Читать книгу Model Citizens: Riding for a Fall - Henry Pepper - Страница 6

Back at Joe’s Bar, the group of men - and the two hostesses - were now gathered around Brett Farrell. He was happily telling tall football tales, surrounded by dozens of full and empty spirit glasses and beer bottles.

Brett had removed his baseball cap, showing the hulking 31 year old’s receding hairline. He had tattoos on his arms, neck and chest.

“So Turvey turns to him and says who scored the touchdowns anyway?”

The big name quarterback chortled loudly at his own joke and took a shot of whisky while soaking up the group’s laughter - they all seemed determined to outdo each other. They’d be recounting this meeting and Brett’s locker-room tales for the rest of their days.

The football star gently lifted the mini-skirt of one hostess as she turned away from the group to check a text on her phone. He lowered his head down and sniffed her bottom.

The other hostess spotted the sleaze and glared angrily at Brett. He dropped the skirt, lifted his head and raised the thumb of his huge right hand in her face. The group laughed again and Mr Football earned himself several supportive slaps on the back.

The hostess shook her head and walked away from the group with head held high. She made straight for the bar manager to make a complaint.

“He’s a strange one, Turvey, that’s for sure,” Brett slurred as he leered at his victim’s breasts.

The group of fans laughed along drunkenly. Brett looked up, noticed the hostess of choice scowling at him and winked. She looked uncomfortable, put down her drink and picked up her phone.

“Don’t you think that stuff that happened with you and Thommo was pretty off-key? I mean, didn’t he recruit your ass for the Eagles in the first place?” the tall man asked the LA Eagles quarterback.

A murmur of agreement rippled through the growing throng of male fans.

Brett nodded vigorously. His hands were suddenly drawn into clenched fists, his knuckles white, his jaw drawn tight, his brow lined.

The second hostess looked at a new text on her phone, glared at Mr Football, deliberately knocked her glass over on his table and made to leave the group.

As she walked away, fuming, the footballer shook his head, leant forward out of his chair and smacked her hard on the bottom with his right hand. The hostess shrieked and ran to the bar without looking back. Brett yelled after her.

“Yo, ho, get back here and wipe down my table. And bring me another bourbon while you’re at it.”

He shrugged to the group and picked up another drink. “Fucking skank. Sorry dude, you were saying something about Thommo?”

“Yeah buddy, like, with the two of you, united, we could not lose but, hey, since Thommo went on the injured list last season, things have not been as good as they should be.”

Brett was tense. Breathing deeply through flared nostrils, his face reddened even as he unclenched his fists, the footballer launched stiffly into what looked like a poorly rehearsed public relations routine.

“Don’t even mention Thommo.”

He paused, looked up, sighed and slowly emptied his glass. He slammed the empty vessel down on the table.

“Yeah, I just wish it had never happened. Like, that whole scenario just haunts me, you know.”

The group of men were hanging on the NFL star’s every word. He stole a glance at the exposed bottom of the first hostess who was now unloading a dishwasher further up the bar. When she looked up, he winked at her, opened his mouth and wriggled his tongue about.

The bar manager walked up to the dishwasher and tried to comfort Brett’s victim. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently sought to persuade her not to call the police.

And Brett? Brett, as always, was thriving on being the centre of attention.

“Thommo’s knee is good to go again. We will be unbeatable again in Super Bowl 2009 if he and Coach Hemline can just find it in their hearts to forgive me.”

This was big news to the group of open-mouthed men who were, accordingly, very happy at this once in a lifetime opportunity to be NFL ‘insiders.’ Three of the group returned with trays of drinks. Uninvited, the footballer grabbed two glasses of bourbon off one of the trays.

“In fact, dudes, I’m certain that the 2009 Eagles are destined to be legends. I’m real sure we can be even better than the 2007 team because of what happened,” Brett said.

“That’s if Thommo can just forget about the issues of the past and focus on the glorious future of our football team?”

The footballer shared a cheesy grin with the group and patted the tall man on the back. “I’ll be, like, real happy to have him back for Super Bowl and calling some plays from the centre.”

“Hallelujah to that,” said the tall man. Brett smiled and having spotted both the hostesses angrily looking in his direction, he stood up, theatrically bowed to les miserable and noisily blew a kiss their way.

The group laughed. Two balding middle-aged men in suits, loitering by the nearby pool tables, applauded and wolf-whistled at the two unfortunate women.

“I’ve sure learnt a lot from what happened and the commentators agree that since 2007 I’ve become America’s greatest duel threat quarterback,” Brett continued.

His audience of slack-jawed fans nodded as one.

