Too Many Men on the Field
by Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2014
Disclaimer: The A-Team belong to Fox/Universal and the late SJC. I do this for the jazz and not for profit.
Chapter 1: Pregame
The phone kept ringing and ringing. Go figure. That only ever happened when I was in the shower. By the time I'd jumped out, thrown on a towel, and run barefoot and wet down the hall, it had gone to voice mail. Dammit.
I'm one of the few guys in L.A. who still has a landline. Of course, I'm not like most guys. I have my reasons. One of them is the fact that I'm now a federal fugitive with a price on his head. According to Hannibal, this is actually a safer bet than a cell number. The logic on that one confuses me. He said it was something about the opposite of what the CIA, DCIS, and whoever else might expect me to do. That, and it's registered to a phantom corporation. Weird. Anyway, I have five encrypted, untraceable wireless numbers anyway. Hannibal would really be pissed if he knew.
Hey, a guy's got to keep all his love interests separate. For me, that's never been easy.
I stared at the little blinking red light. I gotta admit, I'm a sucker for nostalgia. I still have the same answering machine I had way back before. Before all that impossible shit went down in Mexico and I found myself, well…
Part of a team. The most batshit crazy team there ever was.
It was probably one of them calling me. If it was B.A., he'd want me to hit the gym with him. Or maybe watch the Super Bowl at his new place. Even if my Eagles were a heavy favorite to beat his hometown L.A. Dragons. Hannibal hardly ever called that line. If he did it was something serious. I didn't want to think what it was. Did somebody rat us out? Trace us online? I stared. Tried to think.
There was a third possibility, of course. Murdock might have just gotten bored. Or lonely. The last time he'd called, he'd put on a silly accent and pretended to be some guy named Craven Moorehead. I'd been busy hacking into DoD's mainframe at the time to try and get some news, but it had still cracked me up. Murdock had a way of doing that.
Taking a deep breath, I pressed the button. I wasn't sure what to expect, but what I heard was the last thing in the world I would have expected.
It was a feminine voice, soft and breathy. "Templeton?" Nobody called me that anymore. "I don't know if this is your number, but my publicist tells me it is."
I flipped through my mental Rolodex. None of the women I'd met recently had this number. Or did they? There was that one night I had a few too many vodka shots, and my memory was a little hazy. I kept listening.
"It's Cyera. You know, Cyera Flynn? Back from Philly?"
It was like being blindsided by a Mack truck. Of course I knew her…and so did millions of other people. She'd had a breakout pop single and gone multi-platinum not long ago. I'd only known her a few years in high school. We'd gone out a few times and ended it as friends. I hadn't heard a word from her since then. Other than hearing her album when I was still in Iraq and wondering how I missed out on such an amazing talent. Who was gorgeous, I might add.
"Look, if this is your number, I need your help..."
Now I had to be suspicious. There were all kinds of people looking for me and the guys now. Some were professionals, and some just wanted to make a quick buck. Cyera Flynn? This could be just some ambitious captain calling from D.C., trying to flush us out…
"…because I always thought you were a great guy, and there aren't many of them left. I still have that little unicorn you made me in art class. The purple one with sparkly hooves."
That was a lot harder to fake than just a name and a sexy voice. I'd never told anyone else about that unicorn. Still, I wasn't sold.
"Call me when you get this, okay?" She gave a number. "Temp, I've really missed you." The message ended and I was still staring at my old machine.
Cyera. After all this time. I thought of her; the way her reddish blond hair was always so shiny and smelled like lavender, how she and I always cut up in the back of Mr. Logan's English class, the sense of humor she had to go along with her effortless good looks. I had missed her; I just hadn't realized it.
My first impulse was to pick up the landline and dial the number. I almost did, and then I remembered the secure lines. I also remembered I was dripping wet and only wearing a towel. Cursing under my breath, I went back to my room and reminded myself to clean up the puddle from the hardwood floors later.
I tested the number first on Line #1. It really was for some publicist's office in Hollywood. Usually the military wasn't that clever when it came to making stuff up. I followed my hunch and dialed the number back on Line #2. It rang a few times and a polite but cool female voice answered.
"Destrier Artist Management, how may I help you?"
"Um…yeah. I'm returning Cyera Flynn's call."
I could practically hear the scoff in the woman's voice. "May I tell her who is calling?"
