Just good clean American fun.
They joined a wide stream of fans wearing school colors flowing west toward the double-decked stadium that rose in front of them like "The Coliseum," Curtis said.
He had studied abroad in Rome.
"It's amazing," he said, "how American football parallels the gladiator combats of ancient Rome… except American football crowds are more bloodthirsty, of course."
"I feel another Roman history lesson coming," Tres said.
"Did you know that most gladiators were slaves or poor men desperate for a way out of poverty-same as black football players from the inner cities today?"
UT had fielded the last all-white national championship team back in 1969. After that, the school had started recruiting black players from the wards of Houston and Dallas; the 2005 UT championship team had been mostly black.
"Gladiators were unusually large men fighting for the entertainment of wealthy spectators. Some became national celebrities. They wore tattoos, endorsed products, had groupies, just like football players today."
"Jeez," Dave said, "even back then, girls loved athletes."
"And the games were public spectacles held in specially built amphitheatres, just like cities today spend hundreds of millions to build stadiums to lure football teams to town. There were bands and mascots, fans placed bets and scalped tickets just like-"
"I could have done," Andy said.
"The Coliseum seated fifty thousand and had separate entrances and reserved seating for VIPs, just like this stadium. And the arena was almost identical in size to a football field. It's really interesting how similar our society is to Roman society, when you think about it."
"Didn't the Roman Empire fall?" Andy said.
"Curtis," Tres said, "you're a walking encyclopedia. Is there anything you don't know?"
"Women."
"Amen, brother."
Dave gave Curtis a fist-punch.
"Andy," Curtis said, "thanks for the gig with Reeves' kid."
"You meet Zach?"
"Yesterday. Reeves sent his limo to pick me up. He's paying me six hundred an hour."
"That's more than he's paying me."
"Can you teach algebra?"
"I can't spell it."
"Geeks rule."
"Hey, Andy," Dave said, "can you get me a job with Reeves?"
"What can you teach?"
"I've got a Ph. D. in beer-drinking."
"Zach's smarter than most of the college kids I teach," Curtis said.
"Curtis," Andy said, "what's the deal with red hair being recessive?"
"That's random. Okay, red hair is recessive, which means that both parents usually must have red hair in order for their offspring to have red hair because black, brown, and blond hair genes dominate over red hair genes. See, the red hair gene is M-C-One-R-melanocortin-one receptor. Everyone has that gene, but to have red hair you've got a mutated M-C-One-R gene… actually, two mutated genes, one from your mother and one from your father. If your parents both have red hair, you have a one hundred percent chance of having red hair."
"What if a kid has red hair but only one of her parents does?"
"Then one of her four grandparents will have red hair. Statistically, anyway."
Russell Reeves hadn't lied. But why had Andy wondered if he had?
After being searched at the gate, they entered the stadium. Ninety-six thousand screaming fans from Texas wearing burnt-orange shirts and Ohio wearing red shirts-the Buckeye fans had traveled a thousand miles for a football game-had packed the bowl of the stadium that surrounded the green playing field. They found their seats on the fifty-yard line just up from the governor of Texas. Tres pointed down at the UT bench.
"Look who's standing on the sideline-McConaughey."
"Why does he get to be on the sideline?" Dave said. "He never played football when he was a student here."
Tres shrugged. "The allure of celebrity."
A blimp advertising an insurance company circled overhead like a vulture eyeing road kill. It would provide a bird's-eye view of the game which could be seen on the Godzillatron, the huge video screen in the south end zone. It was like looking at… well, at Godzilla's flat screen TV.
"Only bigger HDTV screen in the world is in Tokyo," Curtis said.
Andy Prescott had attended most of the Longhorns' home games while he was a student at UT-he had never told his mother-but he hadn't come for the football. He had come for the girls. There was something about a football game on a Saturday afternoon-even on the first day of November-that made college coeds want to wear the most revealing outfits they owned. He always figured it was the TV cameras. Gorgeous UT coeds hoped to be discovered at a nationally-televised football game. So they put their best breast forward.
Which alone was worth the price of admission.
For the next three hours, the Texas fans-rich white folks from the nice parts of Dallas and Houston-cheered the UT team-mostly poor black guys from the bad parts of Dallas and Houston, the guys watched the game, Andy watched the girls, Bevo, the Longhorn mascot, crapped in the end zone, the Ohio State quarterback was carried off the field on a stretcher with a head injury, the cheerleaders jumped and vaulted and somersaulted on the sideline as if auditioning for Matthew McConaughey, the lucky bastard, and, oh yeah, UT won.
Cecil Durant peered out the window of the airplane and said, "Look, they're playing a football game, down in that stadium. Must be the Texas-Ohio State game."
Harmon shook his head. Traveling with Cecil was like taking the kids on vacation. You'd think the guy had never been away from New Jersey in his life.
"My first time in Texas. Can we see the Alamo while we're here?"
"Cecil, the Alamo's in San Antonio."
"Oh. How about J.R. Ewing's Southfork Ranch? I loved that show."
"That's in Dallas, Cecil. Which is why they called the show Dallas. "
Cecil nodded. "Makes sense. NASA?"
"Houston."
"Well, what's in Austin?"
"Andy Prescott."
Cecil Durant wasn't a Phi Beta Kappa candidate, but he was a skilled driver and handy with a tire iron when the need arose. They had landed, rented a black Crown Vic, and driven out of the airport. When they hit Interstate 35, they turned south. Harmon's ribs hurt like hell.
"Can I buy some cowboy boots?" Cecil said.
"Let's buy some guns first."
The only problem with flying commercial these days-well, other than crying kids, complaining passengers, lost luggage, late planes, and being strip-searched in the security line-was packing your weapons. There were forms to fill out and questions to be answered, and the silencer always raised the Feds' eyebrows when the luggage went through the X-ray machine. So while Harmon had flown to Texas, his weapons had stayed home in Jersey. Fortunately, a man could buy an arsenal in Texas considerably easier than a woman could get an abortion.
Harmon had first checked the Austin paper for a gun show; he could buy every imaginable firearm, silencer, ammo, assault weapon, and even a machine gun at a gun show for cash and with no questions asked or forms filled out or ID presented. Harmon had read that Mexican drug cartels were now buying their weapons at Texas gun shows and smuggling them across the border because Mexico's gun laws were stricter. But the nearest gun show that weekend was in Waco, ninety miles north of Austin. So he had checked the phone book at the airport and found the address of the nearest Cabela's. It was fifteen miles south of Austin in a town called Buda.