Special Operations (Badge of Honor 2)

Mrs. Bolinski had been a schoolteacher when she met her husband. She had been somewhat reluctantly escorting a group of sixth-graders on a field trip to watch the Packers in spring training. She held the view at the time that professional football was sort of a reincarnation of the Roman games, a blood sport with few if any redeeming societal benefits.

The first time she saw Casimir, he had tackled a fellow player with such skill and enthusiasm that there were three people kneeling over the ball carrier, trying to restore him to consciousness and feeling for broken bones. Casimir, who had taken off his helmet, was standing there, chewing what she later learned was Old Mule rough cut mentholated chewing tobacco, watching.

Antoinette had never before in her entire (twenty-three-year) life seen such tender compassion in a man’s eyes, or experienced an emotional reaction such as that she felt when Casimir glanced over at her, spat, smiled shyly, winked, and said, “Hiya, honey!”

By the time, two months later, Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski returned from their three-day honeymoon in the Conrad Hilton Hotel in Chicago, she had him off Old Mule rough cut mentholated chewing tobacco and onto mint Life Savers, and already thinking about his—now their—future, which, pre-Antoinette, had been a vague notion that when he couldn’t play anymore, he would get a job as a coach or maybe get a bar and grill or something.

Two days after the management of the Green Bay Packers had stood before the lights of the television cameras of all three networks and given Bull Bolinski a solid gold Rolex diver’s watch, a set of golf clubs, a Buick convertible and announced that the number he had worn so proudly on his jersey for sixteen years would be retired, they received a letter on the engraved crisp bond stationery of Heidenheimer & Bolinski, Counselors At Law, advising them that the firm now represented Messrs. J. Stanley Wozniski; Franklin D. R. Marshall; and Ezra J. Houghton, and would do so in the upcoming renegotiation of the contracts for their professional services, and to please communicate in the future directly with Mr. Bolinski in any and all matters thereto pertaining.

This was shortly followed by that legendary television interview with linebacker F. D. R. Marshall and quarterback E. J. Houghton, during which Mr. Marshall had said, “If t

he bleeping Packers don’t want to deal with the Bull, so far’s I’m concerned, they can shove that bleeping football up their bleep,” only to be chastised by Mr. Houghton, who said, “Shut up, FDR, you can’t talk dirty like that on the bleeping TV.”

So Mickey O’Hara was aware from the very beginning that the Bull had not only succeeded in getting a fair deal for his former teammates from the Packers, but had also, within a matter of a couple of years, become the most successful sports agent in the business, and grown rich in the process.

But it wasn’t until the Bull had come to town and Mickey had picked him up at the Warwick and they had driven into South Philadelphia for some real homemade Italian sausage and some really good lasagna that he even dreamed that it could have anything to do, however remotely, with him.

“Turn the fucking air conditioner on, Michael, why don’t you?” the Bull said to Mickey when they were no more than fifty yards from the Warwick.

“It’s broke,” Mickey had replied.

“What are you riding around in this piece of shit for anyway?” The Bull then looked around the car and warmed to the subject. “Jesus, this is really a goddamned junker, Michael.”

“Fuck you, Casimir. It’s reliable. And it’s paid for.”

“You always were a cheapskate,” the Bull said. “Life ain’t no rehearsal, Michael. Go buy yourself some decent wheels. You can afford it, for Christ’s sake. You ain’t even married.”

“Huh!” Mickey snorted. “That’s what you think.”

“What do they pay you, Michael?”

Mickey told him and the Bull laughed and said, “Bullshit,” and Mickey said, “That’s it. No crap, Casimir.”

“I’ll be goddamned, you mean it,” the Bull had said, genuinely surprised. Then he grew angry: “Why those cheap sonsofbitches!”

Three days later, the publisher of the Bulletin had received a letter on Heidenheimer & Bolinski stationery stating that since preliminary negotiations had failed to reach agreement on a satisfactory interim compensation schedule for Mr. Michael J. O’Hara’s professional services, to be in effect while a final contract could be agreed upon between the parties, Mr. O’Hara was forced, effective immediately, to withhold his professional services.

When Mickey heard that what the Bull meant by “interim compensation schedule” was $750 a week, plus all reasonable and necessary expenses, he began to suspect that, despite the Bull’s reputation in dealing with professional sports management, he didn’t know his ass from second base vis-à-vis the newspaper business. Mickey had been getting $312.50 a week, plus a dime a mile for the use of his car.

“Trust me, Michael,” the Bull had said. “I know what I’m doing.”

That was damned near a month ago, and there hadn’t been a peep from the Bulletin in all that time.

The good-looking dame, from last night, her hair now done up in sort of a bun, was behind the marble reception desk in the lobby of the Bellevue-Stratford.

What the hell is that all about? How many hours do these bastards make her work, for Christ’s sake?

This time there was no line, and she saw Mickey walking across the lobby, and Mickey smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Hara,” she said.

“Mickey, please.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bolinski are in the house, Mr. O’Hara. If you’ll just pick up a house phone, the operator will connect you.”

“If I wanted to talk to him on the telephone,” Mickey replied, “I could have done that from home. I want to see him.”

“You’ll have to be announced,” the good-looking dame said, her delicate lips curling in a reluctant smile.