“If the commentators are right and I’m real sure they are right, it’s because I’ve, like, learnt to control my temper, and, yeah, you know, I have Thommo and Coach Hemline and the Eagles to thank for that.”

Brett winked at the hostesses.

“I’ve grown a whole lot as a footballer and as a man these past two years,” he claimed.

“Things can only get better for the Eagles,” Brett said humbly and smiled at his drinking buddies. “Things will get better, starting with our victory in Super Bowl 2009.”

“Hallelujah and amen to that. Can I buy you another drink brother?” the tall man asked.

“Yo, I’ll have two bourbon doubles, my man, and be sure to tell that ho that if she wants a tip she better get right over here and wipe down my … table,” Brett yelled over his shoulder in the direction of the bar.

The group hooted as the tall man headed for the bar. Brett slammed down someone else’s shot of bourbon just as Biggie Smalls’ Juicy blasted through the room. Half a dozen of his admirers moved closer to Mr Football.

One man pulled out an iPhone.

“Can we get some pictures with you buddy?” he asked hesitantly.

“For $1000 a picture you can,” Brett replied sarcastically. The group shrank back from him and he laughed.

“Hey, I was only joking guys. Take all the pictures you like.”

The groupies milled around Mr Football and, two and three at a time, they toasted as others used their phones to make sure they captured permanent bragging rights from the day they met their hero.

“We can all see how much you’ve learnt in every game this season, you’ve been totally awesome buddy. You are the greatest of them all and I mean that totally 100% sincerely,” said a fat bald man with a large unlit Cuban cigar in his mouth and a crème felt 10 gallon Texan hat in his right hand.

There was a group-high-fiving-scene that Brett joined in half-heartedly while reaching for another shot glass.

“Can I get your autograph?” asked the fat man. The NFL star looked blankly at him. “Sure, why not buddy,” he slurred in reply.

As the fat man placed his hat upon his head and reached into his jacket pocket for a pen, there was a colourful flicker of light around the bar area as someone changed the TV channel. The Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards coverage reappeared and Joanne’s smiling face immediately filled all the screens in Joe’s Bar.

A couple of patrons further down the bar hooted appreciatively. Brett stiffened, his practiced plastic smile disappeared from his face, the suddenly scowling hero pushed aside the fat man and other well-wishers and lurched toward the nearest screen. The hostess he’d humiliated took one horrified glance at the crazed look on the footballer’s face and, just in time, ducked down behind the bar.

The footballer issued a discordant yell and hurled a full whiskey glass at the image of his partner. The screen cracked, hissed and then disintegrated. Brett stood with his hands on his head, pulling at what was left of his hair.

A couple of members of the group of admirers coincidentally returning from the bathroom had to move quickly to avoid a violent shower of glass and electric sparks. Brett looked coldly through them like they just weren’t there.

Both hostesses retreated as far away from the angry footballer as they could get within the confines of their work environment. The victim was frightened. Her colleague rummaged in her bag, pulled out a mobile phone and, after pressing a couple of buttons, started filming the LA Eagles star’s bad behaviour. She carefully positioned her phone on the main shelf behind the bar.

Brett grasped his head with his hands. He head swayed from side to side. His eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed. His top lip curled. His head twitched and wobbled around.

The footballer appeared to be totally oblivious to anything around him, fixated on the bewitchingly beautiful woman on the TV screen. The two hostesses sneered at him and whispered to each other.

“Bitch!” he yelled at no one in particular. “She has ruined my life!”

The bar fell quiet for the first time that night. There was only Branson’s superficial commentary droning from the surviving TVs and, beyond that, an uncomfortable silence.

A bouncer appeared, ready to do his job, but the bar manager quietly told him not to intervene.

Brett spun around, swept the drinks off the bar space in front of him and jumped toward the group, all the while haunted by Joanne’s smiling face on another monitor.

All the colour had drained from his face, tears lined the footballer’s dangerous eyes. His lips were moist with saliva. His eyelids fluttered. Sweat fell from his furrowed brow. He shook his head and repeatedly brought his fist down on a shelf, eventually smashing the unit away from the wall.

Most of the group of men was still standing in the midst of a human hurricane.

“Hey man can we, like, help you?” the tall man asked hesitantly.

“Bitch! The fucking Indian Hills bitch! She took me for everything. Aagggghhh,” Brett roared so loud that if anyone actually walked LA’s sidewalks they would have heard his primal scream from the other side of the street outside Joe’s Bar.

Without warning, Mr Football viciously punched in the eye the smallest guy in the group, one of the dudes he had just been photographed with.

