Rough Trade

financial affairs.”
    “I know that Beau relied on him heavily for advice,” I began, carefully, “and the last thing I want to do is put pressure on you and Jeff, but the two of you should probably decide fairly quickly how you feel about continuing that relationship.”
    “We both think that Harald’s an ass,” said Chrissy simply. “If Beau had had someone who knew what they were doing advising him, he’d never have gotten into this mess in the first place.”
    “Then you’re going to have to decide who you want acting on your behalf. I guarantee you that Harald is expecting to take charge of things, especially until after the funeral. He’ll see it as a kindness—”
    “Will you do it?”
    “Do what?”
    “Help us.”
    “Of course, I’ll help you,” I replied without hesitation. “But no matter what, handling Feiss is going to be a delicate business. Don’t forget your father-in-law wasn’t just his closest friend, but his most important professional connection. This has to be disastrous for him on every level. No matter what, you want to keep him on your side. Not only is he a minority shareholder in the team, but he’s the person who has the most intimate knowledge of Beau’s business affairs. To put it another way, he knows where all the bodies are buried.”
    “Yes,” replied Chrissy, “but that’s only because he’s the one who buried them.”
     
    In the end it was Coach Bennato not Harald Feiss who brought Jeff back from the stadium. They slipped into the house through the garage after having somehow managed to avoid the news crews who’d begun to congregate on the front lawn hoping to get footage of the still-arriving mourners, or better yet, the grieving family, to air during the five o’clock news. Both men had the empty, sheep-like ( look that I have come to associate with sudden grief. Pale-faced and shaken, even their tread was gingerly, as if in the aftermath of calamity they had suddenly lost their faith in everything including the ability of the floor to remain solid beneath their feet.
    “You’d better take him upstairs and make him lie down,” said Bennato to Chrissy, a note of something very close to warning in his voice.
    Chrissy nodded wordlessly and took her husband by the hand. Jeff, bewildered and completely undone by grief, was apparently in no condition to resist. Chrissy put her arm around her husband’s waist and, as if helping an invalid, led him from the room murmuring words of comfort and encouragement.
    Coach Bennato, no stranger to Beau’s kitchen, immediately made for the liquor cabinet. As he opened the doors it was pretty clear that Beau Rendell would have never died from thirst. Bennato selected a bottle of Balvenie single malt Scotch from among the dozens of bottles and helped himself to a generous dose. Although legendary for his nerves of steel, as he poured his drink his hands shook badly, like an alcoholic in need of a drink or a temperate man suffering from shock. He knocked it back in a single shot and quickly poured himself another.
    Now that we were alone I found it strange to see Coach Bennato in person. He was much bigger than I’d imagined from all the shots of him pacing up and down the sidelines. He also seemed older and, if anything, less genial. In person you could see that the wrinkles in his face were as deep as channels and that his knuckles, like his nose, bore the signs of having been broken more than once during his career as a player.
    The man himself was a mass of contradictions. One local sportswriter who described him best said that Bennato had the face of a parish priest, the vocabulary of a sailor, and the temperament of Attila the Hun. Mercurial, methodical, and prone to sweeping fits of both rage and generosity, he had at some point in his long career been the winningest and losingest coach in the league. He’d been hated, loved, reviled, and carried off the field in triumph.
    He was a cagey and complicated man. Born in Palermo, in either a tenement or a manger depending on who was telling the story, he immigrated to America with his parents when he was three. His father found work in the oilfields and he spent his childhood moving from one dusty wildcatting site to another along the Texas panhandle, proving himself with his fists in every new town.
    Legend has it that it was a judge who ordered him to play football. Bennato was fourteen and had been hauled before him after one scrape or another and he’d