Chapter 2: Kickoff

Sunday turned out to be absolutely perfect for football. Clear, mild, a slight breeze. In other words, typical L.A. in February. Having spent most of my life either in Philly or being chased halfway across the world in places without indoor plumbing, I wasn't complaining.

I'd spent an hour deciding what to wear. My Eagles jersey and hat, much as I hated to admit it, were out. I was supposed to look professional…after all, the only way I was going to be able to smuggle my Beretta and clips in was pretending to be an undercover agent. Those guys didn't bother with cheesy fan stuff. I'd finally settled on a sports jacket just loose enough to conceal my holster, a blue chambray shirt, and my best designer jeans. It was the kind of outfit that said "professional but cool." I'd also be wearing shades. Maybe too obvious, but I was supposed to be in disguise.

If Hannibal had been here, he'd have said I looked like some Black Forest reject. But he wasn't, so I didn't care. There was only so much I could do to disguise myself without being silly about it.

"Murdock? You about ready?" I banged on the bathroom door. He'd spent the night at my place; I figured it was easier than picking him up from wherever he was crashing at the moment. He had also been in there for a long time. I hoped he wasn't taking one of his Zen meditation baths where he got out the rubber duck.

The door opened a crack. "Hey, Face. Just a sec. I gotta do one more thing."

"All right, buddy. Just hurry up. You know what traffic's gonna be like."

I kept looking at my watch. On any given day, including Sunday, L.A. was a non-stop rush hour hell. Today was bound to be worse, and then we had to deal with security. I already had a plan. But my plans never took into account the wild card that was Murdock.

When he finally came out, I was at a loss for words. I'd told him he could have his pick of my clothes, even though he had a few of his own here. We were about the same size, and I didn't want him wearing his surfer-boy casual outfit on national TV. But I hardly recognized him. He almost looked presentable: one of my cashmere blazers with a turtleneck under it, pressed chinos, a pair of my Italian shoes. He'd slicked his unruly hair straight back with gel and actually shaved for a change. And in his left ear…

"Whoa. Is that an earring?" I said.

"Yeah." Murdock twirled and moved from side to side with the exaggerated movements of a model. "You like it?"

"Um, well, it's a different look for you."

I knew where the earring had come from. That crazy phase I went through. The one where I'd actually gotten my ear pierced when I got drunk. Murdock must have found it in the drawer in the bathroom. Then I had a strange thought.

"I didn't know you had pierced ears, buddy," I said, still unable to take my eyes off him.

"Guess you don't know everything about me," he responded, fluttering his lashes.

I'd spent eight years getting to know his weird self, and if there was one absolute truth about Murdock, it was that he always had new ways of surprising me. Up until recently I had no idea that he played the violin, spoke fluent Russian, or knew how to ride a mechanical bull. With him it was always an adventure. I wondered if bringing him to the game with me was a mistake. Then again, he'd helped keep me alive for those eight years despite his antics.

If I couldn't trust him, then who could I trust? Even so, I felt like I had to set some boundaries.

"Look, Murdock, this girl, Cyera, she means a lot to me. Try to play it cool, okay? No talking puppets or anything like that." I hoped I didn't sound patronizing, but Murdock just shrugged.

"I gotcha, Faceman. Just two regular guys going to the game, right?"

"Right." I looked at my watch again. "Now, let's go watch the Super Bowl."

~~s~~

My guess had been right: traffic was murder getting to the stadium. By the time we finally arrived, the sun was low in the sky and the lights were on. People were coming in from every direction.

There was no denying it: the California Coliseum was a huge place. It had been built to bring a team back to L.A. and host the big game. I'd heard that the financiers wanted to make the new Cowboys stadium look like a high-school field in comparison. They hadn't disappointed. Over a hundred thousand people and hundreds of media outlets were expected to be there tonight.

I parked the car as far away as I dared. I didn't want to be too obvious and neither did I want my car to get stolen, so that meant walking. As Murdock and I made our way toward the stadium, it was everything I could do not to show emotion. Most of the fans and tailgaters wore the Dragons' black, red and gold, but there was a healthy Eagles contingent too. Every time I passed a car or truck decorated in green and silver, my heart raced.

Just stay calm, I told myself. You've been in tighter spots than this before. Of course, none of those spots were on TV broadcast to half the world. The bossman would have had my ass for this. Then again, what were the odds of me, out of those thousands of fans, being seen? It was going to be okay as long as we stuck to the plan. That was the one thing he'd drilled into me over the years.

"Hey, Face, when are we gonna meet this girl of yours?" Murdock asked.

