The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 2

  “Do you ever think about taking a break from all that? You’re working so hard.”

  “No…not now anyway. It’s too rewarding. I feel the Lord using me, and it feels so wonderful to be a small part of God’s great plan.”

  Tony smiled.

  As they turned their attention to the big-screen television above them, they saw quarterback Steve Young throw a touchdown pass to tight end Brent Jones. A loud shout went up around the bar. Glasses clinked all around them.

  “Young is hot tonight!” Tony shouted above the din. “I think this could be our year!” He tugged on his red shirt emblazoned with Young’s No. 8. “I think this is the year we win it all.”

  Frank wasn’t as much of a fan as Tony, but he was wearing his Joe Montana No.16 jersey in road white. “Well, Young is great, but he’ll never beat Joe.” He said this confidently, but knew he didn’t know enough about football to really judge anyway.

  Tony said loudly, almost shouting over the din, “Joe is gone, Frank! Let it go! Steve is our guy now!”

  The both chuckled into their beers. Frank looked up at the television and saw the score was 30 to 14—a comfortable lead for San Francisco.

  He heard a tumult behind him and turned to look. At the backside of the bar sat three Raiders fans, dressed in black, perched on tall stools around a high, round table. He heard them grousing. “Running up the score.” “It’s the fourth quarter.” “What are they trying to prove?” Sore losers, he thought, and turned his attention back to the replays.

  Transformation was moments away.

  It was a cool fall evening, that September 5th, 1994. So cool that Frank wore a light jacket over his Montana jersey. Normally, Sacramento Septembers are furnace-hot, but not tonight. He welcomed the change and hoped the coolness would last.

  At a commercial break, the bartender put on some music. Gin Blossoms.

  All last summer in case you don’t recall

  I was yours and you were mine forget it all

  “So do you think Jerry Rice is going to break the record tonight?” Tony asked, looking into his nearly empty beer. “One more ties it.”

  “Nah, it’s the fourth quarter. I can’t imagine he’ll score two tonight. Maybe one, and tie it. But two? He already scored in the first quarter…”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. They like to spread the ball around. Would be nice to see them do it at Candlestick Park.” Tony checked his watch.

  “Do you need to get going, Tony?” Frank asked, turning toward him.

  “Not yet. Hope to see Rice score one more tonight.”

  “Okay, man, just let me know.” Frank was nursing his beer, but he noticed it had gotten below half. Tony had the look of a man who was ready to go, so Frank thought he should finish his beer and be ready.

  Abruptly, the music in the bar softened, though it still played in the background.

  Rumors follow everywhere you go

  Like when you left and I was last to know

  As they both turned their attention to the large screen again, they saw Jerry Rice, No. 80, take the football on a reverse and speed to the end zone, a quick fake right, then hard left, knifing through the defense like they were standing still. Once again the place erupted.

  “That ties the record!” Tony shouted. He was on his feet pumping his fist in the air. He threw his arm around Frank and they were shouting. No words, just sounds. Tony held up his glass to toast with Frank again.

  All around the room, people shouted, “Jerry…Jerry…” Football friendships were forming, as people high-fived and hugged men they didn’t know. Frank and Tony couldn’t hear the announcers, but saw the play from nearly every angle possible. Reverse handoff from Watters. Jerry streaking around the corner. Long, lithe strides. A terrific shoulder fake. He squeezed between defenders and battled through a tackle to fall into the end zone. Touchdown 126.

  Tony shouted again, “Why didn’t we go see this game in Candlestick?” The roar in the room was nearly deafening, and Frank had to lean over to him to shout his reply.

  “I know, right? What a great night to be there.” Of course, Frank knew that even getting a couple hours out of his busy life had been a challenge. Getting the afternoon off to fight Bay Area traffic just for a football game wouldn’t have happened. Not just getting off from work, but how about Shelly and the kids?

  Jim Brown’s touchdown record had stood for decades and seemed insurmountable. Yet here was a receiver in his prime, and he had just tied that record. Frank was so glad he had asked for the night off from Deacon Trenton. While he enjoyed, truly loved, the fellowship from his church brethren, he was glad to see a bit of history with his best friend. Who knew when he would see Tony again? He really didn’t know.