"Tell her it's Face…um, I mean, Temp. She just called me."
There was a click and the sound of canned hold music. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I heard a familiar voice.
"Temp? Is that you?" Cyera sounded out of breath, like she'd been holding a high note or something. Maybe she had. "How…how are you?"
"Couldn't be better," I lied. Maybe Cyera didn't watch the news, but unless she'd been touring on Mars, she had to have heard about our little incident in the port. "So, um, what's up? I got your message, and you sounded desperate. I've gotta tell you…"
She sighed, cutting me off. "I know. How you're wanted and everything. I heard."
So much for her being some airheaded pop star who didn't watch CNN. I might have forgiven her that. "Why'd you call, then?" I had a feeling it wasn't just to say a quick "hi" after almost twenty years.
"Temp, I have a job for you. I know you need money, and I swear I'm on your side here. I'm not working for the bad guys," she said, and something in her voice made me want to believe her. "I don't know how much you've followed my career, but now that people know me, I have to have a security detail. I don't like it, but it's part of the deal."
"Okay, great. But what's that got to do with me?" I pictured about a half-dozen clones of B.A. surrounding her: pure muscle with dark shades and nonexistent senses of humor. They weren't guys like me.
"You know the Super Bowl is next weekend, right?"
"Yeah. Of course. The Eagles." I wasn't going to miss it for anything: right here in L.A., in the brand-new stadium. I'd been psyched about it since the Eagles had won the championship a week ago. My new HD screen was ready to go. Maybe she was singing the national anthem? Was that why she'd called?
She took a deep breath. "I want to watch the game, at the stadium, like a real person. Not have people recognizing me and asking for my autograph all the time. Do you know how long that's been?"
I guessed. "Probably since high school, right?"
"Yeah. And since I can't have, like, a dozen bodyguards around, I want you."
I almost dropped the receiver. "Look, Cyera, it's nice of you to ask, but there's a couple little problems with that. First of all, I'm not a bodyguard. I mean, I work out and everything, but that's not really my kind of gig. Second…" I hesitated. "Well, I've got my reasons for lying low right now." If somebody from the military was listening, I didn't want to make it obvious.
"Please, Temp. Can you do an old friend this one favor? We'll both go in disguise. It'll be so much fun. Like that time we got the fake IDs and spent all night drinking Southern Comfort and listening to old records at your grandma's house."
Now that had been a night. Talk about a blast from the past. How could I say no to that? And how could I say no to a prime seat at the Super Bowl? To watch the Eagles? I might never get another shot at that. Temptation overcame that cautious little Hannibal voice in my head. "Sure, okay. I'll do it," I said.
Besides, Hannibal would never have to know. I'd be in disguise. How ironic.
"You'll have to pick up the tickets at a secure location. Is there a Mailboxes Unlimited or anything around your place?"
There was, the one where I had my own P.O. box, but I gave her the address for another one a couple blocks over instead.
"I'll have them sent by courier in an hour. I'll use one of those fake names you always used to come up with; how about 'Willie Large?'" She laughed. "Oh, and Temp, I meant to tell you. There's an extra ticket, so you can bring a friend if you like. Look, I gotta go, but we'll talk again before the game. Work out where to meet and everything. I'm looking so forward to this," Cyera said.
"Yeah. See you." The line went dead.
This day had just gone from crap to excellent in the span of a few minutes. I was going to the Super Bowl. With a hot girl who happened to be famous. Where nobody would even suspect I was a wanted man. It almost made me forget about the pancake-sized puddle on my hardwood floor.
It was all I could do not to sing the Eagles' fight song at the top of my lungs as I made my way back to the master suite.
~~s~~
Mailboxes Unlimited was a lot like Walmart. All of them looked pretty much the same: industrial and boring. Even the middle-aged guy behind the desk looked bored. I had to clear my throat to get his attention.
"I have a parcel to pick up. Name's Large," I said cheerily.
The guy apparently didn't get the joke, because he just grunted and asked me to sign a piece of paper. Didn't even ask for ID. Which was fine, because I had several IDs, but not one in the name of Willie Large. The envelope bore the name of Cyera's agency and looked boringly corporate. But I knew better.
