Max

  ***

  Three thousand miles west of where the Rams fans were celebrating, “Big Mike” Donovan drummed the desk in his office in downtown Las Vegas. Donovan ran a bookie syndicate. Unlike the legalized bookmaking organizations, Donovan’s ran by its own rules and always made money. “How bad off are we?” he asked Pug Sullivan, the flat-nosed fireplug seated in front of Donovan’s desk.

  “Almost wiped out. We couldn’t lay off most of those Rams bets. They took us good.”

  Donovan grunted. “That damned Aries kid.”

  Sullivan said, “Well, we got two weeks until the Super Bowl. Maybe he’ll break a leg between then and now.”

  Donovan gazed up at the ceiling. “Break a leg, hmmm. Maybe…” His voice trailed off

  “You got something in mind, boss?”

  “Yeah, yeah, lemme think. “

  Donovan sat at his desk nodding into the air. Five minutes later, a grin broke out on his face. He rubbed his hands together. “Okay. Here’s what we do…”

  On Thursday before Super Bowl Sunday, Donovan was answering a phone call. “Yeah, this is Mike…My book is almost closed, but for you Charlie I’ll take another bet. Who do you want…the Rams?…Okay, how much…Ten big?…That’s heavy, but sure…” Donovan winked at Pug Sullivan, seated at his usual roost across the desk from Donovan. “Okay, Charlie I got you down for a dime on the Rams minus six points…Yeah the spread is minus six If the Rams win by more than six points you collect. Six points is a push. We straight on that?…Good, so long Charlie.

  He hung up and chuckled, “Another sucker. Everybody’s betting on the Rams and Aries. If they only knew, eh Pug?”

  Pug said. “You sure everything is all set down in Miami?”

  “Sure I’m sure. I just talked to my buddy down there. He’s got his gang ready to move. Without Aries, the Rams are garbage. You can go to the bank on that.”

  On Friday, in Miami the Rams were into the last day of practice before their meeting with the Steelers in the Super Bowl. This time, they wouldn’t have to worry about the weather unless there was a hurricane, and the predictions were for sunshine. Again and again, the team went through their plays. Although it was mid-January, the temperature had been unseasonably warm even for southern Florida, and their shirts were sweat-soaked. On the advice of the trainers, the players had been drinking gallons of Gatorade. Because in the past week there had been an outbreak of head colds, the trainers had been careful to make sure each player had his own drinking bottle with straw.

  Max trotted off the field and reached for his Gatorade. The trainer handed Max his bottle. “Thanks.” He looked up at the trainer. “Are you new. I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  The trainer smiled. “Yeah. I just come on yesterday.”

  Max nodded, took a long swig, then gazed at the bottle. “Tastes funny.”

  “We’re using a new brand,” said the trainer.

  “Oh, I see.” Max drained the bottle. He took a seat on the bench and watched some of the men still running plays on the practice field. The bench began to tilt. Max tried to prop himself up to keep from falling over. One of the coaches stopped and looked at Max. “You okay?”

  Max tried to speak, but couldn’t make his tongue work. His eyelids grew heavy. He fell over, landing on the ground.

  The coach was at his side in a moment. “Help! Someone give me a hand.”

  Ray Hendrix, the head trainer ran to where Max lay. He raised Max’s eyelids, then yelled, “Get a stretcher!”

  While he waited for the stretcher, the trainer watched Max’s chest. His breathing became shallower, Max’s face started turning blue.

  “Oxygen!”

  Fortunately, a tank of oxygen and mask had been alongside the bench, and periodically, the men would take a whiff to revive themselves. Hendrix placed the mask over Max’s face, and gradually, his color improved. Less than two minutes later, two men in white suits pushing a gurney, a stretcher on wheels, were at his side. They lifted Max on to the gurney, strapped him in and started rapidly wheeling him out.

  Hendrix yelled, “Where’re you taking him?”

  “Jackson Memorial.”

  “Great. That’s the best. You get started and we’ll be there in a little while.”

  Max was wheeled out of the stadium and bundled in an ambulance parked outside the dressing room exit. Siren blaring, the ambulance took off.

  Ten minutes later, Hendrix and one of the assistant coaches got into a car and raced off. At Jackson Memorial Hospital they parked and dashed into the emergency entrance. A clerk behind a glassed-in counter asked if she could help them.

  Hendrix said, “Where’d they put Max Aries?”

  The clerk scanned a sheet of paper on her desk. “Who did you say?”

  “Aries. A-R-I-E-S. An ambulance just brought him in.”

  “Just a moment. Let me check.”

  She got up and walked into a door behind her. Hendrix and the assistant coach fidgeted waiting until she returned five minutes later.

  She shook her head, “I’m sorry. There hasn’t been an ambulance here for the past hour. You sure he was going to Jackson Memorial?”

  “That’s what your ambulance guys told us.”

  She shrugged. “The hospital doesn’t have ambulances. They’re operated by EMTs—emergency medical techs from the Fire Department. You have to check with them. Maybe they had to take him to another hospital.”

  Hendrix gritted his teeth. This was turning out to be a real foul up. “Look miss, we’re from the Cincinnati Rams football team. We’re here to play in the Super Bowl. The guy we’re talking about is—.” He stopped. Why was he trying to explain to this paper pusher? “Let me talk to the head doctor.”

  “You want to talk to Dr. Standard?”

  “Is he the head doctor?”

  “He’s executive director.”

  “Lead me to him.”

  “His office is down the hall to your right.”

  By now the Emergency Room was filled with reporters who had heard that Max had been taken to Jackson Memorial and clamored for information.

  Hendrix and the assistant coach hurried down to the director’s office. A secretary started asking them their business, but they had no time for any further delays. They had to find out where Max had been taken. They barged into the office and while the puzzled director spluttered, Hendrix explained the problem. “You straighten this out, Doctor, and there’ll be a pair of Super Bowl tickets in your pocket.”

  With tickets going for more than a thousand dollars each—if they could be found. Dr. Standard was more than anxious to help.

  Half an hour later, after a series of phone calls, Dr. Standard confessed that he’d run out of ideas.. No one had a record of an ambulance being dispatched to the stadium. Max had disappeared