Robofootball: Doublespin
Chapter 69

Reynolds would make his usual rounds soon after the big win against New York. He even put his Uncle Dano off a day with the excuse that the team preparations he had to set in motion were of the utmost importance. His uncle gladly agreed and sounded very excited and congratulatory on the phone. A little of the heat was off now that he not only made the playoffs, but was going to the Big Dance. The first order of business was to confer with Yuri and Doc Holliday concerning the team injuries. There wasn’t much different from an ordinary game, a few limb replacements, various control modules, eye cameras, armor pieces, and some bumping and painting. The paint department seemed to be the busiest as the scrapes, gouges, and collisions much like a couple of horny rams going at it was enough to destroy a dozen layers of clear coat. Decals were easily fashioned in the decal shop as the player numbers had to be replaced for nearly every player who had been on the field, if only for a few minutes or plays. Once in awhile the kicker got by if it wasn’t involved in any tackling or other rough stuff.

Now that his uncle should have been somewhat in a happy place, the one visit Reynolds was dreading was a meeting with the creepy little Doctor Hobson or Hobs as Antwan called him. Reynolds was 5’10” and in the low 180’s and overall, in pretty good shape. He was always moving and dispelling some of that nervous energy. He was an intense man and given his standing high up in the Verlucci Family, one not to be crossed or disrespected. Dr. Hobson was a measly little worm of a guy, skinny and veiny at 5’6” and probably 50 pounds less than Reynolds. There were times when Reynolds just felt like kicking the shit out of him.

“Mr. Reynolds, come on in,” Hobson said in his snarly little whiny uppity arrogant voice. To Reynolds, his face looked like it had a permanent superior smirk like the Joker in Batman or in a freaky deck of cards. Hobson was equally annoyed and viewed Reynolds little more than as an annoying bureaucrat, necessary for his project goals, but an inconvenience at best.

“Dr. Hobson,” Reynolds acknowledged with a slight nod.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Just checking on things, have the checks been coming through?” Reynolds began by playing the funding or money card. “Money Talks” was a trademark saying of his adopted family.

“Yes they have, thanks you,” Hobson acquiesced slightly, “But that’s not really why you’re here.”

“No, I’m here about the kid, Jess.”

“And how is young Mr. Robinson?” I did see him on television Sunday, he seemed to perform admirably, a record performance if I heard correctly.”

“Yeah, the kid’s good, no doubt about it, but we’ve got a problem.”

“Oh?” Hobson took mental note of the “we” part.

“He woke up.”

“Yes, I was aware of that.”

“No Doc, you don’t understand, he REALLY woke up, remembers everything.”

“You don’t say,” Hobson was now suddenly keenly interested.

“Yes, I want to bring him back in, into society.”

“Didn’t you kill him off?”

“Nothing but a death notice, I can take care of that.”

“What about an official cause of death?”

“A paperwork snafu, nothing more, my lawyers can take care of it.”

“So you want to bring him back, like Lazarus from the dead. You know, this might have possibilities for me and my career,” Hobson was naturally thinking of himself as he stared off into the distance thinking of sugar plums in terms of papers, the academic acclaim, notoriety, and so forth. The spotlight he shunned but the power of his ego and reputation appealed to his academic vanity. It might bring in more funding too. For his ultimate project, he needed more money, more equipment, and more personnel too in the form of assistants.

“That’s where I need your help Doc, I might need you to explain how you revived him. I’ll handle the legal mumbo jumbo. I plan on keeping it under wraps, but you never know about the press or family.”

“Yes, I can see where a waking coma patient would spark media interest, especially in some small town where the boy is from. Do I assume that you will extract young Mr. Robinson from this football nonsense?”

“Yes, I thought about that too, but only after the big game.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to travel to Texas with the team one last time?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Reynolds sighed, “It’s the Cosmic Bowl, the Super Bowl of the RFL, tickets might be half or a third of the price of the Super Bowl, but they’ll still be hot ones.” The Texas stadium held 100,000 spectators and the payoff in shared revenue would be several million, the kind of figures that would make Mr. Verlucci very happy. Unlike the NFL, the RFL awarded the team with the best record home field advantage which was more in line with other sports.