  Tony checked his watch again, then said, “Hey Frank, I’m going to take a leak, then I’d better get back to the hotel. Early flight.”

  “Yeah, okay, man. I understand.”

  Tony slid off his stool and moved behind him on his way to the bathroom. The waitress returned with questioning eyes. Frank said, “No more for us old guys…just the check.” She smiled and went back to clear their tab.

  He was staring into the bottom foam of his beer when he heard a loud groan from the bar. He looked up to see that the Niners had fumbled and that the Raiders now had the ball. Of course there was no worry; with the score 37-14 late in the fourth quarter there would be no stunning comeback. Though early in the season, a win gave them momentum in a season filled with expectations.

  When the waitress returned with the check, Frank stood up to fish his wallet out of his back pocket.

  The smashing of glass behind him caused him to jerk his head around.

  As he focused on the source, he saw Tony standing near the bathroom, being faced by the three Raiders fans. Their black and silver shirts seemed menacing, and each seemed larger than Tony, who was shorter than Frank and slender. These men stood towering over him, and even from this distance he could see the worry on Tony’s face.

  Frank moved quickly and involuntarily, and as he approached he heard one of them shouting loudly in a tense voice.

  “Take your fucking chump-ass Forty-Whiners bullshit and go fuck yourself.” The man’s curly red hair went down his shoulders enough to cover the name on the back of his jersey, with No. 12 on both shoulders. Red was tall and thick, and his hands and wrists said construction. Frank was next to Tony in a second, and stood directly in front of Red.

  “I’m trying to,” Tony replied. “Why are you hassling me?”

  “You bumped us, asshole,” the heavyset Latino man said, jabbing his finger at Tony’s chest. Tony looked down at the finger, then to Frank.

  They heard shouts from the bar. “Take it outside!” “Settle down, guys!”

  Frank tried to make peace. “Whoa, whoa, guys…easy…” with his hands outstretched in front of him. Red’s gaze burned into him, and Frank saw his body flexed and fists balled.

  “I didn’t bump you,” Tony protested, not stepping back from the finger in his chest. Though small and slight, he wasn’t backing down. He looked more confident when Frank arrived. “Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone, man?”

  “Take your friend and get the fuck out of here, fuckhead.” This time, his finger thumped Tony’s chest. Tony pushed the finger away with a swatting open hand.

  And then it started. There was no turning back.

  As Tony’s hand swiped the finger, the man’s hand folded into a fist and struck Tony on the side of his face, sending him stumbling into the table behind him. Frank felt the first punch from Red swing by his head. Though it missed him, his forearm struck his shoulder and sent him back on his heels.

  “What are you doing?” Frank shouted as he backed up, looking for space. Another punch whizzed by his face. He looked over to see the third man now throwing punches at Tony, who was on his knees with one hand on the floor. Both men were going at him, punching downward. Strikes rained down on his ears and shoulders.

  Again, Fra
nk shouted, “Why are you doing this?”

  There was no response from Red, only grunts and the whoosh of air as more punches missed him. He could smell the beer on Red as the man swung his arms erratically but violently. Nothing was landing, but Frank was out of space. His heels found the wall behind him.

  He wondered how this could happen to men their age. Then he felt the air from another punch that again missed him, if barely. Red had closed the distance and his punches would soon find him.

  Judgment fled him, and he became primal response. His fists balled, and he swung with all his might. He grazed the man’s ear, and his right fist was in his red curls. He grabbed those curls and pulled his head toward his left fist. He pumped three successive left crosses into Red’s face, opening a cut above his right eye. Red staggered, but Frank still held his hair. Red was no longer throwing punches.

  Now, with his adrenaline flowing hard, he threw a hard hook, which landed flush on Red’s nose. Blood sprayed out. With his balance off, vision blurring, and blood flowing, Red used his size and threw himself on Frank. Their bodies smashed together, and Red’s weight sent them to the floor. Frank landed heavily on his back. Red let out puhn as they hit, and his blood sprayed into Frank’s eyes and mouth. Blood was spilling freely, and both men were quickly slick with it.

