McKay puts his hands on the rim of the table and leans in close. His voice carries a weighty, conspiratorial urgency. “Suppose I told you that your friend’s killing was deliberately arranged. Not the specific details of how he would die, but the fact that he would be killed was firmly determined at least five days prior to yesterday’s game.”

T.K. slams down his drink and turns angrily in the man’s direction. “Come on. Cut the crap. You expect me to believe that? That Eddie Hougart was set up? You’re out of your mind. Who the hell could possibly set somebody up during a football game?”

“The International Broadcasting Company.” McKay says it evenly, assuredly, giving it the confident inflection of truth.

“The television guys?”

“Precisely.”

“How? Why? And why Eddie?”

“IBC is promoting a grudge match between you and Harv Matision. They feel it will produce the biggest television audience of all time.”

“There I’ve got you. Now I know you’re full of shit. I don’t play Matision again this year. By the time we get together again, yesterday’s game will be ancient history as far as the fans are concerned.”

“Ah, you’re wrong, at least in one aspect of your reasoning. You are going to play Matision again this year.”

“When?”

“In the Killerbowl. In Killerbowl XXI. You’ll meet each other in Boston on January first.”

“Come off it, will you? What are you, some kind of fortuneteller?” He pushes an empty glass McKay’s way.

“Tell me more. Read the sludge in the bottom of this. Tell me I’m going to take an ocean voyage or kiss a stranger or inherit my old maiden aunt’s French poodle.”

McKay takes back his card. “I can’t fully convince you here.” He writes something on the reverse side of the card and hands it back to T.K. “Come to this address. Tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. I will show you evidence, hard, cold evidence, that I guarantee will leave you convinced.”

“Don’t wait dinner for me if I don’t show up.”

“Mr. Mann, our philosophies may differ as to what constitutes a proper sport. There’s one factor I’m certain we would both acknowledge. Your friend was set up. His murder was arranged. I think even you will agree there’s no sport in that.” He leaves without waiting for a reply.

T.K. downs his drink. The liquor burns all the way to his belly. He sets the glass on the table. Abstractly, he picks up the card. The address is in an excellent residential neighborhood out in the avenues.

Glenda brings him another drink. “Who was your friend?” she asks, not really caring.

“Just a fan,” says T.K., jamming the card into his pocket. “Just a fan.”

9

KILLERBOWL XXI, THE GAME

Saturday, January 1, 2011, 5:30 A.M.