“Oh joy,” said Hobson.

“I’d like you there as a medic, you know the kid better than anyone.”

“True,” thought Hobson, but his mind was wandering to a paper that he had half written titled: “Restoring Brain Function of a Severely Traumatized Coma Patient by way of Synaptic Repair and Neuron Regeneration.”

“Then it’s done,” Reynolds said with finality. “I’ll send details to your secretary. Once we bring the kid back, you can do what you want, but there’s only one thing you need to keep in mind Doc.” Reynolds ran his hand over his slick-backed hair on his head and gritted out a grin like a territorial German Shepherd police dog about to be turned loose on a purse snatcher.

“Yes, yes, I know, no mention about this football business.”

“That’s right Doc, keep it that way and we’ll be friends,” Reynolds got up, “See you a week from Thursday Doc, that’s when we’re leaving on the train for Texas.”

“Lovely.”

That went about as well as he hoped, thought Reynolds. In the old days, the way his uncle talked about his grandfather, Vincent Verlucci, they probably would have roughed up Hobson some, slapped him around like a girl, maybe even have bumped him off since dead men tell no tales or share secrets. In modern enlightened times, bumping someone off was fairly extreme, still done, but only in rare instances, especially if money was owed like Mike Robinson’s situation. Dead men might not tell secrets but they weren’t always able to pay their debts unless of course the Verlucci’s had arranged for some 3rd party life insurance policy. Surprisingly, that not so little scam worked with more than one disgruntled wife here and there. Take out half a mil term policy, split the dough with the wench after the confirmation, win-win. Reynolds always hated that win-win crap. It usually meant a win for the top dog and a win for the company system in general, but it always resulted in more work for some schmuck further down the food chain, one who did the actual work or worse, death for the poor bastard at the wrong end of the life insurance scam.

Next stop on the list was Antwan who was getting some upgrades from Yuri. Reynolds was able to track Yuri down first who happened to just be removing his hood from after a round with a TIG-style welder.

“Ooh, ahh, ooh!” Yuri set the hose and nozzle down and was frantically patting down the back of his right shoulder, lifted his sweatshirt, and a little piece of hot metal, the size of a #12 nail head fell to the concrete floor, still glowing. “Dommot!” Yuri said and it was the closest thing he had to a curse after burning a hole in his shirt.

“You okay boss?” Reynolds said to him. Yuri was such a tiny man that he was several inches shorter than Hobson, maybe just a few pounds lighter given his penchant for doughnuts, but he had a much bigger heart. Everyone liked him including Reynolds. Yuri still had the full welding helmet on but had opened the face shield.

“Ya! Ya! Reynolds! How ah yah?” Yuri’s smile was as big as a smiley face painted on a water tower.

“What happened?”

“Ah, just a lil burn, dom metal always vinds avay in, no matta how much clothes.”

“How’s my team?”

“Ah, veddy good, veddy good.”

“You see Antwan?”

“Ya, ya, funny man.”

“Yeah, yeah, he been tellin’ you jokes?”

“Ya, ya, lepers, one I don’ get.”

“Oh yeah?”

“What do lepers do at hockey game?”

“Don’t know.”

“Day have a face off! Why do day stop dare poker game?”

“Don’t know,” Reynolds said again.

“Day all throw dare hands in!” Yuri laughed and laughed.

Reynolds laughed too, if only with Yuri, “What don’t you get?”

“Oh I got doze, it’s da last one, what does da leper sat to hooker when he all done?”

“Don’t know.”

“It okay honey, you can keep da tip.” Yuri looked confused.

Reynolds laughed out loud long and hard at that one, “That’s a good one, a real good one.” He didn’t know if Yuri knew about Antwan being a robo football player or not, but for some reason Reynolds didn’t worry about it. Yuri was married to his work and didn’t talk all that much about anything else. His English was not that good and never would be either, probably not enough input since Yuri didn’t watch TV, pay much attention to sports, or really get out that much. Like some little closet genius, he was locked into the secret cavities of his mind where gears and levers were constantly turning to make bigger and better gears and levers.

