It was midnight when I got back to Phoenix; the temperature was 103 and there was no sign of life at the baggage carousel. An elderly man with a whisk broom told me the conveyor belt had been shut down earlier in the evening by a bomb scare.
No baggage had come down the chute since the emergency, he said in broken Spanish. It had all been “torn up by the dogs,” then taken out and dumped in the Salt River.
I took the news calmly and went upstairs to the airport lounge, which was still open and doing a lively business. People who looked like they hadn’t been on an airplane since 1966 were slumped together on rattan couches, far back in the dim-lit corners. The bartender was too busy to talk, so I sat down next to a small man with a spade beard who was wearing a white cashmere jumpsuit. He was reading the sports page of the Arizona Republic, laughing distractedly to himself and tapping a gold Ronson lighter on the bar.
He smiled at me. “Are you ready for Herschel?” he said. “Are you prepared for a whole new world?”
“You bet,” I muttered. “What do you have in mind?” I was not in a mood for subtleties; my luggage had just been officially destroyed by wild dogs.
My new friend was excited about the recent acquisition of former Heisman Trophy winner Herschel Walker by the Dallas Cowboys. He said it made Dallas a cinch for the Super Bowl, that Herschel would tear up the league and gain 2,000 yards.
“Ridiculous,” I said. “He’ll be lucky to gain 500. Dallas won’t even win their division.”
“What?” he screamed. “Are you crazy? Walker is bigger than Jim Brown and faster than Bob Hayes. He will stomp them like bugs. I’d bet my wife on it.”
“Nevermind your wife,” I said. “What else do you have? I’m in the real estate business. Do you have any property?”
“You fool,” he said. “My wife is the most beautiful woman in Scottsdale.” He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. “What do you want?” he moaned. “I have property, I have money, I have a gold Mercedes 600 downstairs. ... As Jesus is my witness, brother, I am the richest man south of Camelback Road.” He gestured wildly toward the exit.
“You see all those parking lots out there, brother? I own them. I make so much money that I have to carry it home in buckets every night.”
I understood. It was like dealing with the Oak Ridge Boys. “OK,” I said. “Let’s do it.” I reached into my satchel and pulled out a packet of new Canadian money. “Here,” I said. “Take this and give me your car keys.” I reached out to shake his hand. “Walker will not gain 666 yards this year. Take it or leave it.”
He grasped my hand eagerly. “You’re on,” he said. “Herschel will gain more than Walter Pay ton and Eric Dickerson put together. He will humiliate Mike Ditka. He will make Tony Dorsett obsolete.”
We haggled for a while, then he called the bartender over to witness a signed document. His name was Eddie and I got the feeling he had been here before. He didn’t flinch as I traded my packet of Canadian money for the signed title to the big Benz.
Eddie took a while to get the paper work together. My new business associate’s name was Jack, he said. Jack Parker.
He got a chuckle out of that one, but it matched the name on the Benz title, so I kept a straight face and asked the waitress for a fork, which I bent into the U-joint position and folded casually into the palm of my right hand.
Jack seemed not to notice. “What kind of work are you in?” he asked. “You don’t look like a real estate agent.” he chuckled again. “Are you a Fed?” he asked. “Is that it?”
At that point Eddie came back and said I owed another $5,500 toward the Benz—even at four to one.
I lifted my fist and showed him the tines of the fork.
“That figures,” I said. “Bring me a credit card voucher—a blank one.” He fixed me with a sullen glance for a moment, then shuffled away. When he came back with the ticket, I laid it face down on the bar, on top of my platinum American Express card, and asked him for a ball-point pen, which I used like a rolling pin to produce an acceptable imprint. ... It was an old massage-parlor trick that I learned many years ago on some half-mad night in the downtown TraveLodge.
Jack had no objections. The contract called for us to meet again, here in the bar, on the final day of the season, and one of us would walk away with both the money and the car—depending on Herschel Walker’s rushing stats for the season.
“Forget it,” I said. “He won’t get 500 yards. They’ll break his knees. He’ll be crippled by Halloween.”
Jack stared down at the big leather-mounted Benz key that he was rolling around in his fingers. “I was right,” he muttered. “You are a Fed, aren’t you?”
“Nonsense,” I said. “I am just another businessman, like yourself.” “What kind of business?” asked Eddie.
“This kind,” I said. “I am a professional gambler, and I will see you in December.” I stood up and left a large tip. “It’s getting late,” I said to Jack. “I’m going to the Biltmore. Can I give you a ride anywhere?”
“Not really,” Jack replied. “I have business in the other direction.” He smiled pleasantly and stood up. “Damnation,” he said. “I really wish you could meet my wife. She loves gambling.”
He followed me out to the escalator and explained that I would find all the insurance and warranty papers in the glove compartment. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
I believed him. They killed Don Bolles in this town, and it is a long run from Phoenix to the Colorado state line. What now? I wondered. Just walk fast and stare straight ahead.
The car was exactly where he said it would be, a huge gold 600 with smoked windows. The key fit perfectly, and within minutes I was rumbling into the parking lot of the Biltmore.
The next morning I drove the Benz out to Wickenburg, where I traded it straight across for a new Jeep wagon and then drove north at top speed. It seemed like the right thing to do, given the utterly crazy circumstances. By sundown I was past Flagstaff. Nobody was chasing me and my mood was getting better with every mile. It was Saturday night in America, and I felt like a native son.
August 25, 1986