"Inside. Past the security check." We'd agreed to meet at the southeast concourse next to the program vendor's stall. Cyera had called me earlier and we both figured it was best to get in and then find each other.

"What am I supposed to call her? I can't call her 'Cyera,' right?" said Murdock.

"Right. Just call her by whatever name she gives us," I said, lowering my voice as we approached the checkpoint. "And call me 'Phil.' That's what it says on my fake badge."

"Okay, Phil." Murdock winked at me, and I thought I saw the beginnings of mischief in his eyes.

The checkpoint wasn't as bad as I'd hoped. These people weren't professionals; they were mostly rent-a-cops making fifteen bucks an hour and processing thousands of people. There were some real cops around, but I knew they wouldn't bother anybody minding their business. Murdock got waved through automatically; he didn't even get wanded. When it was my turn, I simply flashed my badge and my smile to the plump lady in uniform.

"Detective Phil Vandiver. Special Task Force," I said, all business.

"Yes, Detective." She paused a moment, then looked closer at the picture on my badge, then at me. "Just one thing."

I froze. Surely she didn't recognize me. "What is it?" I said impatiently.

The lady blushed. "You look just like that actor, Cooper Bradley. You know, the one who just played in the movie with Jennifer Aniston? What was it called?"

I took my badge back, immensely relieved. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't get to many movies. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Inside, Murdock was milling around in the concourse. In the time it had taken me to avoid the lovesick security guard, he'd bought a cone of blue cotton candy and was chowing down. I wasn't sure what worried me more: him getting sick like he always did, or the prospect of vomit all over my cashmere.

"Put that away. We get food and beer delivered to our seats, remember? Save your appetite," I said.

Murdock pouted, but left the sticky mess inside the next trash can we passed. "What's this girl look like, Face? She's in disguise, too, so how'll we find her?" he said, licking sugar from his fingers.

That hadn't occurred to me. I hadn't asked what she'd be wearing, but it hardly mattered. I'd know her anywhere. "Come on. We'll head over to the meeting spot," I suggested.

"Hey, stranger," a familiar voice said from behind me.

When I turned around, I was just as surprised as when I'd seen Murdock's getup. Cyera had always been a trendy, chic kind of girl. This girl was dowdy, with a thrift store plaid shirt and jeans that might have been some hipster's throwaways. Her hair was a dull black bob, and she wore thick-rimmed glasses along with fake braces. A pair of battered Doc Martens completed the look.

"Hey yourself," I said, hugging Cyera to me. "I hope that hair isn't real."

"No way, Jose. Just the power of a good stylist," Cyera said, hugging me back and planting a kiss on my cheek. "You can call me Gladys for tonight."

I got the joke right away. "That was your grandma's name. The one with the well-stocked liquor cabinet, right?"

"The very same." She noticed Murdock, who'd been patiently standing behind me. "This must be the guy you were telling me about. Your friend?"

"Oh, we're more than just friends," cooed Murdock, and before I could say a word, he pulled me to him and kissed me full on the lips.

Murdock and I had done a lot of crazy shit together over the years. We'd done some things that weren't even legal in half the civilized world. This, however, was definitely a first. When he finally let me go, I was gasping for breath.

Cyera stared at us for a moment, then grinned. "Oh, Temp, that's so sweet that you finally found someone! I mean, we had our fun times together, but," she winked, "I always kinda knew. You know?"

"You…you did?" I was horrified. I looked from Cyera back to Murdock. Both of them wore the same coy smile.

"C'mon, Temp. You were wearing designer clothes even back then, and you were the only guy I knew who ever got monthly mani-pedis."

I was about to explain how that was just good hygiene, but something told me it was a lost cause. Besides, Murdock looked happier than I'd seen him since that night at the port. If it was going to make him happy, not to mention Cyera, for the night, I figured I'd just go with it. I could always explain later, that it was some old frat brother playing a joke on me. I still had a shot at going out with the most beautiful pop singer on the West Coast, if I played my cards right.

Didn't every girl feel comfortable around gay guys?

"Yeah," I said, laying it on thick, "Murdock and I are reeeal close. Aren't we?"

"Ooh, yeah. He's my little snuggie-wuggie," Murdock agreed.

"You guys are just too adorable. I wish more couples could be as open as you," Cyera said, clasping her hands together. "We'd better get to our seats. We don't want to miss the pregame; I hear the flyover's gonna be awesome this year…"

I walked a step behind Cyera, just out of her earshot. Murdock was right beside me, grinning lopsidedly. He was about to say something when I held up my hands.

"Murdock?" I noticed his lips were still blue from the damn cotton candy.

"Yeah, Face?"

"Remind me to kick your ass when this is all over."