“I don’ get,” Yuri said but laughed along with Reynolds.

“I think Antwan can explain that one to you, speak of the devil,” the two had been walking along the shop lanes marked in bright yellow when they came to an open room where Antwan’s body armor was being bumped out after the blue and silver paint had been sandblasted off.

“Yo Reynolds, wassup? We gotta talk man.”

“Yeah I know, can you leave us alone?” Reynolds said to Yuri in about the kindest voice he could muster. He did have a soft spot for the little Czech engineer, maybe for Jess and Antwan too but he would never admit it.

“Sure, sure, but you tell me ’bout dat tip, right?”

“Yeah,” said Reynolds, “I’ll have Antwan explain it to you.”

“Okay, got more weldin’,” Yuri said and walked off.

“We gotta talk ’bout the kid Reynolds.”

“Easy,” said Reynolds, “What’s on your mind?”

“We gotta get him out, this whole football mess, he’s gotta girl, had one anyway, some family too, his…”

“Slow down, I’m gonna take care of it, but after the big game.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Bring him back to life.”

“You gonna, wait, what?” Antwan was looking confused.

“I got Hobson or Hobs like you call him in on it. He’ll take care of the medical science stuff, probably get a medal or some kind of award. He did fix the kid’s brain with all his fancy equipment shit.”

“What about all that death stuff, the obit you know?”

“We got lawyers, the worst or best kind depending how you look at it. They’ll straighten the legal shit out.”

“What about his family, his girl? He real anxious to call this Carly.”

“Carly? That’s his girl?” Reynolds recalled a report he had on the Robinson Family, but he hadn’t looked at the report in over a year.

“Yup, he wanna call her real bad.”

“Whaddya tell him?”

“Let me talk to you first.”

“Good, can it wait until after the game?”

“Kid’s head might not be right, he think about her too much.”

“What’s her last name?” Reynolds didn’t know it off the top of his head, but he was sure that it would be in the file. Antwan could save him some time.

“Tucker,” Antwan said.

“Okay,” Reynolds said thinking, “Could be tough, would if the broad got married, has a boyfriend, got knocked up, had a baby, …”

“Not that we can tell,” said Antwan.

“Oh?”

“Web search, Internet, ya know, the kid’s been lookin’. ’Bout all he knows is that she’s a sophomore at Michigan.”

“I see.” Reynolds paused and thought some more. As a fairly high level capo or manager with the Verlucci’s, he decided to delegate. “I’ll leave it up to you Antwan, but you know we have to keep the football stuff under wraps, no ifs ands or buts. After the game I don’t care. We’ll have a whole year, well maybe 8 or 9 months,” Reynolds was counting the months on his fingers from January to September, “To build a new quarterback.”

“You gonna pull the kid?”

“Yeah, too much at stake. We’d be in big trouble if the kid got injured and word got out.” Reynolds didn’t say the unspeakable, but a death to Jess could still be covered up since the kid was legally dead if only on paper. “On second thought, I think it’d be better to wait after the game.”

“He young, can’t wait, don’ think I could either.”

Reynolds sighed, “All right then, do what you gotta do, we’ll keep the kid out of serious trouble just one more game, we’ve been lucky so far.”

“Nice what ’bout me?”

“Shit, you’re half of one of those blockheads now, it’s easier with you.”

“Thanks Reynolds, you know how to treat a brotha,” Antwan said sarcastically and laughed, “I guess I can’t play the race card can I?”

“No, but maybe we need to think about getting you out of this mess too,” Reynolds said soberly, “I’m sure we can always find another consulting job for you.”

“Yeah maybe, but we talk after the big game, me and the kid wouldn’t miss it for the world, all right?”

“Yeah, we will.”

“Be not friendly with a hotheaded person nor the companion of a wrathful person either, lest you learn their ways and get yourself into a snare.”

The Bible, Proverbs, XXII, 24-25

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