Last time I'd been this excited had been when I managed to scam the Ducati back in Iraq. Once outside, I tore open the package and removed its contents. Three tickets, stamped with the holographic Super Bowl logo. If I was reading the numbers right, they were right at the 50. I realized I shouldn't be waving them around in public, but everyone on the sidewalk around me just hurried past, talking and texting and hurrying to wherever it was they were going. Typical L.A.
I'd left the car parked a block over. It never hurt to be at least sort of careful. Like everything else I now owned, it was registered to someone who didn't exist.
I was so busy studying the tickets that I bumped straight into someone.
"Hey there! Long time, no see, Faceman."
I knew that voice…and the friendly face that went with it. It had been at least a month. "Hey, buddy. I thought you were still at that one hospital?"
Murdock grinned and gave me one of his patented bear hugs. "I kinda got bored there. Nurses got no sense of humor, the food's awful, and they don't even have HBO. How am I gonna catch up on Sex and the City?" he drawled, finally letting me go. "Whatcha been up to?"
"You know. The usual stuff." Truth was, I'd been working. Trying to find a way to get us out of our predicament. Well, I'd also been scamming my own penthouse and car and girlfriends, too. But that was work. And Murdock was nothing but a distraction. I'd secretly been avoiding him. And he'd come out a lot worse than I had from our little adventure with Lynch. Talking to his invisible friends, seeing things that weren't there. Hannibal and I had agreed he needed to chill out for a while. So we'd set him up, under a false name, in the best psych hospital money could buy. The one in Malibu. The kind of place movie stars sent their kids, and themselves. As of this morning I'd assumed he was still there. My mistake.
Murdock couldn't be contained. Not unless he wanted to be.
"Check it out, Face. New Avengers came out today," said Murdock, pulling out a comic book from a paper bag that said Crazy Tommy's Comics and Cards. It was just a few doors down from the mailbox store. "You wanna read it first?"
I politely shook my head. To a casual observer, Murdock didn't look like a guy who'd been diagnosed clinically insane. He looked like a hundred other SoCal beach guys: colorful Hawaiian shirt worn loose over a black tee, cargo pants, flip-flops. A wild head of spiky sandy hair which I'd always thought looked like one of those Japanese manga characters. Broad grin. I wasn't just a casual observer. I was his best friend. We'd been through way too much together. Somehow, in the time I'd spent trying to be a regular guy again, I'd forgotten that. During all the A-list parties I'd gone to, pretending to be someone else, I'd forgotten Murdock, who was the kind of friend who accepted you for who you really were.
What a prick I've been. How many times did he save my life? And I've been treating him like a leper ever since we got back.
There was only one way I was going to make it up to him, and it wasn't reading The Avengers or even taking him to Knott's Berry Farm. "Hey, Murdock, how'd you like to come to the Super Bowl this Sunday? With me?" I threw out the question before I'd had time to reconsider.
"Do dogs like to hump fire hydrants? Hell, yeah, I would!"
I wanted to tell him no, that they peed on fire hydrants, but decided not to. If he'd been grinning before, now he was deliriously happy. For a guy who'd gotten shot in the head a few months ago, Murdock was doing just fine. Maybe he didn't need to be in the hospital.
"Look, Murdock, a couple things. I'll explain on the way back to my place," I said.
"Sure. Whoo-hoo, I'm going to the Super Bowl! And then, if I have time, to Disneyland!" he shouted, startling a couple of women walking by.
"Let's not get carried away. C'mon, we'll head to my car, okay? I'll drive you to my place."
When we were safely back in the Mercedes, I thought it was safe enough to talk. Murdock was already fiddling with the stereo. He always did that. "You can come with me under two conditions. You listening?"
"Uh-huh." He'd tuned to the local 80s throwback station. His favorite.
"We have to go in disguise. That means nobody, and I mean nobody, knows who we are."
"Okay." His idea of a disguise was usually something outrageous, like a Swahili-speaking rabbi or a Cuban drag queen.
The second part was a little trickier. "Um, we'll be going with someone else. A friend of mine from high school."
"Does he like football?"
"Yeah. And it's a she."
Murdock looked up at me with those big eyes of his. Was he mad at me? Disappointed?
"As long as she likes chili dogs and Miller Lite, Face, and she's a friend of yours… it's all good with me." He leaned back in the seat and started singing and dancing along to "Tainted Love."
I pulled away from the curb. It was a good thing Murdock wasn't having a crazy day.
To Be Continued