  Frank twisted his body and pushed Red away from him. Though he had a huge size advantage, Red’s balance was off still, so Frank quickly reversed, moving to a top position. He pushed his left hand down on Red’s chest to steady himself, but even through his adrenaline he could now feel his left hand throbbing angrily. Frank threw down piston-like punches on Red’s face, and blood coated his forearms. Red jerked suddenly, arching his back, sending Frank onto the floor. They rolled and twisted, each struggling to better their position. Red was panting loudly through his mouth and spraying blood with each exhale. Frank could feel the man was strong, but alcohol and hard punches must have made him unsteady. Still he struggled. The stink of stale beer, bad breath, and body odor was overpowering to Frank. How had he ended up on the floor with a man he didn’t even know? How had he found himself touching and pushing and punching and wrestling a man who reeked of construction sites and unwashed clothes?

  The struggle continued, and Frank’s shoulder hit a nearby table, dumping beer on both of them. A heavy mug rolled off and struck the back of Frank’s head, then fell to the floor with a crash and tinkle. Instantly he saw gray and silver stars, and felt a deep throbbing from his neck up.

  And then there were hands on his shoulders, and he was pulled roughly to his back. A large bald man in a white I-Ball polo shirt put his huge flat hand on Frank’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Red was struggling with a bouncer just a few feet from him. Frank saw that Tony had already been separated from his attackers. He was surprised to see Tony wasn’t bleeding, though he was being pushed up against a wall. He noted the third man in Raider-black was blonde haired and gangly, and a bouncer had him in an arm lock.

  He attempted to sit up, but the bouncer held him down. “Not yet, buddy…wait for the cops.”

  “I just want to sit up.”

  “Not happening.” He smiled down at him, but his force was unrelenting. As he lay there covered in beer and blood, he regarded the man above him. He looked at the logo on his white polo shirt. A large eyeball, complete with red capillaries, with the letter I on it. Who thought of that logo? he wondered. Such an ugly logo for a sports bar. It’s funny what a person notices in moments like these.

  He also felt the adrenaline begin to purge from his bloodstream, and the dull aching throb in his hand and head became sharp staccato. He let out a groan as pain grew within him. His elbows and knees began to burn. His shoulder felt bruised. All the sensations from his tumbling fight found him, as if they had traveled far to get there.

  Nobody in the I-Ball that night saw Jerry Rice score touchdown 127. Nobody saw the beautiful spiral snatched from the air between two defenders. They were all too busy looking at the men on the ground, each with his own personal bouncer. Beer on the floor. Stools upended. Broken glass. Bloody fists. Sirens in the distance. People clucked their tongues, and were glad they hadn’t been involved. They all looked with sour judgment at Frank and the others. Adjudicating eyes. Contemn. Many would tell the story of this fight later, adding embellishments to make it more interesting than it had been in reality. Frank could feel the heavy, reproachful looks, even as he looked down at his split knuckles and bloody hands, and tried to wipe Red’s blood from them.

  Then the police arrived in numbers. Black shirts and creaking leather gun belts. Fingers pointed them to the men on the floor and against the wall. Cops swaggered over to where the bouncers held their charges. No discussion. No investigation. Instead, Frank was pulled roughly up to his feet, where he felt something he had never felt before: the cold, metallic grind of handcuffs on his wrists, tightened to just short of bone-cracking. His left hand sent shooting hot currents up his arm.

  In complete disbelief, he tried to turn to look at what was happening to him. He received a hard shove from the cop. He then demanded, “Why are you arresting me?”

  “Disturbing the peace, buddy…assault…battery…public intoxication…you want me to go on?” Derision in his tone.

  “I didn’t do anything. I was only defending my friend. Arrest those fucking Raiders fans.” That word leaving his mouth shocked even him. It wouldn’t be the last time tonight. “They fucking attacked us, man!” and now his voice was shouting.