The bewildered victim flew backwards and crashed heavily into another group of patrons, knocking several other men over. The elbow of one of these falling men, in turn, knocked an autographed picture of the LA Eagles 2007 Super Bowl winning team off the wall. The glass cracked, the frame buckled and the market value of one of Joe’s most prized collectables took a sudden dive as it hit the floor hard.

The tall man stepped back from the fray. This group of heroic men had no intention of physically challenging the mountainous and unpredictable Brett Farrell who had, by now, grabbed another couple of shot glasses and was again standing back at the bar. Sobbing like a baby.

Brett continued to fixate on the Estee Lauder telecast and self medicate with alcohol. He engaged with the hostess he had assaulted in a familiar tone, as if nothing had happened 15 minutes earlier.

“Why is she doing this to me? Please, tell me why?”

Kathy, the long-suffering hostess, snapped. She seriously thought about pulling the pistol out of her purse and putting an end to Brett’s night of shame but, unfortunately for Joanne and Angela, she thought better of it.

Instead she marched up to the bar manager.

“I can’t believe you won’t call the police on this psycho pig. I quit. I’m out of here before I cap his ass!” she said angrily and paused, hoping her boss was going to intervene, deal with the footballer and ask her to stay. But he just stared evasively at his shoes.

“I’m out of here right now, and know this bro I’m dialling 911. It’s the first thing I’ll be doing when I’m safely in a cab,” Kathy said assertively.

The bar manager lifted his head but would not look her in the eye as he replied: “I’m real sorry Kathy but he’s just too well connected. You can call 911, I don’t blame you, but I swear there ain’t no-one going to do nothing to about psycho Mr Football. Not in this fucked up city.”

He glared down the bar at the drunken wreck of a man and pointed.

“That low mothafucker is bigger than god.”

The bar manager finally made eye contact with his best ex employee.

“What I can do is pay you triple for tonight’s full shift. And because I’m real sorry to see you go like this, Kathy, if you sign a non-disclosure agreement before you leave, I’ll pay three months wages into you account first thing tomorrow. Whaddya say girl?”

While Kathy nodded blankly, it was now she who avoided looking her ex boss in the eye.

“OK. Get changed and meet me in my office. I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” the manager said. She nodded again, turned and walked away full of disbelief.

The bar manager shook his head and pretended to survey the stock beside the main cash register.

Kirstie, the other hostess, stared intently at him from the other end of the bar.

“Fuck this,” the manager muttered to himself when she finally caught his eye. He picked up the bar phone and touched three buttons. “It’s Joe’s. Yeah, yeah. We got a code nine going down. Send a VIP security posse down here right away.” He gently placed the phone back down in its cradle and glared at Brett sitting four metres away. “Fuck you” he muttered and practiced a slow motion punch.

Kirstie walked up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you boss,” she said, and then scooted down the bar to serve the tall man.

Unaware of anyone and anything else, the footballer sobbed and continued interrogating the universe as he watched Joanne and Branson hug on the television. He noticed how comfortable and relaxed their body language was.

“Why? Why? Why?” Brett croaked.

But TV land was completely oblivious to his achy breaky heart. Joanne continued to smile ever so sweetly from the screens. Brett was transfixed and appalled as Branson’s lecherous hand tenderly stroked Joanne’s back with what his paranoid mind took to be a sense of familiarity.

“Aagggghhh!” the football super hero screamed again. “You’ll pay for this slut, I promise. You are riding for a fall.”

Half of Brett’s fan club had remained at the scene of the crime. They had witnessed Mr Football’s anti social behaviour first hand, yet most of them immediately excused him because of the blind filter of herd behaviour that groupies of all descriptions are so prone to.

“Typical of these uptown girls. She ditched him the moment she was famous … It’s such a tragedy, the Super Bowl is a week away and our man, Mr Football, is a fucking wreck. I mean, just look at him,” the tall man noted earnestly as he returned from the bar with a tray loaded with full glasses.

“It’s so wrong. It’s so unfair of her,” agreed the fat man who was surveying the basket case at the bar. “What the hell was she thinking of?”

“Someone from the Eagles should be talking to her,” the tall man suggested, a proposition the group’s body language suggested they supported. “The club should pull her fancy Hollywood ass back into line.”

“Right. You’re so right. The only way we are going to win Super Bowl 2009 is if Mr Football is in the zone,” the fat man said. “Why aren’t the Eagles on to it already?”

With the bar manager and Kirstie watching from the side lines, two tall thin bouncers wearing loose black trousers, long sleeved black shirts and black Nike sport shoes appeared at the bar on either side of Brett.

