit big, she hadn't been quite ready to let the look go. She was pretty. I used to wonder why the photos that were used when searching for missing persons were always of this sort. Happy, smiling, vivacious, a picture taken at a happy moment, or on a day that could make the short lists of Best Days of My Life lists. I knew, now, why people did it. They gave the picture that reflected the missing person at their best, hoping that somehow a charm would get imprinted on the picture and that would help call the person home. Pictures of the person when they were angry, lonely and afraid would be much more helpful, since that's usually the state of mind of who was being sought. But you don't take pictures of those moments.
     I stared at the photo a bit longer. I could see her in HR. She had the look of someone who could interview a prospective employee, put them at ease, and tease out those vital bits of information that people try so had to keep to themselves, but really cant help but share. Why they left their last job, really. What attracted you to this firm, really? Are you really as good as your resume claims you are.
     I don't know what I was basing that on. She was attractive, slim without being skinny, clear, fresh complexion. The clothes in the picture didn't tell me too much. Slacks and blouse, colors complimentary, glass of wine in hand at some gathering that looked more celebratory than obligatory.
     I dug deeper into the file. She had graduated in 1990 from Lincoln East. Good student, but not outstanding. Involved in several clubs and sports. Future Business Leaders of America, French Club, Young Republicans, volleyball, track & field, Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Participation in all of them, but not really outstanding in any of them, except for the FBLA. In that one, she had served as treasurer, vice-president and then, in her senior year, president of the club.
     Moving on to her University days, the pattern continued. Business major, A's in all her business classes, but she either didn't work as hard or didn't care as much about the other classes that make one a well-rounded individual in a liberal arts setting. B's and a few C's in the Arts & Science classes.  She had joined the Tri-Delts and I couldn't help but think of the old Saturday Night Live bit, 'Delta Delta Delta and I help ya help ya help ya?'
     1994 rolled around and Jamie graduated, B.A. in Business Admin. She got the gig at Lincoln L-ectronics and went back to the U. to get her MBA in 1996. The other key moment of 'This Is Her Life' happened in '94, as well, when she married Rick Brewer.
     I sat back for a moment before delving into Rick's file. Nothing in Jamie's background seemed to jump out at me. Good, steady gig. No criminal complaints. Nothing in the financials jumped out at me. I was just getting ready to open up the folder when the phone rang. It was Lloyd.
     "Lloyd, my man, what's going on?"
     "I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, but was I right, or was I right?"
     "About what?", I asked, knowing quite well, what he was talking about.
     "The game, man. The game. I just about nailed it," he said, almost animatedly, which for Lloyd was close to gibbering insanely.
    "What are you talking about?", I asked skeptically. "You were off by a total of 16 points. Yeah, they covered the spread, and you were right about Ameer, but you were way off on the kicking game."
     Lloyd scoffed, "I was right about Armstrong rushing for one and passing for two touchdowns."
     But you said Ameer would score twice, and one of Tommy's TD passes would be to Kenny Bell."
     "Fine," he snapped back. "I guess I wasn't as close as I thought."
     "Settle down, man, I was just flipping you some crap." Sometimes Lloyd got a little too much steam built up. "Tell me about your overall impressions. Good game, bad game, what?"
     "Probably the most complete season opener since Bo got here. The Offense played well, the defense played well, the special teams played well...enough."
     "Yeah, Kenny muffing that punt and still no return game is a bit bothersome."
     "The defense, with Randy Gregory out with his knee, did very well, after Flat's opening drive."
     "That opening drive didn't really bother me. Offense running plays the defense had never seen, with no tendencies to go on. Let's just say that I was more impressed with how the defense adjusted, more than I was concerned about that first drive."
     "A couple of turnovers would have been nice. Roach dropped a sure pick-six, and there was that one fumble that no-one could get a handle on. Speaking of turnovers, though, did you know that this was the first game, for Nebraska, without a turnover since the 2012 opener?"
     "I had heard that," I said. "Tommy tried to, twice, and one turned out to be one of the coolest receptions I've ever seen."
     "Westerkamp's behind-the-back grab," Lloyd asked, almost enthusiastically. "The pass, that was nearly intercepted by the defender, the ball deflected down and behind him, on a trajectory behind Westerkamp, when he reached behind himself, with both hands, stopped the balls momentum with his right hand, secured it with his left, slightly above butt level, and still had the presence of mind to double-tap his feet before going out of bounds. That one?"
     "Sounds about right," I said. "Hey, I know you called for something other than to talk football. What's up?"
     "Oh, yeah, that," he said, as if remembering he needed to take some books back to the library. "You know, your missing person, Jamie Brewer?"
    "Yeah. What about her?"
    "I think I know her."