  “Watch your mouth, sir…don’t make it worse for yourself.” He was given another shove.

  But now his blood was up. His heart was pumping. “Listen, we didn’t do anything except try to have a couple beers and watch the game. These assholes attacked my friend, and I just tried to help him out.”

  “That’s not the call we got. They reported it as a bar fight. But don’t worry…we arrest you all, and let the judge sort it out in the morning.”

  “Judge? Morning?” Frank was now being led out into the cool evening. The black-clad officer had his gloved left hand on the chain between wrist cuffs, guiding him to the car. Metallic shoe-taps clicked on the concrete. “No way am I spending the night in jail,” Frank protested. He stopped and tried to turn to address the officer. For his efforts, he received a hard forearm on the back of his head, which intensified the ache.

  “Sorry, pal,” and then he added a shove to the cuffs, sending more jagged pain up his forearm. “I don’t make the rules. You’re in a fight in a bar, you go to the lockup.”

  Frank began to dig his own grave. “Listen, officer, you don’t know who you’re messing with. I’m Frank Joseph, vice president of Niver Technologies. I’m not some jerk off the street. You don’t just arrest me. My hand hurts. Take these cuffs off and let me call my wife, or my first call is to your police chief. I need medical care, not fucking handcuffs.”

  Officer Whalen took great pleasure in shoving Frank hard up against the side of his car, then kicking his feet apart. With his feet out, he fell over the trunk of the cruiser. Frank had to squint against the blinding, flashing lights atop the roof. Even with his eyes closed, he could see those lights. He hadn’t known they clicked as they turned.

  “Well, Mr. Vice President…let me make sure you don’t have any weapons on you.” He ran his hands roughly over Frank. Neck and shoulders. Sides. Thighs. Ankles. A rough grab on his crotch. His wallet and car keys were placed on the trunk of the car. “Now let me read you your rights, Mr. Vice President,” and he was already opening the car door. Frank was shoved in roughly, head forward. The metal grating between the front and back seats left him little room, and his knees scraped across the sharp frame. The cuffs pinched and bit his wrists. “You are being arrested for the crimes of disturbing the peace, assault, and battery. You have the right to remain silent. You may refuse to answer any or all questions. You have the right to an attorney…”

  As Frank sat in the back of the black-and-white, he saw the red and blue light
s flash against the badge and the buckle of Whalen’s gun belt. He heard the hissing, static-strangled voices of the police radio on the other side of the cage. He knew the conversations would be about him, but couldn’t understand much of what was said. Ignoring the officer’s practiced Miranda-drone, Frank looked to his left, and he could see Red over the hood of another black-and-white, while a black-clad officer rifled his pockets. Frank saw he had broken Red’s nose, and every word he said flecked blood, even now on the hood of the black-and-white. Blood also dripped from his swollen right eyebrow, and it was pooling. Red looked over at Frank, even though he was still bent forward. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Both men knew their futures were intertwined. Both men knew they were going to pay for this evening in the future. Both men would never be the same again, and both men knew it.

  And then he saw a smirk on Red’s face just before he was placed in the back of the patrol car.

  III

  “I said, I want my phone call! How can you deny me that?” Frank’s voice was raspy, his throat sore, and he was exasperated. Though never in jail before, he knew he had certain rights, chief among them a phone call. He wanted to call his wife. He wanted her to call a lawyer and get him released. He wanted out of his meshed-glass-and-metal cage. It smelled of vomit and urine, and he could hear his breath echoing. He was sweating freely, and the orange jumpsuit smelled of mold and chafed his skin.

  Most and worst of all, he was left alone with his thoughts. The panic of those thoughts made him want his phone call more than anything else in the world. He wanted to hear his wife’s voice. He wanted to hear that somebody knew of his plight. He wanted to know somebody was working on his situation. He knew his life had taken an ill turn and sitting there waiting was more than he could bear. He anticipated what was to come and wanted to get working on it immediately. This was a problem, a big problem, but he made a career out of solving problems. He knew the worst thing he could do was sit and not take action. He had to bend this problem to his will; he had to reshape reality. The sooner the better.