GimmeTheBall!
Junior College Transfer
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In Deep Ellum, see.
I had just monitored three NFL games for a pal on the East Coast. And i don't think he's just a football, fan, if you know what I mean.
When Zelda walked in it was nice. When the three goons with her walked in I knew they were trouble.
"What's the plan, college man" Zelda purred while smoothing out the lapel of Goon No. 1 she had brought. She was wearing a lavender Perry Ellis and that eue de minke cologne.
"Just minding my own bidness," I said, trying to avoid the icy stare from the hoodlum smoking Philip Morris, his perfect pompadour rising like Stewart's angst on a December afternoon.
"I hear you been passing the word on the street that the Dallas defense was on the mend. That it would not yield more than 10 points per game," Zelda said
"I ain't no see-eye predictor, just a goy, albeit a Catholic boy. And Happy Hannukkah," I said to her as I put on my fedora as I got up and drank the last of the rye from the glass. Just then, Goons No. 2 and 3 sat me back down on the hard wooden chair, landing harder than a Dallas secondary player hitting the turf as runners and receivers stiff-armed them.
"You shouldn't be talking good about the secondary. You know it's bad. Bending and bending and bending. Pretty soon you have teams like the jets, skins and Lions giving you problems. Lucano don't like that talk."
The only way out was the side door. The proprietor, a parolee out 2 years from TDC/Huntsville where the Cowboys and carving soap are the only pastimes unless you have a tattoo machine, nodded his head toward the exit. he had nothing to lose. He was packing heat. he had a one-way ticket to Palookaville and a Studebaker that could take him South to Kileen where no one asks questions.
Zelda the SMU dame was sneering. She knew she was right. She had seen the Lions runners and receivers run past bigmouth James and then bigmouth Newman. Tank had tanked and only Ratliff showed the occasional effort. it was like was afraid to touch Kitna. I had been drinking since 3 to get those visions out of my head.
"OK, wadda ya want?" I said, hopping to get this session over with.
"I think the Cowboys defense is getting better. Lucano don't think so and I'm frightening away his East Coast clients. I can't help that"
I looked at Zelda, maybe for some slight break from her. She was a long way from SMU and I, a long way from junior college where mugs like me can only hope to see such dames on the back wall of the barbershop She came at me instead with a laugh.
"Your defense is susceptible. In the big game it will bend, bend, bend and then break!" She stopped to place another Camels in her holder, with Goon No. 3 lighting it before he said to me:
"Your defense can't handle the second-best offensive team in the NFL!"
That was the last thing I remember before my pal, Sgt. Stedenko of the Dallas metro squad helped me up from the floor.
"You ran afoul of Lucano, huh" he smirked. "You gotta big bump on your head. he handed me my fedora and my mail-order P.I. badge in that black case Zelda had riffled through.
It was getting late. The streets of Deep Ellum were wet as most film noir scenes are. Steam rose from the grates and the streets seemed empty.
Cowboy fans everywhere were celebrating the lastest win, giddy with visions of Romo and Co, but seemingly oblivious to the porous defense. Lucano was enjoying this. So was Zelda, in her Highland Park bungalow where she hoisted a gin with the Goons. And then played mah jong with the boys from the radio station until dawn.
My gal Della Rhoades was waiting to whisk me out of town until the Cowboys defense could make amends and Lucano had stopped looking for me in Deep Ellum and East Dallas.
"What is Lucana and Zelda up to," she asked as she stepped on the pedal pushing that 15-cent-a-gallon gas linto the engine like she could afford it. "I don't know, but I don't like it," I said as we sped away into the night.
I had just monitored three NFL games for a pal on the East Coast. And i don't think he's just a football, fan, if you know what I mean.
When Zelda walked in it was nice. When the three goons with her walked in I knew they were trouble.
"What's the plan, college man" Zelda purred while smoothing out the lapel of Goon No. 1 she had brought. She was wearing a lavender Perry Ellis and that eue de minke cologne.
"Just minding my own bidness," I said, trying to avoid the icy stare from the hoodlum smoking Philip Morris, his perfect pompadour rising like Stewart's angst on a December afternoon.
"I hear you been passing the word on the street that the Dallas defense was on the mend. That it would not yield more than 10 points per game," Zelda said
"I ain't no see-eye predictor, just a goy, albeit a Catholic boy. And Happy Hannukkah," I said to her as I put on my fedora as I got up and drank the last of the rye from the glass. Just then, Goons No. 2 and 3 sat me back down on the hard wooden chair, landing harder than a Dallas secondary player hitting the turf as runners and receivers stiff-armed them.
"You shouldn't be talking good about the secondary. You know it's bad. Bending and bending and bending. Pretty soon you have teams like the jets, skins and Lions giving you problems. Lucano don't like that talk."
The only way out was the side door. The proprietor, a parolee out 2 years from TDC/Huntsville where the Cowboys and carving soap are the only pastimes unless you have a tattoo machine, nodded his head toward the exit. he had nothing to lose. He was packing heat. he had a one-way ticket to Palookaville and a Studebaker that could take him South to Kileen where no one asks questions.
Zelda the SMU dame was sneering. She knew she was right. She had seen the Lions runners and receivers run past bigmouth James and then bigmouth Newman. Tank had tanked and only Ratliff showed the occasional effort. it was like was afraid to touch Kitna. I had been drinking since 3 to get those visions out of my head.
"OK, wadda ya want?" I said, hopping to get this session over with.
"I think the Cowboys defense is getting better. Lucano don't think so and I'm frightening away his East Coast clients. I can't help that"
I looked at Zelda, maybe for some slight break from her. She was a long way from SMU and I, a long way from junior college where mugs like me can only hope to see such dames on the back wall of the barbershop She came at me instead with a laugh.
"Your defense is susceptible. In the big game it will bend, bend, bend and then break!" She stopped to place another Camels in her holder, with Goon No. 3 lighting it before he said to me:
"Your defense can't handle the second-best offensive team in the NFL!"
That was the last thing I remember before my pal, Sgt. Stedenko of the Dallas metro squad helped me up from the floor.
"You ran afoul of Lucano, huh" he smirked. "You gotta big bump on your head. he handed me my fedora and my mail-order P.I. badge in that black case Zelda had riffled through.
It was getting late. The streets of Deep Ellum were wet as most film noir scenes are. Steam rose from the grates and the streets seemed empty.
Cowboy fans everywhere were celebrating the lastest win, giddy with visions of Romo and Co, but seemingly oblivious to the porous defense. Lucano was enjoying this. So was Zelda, in her Highland Park bungalow where she hoisted a gin with the Goons. And then played mah jong with the boys from the radio station until dawn.
My gal Della Rhoades was waiting to whisk me out of town until the Cowboys defense could make amends and Lucano had stopped looking for me in Deep Ellum and East Dallas.
"What is Lucana and Zelda up to," she asked as she stepped on the pedal pushing that 15-cent-a-gallon gas linto the engine like she could afford it. "I don't know, but I don't like it," I said as we sped away into the night.