“Mr Farrell, sir, you’ve had enough to drink tonight. It’s now time for you to leave,” the taller man said in a measured, respectful tone.

The bar manager walked toward the football groupies with his arms outstretched and a plastic smile. “Gentlemen, I’m real sorry about this interruption,” he said. “Please accompany me to the VIP bar where your drinks will be on the house for the rest of the night.”

“You the man,” the tall man said and slapped the bar manager on the back. The group collected their drinks and followed him away from the bar.

Brett jumped out of his stool. Despite being unsteady on his feet, he shaped up, in martial arts style, ready to fight.

The bar manager walked the group away from the looming confrontation.

The bouncers were relaxed in the face of Brett’s aggressive behaviour. As they walked slowly and purposefully towards him, the LA Eagles star upped the ante and picked up a barstool with his solid left arm.

“Don’t you losers know who I am?” he roared and lifted the stool up high in the air.

The bouncers nodded, unimpressed.

“I know who you are, sir. That’s the only reason I’m not kicking your ass right now,” the tall bouncer said patiently.

Brett threw the barstool at the smaller of the men in black and followed up with an impressive looking round house kick. The bouncer ducked the stool, easily stepped around the kick, smiled and continued moving into Mr Football’s space. When Brett seized another barstool, the larger bouncer side kicked it straight out of his left hand.

The stool flew across the bar, cracked a large chrome mirror behind Kirstie and then, as it fell, knocked over a rack full of spirit bottles. A large bottle of Glen Fiddich smashed on the floor, washing Kirstie’s feet with 15-year-old single malt whiskey.

Faced with obviously superior fighting skills, the footballer’s macho bravado evaporated. Just like that. He raised his hands submissively, showing both his palms to the bouncers. His torso shrunk, his body slumped, his head jerked forward and he grinned his best boy next door smile at the security men.

Kirstie shook her head. “What a pathetic loser you are,” she muttered to herself and adjusted the position of the phone camera to capture his capitulation. The bar manager returned from the VIP Bar and noticed she was filming the situation. He sent Kirstie round to “attend to” the VIPs, picked up her phone and deleted the video.

On the floor of Joe’s main bar, the bouncers were now right in Brett’s face.

The tall bouncer gently placed his left hand on Brett’s right shoulder. “Grab your things, sir. You are leaving. C’mon, it’s time to go.”

For the first time in years, Mr Football did exactly what he was told. He picked up his phone and keys and pocketed them. As the bouncers escorted the surly yet passive footballer toward the door, the bar’s television screens suddenly cut to a close up of Jenna being interviewed by Branson.

Brett’s face sank. And right by the doorway he stopped walking. He wanted to watch the rest of the Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards broadcast. As the smaller of the bouncer’s held the door open, the largest bouncer shoved him out onto the street with the palm of his right hand. He used the minimum amount of force required even though, as the adrenalin surged inside him, he really wanted to forget about being professional and sit the wise guy where he belonged: right on his ass.

“Hey C’mon, I don’t want no trouble. Hey take it easy buddy, please, I’ve got a Super Bowl to win, OK?” Brett said dramatically, switching effortlessly into victim mode. A group of passers by stopped to watch.

On her way home Kathy had called 911 anonymously and, as a result, a Los Angeles Police Department patrol car, lights flashing and siren blaring, pulled up at the kerb. Two uniformed officers jumped out with their tasers drawn.

Upstairs, the patrons of Joe’s Bar VIP lounge maintained their forensic focus on the football.

“We cannot win the 2009 Super Bowl without Mr Football. He is essential,” the tall man regurgitated for the umpteenth time and the surrounding group of 10 men nodded in mute agreement. The small man, now sporting a black and bruised left eye, appeared to be searching for his best friend floating at the bottom of his whiskey glass.

Downstairs, as the bouncers stood with Brett and the cops on the street, the faulty front door finally automatically locked behind them.

Inside, the bar manager and Kirstie stood with arms crossed and frowning faces as they surveyed the wreckage strewn across the now almost empty main bar.

“You know on nights like tonight, babe, I really wonder why I bother getting out of bed at all,” the bar manager said and sighed.

“I know what you mean boss,” Kirstie replied and hitched up her red right stocking.

“We’re closing early. The cleaners can sort this mess in the morning. Let me fix you a drink,” he said with a smile.

“I’d like that,” she replied and raised her eyebrows a little.

“A triple vodka?” he asked and placed his left hand knowingly on her right shoulder.

“A triple bloody Mary, yep, that would be jest fine.” Kirstie grinned, looked into his eyes and placed her hands upon his hips as she ordered.