                I told Jim that I either needed a trip to the tombs, or that he needed to arrange for the evidence boxes to be delivered. He told me that they would be delivered to my office, but I had to sign for them; chain of evidence and all that hoo-hah. I told him that I would need an assistant, to help with the leg work, and some of the techy-magical-computer stuff that reputable investigators use these days. He told me that would have to be filed under the 'expenses' part of the ledger, and since when did I consider myself 'reputable'?

            Touché. Ouch, but touché.

            I reminded him that I would probably have to interview him, just to get his perspective on the events. He told me his perspective was in the files. Not a good sign. I told him that we could do a quick, once-over, informally, just to get the highlights set up. He gave me that look. The look only a hard-core, lifer cop can give you, that makes you feel like he knows, just knows about all the crap you've pulled, including that time you lied about your age to get into a movie that you weren't supposed to be at in the first place...when you were 14.

            "All right", he said. "We'll go over some of the particulars, just to get you going."

            He sat back in the booth and collected his thoughts. It can be very interesting to watch a man's face as he starts pulling memories up, especially the ones that cause pain. The little twitches, winces and furrowed brows are giveaways, but you never know which memory causes what twitch.

            "January 14, 1997," he began in a voice that was younger, less gravelly, less jaded. "Jamie Brewer, 25, of Lincoln, was reported by her husband, Rick, 28, as missing, when she failed to return home following a night out with several friends."

            'Last seen at?," I interrupted.

            "Her friends said they dropped her off at her car after drinks at Iguana's . The six of them were out partying, having a blow-out. They walked Jamie back to her car, she got in and drove off. Her friends all assumed she was going home, that was at 1:30 a.m."

            I was taking some notes, beginning to think that this was going to end up as a wild goose chase, but I did have to exercise my due diligence.

            "Mr. Brewer's first call came in at 8 a.m., we gave him the standard, 'You need to wait 24 hours' bit. She might be taking a break, crashed at a friend and forgot to call...'All that good stuff. So, the next day, he shows up at the station, all pissed off and we write up a missing person report. He's ranting and raving about how we've wasted valuable time and all that. The desk Sergeant, a great, big, old-school bull copper had to come in and settle him down."

            I looked up and my friend, Lloyd, was sitting at the bar. Lloyd does that, he shows up at places, he might have been there for hours, but you don't ever seem to notice him until he wants to be noticed. I stopped Jim, mid-story. "I need to go consult with my 'operative' for a moment. Grab a drink, put it on my tab --"

            "Where it will be billed as an 'expense'," Jim growled.

            "See.  We already read each other."

            Lloyd was fiddling with one of his many electronic devices. "Lloyd, man, I've got a gig, if you're interested," I said as I eased myself into one of the high-backed chairs along the bar.

            "I don't know," came the unexpected reply. "I am getting all set for my analytics, this season. The depth chart just came out. The first game is this weekend. There are some really good games on a tough schedule."

            "Relax. Have a drink. You know I wouldn't disrupt your 'data analysis' unless it was important. It's a paying gig."

            He shifted his gaze and looked at me. Wait. No. He looked toward me. His watery eyes seemed to stare through me. This look of his could be really unsettling. Sometimes it appeared as if he were seeing something just beyond the visible spectrum. Other times it looked like he didn't care about anything. The blank stare of someone who just doesn't give a shit about anything, including life, itself.  

            "Okey," he said. "I can go all in this week, and maybe next week. I'm really not expecting much of a hassle, this week. This is one of those games that Nebraska should win, it's just a question of, 'by how much'. I fully expect Ameer Abdullah to have close to 200 yards, rushing. It will be a vanilla game on both sides of the ball. Line 'em up and pound them, don't reveal too much to future opponents. Tommy Armstrong needs to show that he has progressed since last year. No bad interceptions."

            I nodded at him as he paused for a sip of water.

            "The defense needs to show that they haven't slipped, too far, from the end of last year. The interior line should be able to get some reps for the newer players in order to build depth. The linebackers and secondary will be challenged. Johnson, the Owls' quarterback is big and mobile, he'll make the defense cover the whole field."

            "So, after the game, you want to help me out? I have sweet, sweet cash for you."

            "The line is -22.5 for the Huskers. Take the points. Yes, I'm in, " he said, his gaze returning to our plane.