~~s~~

"I still don't see why we can't be 'People United.' It's, like, so harmonious."

"Because, you idiot, then we'd be called 'P.U.' on the news. What kind of social justice activists call themselves 'P.U.?'"

Somewhere deep within the bowels of the stadium, a dozen people were crammed inside a cold storage locker. They were all college-age save for one, a rangy man somewhere in his forties. Each of them had the glazed, slightly vacant expressions of those who'd spent a lifetime getting stoned. But they were all intently listening to the older man, Vick, who was pointing to a handheld tablet with elaborate diagrams drawn upon it.

"If we're done talking about our group name," he shot a glare at the young woman who'd spoken, "let's discuss this plan, shall we? Is everybody clear on their objectives tonight?"

A stringy-haired blond raised a hand. "Like, we're gonna show the capitalist scum what we're all about, right?"

"And bring awareness to the plight of the salamanders while we're at it," his sister added.

Vick scowled. He'd spent the last year on college campuses looking for young people who were committed to the cause. And he'd wound up with a bunch of morons…they were committed, all right…but still morons. "We're going to strike at the soft underbelly of this evil, unfair society. Make them reconsider how they treat the working class. Maybe even get international involvement."

Another kid raised a hand. "So, who gets to fly the blimp?"

"What?"

"The Goodyear blimp, man. Isn't it, like, going to blow up the place?"

"That was a movie, dumbass. Pink Sunday or something like that," the P.U. girl said. "This is different. Right, Vick?"

Vick wanted to punch something, though he considered himself a nonviolent man. "It doesn't matter, so shut up and listen. You all have your uniforms? Everybody know what they're doing?" Eleven heads nodded in response.

"Right. You know what to do. First stage at the end of the first quarter…"

~~s~~

I'd been wrong about the tickets. They weren't good seats. They were the best seats in the Coliseum's premium seating area was sweet: big leather seats, tons of leg room, a private steward for our section. Even better than a box, because we were just yards away from the field. I was almost excited enough to forgive Murdock as I made my way over to my seat, 16-C.

"Hey, look, it's Douglas! And Graham, and Herrera!" I couldn't help but point to my favorite players, who were warming up on the field. It was like being a little kid again and going to the old Vet…only a hundred times better.

"I know, right? Isn't this cool?" Cyera sat next to me. "Being famous does have some perks." Nobody had given her a second look so far, much less recognized her. So far the plan was working, other than Murdock, of course, who sat on my other side and held tight to my arm. On the way to the seats he'd bought a foam finger, some Eagles beads, and a vuvuzela. He looked less like a playboy than a drunk Mardi Gras reveler.

"Face, this is just too cool," he said, plopping down into his seat.

"I told you, call me 'Phil,' remember?" I muttered. "Hey, check out the che…" I was about to say 'cheerleaders,' then realized how stupid that would sound coming from a gay guy. "the chest on that guy, huh?"

Murdock was too busy taking in the sights, and sounds, to hear me. He loved a good crowd. The noise was starting to build to a crescendo as the players trotted off the field towards the sidelines.

The national anthem singer was making her way to the stage at midfield. She was some country star I didn't follow, but knew by name. She wasn't in Cyera's league, but had a decent voice.

"You're in my seat."

"Sorry, man, this is 16-C."

"I said, you're in my seat."

I turned to look at the biggest human being I'd ever seen. He had to be nearly seven feet tall and half again as wide. He didn't look happy, either.

"I got my ticket right here. And it's for this seat."

The singer was on stage now, and the PA announcer was telling everyone to please rise and remove their caps.

I suddenly realized who the huge guy was. He'd spent years playing defensive line for the Giants and destroying the Eagles quarterbacks. "I know you. You're Teensy McRae, right? Number 91?"

"Nobody calls me that anymore. 'Specially not some guy I don't know." Yep, it was him all right…I remembered that rough, growly voice from his postgame interviews. "Now get the hell outta my seat, man."

"Okay. You got it. My mistake."

I took the lead, pulling a confused Cyera and Murdock with me. The last thing I wanted to do was get in a fight with a guy who might snap my spine like a toothpick. He'd ended the careers of more than a few great players. I didn't want to be his next casualty. As we hurried to the row behind with its three empty seats, I heard Teensy pull out his phone and start talking when the anthem was finally over.

"Yeah. I made it. You're never going to guess who I ran into. Cooper Bradley. Yeah, the actor. The guy's a real asshole."

By the time the ball had been teed up for kickoff, I officially wanted to disappear. But I wasn't about to let a 350-pound man, or my suddenly gay best friend, ruin my night.

"C'mon, Eagles!" I shouted as the kicker's foot met the ball.

To Be Continued